It’s been a while since I hit the mat. Yoga mat, that is. An intense workout schedule practically mandates that the weekends be devoted to vegetating, or at least to “low key” activity. Even still, it’s almost as if I’ve been resisting yoga. After this morning, after finally being lured into a practice, however, I think I’ve discovered why.
My back was stiff, my hips and hamstrings tight, my shoulders bunched. The practice forced me to be present, fully aware of body. I couldn’t just power through a pose and race to the next one. I had to be in it, stay with it past the point of joy, through the point of comfort, and well into that place where neurotransmitters are firing angry, frustrated, whimpering with almost defeat, and past it even, to the other side.
I’d heard before of people bursting into tears or bubbling with laughter during massage sessions. As if little treasure chests were locked up in this joint or that strand of muscle, and at the right touch, sprang open, releasing its contents.
In a deep lunge, with forearms to the ground, I could barely sit still. I felt restless, confined and angry; and it wasn’t because of the awkwardness of the pose. It was because of what the pose was drawing out. All that crap I’ve been gathering, storing, burying. Other poses had me smiling, and others still rooted in me a feeling of deep grounding, mountain-like and unshakable. By the end of the session, I felt blissed out, completely and totally, in mind and in body. Partly from the release, but also in braving the path in the first place.