“Oh…little one. I think I’m going to call you Rocky,” my loving teacher half-joked whilst kneading the rocks between my shoulder blades in Child’s Pose this morning. And I thought they were just hard earned rhomboids from daily handstands the past six years.
Last time someone called me Rocky was my pop back when I was 7 years old. Pissed off at my brother pulling my pigtails one too many times, I clocked him in the lower teeth sending a temporarily capped tooth flying. Mom was even more pissed, as the original tooth perished with an ambitious date with a candy cane. But dad took it in stride. Fight when you gotta kiddo, but without the fists next time. Since then I can’t recall more than once or twice in the decades that followed ever lashing out at anyone or anything other than a psycho driver who tried to run me over for walking in front of his car to drop off a box at a Goodwill truck. My good will went out the window and yes, a fist landed on his windshield. But honestly, no other fists have flown since. I swear.
Anger isn’t something I identify with. Let down, disappointed, regretful, frustrated, irritated, sure. But anger. Nah, not me. That’s something out-of-control, non yogic hotheads in trucks with buzzcuts and short tempers and long commutes to wherever they don’t want to be driving to have to drive to contend with. Not this calm, cool, yoga chick.
Until my rocky shoulders gave it away. There’s anger in there, alright. Except it’s bound up in my muscle tissue instead of a pair of boxing gloves. As crazy as this epiphany felt (literally, figuratively), I left class grateful for once again, discovering something new about myself through the magical practice of yoga. I realized as the day went on that I’ve been angry. Angry. And that’s ok, so long as no one’s tooth is involved in my manifestation of it. Today’s practice opened the door to identifying, and working through it. And some really good shit is coming out of all that. Including:
A giant eraser wiped out my weekly routine, not sticking around long enough to erase the tears of shock that initially came with it. But now, two weeks later, I’m taking classes at times I normally would have been teaching, sleeping late enough to see shades of light peek through the wooden blinds, leaving my truck (yes, the irony…) idle instead of joining the buzzed cut road ragers out there to get to the studio on time.
Teach like a human. Not a guru.”
I’ve always loved teachers who share the not-so-yogic parts of themselves in class: an anecdote of what blocked them in their own practice, what pose they too struggle with, where they feel fear. Acknowledging I had anger bound up within me today connected me more deeply to those around me and those I serve. Yes, I get pissed off too, and I get you yogis. We are more alike than different. When I teach again I’ll do it from an even more human, connected state, thanks to acknowledging that I’m working through some anger too.
Perfection is selfish.”
Prior to getting present to my pissed off shoulders this morning, I had a running checklist of when/where/how often/what I’d be teaching by X date (TBD, early enough to look like a ‘perfect’ teacher who took an ever-so-brief break, late enough so as not to fail at meeting said goal). Oh, and make all your poses and transitions perfect enough to impress everyone around you in your ‘student’ status along the way. The result of this perfection pursuit has shown up as a rock garden in my back, and made me realize how f***ing selfish I’ve been in the pursuit. My globe-jumping, overworked CFO husband who can’t put his phone down for fear of missing a corporate fire needing extinguishing has been lovingly pleading for more snuggle time and help with home workouts. My family in Seattle is penciling in dates to catch up with wine, post-Christmas sales, and a stroll along the waterfront of my past during next week’s visit to my hometown. My friends have been asking to please say yes to the cup of coffee I now have time for. My body is screaming – angrily – for rest. Or at least a longer Child’s pose.
So, Rocky fans. Take heart. Get angry, and then get on your mat and learn from it. Soften. It’ll all work out without a fist needing to fly.