In exactly one hour from now, I’ll leave for the Saturday morning hot yoga class I’ve been frequenting for a month or so now. Yoga’s been on my list for literally years. A kind friend finally roped me in, and I’m oh-so-glad I allowed myself to be lassoed.
Practicing yoga is harder than I expected – in all of the very best ways of being hard: physical, spiritual, and emotional. I spend many moments face to mat, downward dogging my way through my stuff, and I literally beg myself to keep on holding the weight of me.
Each instructor has her own style and strengthens me differently. One instructor both swears and encourages in the same breath. She’s direct. Clear. Concise. She gifts me my own power. Another gently guides. She softens me and I open. From her, I learn that it’s natural and normal to feel afraid. Vulnerable.
I breathe in and out, as instructed.
Around me, more experienced and younger women with more flexibility and cuter leggings bend and twist and pose, and I blink back the tears that come with one more piece of evidence of my own inadequacy.
And there I am, alone with myself on a 5 ‘ 10″ x 2’ piece of teal-blue foam.
I can’t roll up my mat and go home. I can’t just lie there and cry. I’m all out of options.
So I stay. Right there. With myself. Me and my inadequacies. Me and my vulnerabilities. Me and my deepest wish to be all the everythings I know I could be if only I wasn’t all the everythings I am.
Inept as I am – I keep pace, all wobbly and uncertain. A little weepy. There’s no where to go and nothing else to do …
But rise up.
A salutation to me. And all that I am.
So today – I stand a little taller. Stronger. More stable on my own two feet. In better balance. And I keep breathing. In and out.