Left to my own proclivities, I'm a "glass is half empty" kind of a guy. [At age 61, I realize this is not the most favorable stance with which to embrace the remainder of my life.] This kind of thinking and the attendant despair have been the fuel for my addictive acting out in the past. Periodically, I need something to jolt me back to the alternative “another half a glass left to go” perspective.
This cycle was started for me recently with a yoga class taught by a renowned teacher. It was a wonderful class of intensive backbends, culminating at the end of two hours in her demonstration and our try at parivrtta janu sirsasana—certainly one of the most difficult asanas I’ve ever attempted. That evening, I felt physically exhausted but exhilarated. The next day, however, when confronting my own practice, I fell into a funk. “If I only had a two-hour-a-day practice, I could get back there again” I thought. “But that’s not going to happen anytime soon.” Looking back now, I could have focused on gratitude for having the privilege of occasionally being led into a practice so intense that my body could approach a very difficult asana like that. However, melancholy set in, then resignation, and in the following days, anger, disgust, rigidity, despair. All the time continuing to practice, but with less and less joy.
One morning days later, I willed myself to practice hard, really hard. The following morning, the sacroiliac joint on my vulnerable right side was inflamed. I spent the better part of a week hobbling around in pain. It finally dawned on me get help. I went to a chiropractor and then a masseur. It felt better.
Somewhere in the middle of all this I put it all together—the despair over my yoga practice, the lack of joy, the anger, the forcing. I saw how it was all connected by my fear and by my lack of self acceptance. Something broke. I sat on my blanket and allowed myself to feel gratitude for my practice, for the time I was able to give to it, for my teachers. I put myself into my favorite restorative poses and stayed there for a long time. I began to feel a connection with god. One of my cats came to join me for supta bada konasana. I pulled him up to my belly and stroked his ears while he purred and I rested.
Shortly after that, my back still in pain, something my teacher said in class inspired me to try a practice of vigorous, but careful and attentive, backbends and forward bends. At the end of that week I went on a 12-Step recovery retreat and assisted with a morning asana practice. I have to admit that I was appalled by the dirty floor and the lack of proper equipment, but I was touched by the enthusiasm of those who took the class and who afterwards expressed their gratitude. Some were newcomers to yoga, or returning after a long time away from it.
Today, I realize that the following things are in my control. I can choose to do my practice every morning. I can choose to spend an hour or more. Or, I can choose to spend time on something like this blog and have one-half hour or three quarters of an hour to practice. But however long, however energetic, or however skillful my practice, I’d like to remember that I can always choose to be grateful for it.
And today, my lower back feels fine.
