“Once, in the midst of a seemingly endless Winter, I discovered within myself an invincible Spring.” ~ Albert Camus
I cried in yoga class today.
I cried for the girl I was three years ago, when I was 70 and I wasn’t sick.
I cried for her, for the one who didn’t have to go to yin yoga or gentle yoga or back yoga but who could go to any kind of yoga she wanted to go to.
“This is restorative yoga,” the instructor said. “Use whatever props you need.”
I cried for my neck that hurt, for my shoulders that hurt and for my back that couldn’t bend. I cried for my ankles that wouldn’t rotate, for my breath that wouldn’t move anywhere but in and out and for my legs that wouldn’t fold in front of me.
“We are going to do a gentle twist and hold it three, maybe four minutes.”
I remembered that Good Friday was only four days away and I felt it. Not as a religious thing that I should remember or should go to church for or but as a thing that was happening inside of me. My own kind of ending. My own kind of personal Good Friday.
I cried because the me that I used to know was dying—perhaps even dead, and I wasn’t yet aware.
“If you can’t do the twist, or it is too painful, just do what you can do.”
I remembered all the pictures of Him, the ones in my catechism—head down, beaten, suffering, facing his destiny in complete surrender.
I remembered His acceptance and His incredible compassion for everyone and everything around him that was writ on his face. I thought the pain of that compassion and how it probably surpassed the pain that was being inflicted on his body.
I cried because I wanted to see myself with those eyes of compassion—but how?
“Very, very gently now, untwist yourself any way you need to and lie on your back to restore your equilibrium.”
I felt I was facing my own Pontius Pilate except this one was called by another name—Micotoxic Mold Poisoning—and it was beating me. Beating me and flogging me. My head was bowed. I was sweating.
I cried for myself and for how hard I had been trying.
“Relax into Savasana,” the instructor said. “Let the feelings come and just relax. Notice and relax.”
I would need to just notice my pain and let it come. I would need to go up to that hill, that Calvary Hill of my own, with surrender and acceptance. I would need to just notice my debilitation and let it come without judging it. To surrender to what was happening to me, to the thief that was stealing my vim, my vigor, my chi?
“Breathe,” the yoga instructor said. “Just breathe.”
Once I got to that hill, I would need to forgive the landlord who didn’t know the house was moldy, to forgive the doctors who didn’t know what was causing my pain, to forgive the people who didn’t really believe that someone could get this sick from mold and oh, yeah, they had a friend who had mold poisoning once and they got over it in about a week.
Even more, and perhaps most importantly, I would need to forgive the poison itself for not knowing what it was doing other than simply trying to stay alive and using me as it’s host?
Would forgiveness cure me? Would it lead me to my own Easter?
“Begin to move out of shavasana now. Move your toes, move your fingers.”
I cried because I saw that I would have to let go completely without asking why did this happened to me. Without being angry because it did happen to me. Without being confused about who I was now, this old woman who was not at all in any way who she once was—a magically young 70-year-old girl.
“Turn over to your favorite side and come to a seated position.”
Could I do all this and believe that indeed the stone would be rolled away? That one day a new day would come, a Sunday kind of day, bringing with it new life and a new identity. A new self. One that I had never imagined.
Could I do all that?
“Placing your fingers together at your heart…”
I cried in yoga today because I wasn’t sure if I could do all that.
Because I didn’t know.
But maybe I didn’t need to know.
Maybe I just needed to let go and let the end comes—so as to make way for the beginning.
Bring on Spring. Happy Easter.
“On an exhalation, please join me…o-o-m-m-m.”
Author: Carmelene Siani
Editor: Katarina Tavčar
Photo: elidr on Flickr
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