When practice, not perfection, is the goal
Yoga is one of those things that, intrinsically, should make you a better person. Steadier in breath and thought, more open in body and mind; adaptable, flexible, considerate.
The past month, I’ve been doing a lot of yoga. The first thing I do when I wake up now is a series of sun salutations and a short meditation. My weekday evenings are a puzzling patchwork of yoga classes: slotting in required times, studios, teachers, styles. My bedside has a stack of Ayurvedic and anatomy books; I flip through flashcards of Sanskrit pose names on the subway in the morning. From 6-9 p.m. on Fridays and 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. on Saturdays and Sundays, I’m taking notes on chakras and muscle groups, memorizing chants and lines of action, doing an endless loop of the same pose as each aspiring yoga teacher takes turns spouting instructions.
Despite this influx of positivity and health in my life–gentle reminders to “notice without judging,” long stretches of meditation and copious hip openers, earlier to bed and earlier to rise, a (almost) completely vegetarian diet and an easing out of tall glasses of crisp IPAs–I’ve been on edge. I’ve been overwhelmed by the requirements outside of the sheer number of hours committed on the weekend: each week’s pages to read and notes to take, shuffling my schedule and bedtime to squeeze in the required home physical practice, meditation and breathing.
In short, it hasn’t made me a better person. I haven’t had the time or the energy or the heart to be a better girlfriend, a better daughter, a better friend, a better coworker. Instead of giving more, I’ve been greedy and self-serving: wanting to carve out every possible spare minute to read for pleasure and sip a coffee and click the snooze button. I’ve broken down sobbing more than a few times after watching the clock inch past 6 p.m. in the studio on a Sunday evening, feeling as if my few precious hours to myself are being stolen and wondering why I willingly gave up the glory of spring Sundays in the city (the holy trifecta of sunshine, mimosas and brunch) to stay inside a sweaty studio.
My boyfriend and my close friends have listened to my endless loop of complaints, of wondering this was the right choice, if this will all be worth it: can I be a good yoga teacher if I haven’t yet mastered handstand, how will I ever teach I can’t remember the difference between parsvottanasana and parsvakonasana, where exactly do I plan on even finding the time to teach once this training is all said and done? They’re endured my emotional ups and downs with a patience and understanding that I envy–isn’t that what I’m supposed to be cultivating?–and I can only imagine it is because they are (wisely) looking forward to free yoga classes.
One of the things that I cling to is the idea of yoga as a practice. In yoga, the journey and the goal and the result is the practice itself: the constant yearning to be better, the incredible work it takes to twist your body and quiet your mind and be able to go outside yourself is a process that never ends.
It’s a reassuring thought, that it’s all just practice: that there is value in the act itself instead of the result. Maybe I’ll end this training and be firmly rooted in my desire to teach; maybe I’ll just be content in finally understanding the logistics of how classes are sequenced, the difference is between ligaments and tendons, how to engage my core to extend into headstand. I’m not sure, and if nothing else, this yoga teacher training is teaching me that I’m heading in the right direction as long as I keep yearning to be better than I was the day before.
