Stories to share: falling in love teacher
We opened this section "Stories to share" with the precious collaboration of a reader, Lalita. You can also share your experiences about Yoga with all readers. Email us at firstname.lastname@example.org. Every month a batch of books of the Kairos editorial among the participants will be drawn.
I thought that I could never forget my first yoga class. I was wrong. A few days ago a friend ("How did start this?") took me to the first time I crossed the door of a Yoga Studio. Years ago, that he had not returned to thinking about it. Upon returning from where I am now it became very clear to me that my life changed, exactly at that moment.
A bright, open-plan loft. Six women in tights. The younger one, which had opened me the door, sported a look, a few ways and a smooth and black hair I decided to recognize as their own "someone who makes yoga". Five minutes later, after delicate questioning to get the tab, appeared the teacher. Door threshold passed, directly, to the first position in my new mental box of "Someone who makes yoga", this one, with a capital letter. The first impression is build along all kind. Today, fifteen years later, still there, more seated than ever. One of the great certainties of my life.
What is important that day in which my life was changed without me I joked were not the atmosphere or gestures. Several times the teacher approached me to put myself better in any of the positions. My former ballerina training I was able to take them easily, or that I thought, but under his touch, I discovered the layers and layers of effort from which I was really moving. The pressure of hands or body of the Professor revealed my excesses and my shortcomings in a way, at the same time, direct and quiet. I could perceive how I me supported my known points, saturating them, neglecting areas of the body that had never learned to drive. "He relaxes here," said supporting a hand into my side during Trikonasana, and then something unexpected happened. My arm, stretched perfectly with my impeccable muscle actions, relaxed and stretched infinitely more (or at least the length of my surprise was infinite). What impressed me most of my first class was the certainty that lived in a body that did not know, and there was someone who wasn't me who knew him and handled much better. In a word: there was hope for me.
The career of a perfect woman
I had signed up for Yoga without knowing it, but I had pointed to by despair. He needed to rest. I needed desperately to find a place for me where he did not have to do something all the time to support me. He had also found it without knowing it. I think so what us almost everything that is essential in our life.
The yoga room was less than five minutes from my house, but that distance had taken me years. Years of preparation to be perfect in everything. Woman, worker, mother and partner. Greedy words every year passing required many more. A title was not enough, English was not enough, the computer was not enough, lead wasn't enough. It was not enough to know Cook; He had to know how to surprise your senses with the dishes. It was not enough to be with children; I had to read manuals on how itself and how not to be with them so that in the future were full adults (something that I wasn't, and I not qualified as the best teacher, by the way). It was not enough to be companion; It had to be lover, wife and accomplice... and mother. More instruction manuals, more data. Never good enough. To change the mobile me was reading hundreds of pages to find the best best price. Yoga was the way in which I could stop me.
Go to Yoga class was not to do a course to acquire a new skill to be a perfect woman. Go to Yoga class was to leave me alone. It was to rest up to being a woman. And leave me in peace appeared something. Something inevitable, something evident that had always been there and had never seen before. I was not my acquired skills. I was I when I left in peace. My arm is stretched when it permitted it, not when I did.
All this I know it now; at that time I learned the only way possible to do so: I fell in love with the professor.
Messenger of love
I went to all classes and courses that gave. Their presence in my body helped me to reveal a pristine light core which had always known he was there but had never found. My training at home helped me to keep it close. My body was the footprint of your touch, the memory of the heat, the pressure of his body and his voice always smooth and quiet. I was definitely in love and happy... when"yoga". I let myself long and smooth hair.
And he did nothing to get me out of this State because it was not something his; It was exclusively mine, it was exactly what I was needing. To be fair, I must point out that he was not doing anything to fall in love. He was he, and had a message essential to me. The only way in which I could hear the message of love was to fall in love with the Messenger. Will another there be?
Well, maybe he did a thing. Over time it helped me to forgive me for being a woman (capitalized). Today I recognize that I hated then men, the cause of my constant effort for its child violence that had created the world that I and my colleagues had to change. Being a woman was not to be a man. It was to be best. And being a woman was a working over, impossible. So I thought without knowing it when I met a man who told me that Yoga had a feminine soul, and that is why it was so beneficial for men (what? In class wasn't there any more than it?). My teacher (already belonged me) was said to practice Yoga let be be, don't try to be be, not pretend. Suddenly they pointed that the truth is in itself, and as we do trying to find it is an unnecessary effort to the hidden, as if one sought with a candle Sun a cloudless day of wind. That does not turn off! He understood it perfectly because you understand it with my whole body. When he left me during my Yoga practice, I was. My arm was my arm, not the effort to sustain it. When he pretended to positions was a woman trying to perfection, which consisted in not allowing anything to fall. I began to relate the feminine with a receptive and loving and deep listening. Being a woman was leaving (sometimes, usually those of the class) be an effort. Of course, at the same time, it was me more than the teacher who showed me beautiful things.
Releasing what is not
Understand all this I took his time. It is taking it even today. This, as all is not a linear story. Several years ago my teacher lives in another city. We do not see us. But whenever I practice I still hear his voice and his touch accompanies me lovingly. They are no longer yours. They are mine. It is a part my deep, timeless, perfectly calm that takes your voice to be heard. I'm still in love with him, as I am in love with everything else. Fall in love with the Professor helped me fall in love with the practice. Practice is to immerse myself in love. Love towards teacher? Yes, because the teacher, your teacher, is instantly. The instant that you love. The teacher is love that you are and everything is, the gift of life.
Today I love my life, life (capitalized again) for what it is, not by what hang of it holding it with a mythological effort. Go to the Yoga Studio that day definitely changed my life. He had started much earlier, I can't say exactly when. It continues even today, but from the moment in which I opened the door my life was filled with love, with capital letters, learning to go by releasing what wasn't it.
My first Yoga class, how could I forget? Obviously because it is not over.
Lalita Santos, practicante de Yoga Anusara,