A woman came into my Yoga class tonight. She said it was her first time. She said she was trying to get back into a routine and find some peace and calm, relax. . .
This registered with me. I heard her. I acknowledged this. It didn't go unnoticed.
But also - others were coming in. I was thinking about teaching. I was lighting candles. I was not as fully present to her words as I should have been.
As class started, her words landed a little deeper. As class went on I began to really get it. By the end of class I was increasingly aware of what a big deal this is: trying to get back into a routine, find some peace and calm, to relax. . . after cancer.
I talked to her a lot at the end class and I was definitely struck by her, aware, but she was talking about other things too. The conversation left the cancer and I wonder if there is something in our brains that works to do just that - leave the things that scare us most. I wonder if our brains are wired, literally, to keep us from fully grasping the magnitude of certain tragedies, because those pains would grab us by the throats, make it hard to breathe.
It was not until my drive home, when I was in the car, that it hit me fully. That is when my awareness was at its peak, no distractions, and I realized with complete consciousness what I had been part of.
This woman came to Yoga, for the very first time, to try to get back into a routine and find some peace and calm, to relax, after cancer.
Teaching Yoga is so humbling. I've always known this, but I don't always recognize it like I do right now.
It has the potential to be an enormous responsibility and not only do I know that . . .
I want that.