My yoga instructor cried at the end of class today, and she wasn’t the only one. I cried too, also at the end of class. Our tears were for different reasons.
LH has taught yoga at the gym for a few years now and has become one of my favorite instructors. When she first started, she would do the usual sun salutations, warrior poses, balance sequences, and calming stretches, much like a typical pattern of a lot of yoga classes. As she became more comfortable with us as a class and with her own skills as a teacher, however, she became creative. Sun salutations were just a quick warm-up instead of half the class. A simple balance pose gave way to scorpions, crows, and headstands. Warrior poses begat side planks which begat a whole variety of odd pushups with legs balancing on arms in all different directions. If the class had an even number of participants, she would pair us up for couples poses, which are much less erotic than they sound even though they involve almost as much body awareness and trust as other erotic things do.
Her class evolved into more than just a yoga class. You never knew what you were going to get when you unrolled your mat, and if you were lucky, she might come around during the relaxation at the end and tug gently on your neck with lavender scented hands. In short, LH’s yoga practice was everything yoga is meant to be. It challenged you, it pushed you, it made you step outside of your daily routine and your comfort zone, and it brought you back to a place of peace.
Like all good things, LH’s time as an instructor at the gym came to an end today with that last yoga class. She has decided to move on with her life, and that includes a change in workplace. I can’t say I blame her. People and water stagnate when still for too long. She decided to end her practice with her yoga regulars with a bang, doing all her favorite challenging poses, bringing in all her signature moves, and ending with a last hands-on relaxation technique. After her final Namaste, she sat on her mat and wiped the tears from her eyes. She knew it was the close of a chapter of her life, and while we all shared the moment, those tears were highly personal, just for her.
I was moved by her show of emotion, but that is not why I cried. My participating in yoga today was the first time I returned to hers or any yoga class in over two months. Back in January, I injured my Achilles tendon. I didn’t tear it, but I sure did make it angry, angry enough to seek the help of a physical therapist who recommended I lay off the downward dogs and warriors for a good six to eight weeks. Over those months, I moved away from my two class a day norm, replacing that time at the gym with more errands, more volunteering, just more. I packed on a few extra pounds, spent less time doing things I love, and devoted more of myself to caring and helping other people, whether my family, my friends, or my community.
I missed the yoga. My ankle healed, but my schedule had already absorbed that extra hour on a Friday, just as it did the ones on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. My practice time vanished, and I didn’t even notice how much I missed it because I was still working out, just in a different way. But today, I wanted to take the time to be there, to have my last two-person star pose and feel the connection to another person in a non-sexual way, to close my eyes and trust that wherever I was touched, it would be healing. As I moved through the routines and positions, I found my muscles had more memory for yoga than I would have believed. Even after over two months of rest, I was still able to participate in a challenging way. I could still do it, baby.
I stretched and I breathed and sweated, and when I finally earned my savasana, I closed my eyes, relaxed my muscles, calmed my breathing, and I cried. I felt at peace, a serenity I don’t know anywhere else, including my temple where I am so overcommitted. I felt, in a word, spiritual. That realization brought me to tears, not in a sad way, but just pure emotion. I was me again, doing something for me, and it felt right.
I am going to miss LH, as I imagine most of the class will. We will continue our yoga practice without her and in time we will find another instructor that we will grow with and enjoy. It won’t be the same, but it shouldn’t be. her absence won’t stop me from going to yoga, though, because I learned today that it is something I should always make time for, something that means more to me than an hour at the gym. It is about a connection that I forgot I needed to make, one with myself.
Namaste.
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