My Feet

I never really gave my feet a passing thought. 

I have just taken them for granted, even with my father as a practicing podiatrist for nearly 40 years. 

But, yoga has changed that.

Now I know my feet are a precious commodity. 

It is not that I have ever really ignored my feet.

I keep them pedicured as a matter of course. And I decorate them with two toe rings, both representing something important to me.   

When my adult daughter was little, she briefly attended a private school and could not choose her wardrobe or wear jewelry.

On her last day, we bought a toe ring each, representing a sort of freedom of expression that she had not been able to enjoy.

We have worn them ever since. A decade later, from college, she mailed me a new toe ring, updating our freedom of expression and sending the message that she still knew to seek it.

A few years following, my son spent a college semester abroad in Australia.

Far from home and knowing no one, he settled in fast, making another home away from home.

During a visit with him, we stopped at an outdoor flea market where a jeweler fit me with a second toe ring.

To me, it represented courage and an openness to new possibilities, both of which my son demonstrated by taking such a journey.

More recently, though, I realized my feet were not so much pretty as they were precious when I found myself standing on them for 12 hours straight for three days in a row, working in the wrong shoes.

Each evening, my feet cried with new blisters, and it actually hurt to walk.

All I could think was that I would be out of commission for yoga.

On the first day of working like this, I wore beautiful new shoes.

They had a platform and did not seem to have too much of an incline, and I thought I would be fine.

It was not until about the sixth hour in them that I realized my new shoes had a time limit.

Another six hours, and I hobbled into the house after driving home barefoot.

The hour was late, but I still tried to pamper my feet before sleep.

All I could think was that I had two more days of working like this before returning to yoga, and I could not imagine doing so.

That night, my feet got the full spa treatment at home. I bathed them. I put cream on them. I rested them. 

The next day, I lowered my fashion standards and changed up my shoes.

I put on what I considered not my best look, a more conservative pair of shoes with a lower heel.

Turns out, these shoes had a longer shelf life but still did not protect my feet from their fate.

I went home that night with new blisters.

Again, they got the full spa treatment.

Finally, on the last of these three days, I just slipped on my comfy, water-stained TOMS, a pair of shoes that have seen better days and are usually only reserved for trips to the yoga studio.

But, on this day, they went out in full form.

And that night, my feet were sore but not too sad.

And the next day, I was pleased to realize they felt fine enough for morning yoga. 

The first half of the practice is a flow, all of which involve standing poses.

We take many, many steps through some lunges, Warrior I and Warrior II, Standing Split and Dancer, Chair Pose and Extended Side Angle, Reverse Side Angle and more.

The rest of the practice takes place while seated, on our backs and on our stomachs.

I am sure there are other parts of me that I take for granted and probably should not.

And, even though yoga has taught me to appreciate my well-being on all levels, I had never really thought about how dependent I am on being physically able.

That morning before yoga, I awoke and swung my feet over the side of the bed.

The bed is tall, and I am not, and my feet do not reach the ground. My painted toes with their rings hung overboard briefly before I touched down with no pain.

That morning, I felt grateful for not only all the steps yoga has taught me, but also for the simple fact that I could take them.

Adaptation

At first, I fit yoga into my life.  Now, I fit my life into yoga.

For a while, my practice shifted from the early mornings to the evenings.

It had been quite strange and a big adjustment, as I am a morning person and not so much an evening one.

After a full day’s work, it would sometimes be difficult to drag myself to the studio.

And, on those mornings, I would have to pack up oodles of odds and ends to prepare for the day:

My yoga mat which I aired out each night; my yoga bag with my gear; the bobby pins and tie-back for my hair, and sneakers and a tee-shirt to don after practice as each night I would change from my work clothes upon arrival at the studio.

Before leaving the house each morning, I would hoist my mat bag over my shoulder, overlap it with my yoga bag of clothes, followed by my briefcase and then, of course, my purse.

I am a creature of habit as my son likes to point out. 

I find a restaurant I love, and it is the only place I want to go. 

I am at a job where lots of people come and go, but I tease everyone that I will be the last one standing. 

I am the only one of my siblings that stayed local and, in fact, I raised my children right down the street from where I grew up. 

Needless to say, I fussed through my change of schedule and the fact that I had to transport all of my gear each day.

The studio was different.

There was no music. There was a different smell. The parking was not as easy.

But then, after a time, I got more used to sleeping a little later.

And, after work, I found it a welcome relief to change out of my heels and into my bare feet and sit in the heat of the studio after sitting at my desk all day. 

After a while, I grew to like the windows that surrounded the practice room, and the incense they burned did not smell so bad after all.

I guess for someone who resists adapting to new things, I did a pretty good job. 

Just becoming a yogi was a big change in itself and, if I think about it, that transformation should prove to me that I can adapt myself to other changes, too. 

It just takes me a little while to settle into something new as I have a tendency to look backward more than forward.

Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.

These are not the words of my yoga instructor; instead, they are the famous words of the Danish philosopher and theologian, Soren Kierkegaard. 

So, even though for a while my yoga was different, it did not stop me from moving my practice forward. 

And, as yoga often does, it was teaching me another lesson of doing the same in my life.

I would think about this when we moved through a pose called Extended Side Angle. It is a pose that moves the body forward but has the eyes looking back. 

Extended Side Angle starts in Warrior II, in a lunge with hips open to the side and arms extending out parallel to the mat. Slowly, the torso tilts forward, and the front elbow lands on the front thigh. The back arm rises to the heavens and the heart tilts open towards the sky.  Then, further instructions are given:

Reach forward for something new. Reach for the beauty and for the freedom of something you want.

With this instruction, I reach my top arm over my ear and extend it to the front of the room, taking my torso with it while my heart twists ever more open. 

I find this pose empowering and freeing. The chin tucks, and the eyes find their stare point toward the back of the room.

In this pose, I learn that reaching forward literally comes hand in hand with looking back and opening the heart. 

Maybe if Kierkegaard were around today, he would look back to find he carried the foresight of a yogi.

Movement

From one day to the next, I look forward to yoga.

It has been more than a year since I first stepped into the studio, and I never tire of it.

I like preparing to go. I like being there. I like the workout.

And, in turn, I like whatever it is I am doing afterwards. 

The after effects of each class stay with me until the next class, and so I go as often as I can. 

It is a good place, and it puts me in a good space. 

I cannot exactly pinpoint what it is about yoga that clicks with me, but something about it definitely does.

And, it is not something new in me to which it connects but rather something seemingly age old.

In yesterday morning’s class, we were in a flow, moving amongst many different poses.

We flowed from Warrior II to High Lunge to Warrior I. We swept our arms down and back and raised them up again. We leaned back and spread our arms open and then swept them down again.

The music played, my body flowed and my mind did, too, back to when I was six or seven or eight years old in ballet class.

We moved into Standing Split and then brought our feet together for a forward fold. We lifted halfway and folded again and then flowed into Warrior II once more. We straightened our front leg and flowed into Triangle pose.

My body reached forward and my mind reached back, and I so vividly remembered myself in my black leotard and pink tights doing The Fun Step.

This happened at the end of ballet class when the teacher would map out a pattern of steps across the room and change up the music.

We would skip and hop, one at a time, traveling from one corner to the next on a diagonal.

I loved it.

I remember always looking down to see my feet but not being able to find them because my little girl’s stomach blocked the view of my toes!

We flowed back to Warrior II and then sailed right into Half Moon. I bent my back leg and grabbed my ankle for a sideways backbend.

As a little girl, I never wanted to go to ballet.

It was scheduled on Saturday mornings when I was allowed to watch TV, and I did not want to do anything but watch H.R. Puff and Stuff.

But, I was always happy at the end of class when the good music played, and we flowed freely with The Fun Step.

After class, I would always hang back to watch the older girls dancing jazz, wishing to be one of them, dancing more freely and always to better music.

Ultimately, my mother caved, and I left the ballet scene only to wish in my teenage years that I had not.

I filled in the gap with other dance classes and dance squads throughout my middle and high school years. In college, I fulfilled my physical education requirement with a dance class, too.

We moved through our Vinyasa and repeated the flow on the other side, moving from one big motion to the next.

There has always been something about movement and music that works for me, and somehow, yoga brings me back to it.

The music and the movement take my body and mind through a moving meditation, and this is what keeps me coming back.

The good music plays, and I sail freely between the poses as I follow the instructions that make up the flows of the first part of the class.

It is like doing The Fun Step all over again, only this time I can see my toes.

Warrior

We were standing in Warrior II, a pose that at one time was my favorite pose.

Arms extend front to back, the legs lunge forward, and the hips open to the side.

At one time, I  had thought this pose was easy.

Now, I beg to differ.

95 degree heat.

Sweat dripping down every part of my body.

The class is an army of warriors, and the instructor is our commander, pointing out minor adjustments to everyone in the room.

Move your front knee towards your pinky toe. Drop a little lower in your hips.

The instructor actually reaches behind my knee and pulls it forward to entice my hips to drop.

It works.

Look past your front hand. Push your shoulders down. Don’t forget to relax your jaw.

Each instruction is so minor, but every incremental shift feels so major to my body.

I am sweating Warrior II!

Once all instructions are followed, we are supposed to just land there, stay there and be still, except, of course, for the breath.

No matter what, we are supposed to breathe.

Just as I am wondering why we are doing this, why we have to remain so still for so long, the instructor issues this command:

Be the bedrock!

She starts to speak about the strength of our foundation, how we are supposed to pull the energy up from our feet, which are pressed down like there is no tomorrow, and into our hips.

Our base is supposed to be strong and steady.

Don’t be the driftwood! she admonishes, before releasing us from the pose with the long awaited instruction to cartwheel it out.

I roll my back arm up and over my shoulder to meet my front arm, and gratefully lower my body on an exhale before pressing upward and through my Vinyasa.

I am the bedrock for many people in my life, and it has not been hard at all.

I have not had to sweat it out, to say the least.

It has been easy to be there for my children, for my sister, my parents, my friends and colleagues.

I am often told by others that I have helped them see their way clear.

The other day, a friend told me that I envelop people.

On a lark, I visited a Vedic astrologer who told me that I am someone to whom others come in order to share their “shadow sides”, or secrets.

But, even a piece of bedrock needs to lean on others sometimes, and this has taken me a long time to learn.

For me, it is not so easy to reach out.

To be honest, that is what I really sweat!

And this is where I think I disagree with the instructor. 

I have learned that it is okay to be the driftwood at different times in life.

For the first time, I have reached out to others for support, and I have been the recipient of an overwhelming dose of wisdom, love and comfort.

And I admit to a certain relief, even though I sort of felt doing so might be a negative, almost as if for me to flounder could be a bad thing.

It is certainly not an easy thing, but maybe it is how one gets to the other side of something problematic. 

One friend, a fellow warrior, really, sent me a text, almost giving me permission to be a piece of driftwood for a time.

She said: Remember you must take care of yourself and those you love. It’s okay to lose focus once in a while. That’s all part of life, and it’s all good as long as you can get up, brush yourself off and go forward.

I call her a fellow warrior because she, too, has come through some hardships successfully and has seen her way clear to a good, strong place. 

After our Vinyasa, we move into Warrior I, a difficult pose with arms up by the ears, legs in a lunge but hips forward, this time.

Move your hands to your heart, and spread out into Warrior II, the instructor says.

Our army follows its commander who allows us the moment to touch our hearts in the transition between Warrior I and II.

I land again in Warrior II, sweating but feeling strong, moving between poses and excusing my heart its breaks in between.

Chicken Little

When I was little, the mean girl in the neighborhood just terrorized us.

I was five or six years old and hung with my sister, older by a year. I felt safe with her. This girl would sometimes join the other kids from the block when we played outside in our backyard. 

One day, the mean girl pointed to the sky.

We looked up and saw an airplane’s leftover white trail cutting the sky in two.

The sky is falling, she hollered! The sky is falling!

My sister ran, and I followed, convinced the white line had sliced the sky from the air.

We yanked open the screen door to the kitchen and let it slam behind us, considering ourselves safe on the inside while we peered fearfully at the sky outside.

I am afraid to say that I have sort of relived this scenario as an adult.  

Once upon a time, I thrived on change.

Change was exciting, and my 20s were filled with new changes almost every year. Graduation. A job. A marriage. A home.  A dog. A baby.  A new home.  Another baby! Another new home. A growing business.

Life was dynamic, and we sailed along on winds that blew in all directions.

Somewhere along the way, though, I no longer welcomed change. My 30s brought a divorce. Big change! Three more moves but now on my own. More changes.

Raising my children, I encouraged accomplishments, tended accidents, changed schools, signed them up for all sorts of arts and sports. I fostered growth and change in my children, always; but, for me, I took cover. I hunkered down.

And it was yoga that brought me back out.

When I first started yoga, many of the poses felt silly.

It was a new place, and there were few people in the room, so I could not really hide.

It felt weird, and I was self conscious, especially with the mirrors reflecting my body positioned in all sorts of new-fangled ways.

We were instructed in Warrior I, a powerful pose where the arms shoot up alongside the ears with one leg forward and one leg back, feet planted on the mat. A difficult pose if you feel powerful and even more difficult if you do not.

Warrior II was a little better with arms spread front to back and legs in a more comfortable lunge, hips to the side. There was the yoga squat – not so lady like.

And there was Down Dog, the body in an inverted “V” with the bottom sticking up, after which we were supposed to raise one leg.

We were expected to stand on our heads, invert our bodies.

Even my toes were going the wrong way. I found myself always pointing them – a yoga no-no.

Thank goodness for the music and the easy going instruction. It helped take me out of my head and into my body. Out of stuck mode and into something brand new.

Over a period of months, my body changed. And my mind changed, too. I was lighter both physically and mentally, and I began to crave more. More in my yoga practice, and more in my life.

The other day, I attended an advisory board meeting for work. I was the note-taker. Who knew my conscientious student days would pay off in this way? I can take notes with my eyes closed and, just like in college, the result is practically a transcript of what was said.

At the end of the meeting, those on the board provided their thoughts on the subject matter at hand, the impact of the economic landscape over the coming years for the host company.

One by one, the board members spoke up, and I typed. I filled many pages before one of the last comments made me stop.

Just because the world is changing, the board member stated, doesn’t mean the sky is falling.

I quickly pulled out a piece of scrap paper and wrote this down.

This profound statement brought me immediately back to the little girl behind the screen door.

In some respects, I had raced back behind that door 15 years ago, thinking I was in a safe place when, really, I was just in a stuck place.

Stepping into the yoga studio has been like stepping back into the yard, bravely looking up at the sky and realizing it is still in one piece, after all.