My yoga teacher that evening was a thin muscular guy with
grayish black hair and this fierce vitality that is both incredibly compelling
and abrasive all at once. He’s the type of guy that swears in the middle of
class so that all the serious yogis can let go of their “good/evil”
references. He can be really annoying when
he’s telling you to get into these impossible contortions while maintaining
complete awareness of your breath, tailbone, toes and fingertips all at
once. He goes out of his way to mimic
the chatter in your mind during your practice, if only to point it out to you.
I had heard of those tricksters that come into your life to
test you; the ones that will bring out your demons and push all of your buttons
so that you recognize the buttons you have.
“We cannot always control what happens to us, but we CAN
control how we react. That’s yoga;
understanding your reactions and learning to control them. It’s a discipline.”
I wasn’t controlling it. I was angry. Didn’t he understand how impossible his
commands were? We were in yoga class,
not some sort of military drill. How do
you remember to track your breath, toes, bhandas and alignment in four
breaths? Who does he think we are?
“Now you’re going to shift all of your weight onto your left
foot. Keep those toes lifted! Push your
right leg up towards the sky behind you and stack your hips.” I struggled to find my balance and he came up
behind me to pull my right leg back into alignment – at his touch I
collapsed. We tried again, and once
again I collapsed.
“Trust me; you’ve got to trust me!” he said in a not so
gentle tone. “One more time; you can do this.” I did it for a few seconds before he walked
away and said “just do your best.”
Button #1: Trust.
That’s a loaded word right there.
I’m barely learning to trust my own body to get into these poses, much
less some guy adjusting me in yoga class.
You’d be amazed at the things that run past your mind when
you’re trying your hardest not to hold onto anything that comes into your
mind. Here I am in a balance pose
remembering the day my body betrayed me.
I was in the fourth grade and had quite the audience awaiting
my performance in my front yard. The
audience included my family and some of the older neighborhood boys. I needed to prove myself. I got into position: front foot perpendicular
to my back foot; arms raised as I wind-milled my arms to the ground into a
cartwheel. The next thing I know, I’m in
the car with my parents on the way to the hospital.
“I want the hot pink one,” I said to the nurse. There’s
nothing like rocking a hot pink cast with all your boring outfits. My right arm had suffered a sprain as I had
put too much weight on it.
Back on the mat: I remember this now – the feeling of my body betraying me. I was supposed to impress all of my
friends with my amazing cartwheel and instead I collected signatures on my arm
for six weeks. Oh the humiliation!
My friend had a pin the other night that said “button free.” I asked her what it meant. She said that when she works with youth
teaching them yoga or breath-work she teaches them to be “button free;” meaning
having an awareness of their buttons so not to allow anyone else to push them.
Damn good class (the swearing is to throw off all of the
yogis).
