Before even getting to the theme of today's practice, this idea of the ebb and flow of categories has—surprise, surprise—extended off the mat. I have often competed with others to be the "most intense." I wanted to work the most, to exercise the most, to be the first person to get an assignment done. I always found myself falling short, as I can do short sprints of competitive intensity, only to turn into an empty shell.
Today's yoga practices fit a more traditional line of intense. I felt physically good and mentally clear. I was proud of myself for meeting my edge and practicing strength. When I first arrived home in April, taking a walk, reading a book, and getting out of the house felt intense. I wasn't proud of myself at the time, but I look back to this self with a sense of compassion. Sometimes, waking up, saying "I'm alive," and getting through the day are tremendous feats of strength.
Intensity is not synonymous with being rushed, or making a dramatic show of being busy. While "rise and shine" yoga was a more traditional vinyasa, we also held poses like standing split. "It doesn't look like you're doing much," the teacher said, "but you are. There is strength in stillness."
While true on a physical level (my leg was trembling as I attempted to remain still), this is vital on a mental level. It's easy to say "we need to take some time to be still," but how many of us actually do this without feeling guilty? I felt weak and horrible for retreating home, for having zero jobs when I was used to having 3, and for letting my family take care of me. I may have taken stillness to an extreme level, but I also had the strength to pull the plug when I needed to, to assert what I needed, and to recognize that I'd had a hell of a year and needed a break. It was that strength that kept me alive, that kept me from permanently damaging my health.
I recognize my privilege in having an entire summer and incredibly supportive family to help me recuperate. But everyone deserves to be heard and helped when they are struggling. Even if it feels weak or inconvenient for others, know that there is tremendous strength in asserting what you need. You are your first priority. And what I have found more than anything, is that fellow humans understand the pain, helplessness, and hopelessness of depression and come together to help. The generosity and kindness of humans is truly astounding.
I have gotten to the point in my recovery where I am fully processing the year that I had, and with that come painful memories and experiences—they've come in dreams, in fleeting moments, in spontaneous breakdowns. It's important to let yourself fully feel the effects of past traumas, but there is also strength in knowing when to let go.
As we laid in savasana, the teacher guided us through a different kind of strength: total stillness. Instead of listening to the music, to the teacher's words, I led myself through my own pranayama (breath sequence) and meditation. Inspired by a meditative practice I'd done a few weeks back, I pictured each person, event, or worry that had plagued me this past year. I recognized the place that they'd had in my life, the life lessons they taught me, then I gently placed them in a balloon and watched them float away.
This letting go is a process. I have many explosions of emotion, regret about the past, or fear about the future, but I am slowly learning to guide myself into the present moment, and to lead a life that I feel good about.
Namaste.
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