Over the past couple months I’ve been really busy, as is
typical for end-of-summer and beginning-of-fall for me, as well as for most
parents and all teachers. And for most
of the Saturday mornings in this period of time, I’ve been too busy or too lazy
to make it to yoga class. Or at least
that’s what I told myself: that it was
because I had too much to do, or because I needed some extra zzz’s. I did make it to class this weekend, and I’m
so glad I did, because I realized that I hadn’t been too lazy to go; I realized
that I’ve been avoiding class. I hadn’t been
avoiding it because I had too many things to do, or even because it meant I’d
have to set an alarm on a Saturday morning.
I was avoiding it because of the mirror.
It’s difficult not to compare oneself to others, even (or is
it especially?) in yoga class. I know
that goes against one of the tenets of yoga - that it shouldn’t matter if my
downward dog looks better or worse than my neighbor’s. It shouldn’t matter if my arms start to shake
in plank after my neighbor’s do, or that my neighbor spends more time resting
in child’s pose than doing anything else.
But I am secretly gloating inside when I notice that I am doing better
than my neighbor on the mat, even though I know in my heart that yoga is not a
competition. And yet, still my eyes
wander to others, to see how I compare, until I realize that their eyes must
also wander to me, and that they are judging me and comparing themselves to me,
and finding themselves superior. Why
this realization always surprises me, I can’t really explain.
Deep down, even the most confident of women (and, men, too,
perhaps) have some kind of body image issue.
I’m obviously not alone in this annoying and ridiculous self-talk,
especially after disfiguring cancer surgery.
I struggled with negative body image even before my surgery. But in class this week, our instructor said,
in the middle of a difficult posture, “I’ve noticed that this pose is much
easier for those with long arms. I have
stubby T-Rex arms.” Many people laughed,
of course. She paused a moment, and then
added in a steady voice, without a hint of sarcasm, “But I notice that I do
have arms.” The laughter stopped and the
reminder that we are lucky to be capable of taking part in a yoga class hung in
the air. I know that what she meant was to
show us that it is possible to stop the cycle of negative words that even she
was experiencing. It was very timely for
me, as I’d been lamenting my own losses lately and dwelling in the land of
self-pity more than necessary. But it’s
not just about body image or ability.
She went on to talk about the yogic concept of santosa:
contentment with the way things are.
This is different from gratitude, which is the
quality of being thankful; readiness to show appreciation for and to return
kindness. She asked us, if we
would pause for a moment each day this month to consider santosa, and to be mindful of it, as we contemplate thanksgiving
(with a small t and also with a capital T) this month. Instead of being grateful for what we
have, what if we were content? I think I
am pretty good at being grateful, but I am still learning to practice
contentment. We are powerless to change
much in this life, but we are utterly capable of changing our own perspective
about anything at all.
Sometimes I think of the phrase contrast aids perception, but in my mind I often confuse it with contrast aids perspective. So often we forget that contentment and
gratitude, as well as unhappiness and desire, originate from within. But contrasting ourselves with others often
leads to unhappiness and desire rather than contentment, unless and until we
begin to look to others as teachers. I
often find myself reading true adventure-disaster tales, and I think I start
reading these books because I wanted to know what happened. Now I think I read them because I want to
learn something about the nature of the human spirit: how did this person survive this
experience? what was it that he or she
found within that elicited the courage to continue? We’ve all survived something, be it cancer,
the death of a loved one, or simply Monday morning. What is it that gave you the courage to keep
going? And how can we find and practice
contentment in that?
