Balance

Four months ago, I published my last blog post, and then I lost my voice. Maybe lost is the wrong word.

This last Saturday morning, I wake before the sun and venture out my back door. This is my routine. I begin my days breathing in the beauty of what God has given me – a delicious backyard full of His Love and Grace.

I take my seat, front and center, receiving Love and Grace. Right now, to an outsider it might be hard to see. Over the last few weeks, I dug up and ripped out most of the landscaping surrounding my pond. Waterfall unplugged. Skimmer dug up. Rock wall stacked 10 feet away. Eight years ago, a mimosa tree planted itself too close to the pond and the house, snaking its roots where they do not belong. She is now four large trunks, waiting for someone to dig up her stump.

Even amidst the disorder, I receive Love and Grace. I see past it. Actually, I don’t even see the warts and wrinkles and time-worn body before me. I see hard-won wisdom and endless potential. So, I stand and walk around.

What is our next step? What can we do this morning? I make a plan, gather my tools and begin.

My hands are in the dirt, but my mind is in the future and the past. This weekend is the final weekend of my Yoga Teacher Training, the end of a ten-month journey and just the beginning. There will be no training this weekend, only teaching. Each of us will teach a class. We will teach what we have learned. We will open our voices and give our hearts to each other.

I don’t feel anxious, but also don’t think it’s by accident I choose to spend this morning in the dirt. The sun begins to peek through, pushing the temperature into the nineties. The triple digits are here, but my body loves this heat seeping into my bones and soothing everlasting Ice-fire.

Zephy rests in the shade, watching. Always watching.

Hours pass, the job not complete, but what was the job? My mind runs through different parts and pieces of my prepared yoga class. The class I plan to teach this weekend. Like yoga, working in my yard is not about working in my yard. Yoga is not about the yoga pose or sequence or class. It is about my heart, my soul, my body, my mind, my True being.

It is about connection.

It is about fully living, right here, right now even in the midst of suffering.

I shower and gather what I need for the day, but then I notice my watcher is hiding behind the bed. He sees me better then I see myself, and accurately reflects my true state back to me.

I am anxious.

So, I come to rest right here, right now and allow myself to feel my nervous state. I comfort my friend and at the same time comfort myself, remembering the comfort of Mother Earth between my fingers and the Love and Grace of Abba Father.

I taught this same class just a week ago.

I am prepared. I learned from that experience and modified my sequence.

I am prepared. I spent almost a thousand hours in class over the last 21 months.

I am prepared. I read books. I studied. I practiced. I meditated.

I am prepared, but I’m also nervous.

Can I be okay with that? Can I do hard things?

We gather. One by one, seven women gather. Twelve noon, the doors close, the curtains drawn, and we are here. Right here, right now.

Together.

For one last weekend. The journey was long and beautiful. We cried and laughed and danced and sang. We became sisters. A family. We now live in each other’s hearts. We talk of our shared anxiety, and what we each plan to teach.

Morgan is first. Her practice grounds us and gives Shelley courage to go next. Shelley takes us into a journey through the element of water. Her practice energizes us. After lunch, Cynthia lovingly soothes our nervous systems. The day ends. The rest of us will go tomorrow.

My mind and body are full. Full of love. And full of inspiration.

The curtains drawn once more. Janet surprises us with elegant dancing Shiva sequences. My turn.

I take us into right here, right now.

Total and uncompromised acceptance of our bodies, our relationships, our loves and hates, our pain and our joy. But to come to uncompromised acceptance, we must open our hearts. So, I begin with our hands, an extension of our heart.

As I turn to begin, a smile fills my soul. This is so natural and true. I’ve been doing this my whole life. Moving past the hands, to the heart and then all the way down to the feet.

To rise, we must be fully rooted.

Can you see the exquisite elegance of your feet? The brilliant design. Each little bone and muscle and tendon dance together, balancing and connecting you to the earth and to every other part of you. This connection is physical, emotional and spiritual.

Connection. That is truly what we crave. And that is what I lost four months ago. But did I? Multiple circumstances converged. I felt judged. Relationships tested. Some lost, hopefully not forever. I did not feel heard or valued. Worthless. Raw and exposed.

I reacted from my pain body. Those reactions are quick and mostly unseen. We blindly react and think we don’t have the power to do anything else.

Our bodies send up the alarm. “Quick, protect her!” And the choice is made.

We fight. We run. We hide.

It’s different for each person. And sometimes we go through all three. Where can we find balance? How? What is out of balance?

Everything has a center of gravity. That’s the sweet spot. It’s effortless. Like a spoon balanced on the tip of your finger, even when perturbed, it just wobbles back to stillness. Until it’s pushed past its edge. Can you look at your edges? Do they move? Can you nudge them without pushing past them?

We push past our edge for many reasons. We want acceptance. We want love. We want to look good. We believe it’s the only way to find connection.

When we force past them, to remained balanced, we have to grip. We have to use an equal and opposite force to remain upright. Maybe you pull your shoulders into your ears. Or you internally rotate your right shoulder, thrusting it forward. Or you slump them down, pulling your heart back, retreating from the world. Maybe your left hip is higher than your right.

Can you feel that pain? All that gripping is so painful, but we believe our physical pain is tolerable compared to the pain of looking. The pain of opening our hearts.

What is out of balance? Are you willing to look? Really look?

Can you go into your physical body to find the pain of your emotional body? It’s not easy, especially without judgement, to look and not see the warts and wrinkles and time-worn body before you. Instead see the hard-won wisdom and endless potential.

So, I gently guide my sisters into a series of balance poses, progressively easing the body and the nervous system to release, to let go, and to receive.

Lost is the wrong word. 

I did not lose my voice or my connection. I cannot lose the eternal and essential me, that was spoken into existence by the personal and loving Word.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through Him, and without Him was not anything made that was made. In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” John 1:1-5

But I did react. And I needed to walk through that for a time, gently acknowledging the pain and seeing it as a reaction, not an action. Once you bring it into the light, the darkness cannot overcome it.

To those (you know who are) who walked with me, I simply say thank you. We are not alone. We are never alone.

We are created of the same Word.

We are linked. We are loved. We are part of a vast network pulsing throughout all eternity. Resonating and reflecting that original Word. The connections are endless and alive. Sometimes you can feel them. Sometimes you can see them. I can even taste them. The scent will make you stop and turn. And the sound can be heard in the silence.

Pause and breathe. Take it in. Close your eyes and taste the silence.

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