I’m writing this on a crisp April day and, while there is blue in the sky, there are warnings of a huge blizzard coming to disrupt our wavering steps towards spring.
If there was ever needed another reminder that we can’t control everything, then here it is (again). We really can only do so much!
It’s interesting to observe how much energy we spend on worrying about things we can’t control (like clouds, or say, the past). How much time do we lose wondering what others think of us? How much brain power do we expend trying to stop the inevitability of change itself?
We all do this. Maybe we just get caught up, or it’s a distraction from dealing with our own things, but we leak energy over this and that as we try to control what is beyond our personal control – until we don’t have enough energy for what we really want to do, or what we actually have control over.
Practice is a way to regather energy, to plug the leaks. We can get both rest and power from our practice. When I’m on my mat or cushion, there is nowhere else to be. And when I rise, I ask: where can I be effective? Where can I serve?
We all have blind spots. Through practice, we can learn to see them, bit by bit. We hold ourselves in compassion as we uncover embarrassing and vulnerable things about ourselves. We hold ourselves in our human-ness. And then, whenever we know better, we try to do better – this to me is the definition of maturity and wisdom.
Here’s to uncovering our blind spots with humility and grace,
A few weeks ago when the deep winter cold was still here, we brought home a small flower pot of daffodils. My partner carefully unwrapped them and transplanted them into a clay pot. Their little yellow faces were a small but cheery pick-me-up. We gleefully pointed out the new buds coming in!
Now, they have sagged. Their thin leaves droop and streak haphazardly. I can’t tell if I watered them too much, or too little. Their faces are grumpy and shrivelled. I talk to them and ask what they want. They stay silent and sullen. We decide it’s best to give them space. They still have their verdant leaves, so not all hope is lost.
We just need to give it time.
As spring inches its way in, the energy of transformation and renewal comes flooding forth. Sometimes the pace of change feels right: we are ready to lunge forward and grab what’s next. Sometimes, we aren’t ready – perhaps it’s overwhelming, and we haven’t dealt with the past. Sometimes we need to give it more time.
Frankly, I am feeling both: ready to relish in positive change, yet also hanging back, because there has been so much grief and loss to process. It is a complicated time, replete with complicated reactions.
My daily practice helps to ground me within this polarity. It gives me grit. How fortunate we are to have the knowledge and opportunity to cultivate understanding and compassion. There is beauty and grace amidst the confusion and struggle – if only we reach to embrace it.
Wishing you grit and grace,
It’s almost March of 2022! You’ve made it this far! Woooo!!
For some odd reason, the term, “army crawl,” popped into my head this morning. Odder still, it felt like the perfect way to describe how moving through the past two years has been like: crawling on all fours, with great exertion and stealth, trying to avoid an enemy attack (e.g. a virus, eep!).
I’m looking forward to the warmth of spring, but before it arrives, I think it’s worth pausing to reflect on what has passed. We’ve all been through a lot.
In his book, My Grandmother’s Hands, Resmaa Manakem explains how emotional pain can be “clean” or “dirty.” When we avoid or silence our suffering, it becomes dirty pain. This unwillingness to address what we’re going through creates more pain – and we repeat the harmful patterns of the past.
In contrast, when we turn towards our suffering in the moment, it can be clean pain. We recognize it, move through it, and grow from it. We can reduce future harm. It doesn’t fester into dirty pain.
Clean pain is still pain, so it is bound to be uncomfortable at times. Thus it is important to have a structure in which to do this kind of work. A yoga practice can certainly be that, but there are many ways – may we all find what works best for us.
Take good care,
Pursuing the practice of yoga has given me many things, and one of these things has been a broken heart.
Let me explain.
Yoga is about cultivating awareness of ALL things, without discrimination. So when we open ourselves to the ways of the world, we experience both the joy and the sorrow. We see the generosity and the greed; both intelligence and idiocy; the caring and the apathy.
Yoga means resolving to bear witness to the way we both help, and harm, eachother. In the easy times, we can just drink it all in and bask in the glow! In the hard times, it requires greater determination: how do we keep showing up? How do we keep our hearts from breaking?
If we truly engage in this complicated and messy world, our hearts will break. It is inevitable. We must let them break. We have to let the world in.
So yoga didn’t break my heart, per se – it helped me realize it was already broken.
Before you start sending me referrals to therapists, hold on: it gets better.
Once we realize the state of things, only then can we do something about it. Yoga gives us the tools to mend our hearts. It gives us the chance to practise starting again, with compassion and curiosity. Every breath can be a fresh moment, a fresh start. It is a practice of forgiveness.
If we think others are incorrigible, how does that affect the way we treat ourselves?
Let’s not give up on ourselves. Let’s take care of our broken hearts, together.