an unexpected settling
I studied at Kripalu for my 200-hour yoga teacher training. Because it was a month-long program, I lived at the retreat center while studying at the school. Ready to go, I craved the intensity. I wanted to learn. Then, reality hit.
For our daily, 6 am practice, I set my mat three rows from the back next to the wall. For two hours, as I went through the 26 forms we were learning to teach, I’d move slowly. Other mornings, I wouldn’t stretch to my max, making my forms smaller, shorter, or less rigorous. It was early. I was tired. Truth be told, though, the more I dove into the practice, the more I realized that trauma had affected my ability to move. I was terrified the trainers would call me out for not being good enough at yoga. After all, it was a training!
No such thing happened, but something entirely unexpected did. In the third week of training, it was suggested that I needed to spend individual time working with an assistant. On a sunny June day during our two-hour lunch break, Thuy and I met.
Thuy was gentle, quietly strong, and beautiful, her eyes shining brightly against the backdrop of her softly shaven head. As we chatted, she asked, “Why are you afraid to move?” I didn’t completely understand her question since I’d been moving seemingly nonstop for the previous three weeks. I timidly wondered, had they noticed me during morning practice?
I missed my family, especially my two little kids. The hours of movement and study were intense. Surely, they could understand. Hadn’t they all been through this training?! Instead, I blandly answered, “I don’t know.” And, then Thuy made a matter-of-fact statement devoid judgment: to be a yoga teacher, you have to live in your body.
What?! Seriously?! I was moving! I knew details about the forms. I could do them, name them in Sanskrit. Heck, I could even spell the Sanskrit correctly. Wait! Would they throw me out on my butt, all that money and effort wasted? No one needed to judge me. I had plenty for all of us.
Thuy, the kindest of the kind, held space for me in the most Kripalu of ways. She offered me honesty enveloped in compassion. She offered me an opportunity to confront the reality that I couldn’t on my own — I wasn’t living in my body. I wanted to be but without the painful work of actually doing it.
After we chatted several minutes more, she asked what form my body wanted to be in. At that moment, I realized I had no idea. I couldn’t feel my body. I was terrified; I was getting it wrong. All I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry. Instead, I busted out a Warrior, modeling the strength of full embodiment, or so I thought. She asked what form my body would like to take next. Surely, she was testing me on sequencing! I moved into another form, not registering what I was doing. When I finished with a short sequence, she smiled oh so gently, bowed in silence, and left.
I was heartbroken; past words of not good enough bounced in my head. I spent the next two days mentally and emotionally isolating myself. During an extensive, mid-day practice, as tornados and storms loomed just over the ridge, I decided to prove them all wrong. The steady beat of a Native American drum being played next to me strengthened my resolve. I quickly and nearly without skill moved into Eagle. My knee gave out, twisting. I dropped to the floor, trying to avoid the eye of any trainer. A few breaths and the pain might’ve passed, but the swelling wouldn’t. I eventually asked for help and was given ice, a bandage, and a chair. To complete the 200 hours, I had to be physically present even if I wasn’t moving. So, in a group of 54 would-be yoga teachers, I stayed in that chair, learning, and practicing forms. I was devastated. Again. I was failing at this yoga thing. I was a fraud, practicing from a chair. What teacher does that?!
While Thuy had asked me questions, four days in a chair gave me answers. I began to feel underneath my embarrassment and shame, noticing sensations in my body. As I stretched my back leg into Warrior, I could actually feel my quadricep. It was putting in a fair amount of effort even as my weight was supported. Suddenly, I understood.
Yoga isn’t about the shape you make, how quickly you move, or how skillful and flexible you appear. Yoga is about the experience of living in your body and with yourself. I released layers of expectation, judgment, and hatred. I liked sitting down to practice Eagle, and when I couldn’t lift my bum knee to be in the form, I took a slow breath and practiced with my arms.
That chair opened up my world. I sat in the front row off to the side so I wouldn’t block anyone’s view. Training assistants would frequently visit, showing me seated variations for every form. Appreciation for my “crutch” bloomed as I began to feel muscles I never knew I had. My movement slowed. My body elongated. My emotions released, and my mind settled. When I was able to practice standing again, I felt free, not because I didn’t need to be in the chair but because I could feel my body.
I’ve not looked back. For the most part, I’ve given up practicing based on alignment or expectation. Now, my practice is guided by internal sensation. With endless experiences to explore, I move slower than I ever have. Sometimes, my forms can look different, but the feelings they produce are fascinating: trembling, tensing, releasing, and radiating. When I arrived for training at Kripalu, I was so eager to get going, move, learn new things. By the end, though, I understood: there’s nowhere to be except here, and no one to be except me.
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What’s a time when life unfolded unexpectedly for you? Once you could look back on your experience, did you find confidence, clarity, connection, or compassion? If you’d like, feel free to email and share… I’d love to hear your thoughts.