There’s this weird thing I do during practice when I start to lose my balance. I’ve seen other yoginis do it too, so it’s not just me. It’s kinda like letting the wobble work itself out through the hands, turning it into a subtle, sometimes twitchy dance move. If I hadn’t actually done it myself, I would have thought it looked contrived. As it was, I thought, “Hey, cool – I’m not the only one who does that!”
It’s a way of accepting the imbalance, letting it go, and returning back to a place of stillness, however temporarily. It looks silly, I’m sure. Feels strange, too. To let it work properly, you have to let go of the desire to not fall. You have to let the wobble just be. Accept it completely, then move on. You can’t be attached to the stability of the pose, which is, if you think about it, always temporary anyway. You can’t be attached to the sense of accomplishment you get by balancing on one leg.
This is on my mind only because I’m already being challenged with balance in the rest of my life, off the mat. The holidays are already here. The cookie craze has begun. I’ve ditched yoga once this week, I won’t practice today, and I’ll feel guilty for practicing tomorrow, on Thanksgiving – even though I’m sure a good long practice will do wonders to keep me from gorging at the table.
My daughter needs me. My husband needs me. I work 8 hours a day (which does allow for some planning and online shopping) and I’d love to be able to sleep, you know, occasionally.
Last night I got to spend a few hours of adult time with three of my best friends. We hadn’t been together as a group in going on four years, so the company and chemistry was lovely.
Brian called around 9. Duckie was inconsolable. When I left, she waved cheerily and said “Bye-bye, Mommy!” Then she started to cry for me at the window and was a hysterical wreck the rest of the night. I talked to her on the phone for a few minutes to try to calm her down, but she just couldn’t stop crying. I heard her try to take deep breaths like we’ve practiced, but nothing seemed to work. I’d had a couple glasses of wine and I knew that driving home at that point would be more dangerous than leaving her in the capable-yet-frustrated hands of her father.
I’m really hoping it was an isolated incident, triggered by the move to diaper-free nights, the upcoming trip to the grandparents this weekend, and the break in the routine.
I came home and she was asleep, having worn herself out crying. God, but it kills me to think of it.
I went to bed and set the alarm for a few hours later, woke her up to visit the bathroom, back to bed. I think I switched beds four times last night. Musical beds is getting old.
Four o’clock practice did not happen. Neither did five o’clock practice.
I’m getting the impression that if I can manage five hours of unbroken sleep, I can do the early morning practice. If I don’t, I need to just let it go. So, OK, the next goal to balance this out is to get Duckie’s bladder to sleep for at least five hours.
And when I fall down, when we fall down together, as a family, to let it go. Wobble, wiggle, fall down, stand up, try again.
(I’d love for my boss to practice this. We’re short-staffed because of the holiday, there’s a major issue with a raw material, the lab stinks to high heaven from testing the new batch, the chemical guru has asked to borrow my Hermione wand to spell the potions he’s trying to get to work, and my boss is spreading stress instead of holiday cheer. It’s ten o’clock and it’s already thick in here. Anyway.)
Have a great holiday, y’all. Be safe, don’t hurt yourself at the table (I’m a sucker for sweet potatoes myself) and give thanks. We’re alive, and we’ve got each other.