Oh, if I could only be the Mary Poppins of yoga! I would ride an umbrella into class, unfurl my mat, and lovingly but firmly and without an ounce of wavering, give the kids their spoonful of yoga sweetness, easing down another dose of mindfulness … Continue reading
I love all the kids in my yoga classes, but there are always some who snag my heart extra tenaciously. Often they are kids who come to class with physical or emotional or behavioral challenges and are absolutely, vibrantly perfect. They broadcast who they are with an insistent signal, and even if they’re shy, they usually haven’t developed a thick layer of self-censoring. They speak their truth with their bodies and their voices, and, tiny teachers, they remind me what yoga is all about.
Like the little girl who concentrates hard to understand where her arms and legs should be in most poses, and who gets so excited when we play active games that she literally squeals with excitement. The girl who solemnly approaches me at the end of each class, looks right into my eyes, and earnestly bows an extra namaste.
The same little girl who absolutely needed to tell me, right in the middle of a game, that when she was born at six months, she only weighed one pound. One pound. Who then listed the surgeries she has endured. And who then straightened herself up into the most focused, branches-reaching, victorious tree pose I’ve seen her do. Tears flooded my eyes, and it was all I could do not to swoop all now-40 solid pounds of her up and swing her around and say, “YES!! You survived and you are here and let’s make sure you rock this world!” And then I would need to do that to every kid in our circle because aren’t they all amazements, miracles of survival in their own ways?
At the end of class, the kids rest on their mats in savasana, and once we’ve established the perfect lighting in the room (some kids calling out that it’s too scary and dark, others that it is too light and un-relaxing, me negotiating and calibrating) and done a sweet little meditation, I give anyone who wants one a gentle shoulder press. Almost everyone wants one. Their little faces are so perfect and calm and trusting, their bodies still and open. I remind them to take a deep breath in, and as they exhale, I help them soften their shoulders away from their ears, toward their mats. And in that moment of openness, although I am not ordained in any way, I offer a little blessing, sometimes silently, sometimes out loud. Yesterday I told each friend, “Thank you for being you.” A few kids responded with a quiet, “You’re welcome.” And that tiny, heartfelt conversation is the point of showing up on your mat, no matter how old you are or how deep your postures.
Thank you for being you.