Rising Through Fear In Headstand
All I can hear is my breath. It is steady. It is what I fear I am not, but am becoming. It is what I have always been and have forgotten.
The most profound moment of my yoga practice didn’t happen in a class I was taking, or teaching. It didn’t occur in India, or within the calm of a yoga studio. No one was there to experience it with me. It was about 11 years into my yoga journey and I was alone, reaching inward towards the connection to my Self. Moving with my breath through the layers of thoughts until there were none. Stillness. In the past few days, I had witnessed the avalanche of thoughts and blanket of quiet as it settled across my mind. Something tells me that this is part of the process, part of cleansing, and part of letting go. This is part of willingly summoning an inner storm, and standing still inside of it.
My favorite moment happened in my favorite pose. The pose I used to fear. The first time I tried a headstand, I went in too fast. Falling out, I decided not to chance my mobility for a while. Afterward, my brother and I marveled at the fact that I was not paralyzed I had to learn to slow myself, and the pose, down. I had to begin to rise patiently with trust. Trust that would, in time, transform into confidence.
Fear had found an easy entrance through my fall. It tucked itself beside my will like a long, lost friend returning home. It chanted softly of failure, until it became a lullaby I would ease myself into. Beside it, slowly but steadily, rose the part of me that I am most grateful for. It refused to lie down in comfort. The part of me that needs the thrill of new experiences and grows weary of complacency. It begins to uncoil itself, as it senses its age-old adversary, fear, becomes far too comfortable fornicating beneath my skin. As I studied in India, each day closer to getting my yoga certification, I promised myself that I would find my way into headstand by the time I graduated. I came to view this promise as a gift to myself.
I started slowly, practicing in my room, walking my legs up the wall from the safety of the bed. Falling over continuously onto the bed and the blankets strategically arranged for this purpose. Days became weeks, and I began to hold the pose. At first, my legs wavered in midair like my own white flag. I would not give up and I would not rush the process.
When I finally rose up into, and held my first headstand, the euphoria of it just about brought me crashing right back down. There was this moment when I felt like I was just about flying. The realization was so staggering that I almost gave up all my poise. Almost. There’s a thrill in doing something that scares you and knowing what once seemed out of reach is actually yours to master. I went from fearing headstands to loving them. Above all, I loved myself for allowing my fear to become the instigator of change.
Muscle memory goes a long way, and each day my body remembered what it had been capable of the day before, and sought a little more. Four seconds turned into eight, thirty became a minute, and yes, peace did indeed come. Headstand became my favorite pose. Eleven years ago, I used a wall to find my way into it, and today I held it for 11 minutes.
I am beginning to see my whole life like this, a continuum of change and strength. Each morning, I wake up and glide into a headstand as my first act of self-love. I pick a song I love and hold my headstand for the duration of the song. I can gauge, and adjust my mindset in these moments of inversion. I feel my way through the residual emotions lingering from dreams, and the events of yesterday. Each breath brings me closer to myself. It is believed that the harder an asana is, the more likely that our chattering minds will be lulled into silence.
The focus needs to be deeply engaged. The real trick, however, is not to strain in the asana. We mentally lull our quaking muscles into a waking slumber. A singular line between active and peaceful. The real magic shines through when we breathe into it with ease. When there is no resistance or straining. Complete surrender. When we simply are. This is the hard part.
We become so many people in the process of life. Simply being becomes a quest back to us. Headstand and shoulder stand are my morning rituals. No matter where in the word I find myself, this is how I begin my day. Headstand energizes, and shoulder stand calms. One follows after the other. Balance. Then a long, deep savasana. The ultimate act of trust and surrender. Surrender of thoughts, emotions and of the physical body. Trusting that we are always held, always protected, and always loved. Trust in the wisdom of the body and its capacity to reallocate all of the energy we have just shifted and changed.
I realized that, often, I don’t even need a mat to do a headstand. I have done it on the beach, in the desert, on top of mountains, in the grass, and in the middle of empty roads. This is how I come back to myself across an ever-changing landscape. My head lies cradled in my hands and it is full of thoughts. I only rest about 20 percent of my weight in my head, and the rest is anchored in my forearms. Knees are drawn into my chest, and they begin to rise. There is no faltering now. Shoulders are soft. Core is engaged. There is no swaying.
All I can hear is my breath. It is steady. It is what I fear I am not, but am becoming. It is what I have always been and have forgotten. I no longer need a drishti gaze. I close my eyes. My focus is turned inward. There is a delicate grace between the vulnerability and the steadiness I feel growing in my belly. This is pure trust and power, and it all lies entirely within me. I am fully present. I am.
