I recall participating in a yoga
class with inversions, legs extended overhead, no security aside from my own
shoulder strength (minimal), and the stability of my upper body (basically
nonexistent). I was so petrified to try,
I almost curled into a ball and cried on my mat. I was easily the most inexperienced
person in the class. Rather than crying, I reached out to the instructor, and
within myself, for help. One toe off the mat, the other toe. Inch by inch I
surrendered and see-sawed my feet, deciding I would trust myself. Like a
sculptor working with day- old clay, I dragged my tools through simultaneously molding
and re-shaping my body and my thoughts.
With palms to the earth, with the
blood surging to my head, stretching my feet even only a few inches, I tried
expanding well past where I was even remotely comfortable. That fear washed
over me and I had a choice: to drown in it, surrender to the exquisite mental
pain and give up on myself, or to expand (with tears behind my eyes ready to
slip out at any moment)! or to stare it in the face and decide I wasn't going to abandon
my attempts.
I relied on myself for navigation
through this crippling mental state. Yes,
there was a teacher, a guide, who undoubtedly supported me… and yet it was
me. I refused to abandon myself. I bequeathed the gift of stretching,
permeating that imperceptible wall and maneuvering, conspiring against my own
cerebral blockade, hungering for more. It wasn't perfect. It didn't look like anyone else's (I'm sure),
my legs were shaking… flailing. I kept having
to dig deep inside and push back into the pose, only to crash back down. But it was mine. And
through all the chaos and triggers happening within me, I knew one thing was
certain... Internally, it was flawless.
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