Small Victories

I remember when I was a relatively new yoga student, and I imagined that I would be fully content if I could only get up into a headstand away from the wall. I tried and tried and tried, and after months (and falling through a wall) I finally got there. Of course, the next day I had completely lost the ability, and it took several more weeks before I was able to make my way up into the pose again. But by that time, I had my sights set on another "unachievable" pose: Handstand.

Throughout my yoga "career" I continually find poses that seem nearly impossible. Some I've been able to achieve, some I'm still working on. What I've learned, though, is that achievement of a particular pose is really immaterial, though it's still very exciting and empowering. (I also take a great deal of delight whenever one of my students, after weeks or even months of practice, achieves a goal that they set for themselves.) The important thing is that we keep trying and practicing. We keep taking action, and once in a while we can even let go of our attachment to the results of our efforts. For me, that is when yoga transcends the physical and the practice becomes an expression of play and of joy.

But not all of the achievements come from turning ourselves upside down, or twisting ourselves into a contortion that human beings should not be able to do. I teach a Chair Yoga class for a group of (primarily) seniors. Most of them have mobility issues of one type or another. Over the months that I've been teaching this class, I've seen definite improvement in all of the students, but it's really their dedication and commitment that inspires me. A few weeks ago, a new gentleman joined our class. He's roughly in his mid-eighties, and except for using a cane for balance, he appeared to be in relatively good health. He did complain of some balance issues, but mainly he felt "out of juice." I was immediately won over by his slightly mischievous personality. Anytime I asked him to do anything, he just chuckled to himself, as if to say "OK, I'll try, but don't expect too much."

Today, just four weeks into the session, he showed up without his cane, claiming he "forgot it." We worked on some seated breathing and stretching, all accompanied by his chuckle of resignation, then got up and worked on some standing poses to help with balance. We finished off with some seated twists, seated forward folds and a seated meditation/relaxation. At the end of class, the gentleman stood up (again, without the cane), and said, "Watch this." He bent over, reached down to the floor as if he were picking something up, then stood back up. He said that when he started the class, he couldn't even get halfway there, and walking without his cane was impossible. He said that once in a while throughout the day he even remembers to take some slow deep breaths. "I still feel out of juice, but this has helped," he chuckled as he left.

I've been witness to yoga's transformative effects in my own life, and I've seen students achieve inversions, binds and arm balances that they thought were impossible. I've been very happy and proud of each of them. I don't think, though, that I've ever felt as much satisfaction as a teacher as I did this morning when this gentleman told me that he could tie his own shoes for the first time in a long time.