My favorite yoga class begins in 10 minutes, and I will not be there.
I ensured this outcome by eating breakfast a few minutes ago because I knew I could not be trusted to resist throwing on my yoga clothes at the last minute and dashing out the door. [One should not eat ideally 3 hours prior to an asana practice -- although many studios, recognizing the realities of our daily lives, suggest at least 1 1/2 to 2 hours.] The class is in astanga style, which means it has a set opening sequence -- allowing one to arrive late and slip right into the practice, sort of like finding your seat at the movies during the previews.
Yesterday I passed along the common wisdom that when your body is feeling ill you should not practice strong asanas. I then blithely proceeded to explain that I had every intention of ignoring this advice even though it came from wiser yoga minds than my own.
I arrived at my 12:15 yoga class feeling reasonably well. It was a little bit disappointing to find the last available spot in the very back of the studio by the door, but I recalled my own admonition to students that one should not become wedded to a single spot in the studio. Changing perspective can change one's perspective.
I can't say when it began to dawn on me that I wasn't in peak form. But I've practiced with less arcing sweeps of my arms; I've backed out of my twists; I've surrendered binding poses to the less intense versions. "Honor your limitations," I tell myself. If I were prepared to really listen to the words, I probably wouldn't have been there in the first place.
My first moment of doubt came with the adho mukha svavasana (downward facing dog) where I found myself wiping tears from my eyes. It wasn't that I'd cleared a particularly painful memory from my body or had a sudden flash of worry for Jake, who'd cried and clung a bit when I dropped him off at school. My eyes were just really watery.
Then I was in uttanasana, a forward fold, my head draping toward the floor, the blood rushing into it. And my eyeballs began to hurt.
This is a disconcerting feeling, hurting eyeballs. It's different from a sore finger or a cut knee. Eyeballs are not supposed to feel much of anything, ideally.
Still, I practiced on, trying to free my mind from this pressing distraction. What a good little yogini I was being -- using this opportunity to focus my practice. Or so I told myself.
Instead, I was really worrying while I practiced aerobics. What was wrong with my eyes? I wondered, carelessly folding over my front leg in parsvottanasana (pyramid pose). Should I be on my way to the opthamologist, or was this merely part of the strange coughing illness that has afflicted my family? I muttered as an assistant lifted my leg for me in standing splits. Even worse, could it be allergies? I thought, forgetting for the moment that I was even in pigeon pose. I've never, ever had allergies before, despite living in cities famed for inducing them, and to succumb now would seem like a defeat. Especially when I can barely muster compassion for myself for getting sick so easily. How great would it be if motherhood brought me allergies as well?
On I pushed myself, my mind ultimately and easily wandering to Jack, the one object I do not even try to coax my mind to abandon. Was he miserably crying for his mother? Were his eyeballs hurting like mine? What was I doing here?
Continuing to practice yoga -- erm, I mean, at this point, aerobics (you know, lots of body motion, no mind discipline) -- of course.
And then came the cough.
This was not a polite little cough. It was not a short fit, jarring to all in the room but over before anyone can throw you a dirty look. This was a gasp and choke and dash out of the studio, eyes watering. Finally, I felt grateful for the imposition of a new spot for my mat in the very back of the studio by the door. I grabbed at the drinking fountain and made desperate huhing noises as I tried to drink, breathe, and cough simultaneously.
Naturally, I returned to practice as soon as I was able.
I made it to savasana, corpse pose, with a new focus on relaxing enough to thwart the cough bubbling just below each breath. And with this intense relaxation I found a lesson. I was reminded of Trust.
Trust
Trust is one of those concepts like faith. It can be taken too far, used so broadly it loses its meaning, but used often because it sounds profound even if you don't really know what it means.
We hear it all the time as mothers -- "Trust your instinct." "Trust yourself, you're his mother." -- but I wonder how sincerely we take it to heart. I doubt many of the people saying it are all that sincere themselves. "Trust your instinct," someone might say as you resist giving your child Robitussen PM to help him sleep through his cough. At the same time she is thinking, "What a cruel and selfish mother, denying her child the medicine that will make him feel better. I wouldn't make my child suffer for my own principles." Even though I will probably give Jake Robitussen if he coughs tonight like he did last night -- to the point of choking -- I will hear the judgment in that person's voice. She will be telling me to trust myself, but I will hear "trust" as something that is less than absolute.
It's often the same thing when I say it to myself. "Trust yourself," I'll chide, as I endlessly debate whether Jake needs to sleep covered with a quilt in addition to his sleep sac, wonder whether I should just turn the heat up so he can sleep even if I can not, and resist the urge to creep out of bed in the middle of the night to make certain he has not wound himself up in the quilt and stopped breathing. The thing is, I don't really trust myself, or I wouldn't revisit the issue the next night.
And so, yesterday, I didn't trust myself when I wrote that one should probably skip a strenuous asana practice when laid a little bit low by illness. What I really heard was my mother saying, "Go to school, you're not that sick" and myself thinking, "If you can move, you can practice yoga."
More fundamentally, I didn't trust my body. I figured I'd move past the ache in my muscles. I'd be stronger than the bug that's taken up residence in my lungs. I'd ignore the fact that I haven't had a real night of sleep in close to a week, thanks to sleeping next to a fretful, coughing baby. (Thank you, thank you, Mike, for ceding the daybed to me last night.)
It's a fine line -- trusting our bodies while still transcending discomfort in our yoga practice. It requires us to really examine what "discomfort" means. Surely it means losing some sleep when we have young children. But does it mean if I can keep pushing myself to be the one who gets no more than a few hours of rest next to Jake every single night, I should? At some point, my body should have a say.
I'm about to say, "It's the hardest thing about motherhood," yet I know I'll find something else equally hard to report in the next few days. But, really, it's got to rank near the top of the list. How do we trust ourselves when we're supposed to be perfect mothers to our kids? How do you trust your instinct about how to best care for your child and yourself when you can always push to do more?
I sure don't have this one figured out. But then, don't for a second believe I have figured out any of the things I've commented upon here. All I can do is offer some wisdom from yoga to help approach them. And all I can offer now to help us figure out the issue of trust is . . . trust.
That, I suppose, is why they call it a practice. You try and try and try and then, for one precious, crystalline moment, it just is. Trust.
A Trusting Pose: Urdhva Danurasana (Upward Facing Bow)
You actually show trust every time you put yourself in a yoga pose. You trust that your teacher is presenting the poses in a way that is beneficial and won't hurt you. You trust that your legs will support you, your muscles will hold, the energy around you will infuse your body. You trust that the person on the mat next to yours won't fall over and bring you crashing to the floor with her.
So take a moment to be in that trust. Grasp for a moment the delicate state of not grasping too hard for it.
Then try urdhva danurasana, upward facing bow.
Urdhva Danurasana
If you are still new to yoga, or if you have any back issues, please do not practice this pose. It requires great strength and flexibility, and you must trust yourself to know truly whether you have enough to protect yourself as you try it. You can gain many of the same insights practicing setu bandha sarvangasana, or bridge pose.
1) Lay on your mat with your knees bent and your feet flat on the floor. You should be able to just brush your heels with your fingertips.
2) Take a moment to let your sacrum (lower back) melt into the mat. Draw your tailbone toward your heels and your navel toward your spine and up toward your heart. Let your shoulderblades rest on the floor, far from your ears.
3) Place your hands near your ears, elbows facing the ceiling, fingers pointing toward your shoulders. Try to draw your elbows toward each other so they are pointing directly at the ceiling, not splaying out to the sides. Appreciate the energetic space you have created between your arms.
4) When you are ready, lift your hips off the floor. Trust your heart to lift after them, allowing you to lift your head briefly and rest the crown of your head on the floor. (Even if you are practiced at this pose, I suggest taking this step.) Your heart should continue to guide you, so you feel light and don't place too much weight on your head.
5) I know it's awkward here, but trust your body and heart to support you as you realign yourself. Draw your elbows toward each other again and feel the energy this creates. It may help to move your hands slightly so your fingers point toward your neck. Feel your knees in a straight line -- not too close to each other, not splaying out to the side -- and note the energy this generates.
6) When you are trusting of the energy you have created and the openness of your heart, let your heart lift you up as your arms straighten.
7) If you feel any pain or fear, lower yourself down. Try to tuck your chin so you land on the back of your head instead of the crown. (It's much easier on your neck.) Relax and observe how you trusted yourself to begin the pose. Feel gratitude for the huge amount of trust it took to back out before you hurt yourself.
8) If you make it all the way up and trust you can maintain this pose, work on pressing your palms and feet into the floor, lengthening your spine, and letting your heart sing. Be sure to keep your neck relaxed -- I often find myself looking toward my feet, but this position compresses the neck.
9) If you have done urdhva danurasana many times, and this pose is not challenging you to discover trust, try some variations: Lift one leg at a time off the floor, drawing the knee into your chest and then straightening your leg as if you are going to stand on the ceiling (bend the knee into the chest before placing it back on the floor); lift one arm at a time off the floor by shifting your weight to the other arm and trusting your back strength to hold you (to fully engage in this variation, place your lifted hand on your hip for a moment); or try to lift opposite hand and foot at the same time (right hand/left foot; left hand/right foot).
Take this sense of trust with you off of your mat and into your day. Practice trust constantly. And be kind to yourself when you have trouble finding it.
Trust that you will.
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