“Go where your body says it can move today.” yoga wisdom from Becky
I’m an introvert. Poster-girl level introvert. That’s not new. I’m not afraid of my own company; I treasure solitude. It’s crucial for my survival. None of that has changed; now I’m just a broken-hearted, freakishly sad introvert. In the past six months, I’ve become less likely to put myself out there. I’m emotionally unpredictable, and I don’t enjoy public displays of meltdown.
Still, I needed something, so I joined the new fitness center. I’d seen friends post photos of an aqua yoga class, and I was drawn to the peaceful aesthetic. I love the water. Always have. A trusted friend teaches the class; other friends take the class. It seemed emotionally safe. Plus, the light was low, so if I cried, maybe nobody would notice.
Well, I’m a yoga novice, so I’m learning as I go. It’s probably funny to watch, but the instructor keeps a straight face (Thanks, Becky). There was one move (pose?) I just couldn’t do. Twisted Stork. I tried, but my arms just don’t bend that way. Maybe in time. Becky assures me if I keep working moment to moment, my body will gain strength, flexibility, and balance. I like the concept of linear progression.
I’d like to apply the same concept to my life right now, please. Namaste.
Today was a rough day. Six months ago, Cooper left this existence. As silly or dramatic as it may seem, at this point in the journey, the 24th of each month is a painful day. Each 24th has been a teary marking of time, but today was the worst. Six months seems much longer than five, maybe because we’ve gone half a year without Cooper. I don’t know. I can’t explain it; I just know this has been the hardest week in a very long time. A week to survive.
I cried many, many times today, and the day isn’t over. I cried driving to school and driving home. I cried in my classroom (alone) before school and in my classroom (alone) at lunch. I cried in the restroom. Let’s not even talk about after school in my classroom. And yes, I cried in the dark safety of aqua yoga. I’m not proud of all this crying, but today there was no stopping it. Maybe I’ll do better tomorrow. What I’m learning is that I can try to do better tomorrow.
I’m also learning there is nothing linear about grief. I told a friend this morning, even if the pain and the missing him and the absolute sadness let up for a while, they come back. Sometimes, they come back worse than before, some twisted bonus in this festival of hell I’m living. It’s awful. This whole thing is awful. We are accustomed to a linear progression through life, through work, through relationships, health, sickness. That linear progression isn’t guaranteed, but it’s what we expect and often experience.
Grief laughs in the face of linear progression.
Sure, I may get better at handling the grief when it attacks — better at handling my response — but the pain is the same. Still unfathomable. Still unpredictable. Still a thief of peace. I can manufacture something linear in my responses, but that’s it. Becky shared many wise words tonight. She was talking about yoga when she said, “It’s about going to the placement of a position and attaining what you can in that moment.” I’m choosing to extrapolate. Her wisdom touches more than yoga. Right now, it seems like pretty good advice for my life.
Will tomorrow be so painful? Will next week? I sure hope not. Might I get the crying back under control? I’ll do the best I can. I’ll attain what I can in that moment. In the meantime, I’ll keep working on that Twisted Stork. Twisted indeed.
Woods Writes 