Course:Yoga
| CRWR 501P 003 |
|---|
 |
| Advanced Writing of Poetry |
|
| Important Course Pages |
| Categories |
My mother, Stacey, has been practicing yoga since before I was born. Throughout my childhood I was exposed to it in snippets here and there, my exposure ebbing and flowing with her dedication to her practice, from when she took her teacher's training to when it would die down and be but informational books on a shelf in the basement, to when she became a teacher herself.
I went to my first yoga class when I was trapped in the awkward age of fourteen. Chubby, unsure and disconnected from myself in the ways only a teenager can be, my mother took me across the street to the nice neighbour lady who taught yoga, in the hopes that it would get me out of my shell. The woman's name just also happened to be Stacey. I learned things about Stacey over my visits: she trained race horses a the Woodbine racetrack due south of our town. Her husband was a jockey. They desperately wanted a child but couldn't conceive, which, at that age, I couldn't understand the pain it caused her. I mostly thought she had a warm laugh and made me feel welcome in her yoga classes.
At first, I thought yoga was really weird. The postures were cumbersome and I self-consciousness plagued me. The chanting freaked me out. I had equated chanting with religion and organized religion in my mind at that time was nothing more than a way to control people. The candles were too dim, too intimate a mood. It wasn't until after a month of classes that I started to feel a tiny bit better about myself. More at ease. I got to spend time with my mom, who I'm sure was feeling us drift apart. Plus, Stacey served cookies and tea after. Who doesn't love cookies? If there's anything that says enlightenment its cookies.
My practice, if you can call it that, didn't last long. I lost interest after a few months. But it came back in my early twenties for a few years, mostly because I longed for toned arms and legs. Then my practice disappeared again when life got in the way (a horrible excuse) or I got bored and switched that form of physical exercise for CrossFit.
It wasn't until I was in my late-twenties, when I started to exercise for my mental health, that I understood the life-altering effects of a consistent yoga practice. Ever since dedicating myself to a more regular practice, in any form (yin, ashtanga etc.) I've seen my mind quiet and my self-judgements about my creative work soften. Creative flow is easier when my nervous system is calm, when I am at rest. Only then can I hear the quiet little voice of my muse to whisper to me: write this, write this.
When my therapist suspected I had been living with C-PTSD most of my adult life, I knew I needed to trust the yoga practice even more. My nervous system had been in fight or flight or mostly fawn, living on high alert and ready to scope out any imaginary threat. When I deepened my yoga practice even more this year, incorporating more chanting and meditation, prayer, coming closer to Source, incorporating more elements of yoga into my every day life (not just the physical postures) my mind and spirit have been lifted and my anxiety and symptoms have calmed greatly, allowing for healing to take place.
Yoga has made me feel more connected to myself, the world and my writing and I look forward to a lifelong practice.
Categories
Add categories here