July 29, 2011 § 3 Comments
When you least expect it, the practice turns you inside out whether you want it or not, leaving you open, raw and fragile. It doesn’t matter how the practice went, whether you got a new pose, or whether you bound in Supta Kurmasana on your own. It doesn’t matter how your backbend looks or how flat you can go in Paschimottanasana. It just happens, when the time is right. There is a release you didn’t even know you needed, and you can’t stop the flow once the valve has been opened. The mind wants to know what’s going on, what caused the release, what’s being let go, how did it happen, why is it happening, now, today, of all times? But the answers don’t matter, because they never did in the first place. All you can do is just sit with it, with the tears, the laughter, the anger that come up. Watch it, breathe through it, and let it go. And then, there is a lightness to the spirit you didn’t even know was there, just beyond the threshold of the breath. The storm passes and you know that something has shifted, even though everything appears to be the same.
And then you realize, the reason why you’re turning up every day (or almost), doing this practice, contorting the body, sweating buckets, pushing beyond one’s limits while keeping a tenuous hold on the quality and depth of the breath. You’re laying the foundation for the yoga to do its work, energetically, physically, emotionally, mentally. Do it for long enough and your efforts crescendo into a release, a cleanse, and another spot on the lens of the soul is wiped away.