I started today’s practice like any other. Walking into the yoga studio, a quiet shuffle occupies the room as fellow students gather their bearings, voices soft but alive, minding the space and energy we occupy. My tote bag stuffed with my notebook and textbooks and the most oversized sweatshirt I own, I undress into my sweats and sports bra and slip off my sneakers at the studio’s lobby. I keep my socks on, it can get cold sitting on the floor all day.
The rhythm of creeks from the hardwood floor are familiar at this point from almost daily practice in this room as part of my teacher training. I grab two wooden blocks, a bolster, and a yoga blanket from the shelves by the entrance, the props we were told to gather everyday for the past three months. Today will be the last.
Setting up my little nest for each practice has become some sort of a ritual, creating a space that would support me for the rest of the afternoon. I unroll my mat at the front and center row – I will always and forever be a teacher’s pet – my bolster perpendicular at the back of the mat, the blanket still folded just in front of the bolster. I begin by sitting at the front edge of the bolster, my pelvis tilting forward, chest open with spine extending through the crown of my head. I cross my legs, cushioned by the blanket, blocks to the side for when I’ll want them later for different postures.
I won't stay like this for the full class, that would be too wearing. I might position the blocks behind me, laying the bolster on top of them to make a ramp to rest my back. Or I’ll bring the bolster parallel to the mat in front of me, straddling the back end, lowering my belly and chest onto the cushion. I might rest my weight on my bent elbows to allow my chest to lift. Or other positions of the like, readjusting as my attention rises and wades. This is the most conducive learning environment I’ve ever experienced, intuitive and supported.
The energy in the room simmers as more students enter. Nervous energy from the anticipation of teaching our final sequence to our classmates as the teacher observes. Excitement for months of a grueling schedule to end. A forthcoming nostalgia for when we’ll miss these days and each other, when all we had to focus on was breath and movement and yogic texts. Where we quickly became friends, shared intimate conversations catalyzed by the sensations we felt within our own bodies, trying to find the words to describe them aloud.
Our teacher walks into the room grabbing their bolster, characteristically on time, not a moment too early or late. They move light on their feet, almost floating, even with baggy jeans and a layered t-shirt and sweater. Chains, beads, and tattoos reveal themselves, a shaved head under their beanie. When they stand, they often lift their toes to shift their weight to their heels, grounding on the four corners of their feet, energy rising from their arches. They set their items at the front of the classroom, connect their phone to the speaker and begin playing André 3000’s “New Blue Sun.” No bars, just flutes. Fuck yeah.
“Hey friends,” they begin. We all instantly turn our attention, giddy in our bodies. “Last day. How are we feeling?”
A mix of mutterings in response.
“I say we just get right into it. You’ll each have 10 minutes to teach your final sequence to the rest of the class. Feel free to take breaks as needed. After we’re finished, I’ll call you each up individually into the studio upstairs and we’ll have an opportunity to discuss any feedback. I know you’ll each be amazing.”
***
I give my final teach to the class, ending seated cross legged with eyes lowered to the ground and a pit in my stomach, forcing a smile, returning to my empty mat with brows furrowed. My friend next to me notices my unease.
“You did great. Are you okay?”
“I really don’t think I did well,” I reply softly. “I feel like I stumbled on my words, my cues and transitions were not as smooth as they’ve been before. I’m pretty disappointed in myself, ending on this note.”
I clear the props from my mat and quickly enter supta baddha konasana, laying flat on my back, feet together, knees open wide. I place a hand on my belly and the other on my chest, keeping my eyes closed. I try to focus on my chest rising and falling, tracing the start of each inhale to the end of each exhale. I stay here while the next student begins their final teach, holding back tears.
“Alright, let’s begin in balasana,” the student begins.
***
When it’s my turn to go upstairs, I meet my teacher in the dimly lit studio, curtains drawn for privacy. They’re sitting on a bolster, welcoming me as I close the door behind.
“So how’d it go? I jotted down a few thoughts, but would you like to start?” they asked.
“Honestly, I don’t think I did well. I feel like previous classes I’ve taught to the group were much stronger. I was confusing my lefts and rights. I had a perfectly worded intention I was going to start the class with, but I felt like I botched it.”
I avoided eye contact, but I feel their earnestness and attention listening to my monologue, participating in my disappointment and frustration, like they’ve been here before.
“This practice means so much to me. That’s been my biggest lesson learned during teacher training,” I continue. “That yoga nurtures me in a way where nothing else can, connecting my mind and body, that it’s something I want to keep doing for the rest of my life. I feel like I ended this really special three months in a way that feels disingenuous or a failure.”
My teacher pauses before responding, making sure I was finished.
“Do you want to hear my feedback?” They respond softly. I nod my head yes.
“I was going to tell you that your sequencing is strong and you know the alignment of the poses well. Your vocabulary and the way you cue postures is clear and concise. Your final teach was really nice.”
I purse my lips in both pleasure and embarrassment.
“I’ve been teaching yoga for 10 years, and every year I get something new out of the practice. Yoga really is something you will have for the rest of your life, and it will keep surprising you with what it teaches and how it heals you and the different experiences you can have in your body. You got the juice. Keep doing it, keep loving it. There’s nothing else you need to do.”
You got the juice rings in my ear, never a phrase I thought I’d hear in a yoga studio. Juice meaning what? There is no talent or perfection or performance in yoga – a common misconception. Leaving me with what? Passion and its accompanying disappointment? But what is yoga without struggle, what is yoga without ease, without awareness and curiosity? What is yoga without an acceptance of exactly what is?
I thank my teacher, hugging them tightly, returning downstairs to rejoin my classmates, another opportunity to begin again.
