Just lately I’ve
been thinking, and talking, a lot about the need for me to learn to go with the
flow of life, rather than banging into it, like walking into a brick wall. And I was thinking about the analogy of
water, which is so frequently used when describing the best way to approach
life - and with good reason. Water has
the incredible ability to get everywhere, and to dramatically shape and
transform, but with very little effort.
Just look at the Grand Canyon, an amazing testament to the power of
water (and wind), to make astounding transformations over time.
Whilst in the
middle of my yoga practice yesterday, it struck me that the reason I still keep
hurting myself in yoga (and in life in general) is because I don’t flow like
water: I flood. Not for me the gentle
trickle of a babbling brook or a gurgling stream. Nor the soft, feather-like caress of a light
breeze. Nope. I don’t flow, I flood. I am like a dam breaking, or a hurricane
sweeping wildly across the plane of my existence, leaving in its wake more
damage and destruction. I approach life like a
whirlwind, attempting to flatten all obstacles in my path, ‘cos I’m in too much
of a hurry to get to the other side – a force of nature, trying to force nature
to bow to my demands. I should come with
an in-built tornado warning device so that I can at least prepare myself for
the approaching chaos.
My yoga
practice is a perfect example of my impatience in action. I began doing it ten years ago, for the
simple reason that I needed some form of regular exercise because I wasn’t
getting any, but it had to be something which didn’t buy into my eating
disordered mind’s obsession with weight loss and body image. So I chose yoga, because it’s gentle, and
spiritual – well, at least, that’s what it’s supposed to be.
At that time
I had poor posture (from permanently slouching in an attempt to hide myself
from the world), and such a weak back that I couldn’t sit upright without
needing something to lean against. I didn’t
find this out until I tried sitting cross-legged on the floor to do meditation. As I practiced yoga, though, both my back and
my posture improved dramatically, and I gained other benefits. But then impatience, and goal-setting, reared their ugly heads. I wanted to move onto more
advanced stuff: I wanted to be a ‘proper’ yogi, someone who could do handstands,
and headstands, meditate perfectly, and float serenely through life without a
care.
So the
steady, gentle stream turned into a fast-flowing river, with regular flooding
(the days where I would push myself over the limit because I’d been too
impatient to slow down enough to identify what my limits were, and end up
hurting myself yet again). I was
constantly driven by the storm of emotion that said I had to keep pushing
harder or I’d never get ‘there’, to the goal, to the end result, to the
pinnacle.
The result of
this whirlwind approach is that I have now acquired a whole new set of exciting
injuries, to the same parts of my body – my weak areas, which I have managed to
weaken even more. So, my back now hurts,
but in a completely different way – it is stiff and unyielding, and I have back
pain on a regular basis, and a delightful feeling as if it’s on fire, burning
up on the inside. And my knees, of which
only one was slightly on the dodgy side, giving me the occasional twinge, are
now both knackered because I insisted on forcing them into full Lotus position
before they had become pliable and strong enough to do so. Lovely.
To top it
all, I now approach my yoga practice with a great deal of trepidation, as if I’m
about to go into a lion’s den, wondering what new injury is going to befall
me. It’s a long way from the unbounded
enthusiasm and excitement that I used to feel; I no longer leap from my bed in
the morning, eager to begin. If
anything, I now find any excuse to avoid it.
This is not good, on a number of levels: one of which is that I am so
worried and tense about my back that I find it difficult to relax – and relaxation
is central to the art of yoga, it’s part of what stops you getting injured. Relaxing and going with the flow, not coiling
in on oneself, then unleashing it in a spiral of dammed up destructive energy,
like a tornado.
So I have
decided that I shall try to be more like a stream and less like a flood, and
maybe then my life won’t frequently resemble the aftermath of a cyclone. Just an occasional heavy rainstorm, perhaps.
