Tears on My Yoga Mat
Pushing up from child’s pose into down dog, my gaze followed the flow. Looking down now between my aching, sweaty arms I saw the tear drops I had just shed on my yoga mat below. It was as though I had been wrung out, a wet, dirty cloth being twisted and tugged, relieved of the burden of water that had been weighing me down.
“Yoga is a microcosm of your world. But it’s safe to fail here.”
I couldn’t hear the instructor.
I feel demoted at work. I feel like I’m losing my place. I feel like I’ve lost touch.
I couldn’t tell him I was confused.
I don’t feel heard at home. I don’t feel listened to at work. I don’t feel understood.
My legs were weak. Sore. They couldn’t hold me up.
My self esteem is a memory most days. I feel so weak. I have lost my social sea legs.
It was hot. The air was thick. I wanted out.
It is not home, this new city, this new place. It is uncomfortable. Desperately so. I want out.
I began to cry…
I cry and cry…
I have no one to support me. I have no one to help restore me.
I drop to my knees, to the mat. I fall back into child’s pose. I begin to restore myself.
A microcosm of life to be sure.
The instructor came over. Asked if I was OK. I said I was frustrated. I said, “I can’t do it,” and began to fold my mat.
“Sit here for a moment and just take a break. Breathe. If you want to go I understand.”
“I don’t want to go.” And I didn’t. I stroked my arm like a mother would comfort a child, mouthing the words, “You’re safe, Jane. You’re safe. You’re not in danger. You’re just fine.”
I cried my last tear, pushed up out of child’s pose and into down dog refreshed, renewed and restored.