It hit me somewhere around the time I was half-heartedly kicking my right foot up toward a handstand in the middle of the room. Something had radically changed in my life.
Part of it was that I wasn't trying very hard. I had resigned myself to never, ever having the courage to attempt a handstand without a wall very close by. And while many years of thinking I might one day have such courage had not brought me much closer to it, I had at least at one point in my life been willing to challenge myself.
My response to challenging asanas these days is far more subdued than it was before, say, Jake was born. In the pre-Jake era, yoga class was a time of supreme focus, a serious matter even when I was laughing, a place to challenge my mind as much as my body. The days I felt "off" were few enough that I could let them be lessons; on those rare occasions when I had to admit that I really, truly did not have the strength to make it into headstand at the end of class I serenely told myself to honor my limitations.
Now it's the rare yoga class when I don't guiltily give a mental shrug and tell myself that, gee, I have to honor those pesky limitations. Even if what's really limiting me not having the energy to try.
The Challenge of Finding the Energy
What I think was creeping its way into my mind during class yesterday was that I will never again have the yoga practice I once did. As I sheepishly drag my mat over to a wall for nearly every inversion (upside down pose), I feel both ashamed (even though I know I shouldn't be) and resigned to be relegated to the part of the class that is just not, you know, the strongest.
When I returned in earnest to my yoga practice last December, I was able to be cheerful about my position. I had, I eagerly explained to all my new teachers, given birth just a year before and was just finding my practice again. And, sure enough, my body got stronger and more flexible -- and did it pretty darned quickly. Sometimes, I even thought I might one day be as strong and as flexible as I was when I had the time to spend two hours nearly every day in a sweaty yoga practice that squeezed every last ounce of energy out of me.
But now I see that it's the rare class when I feel that good. Most of the time I'm just not focused enough to progress in the way to which I'm accustomed. I don't want to put in the extra oomph it takes to get that back leg really flying in eka pada koundiyanasana. I don't really pay much attention to my breathing. And, biggest of all, I don't bother to chase thoughts of Jake out of my mind. "My heart is opening," I tell myself laconically. "So of course I think of him." Never mind that in failing to quiet my mind and focus on my breathing I'm turning my practice into one big session of aerobics -- after all, I could use some postpartum toning.
The bottom line is that my yoga practice, dear as it is to me, just doesn't hold the same place in my life that it did before I became a mother.
Which, really, is my point, since I don't exactly expect any of you to shed a tear for my diminished ability to perform ridiculous, gravity-defying arm balances. What I do think is worth sharing is the way our energy gets dispersed when we are mothers. How whatever it is that was central to us before we had children necessarily has to take a place in the wings.
The thing is, if yoga has lost its place on my center stage, what does that mean for me? It was once the thing that defined me -- and, in many ways still does. If yoga is what makes me feel most complete, have I sacrificed completeness for motherhood?
Life Is Change
There isn't a one of us who hasn't remarked, on some particularly satisfying day when everything felt right, under control, happy, "I wish things would never change."
Of course, they did.
Change is a constant. The Universe is made up of energy, and energy is movement. Movement begets change. You can't stand still, no matter how much you might think you want to. And, chances are, you really don't or you'd still be wearing that bad perm from the early '90's. ("Nice 'fro," a friend of mine commented a little while back when I proudly showed him the picture of me in a "Women at Columbia Law School" pamphlet I had unearthed.)
Thinking we can make things stand still -- and make them do so right where we want them -- is a manifestation of the belief that we can control the world around us. Only if you could stop the seasons, the lives of your co-workers, and, yes, your own body aging, could you hope to keep things right where they are right at that moment that suits you.
The more we accept the truth that we have no control, that things are constantly changing around us, the more apt we are to tap into the great things that change will bring us. Logically, our minds will tell us to cling to what we have in this moment rather than gamble that if we let it go something even better will come our way. But logic doesn't make it so.
For me and my yoga, this truth is pretty hard to deny. My body, sadly, oh so sadly, is past forty. Thanks to yoga, it's a young past-forty. But it is not, as it once was, a yoga-fortified pre-forty. Much less a yoga fortified pre-forty that had never had its rectus abdominus split apart by a small human being carried in a basketball-sized uterus. Don't even get me started on the permanent changes wrought by a vacuum-assisted delivery.
And it's not only my body that's changed. Quite obviously, my circumstance have, in the biggest way possible. "Your whole life is going to change," people told me ominously when I was pregnant.
Well, duh. That's why I was having a child. Because I wanted a big change.
But what's hard to fathom is that even the parts of life that are central to who you are change after you have a child. There isn't the space for them to be central, but as they shift to the side, so does a piece of yourself. And it seems like you will never be yourself again because you will never have the time and the energy to do what made you feel so good about yourself before you had a kid.
Here's where the lesson of change comes in. Acceptance. I need to accept that, yes, my life has changed, and that means I have changed too. It means accepting that I will never be the person I was when my asana practice was a huge part of my daily life. And it means accepting that without that asana practice -- and with the normal passage of time -- I will indeed enter the dreaded middle-age, when I finally have to admit -- for real this time -- that I'm not the one turning the cute young guys' heads when I walk down the street in a short skirt. If, indeed, I have the courage to leave the house in one.
But this change would have happened even if I had never had Jake. I'm fooling myself if I think he's the only reason I'm no longer the crazy astanga woman with the relaxed take on life and the killer triceps. And if I'm doomed to droopy upper arms anyhow, aren't I lucky to have Jake to distract me from them?
A Pose of Transformation -- Bhujangasana (Cobra Pose)
It's sort of disingenuous of me to suggest that there is one asana that brings about transformation. It's the asana practice that does the trick. Or, more broadly, a yoga practice, that daily attempt to be conscious, to let go, to open our hearts. All of this is part of the process of change.
But bhujangasana feels like blossoming to me. I focus on lengthening my spine and my heart opens. I press my feet into the floor and my shoulders release their tension. One small change in one part of the pose begets positive, beautiful change in another part. And that's a lovely way to embrace how change happens.
Bhujangasana (Cobra Pose) Instructions
1) Lie on your mat on your belly. If you'd like to warm up by coming to the mat through surya namaskar (sun salute), it's a lovely way to warm up your spine. If you are not warm coming into this pose -- as with any pose -- back off and let it come slowly so you don't injure yourself.
2) Place the tops of your feel firmly on the floor with your feet touching. (If having your feet touch makes your lower back feel tight or painful, move them a comfortable distance apart.) Take a moment to feel as if your inner thighs are rotating toward the ceiling. Release your buttocks and note how these three actions create more space for your lower back to lengthen.
3) Place your palms on the floor directly under your shoulders. Spread your fingers and make sure your first fingers are facing toward the front of the mat. Perform a shoulder loop -- toward the front, up toward the ceiling, and down your back -- and then draw your elbows strongly toward your sides. It is important that they stay close to your ribs throughout the pose to provide the best support.
4) Keeping your arms and legs (but not buttocks) strong, draw your navel in toward your spine and up toward your heart. Keep this strong engagement to protect your lower back.
5) When you are ready, inhale and concentrate on lengthening your spine so much that your heart begins to lift and your upper body rises off the floor.
6) As you exhale, let your upper back bend, as if your shoulder blades are supporting your heart. Keep your pelvis and (unless you are exceptionally open and warm) your navel pressed firmly into the floor and your legs strong, with the tops of your feet pressing firmly into the floor as well.
7) On your next inhale, focus on pressing into the space between your first fingers and thumbs and notice how this lifts your heart even more. Your arms will move toward straight, but do not try to straighten them. When you simply straighten your arms, you risk bringing the backbend into your lower back, where you may injure yourself. Instead, use the energy of pressing your hands into the floor to lengthen your heart forward and up.
8) Take a moment to look down at the floor to release your cervical spine (neck). On your next inhale, feel the breath travel from the base of your spine all the way out the crown of your head. As the breath moves through your cervical spine, let your head lift. Your neck should not be compressed.
9) Remain here, breathing deeply, for 5-8 long, slow, deep breaths. Check in with the energy you are generating, and see how it changes the pose -- how pressing into your hands lifts your heart, pressing the tops of your feet into the floor lengthens your spine, drawing your elbows in to your ribs deepens your back bend. Play with these changes.
10) When you are ready, exhale as you slowly lower your chest to the floor. Rest in balansana (child's pose) by drawing your buttocks back to rest on your heels and draping your body over your thighs (your knees will be bent). Rest your forehead on the floor and your arms at your sides.
Next time you feel like you want to keep things from changing, let your shoulder blades tickle your heart as they do in bhujangasana, and see if that doesn't remind you of how good it feels to be open to change.
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