Lessons on the mat off the mat
In an instant, I fell in love.
Since I discovered the joy of yoga in 2016, I knew the practice can only bring peace and serenity in my life.
Yoga allowed me to leave my chaotic, fast-paced environment and to silence the noise that whirs as if from a machine running in my mind, even if only for an hour. Magic happens with every breath: The passage of time becomes irrelevant, one folds deeper than one imagined, inhibitions and self-doubts cease to exist, and the mind becomes quiet.
The practice invited me to allot time off work for myself, and that’s something a workaholic would find so ludicrous. I did it, anyway. Yoga challenged me, without competition and comparison, to be a better version of myself.
When I started, I hadn’t even considered I would be able to reach my toes again, let alone go deeper in my forward bend and touch the ground with my palm. There were asanas I could never imagine doing myself but I managed to pull off. With every flow, I witnessed my progress and how it can be attributed to my dedication in the practice.
Still, I anchored my love for yoga in the wrong aspects of it: the class, the teachers, the studio. This led to the downfall of a blooming relationship.
Just as I grew more enamored in yoga, I also became more vulnerable and fragile. While I knew my body was becoming stronger than it used to be, my thoughts revolved around the disappointment of still not being able to do the chaturanga. I envied strangers whose social media posts show how lissome and effortless those difficult poses can be.
After my fourth or fifth class at the yoga studio where I’ve bought a 40-class pass, reception staff were giggling. They seemed to be mocking me, laughing at the idea that it’s been a few months since my purchase and I still hadn’t gotten around to using my class pass that much. It broke me.
I couldn’t understand how something that teaches self-compassion can also be so harsh and judgmental to others.
The experience made me stop doing yoga.
There’s no doubt I still love the practice. I still saw its beauty, still believed in its grace. Rarely, I carve time to be on my mat and flow on my own. It would feel different, a bit detached, a little pretentious, but I knew no one would judge me for doing the easier versions of basic poses, and that deeply mattered to me.
I yearned for the days when I’d be back on my mat in a yoga class. This week, I mustered the courage to re-introduce myself to the practice.
In all the many times I did yoga, it’s the first time I had to hold back my tears because I was so touched by something the teacher said. This happened in the first two classes I’ve taken so far this week — which are also the first two classes I’ve taken after a long while.
I can’t recall the exact words, but I know one was about the power of “yet”.
Teacher Katrina, whose vinyasa class was my first attempt at getting back on the mat, told the class: “It’s okay if you can’t go deeper yet. It doesn’t mean you can’t do the pose. It only means your body is not ready yet.”
The virtues of acceptance and patience that those words yielded were values I needed to learn. I’ve always been an ambitious, go-getter woman — often to a fault because I tend to neglect my well-being in pursuit of these high ideals.
For instance, whenever I endeavor to clean my space, I hope to accomplish everything in a week or so. Of course, that was possible — but only if I turn a blind eye on other factors, such as the demands of my work and my energy levels. When I set a goal, a strict timetable often follows. Renovate my condo unit within next year. (I don’t even have enough money in my savings account. Can you imagine how much that will cost?) Set up a public blog by the year’s end. (Do I even understand the commitment that entails?) Publish a book in the next two years. (I haven’t even written a word.) Unconsciously, I imprison myself in those schedules.
Even my personal recovery process, which ought to be a priority, is reduced into an item to be ticked off my list. “I had three days off work, I should be feeling better by now,” I tell myself.
The word “yet” wields power I tend to neglect because, for a long time, it meant being in a limbo, and I hated being tentative. I needed deadlines. Deadlines move people to action. Little did I acknowledge that inaction, rest, and recharging are also productive.
Life, I tend to forget, is all about savoring all the time it takes before one’s moment to rise and blossom.
The other occasion from when I nearly cried during a yoga class was during the 90-minute yin yoga session with Teacher Wendy.
In all her motherly glory, Teacher Wendy mentioned: “That’s why it’s called yoga practice. You have to do it often so you can get better at it, until it becomes natural to you.”
Corollary to the power of “yet”, the beauty of practice was something I hadn’t noticed I’ve been taking for granted. Throughout the course of my life, I hadn’t experienced much waiting before getting things done. I was nearly always a step ahead; next-level experiences tend to happen to me without me having to work desperately hard to get them.
When I self-studied the ukulele, everything was enjoyable until I got to the relatively easy F chord that was too difficult for me. It made me stop practicing the thousand bucks’ worth of stringed instrument that now gathers dust in my space.
Of course, Teacher Wendy wasn’t merely referring to the poses, the folds, or the stretches. She made sure we understood that by “practice”, she meant the mindful breathing that makes us calm, the patience we allow ourselves if we cannot level up in the poses yet, the compassion we give ourselves on the mat. She ends the class with well wishes that our yoga practice doesn’t merely end on the mat and that its lessons will stay with us for the rest of our days.
What an overwhelming reminder of the love I found in yoga.
Just as the new mandala in the yoga studio is written: Now the practice of yoga begins. •
Since I discovered the joy of yoga in 2016, I knew the practice can only bring peace and serenity in my life.
Yoga allowed me to leave my chaotic, fast-paced environment and to silence the noise that whirs as if from a machine running in my mind, even if only for an hour. Magic happens with every breath: The passage of time becomes irrelevant, one folds deeper than one imagined, inhibitions and self-doubts cease to exist, and the mind becomes quiet.
The practice invited me to allot time off work for myself, and that’s something a workaholic would find so ludicrous. I did it, anyway. Yoga challenged me, without competition and comparison, to be a better version of myself.
When I started, I hadn’t even considered I would be able to reach my toes again, let alone go deeper in my forward bend and touch the ground with my palm. There were asanas I could never imagine doing myself but I managed to pull off. With every flow, I witnessed my progress and how it can be attributed to my dedication in the practice.
In this rhymed/rhetoric short/expanded explanation,
I’ll share how Yoga saved my ass on one awesome occasion.
I’d been invited to Nashville to hum a few chords
On the 2013 Country Music Awards.
I was there to sing-a-long as a musical guest
But forgot my opening lyric and botched the duet.
I froze the way deer in headlights do
But in the headlights of a bus carrying 20 million views
I didn’t panic, in fact I was barely concerned
Thanks to my practice of yoga, I just did what I’d learned.
I learned how to flow and go way beyond my limits
That if I fell out of a pose, I just got back in it.
And that’s what I did. And just kept on smiling
Without the weight of embarrassment or feeling like dying
You see we don’t DO Yoga. Yoga is something that we BE.
For Yoga is a lifestyle from an ancient philosophy.
Yoga is the calming of the spinning of the mind
Through breath-work and postures we acquire this in time
Our bodies and our patience are challenged when we practice it
But we cultivate within us a knack to be compassionate
Yoga is an awareness. A present, conscious heart
It has little to do with bending like a pretzel while trying not to fart
Connecting with the moment amidst an epic fail
Is what saved my ass and kept the wind in my sails
For you to do Yoga, all you have to do is breathe.
And see how that precious life-force is all you really need
Without breath, life is over – it’s as simple as that.
Remember this and Yoga goes with you off the mat.
— “How Yoga Saved My Ass”, by Jason Mraz
Still, I anchored my love for yoga in the wrong aspects of it: the class, the teachers, the studio. This led to the downfall of a blooming relationship.
Just as I grew more enamored in yoga, I also became more vulnerable and fragile. While I knew my body was becoming stronger than it used to be, my thoughts revolved around the disappointment of still not being able to do the chaturanga. I envied strangers whose social media posts show how lissome and effortless those difficult poses can be.
After my fourth or fifth class at the yoga studio where I’ve bought a 40-class pass, reception staff were giggling. They seemed to be mocking me, laughing at the idea that it’s been a few months since my purchase and I still hadn’t gotten around to using my class pass that much. It broke me.
I couldn’t understand how something that teaches self-compassion can also be so harsh and judgmental to others.
The experience made me stop doing yoga.
There’s no doubt I still love the practice. I still saw its beauty, still believed in its grace. Rarely, I carve time to be on my mat and flow on my own. It would feel different, a bit detached, a little pretentious, but I knew no one would judge me for doing the easier versions of basic poses, and that deeply mattered to me.
I yearned for the days when I’d be back on my mat in a yoga class. This week, I mustered the courage to re-introduce myself to the practice.
In all the many times I did yoga, it’s the first time I had to hold back my tears because I was so touched by something the teacher said. This happened in the first two classes I’ve taken so far this week — which are also the first two classes I’ve taken after a long while.
I can’t recall the exact words, but I know one was about the power of “yet”.
Teacher Katrina, whose vinyasa class was my first attempt at getting back on the mat, told the class: “It’s okay if you can’t go deeper yet. It doesn’t mean you can’t do the pose. It only means your body is not ready yet.”
The virtues of acceptance and patience that those words yielded were values I needed to learn. I’ve always been an ambitious, go-getter woman — often to a fault because I tend to neglect my well-being in pursuit of these high ideals.
For instance, whenever I endeavor to clean my space, I hope to accomplish everything in a week or so. Of course, that was possible — but only if I turn a blind eye on other factors, such as the demands of my work and my energy levels. When I set a goal, a strict timetable often follows. Renovate my condo unit within next year. (I don’t even have enough money in my savings account. Can you imagine how much that will cost?) Set up a public blog by the year’s end. (Do I even understand the commitment that entails?) Publish a book in the next two years. (I haven’t even written a word.) Unconsciously, I imprison myself in those schedules.
Even my personal recovery process, which ought to be a priority, is reduced into an item to be ticked off my list. “I had three days off work, I should be feeling better by now,” I tell myself.
The word “yet” wields power I tend to neglect because, for a long time, it meant being in a limbo, and I hated being tentative. I needed deadlines. Deadlines move people to action. Little did I acknowledge that inaction, rest, and recharging are also productive.
Life, I tend to forget, is all about savoring all the time it takes before one’s moment to rise and blossom.
The other occasion from when I nearly cried during a yoga class was during the 90-minute yin yoga session with Teacher Wendy.
In all her motherly glory, Teacher Wendy mentioned: “That’s why it’s called yoga practice. You have to do it often so you can get better at it, until it becomes natural to you.”
Corollary to the power of “yet”, the beauty of practice was something I hadn’t noticed I’ve been taking for granted. Throughout the course of my life, I hadn’t experienced much waiting before getting things done. I was nearly always a step ahead; next-level experiences tend to happen to me without me having to work desperately hard to get them.
When I self-studied the ukulele, everything was enjoyable until I got to the relatively easy F chord that was too difficult for me. It made me stop practicing the thousand bucks’ worth of stringed instrument that now gathers dust in my space.
Of course, Teacher Wendy wasn’t merely referring to the poses, the folds, or the stretches. She made sure we understood that by “practice”, she meant the mindful breathing that makes us calm, the patience we allow ourselves if we cannot level up in the poses yet, the compassion we give ourselves on the mat. She ends the class with well wishes that our yoga practice doesn’t merely end on the mat and that its lessons will stay with us for the rest of our days.
What an overwhelming reminder of the love I found in yoga.
Just as the new mandala in the yoga studio is written: Now the practice of yoga begins. •