Yoga
makes me cry. Not the leaky tears of compassion, but dry heaving sobs without them.
I
have resisted the very classes I signed up to take because of the way it bares
my deepest aches. Plus, I am not very good at it. I forget to breathe, and I
try to muscle through the poses, only to cramp up and fall over.
Instructors
give me permission to fail. I am unable to do the same. I
am frustrated that I cannot control any part of the process.
My
forward fold brings my head no closer to the floor. I am more likely to get my
head on the floor in happy dancer pose when I fall over.
Yoga
makes me cry.
The
past two years have been a tumultuous spring storm. Tornadoes have touched down
to destroy so much that I have known to be true. Golf ball sized hail has left
dents and scars on my heart. I have had to dig deep through the rubble of who I
am to search for what I want to be now, after the storm.
I
had just emerged from the debris and found a bit of firm footing when I found a new gym. Ready
to feel my muscles grow again, the draw was strong towards the studio with the workout and yoga combo. I attended a yoga class first and I left wondering if I
would ever get it right.
When
they added a slow flow yoga class, I decided this was my kind of yoga –
stretching the muscles I had worked in the strength and conditioning classes. I
stuck to those classes alone until the pandemic sent us all home to Zoom our
sweat and poses. Slow flow classes were suspended.
It
is not just my inability to pose like a seasoned yogi. It is also the blow of walls coming down
inside me while I do it that scares me. When is it enough? Haven’t I done
enough hard things for now?
No.
I
hear it plain. Go. I sent you here for a reason, God says.
“I’m
here to give you back your heart and set you free.” (Isaiah 61)
You
are not yet free, he says.
I
do not know how doing something like yoga will assist in the process, unless we
go straight to Shavasana, the corpse pose. I only know that I am not yet free.
There are deep wounds that still need to heal. My Jesus thinks I am strong
enough to bear the weight of more walls coming down. I do not.
Yoga
makes me cry.
But
I will find my way through to the other side where my ragged breathing becomes
a deeper healing balm. I will never be the yoga instructor, but I never want to
stop learning. I never want to stop trying to be the version of me God saw from
the beginning of time.
So,
I will do the poses. I will cry if I need to cry as the walls come down. And I
will be grateful to the folks at Namaste Fitness Studio for allowing me to
sweat and cry in a safe place.
Life’s
a journey. Pay attention.
