After Utkatasana, I have been practicing — lightly, fearfully — handstand. My teacher helped me into it yesterday. It's not a matter of strength; it's a matter of fear. He pointed that out: "You're afraid even when I'm standing here. I'm not going to let you fall" (read: yet another metaphor nestled in the practice). So I finally found balance, and transitioned down to Chaturanga, whereupon I landed not-so-gracefully on my second toe of my right foot. It is now 50% larger. Not broken, but creepy.
But here's the thing: practice doesn't stop. We try to stay present in the body, rather than make the toe much, much bigger than it needs to be. We find a way to practice around the toe. Or, even, through the toe. Through the shoulders, through the eerie pain in the right kidney. Even though the pain is there, we rely on the rest of the body to support the pain, on the breath to support the body, on the bandhas to support the breath. And the irony is that we may find even more strength.
And so I returned to Mysore this morning, swollen toe and all, and I took handstand near the wall. I needed the wall the first time around. But then I didn't need it. It is what I say to my own yoga students: use the block; you won't always need it. Is it a kind of looking-forward reassurance? Yes, it is. But it's a compromise between Eastern and Western thinking: live in the present, if you can. Be completely present, if you can. Look only down at where your feet are planted, if you can. But if you can't right now — if you must feel anxious about the future — find a way to anchor yourself in the present while you do it. Keep one foot planted firmly in the present; one hand planted firmly on the block.
Garbha came closer to me today; or, I went closer to it. It's messy, but it's here. Even, with a few tries, all the way to Kukkutasana. And my dropping back and standing up is smoother, stronger. And in jumping back, I practiced thrusting my hands into the earth to help support the left shoulder and give me lift; there it was.
While I was in Supta Kurmasana (with help), my teacher said to me, "Rebecca, second series?" January.
My daughter is better. Her fever has faded, her smiles are returning, and she is left only with a horrific cough. Last night it really shook her. But she didn't cry. The cough took her over, and I helped her sit up and get her composure. She just let out a sigh, as if to say, "Whew...that was something, huh?" I shouldn't put words in her mouth. However, I cannot help but to see and admire how she moved through it and didn't hold on to any of it on her way out. She genuinely lives in the present, as my partner pointed out today. She inspires us (read: yet another gift nestled in the practice of parenting).
This week my work is devoted to third-year review. I have been through this process before, and so it is with some calm in my heart and in my belly that I encounter it again in this new context. Still, I can feel in the belly some butterflies flitting, stirring anxiety about the process. Old stuff. At the end of his Power Yoga sequence (Gaiam, 2003), Rodney Yee says, "Let your brain sink into your heart on the waves of your breath." This is today's goal.
"Let your brain sink into your heart on the waves of your breath."
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