Child | Practice

This morning my daughter hung out with her dad while I practiced. Our shala was closed because of the terrific snowstorm that hit us yesterday. It was one of the most difficult practices that I have had in a long time. It reminded me of some of the more challenging mornings when I was especially pregnant — getting out of bed, creaky hips and all, and stepping onto my mat was tough. Today I listened to Native American flutes while winding my way through the Primary Series. Though listening to music is not traditional, I thought it would be a special treat to listen while I practiced...and it was beautiful. But somewhere around Marichyasana B, my body started to tell me it was done. I listened, though only lightly. It was telling me at least two things: 1) I was tired and sore, and 2) I needed to be somewhere else.

The challenge in those moments — in all of this, I think — is to measure how urgent the fatigue or the pain is. I have been thinking about this idea a lot lately. Pratyahara, withdrawal from the senses, is one of the 8 limbs of Ashtanga yoga. One of the themes woven throughout the Sutras is that we have many lenses through which to look at the world, and that becoming aware that they are lenses — and that they can be modified — can be freeing. I think our bodies are a lens...we all have a threshold for pain, and it changes from day to day. But sometimes the ego, the pain body (Tolle), the physical body all sort of team up to tell us to stop. Somewhere in the ether of voices in culture, we hear, "Don't stop." And we hear, "Listen to your body. Stop." And we hear, "What's the person next to you doing? If he stops, you stop, too. If he keeps going, you keep going, too."

Practice helps us to adjust the lens, to get behind the ego — way behind it, if we can — and watch it from afar. It is an in-road to being able to listen and respond authentically to the voices in our minds and around us. Kino MacGregor writes,

Yoga postures or asanas give practitioners a chance to access the spiritual through the physical. This long, arduous task of internal awakening makes it possible for dedicated practitioners to excavate layers of themselves. Yogis cross the bridge between the physical and the spiritual through a path interlaced with the fire of pain, the release of trust and the freeflow of love. Each physical posture presents a series of tests and challenges that heal the body and train the mind. In the small moments where practitioners make contact with the eternal part of themselves they gain access to a more deeply tuned-in way of living, being and acting. ("January Newsletter")

This morning was one of those tests. It seems that there is a fine line between pushing oneself and overexertion, between healing and injury — though, I imagine that more wisdom (practicing yoga for 5 years is a short time...practicing Ashtanga for less than two years is a nano-second) will grant me more space between the elements of these dichotomies. And, to grant myself a bit more credit, I am quite sure that childbirth helped me to begin to truly find that balance.

Where I ended up: Pashasana, then to finishing. My mind wanted to go all the way through to Laghuvajrasana; my body wanted to stop at Marichyasana B. Some refereeing voice stepped in, and there you have it. I am reflective, but not heavy-hearted. I am thankful for the struggle of it because it makes me work to reconcile the signals that I receive throughout.

But there was something else talking to me during practice, one that is especially challenged when I practice at home. By going to the shala every day, I take myself away from the sound of my daughter's voice, the smell of her. Quite honestly, it is easier to practice away from her because my mind is able to be slightly more quiet in the chorus of listening to all of our (mine and fellow Ashtangis') breaths. But today, while she hung out with her dad, I could hear her talking. I was in a room with the door closed, listening to my breath, listening to the sounds of the flute. But I could hear her. And when I hear my daughter, there is no Pratyahara. There is no withdrawal from the senses in that case. It distracts me in the same place where all of the other soul-work is getting done. The sound of her voice gives me the urge to go to her — in case she needs me, so that I don't miss out on anything new, just to smell her and kiss her. I have no intention of ever practicing Pratyahara where my child is concerned, for tapping into her is a kind of Pratyahara itself. All senses fall away except for the one great instinct to be close to her.

When I am torn between her and practice, I see very clearly that she and the practice are one. My daughter is yoga...she is my connection to the world, my relationship to the self, the essence of physical action, the first breath, the release from the senses, the quiet and effortless focus, the meditation, and my connection to something much, much larger than everything else. I am humbled and endlessly thankful that she has always given me the space to practice, even when she was in the belly. My practice brings me closer to her...I am a better mother because of it. And I think she knows that already.

Probably before I knew it, myself.

Works Cited

MacGregor, Kino. "January Newsletter from Miami Life Center." Email Correspondence. 1 Jan. 2010.

Tolle, Eckhart. A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose. New York: Penguin Group, 2005.