one of my first attempts at meditation ended in tears and gulps of air.
i was about eleven-years-old listening to one of my mom’s meditation tapes. i was lying on her bed, arms at my sides, eyes closed. in my headphones a voice guided me to breathe deeply, relax my body, listen to the sounds around me. i heard soft rain and chimes. i let myself go and started falling, floating, sinking.
that’s when my brother pounced–two hands on my shoulders a shake and a loud “HA” for emphasis. i shot upright and immediately started sobbing. my mom ran in to help with damage control as my shell shocked brother sputtered of string of explanations and excuses, it wasn’t his fault, he didn’t mean it, how could he have known?
a cold compress to the eyes, glass of water, and several hours later, i recovered and went on with my day. but the experience stayed with me, and i stayed wary of meditation for some time.
the thing is: to try and meditate, to let ourselves really “go there,” we have to be open. that openness is what lets us grow, what lets things shift and change inside of us. but that openness is also incredibly vulnerable.
this weekend when i was nervously previewing the AHIMSA meditation, trying to gauge whether or not it had enough juice to work for you, i heard my own voice in my headphones cueing “when you feel safe, close your eyes.” when you feel safe. that part matters.
you have to feel safe in order to let go. even the simple act of closing your eyes is an act of trust–a physical manifestation of surrender.
and any practice that has a spiritual pull requires some amount of surrender.
for avid yogis, maybe you’ve felt this in a class before–that thing where you go somewhere and wake up 60-minutes later flat on your back feeling totally transformed. that thing where you let go completely and the teacher and the shapes guide you into something greater than yourself. or if you’re a runner maybe you felt this when you lifted outside of yourself somewhere around mile 7 or 9 and no longer felt your legs, or knees, and you were just your breath and nothing. or if you practice religion, maybe you’ve felt this same thing in prayer or meditation.
you offer yourself up and time collapses and you are both yourself and also something more.
as a student, i didn’t understand this thing about trust why it is so important. all i knew was that some teachers had magic over me and others didn’t.
now, as a teacher, i can feel it in the room when my voice and the breath and the shapes all align and someone drops into something deep and powerful and greater than any of us. i can feel the difference when i’m distracted or insecure, see how that stops them from letting go.
surrender is scary, and if i want anyone to have a chance at giving that a try, i know my voice has to be steady and strong, i have push my shoulders back, and keep and even pace and try to find every way i can to signal: i’ve got you.
as a teacher, becoming as consistent and steady and open as i can is my practice. my work. the thing i have to come back to again and again to keep getting better. because i know that no matter how many cool transitions or unique poses i can research and teach, the most powerful offering i could give any student is the chance to feel safe enough to close their eyes. let go. surrender.
so, as we continue to wade into these waters together, i wanted to pause for a moment and acknowledge how hard and how scary these practices can be. and how honored i am to share them with you.
and to anyone who has even just for a moment trusted me to guide you into a shape, or a breath pattern, or something more, thank you. thank you. thank you.
beautiful. thank you for this.