We are a broken bunch, we 7, we come with car accidents, broken necks, scars, and sorrow. We sit, backs straight, lips curled up towards our ears, sans judgment. We meet in this sacred place—called our bodies, in this sacred time—called life. We lay down any notion of what it is that we think we know, any idea of who it is that we think we are; we set all this aside and come with hearts open…to learn. We come as students to discover the essence of this 5,000-year-old art form that literally means “to yoke” or “to bring together”; yoga.
We are seven students and four teachers—essential strangers to each other’s pasts—squeezed into a tiny room on the 10th floor of the Pacific Tower in Huntington Beach. We stagger our mats for our first asana intensive, which starts with a two-hour practice.
It’d be a lie to say this class was easy, in fact it was anything but: With intensity and intention we moved, nonetheless, to the rhythm of our collective breaths. I could feel the perspiration on my face, hands, and feet. I struggled to stay in Downdog, a supposed “resting” position, praying that I wouldn’t slip right out of it and onto the student in front of me.
In these first two hours I battled with fear, little inadequacies. Why won’t my hips open, or my hands stop slipping? These little voices in my head were quickly silenced during our first anatomy lecture.
I learned: In absolutely no way is one person exactly the same as another; so how unfair is it to compare oneself to anyone else; human composition is so truly unique. This is such a profound yet simple lesson; and yet I find myself doing this in both my practice and in my daily-life. Where is the fruit in this? I can’t seem to find any. So, I’m actively attempting to correct this learned behavior. If I look, I love. It’s amazing how much this self-adjustment can change one from the inside out.
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