The Soft Pause

I’ve been mulling over this blogging thing for quite some time now, starting and stopping posts one after the other…This has given my perfectionist heart some false comfort, this waiting until it’s just the right idea, just the right time, the exactly just-right debut, and I realize it’s never coming. Staying in the comfort of some far-flung future when I’ll have this fully formed expression that leaps onto the page and captures the exact nowness of now— it’s not coming. There is only starting here, right where I am, so here it is.

Yesterday was my 46th birthday and I had looked eagerly to this day for the entire month, quietly vowing to myself that it was going to be an entire month of celebration. Not in a grand prosecco and party dresses kind of way, but a recognition and reflection on all the ways I’ve been feeling extremely grateful to be alive. In a moment of tumult and darkness in our country, this defiant feeling of gratitude was burning in my heart. For flowers, books, & museums, for my family, for connections with new and old dear souls, for my body and mind, for beautiful opportunities to teach. All of it was vibrantly alive within me and I wanted to share that at every chance. But it was mostly quiet and very, very busy. Rushing from here to there, parenting, spilling over with ideas, too much work, exhausted, and running short on time. So perhaps not without irony, yesterday I found myself in so much pain that I had to make a decision. I had to decide if I would keep pushing forward with my ego and desires, wanting to keep the wheels literally turning at all costs, or stop and listen.

I have been managing chronic pain in my hip and low back for years now, which had mostly become an intermittent whisper that could be soothed in some time-tested ways. When I get tired or stressed, my body lets me know. My body had been telling me for months, first softly, you need to rest, you need a break. Then yesterday, quite loudly as I was driving my daughter to her horse lesson an hour from our house, the pain in my hip, leg, pelvis and back so intense I thought I might vomit. As a yoga teacher and practitioner, I live in my breath. I pay close attention. And here I was taking short sips of air and wincing from the searing pain for the entire ride there, and the entire ride back. It was no longer a choice really. I could not sit and drive which means that I can’t drive to teach my schedule of classes that are each at least 45 minutes from my house.

These daily classes are, of course, commitments that I do not take lightly. I have gotten to know the people who come and I can say without doubt that these practices are a lifeline for many, myself included. It’s a weighty and devotional responsibility to hold space for others and I believe in the power of consistency and connection. But I have found myself here, unable to ignore the messages I am receiving, and quite literally having to practice what I preach: Listen to your body, don’t push beyond your edge, stay with your breath, let go of striving and allow things to be exactly as they are. Though I say some version of this at least 20x per week, both as a teacher and a parent, I know it is not always easy.  Simple ideas, challenging to execute. This is where our practice really lives.

It is a continuous practice to remain present and openly aware through whatever life throws our way, without taking it personally, without attaching or grasping onto a narrative. We can get mad, we can cry (as I surely did yesterday…good grief), we can fight or try to ignore, or we can simply just be— just let it wash over us and remain present with curiosity and compassion. I’m a big fan of feeling my feelings, but I don’t want to get stuck there. I find that when I meet the grief/anger/sadness where it is and open to it even a little, I can let it move through and come to the other side.

I’m finding great solace in knowing that nothing ever stays the same. This means that pain shifts, our emotions transmute, our lives can take on new meaning as we grow and learn. We can become softer, more accepting, more compassionate, more alive to everything possible. I have a dear teacher who always says, “We are here to evolve”, and I believe more than ever that this is true. So this is where I am as I embark on my 46th year of being alive, ever-evolving, and so incredibly grateful.

These flowers have already fallen

Here's what’s fueling my meditation this week:

“As you breathe in, you can say to yourself, “Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in.” When you do this, the energy of mindfulness embraces your in-breath, just like sunlight touching the leaves and branches of a tree. The light of mindfulness is content just to be there and embrace the breath, without doing it any violence, without intervening directly. As you breathe out, you can gently say, “Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out.

You don’t have to struggle with your breath. You don’t have to struggle with your body, or with hate, or with anger. Treat your in-breath and out-breath tenderly, non-violently, as you would treat a flower. Later you will be able to do the same thing with your physical body, treating it with gentleness, respect, nonviolence, and tenderness.

When you are dealing with pain, with a moment of irritation, or with a bout of anger, you can learn to treat them in the same way. Do not fight against pain; do not fight against irritation or jealousy. Embrace them with great tenderness, as though you were embracing a little baby. Your anger is yourself, and you should not be violent toward it. The same thing goes for all of your emotions.

So we begin with the breath."                                                                                                                                               

-Thich Nhat Hanh

    You Are Here

Drop me a line to help me celebrate the birth of my little blog, The Soft Pause. Thank you for being here!