I have been a bit quiet recently, but there is a reason. And I have to say, Chanukah could not have come at a better time for me. These past few
weeks have been intensely painful for me, and I have not been sure how to write
about them. My hip pain became debilitating sciatica essentially overnight. A
trip to Urgent Care, a failed MRI, medication, yoga, breathing, stretching,
relaxing, chiropractic care, acupuncture, and massage all ensued. The pain just
got worse.
And all I keep thinking is, “I’m a yoga teacher!!! How am I
in this much pain?!”
But then this
beautiful and deeply personal post arrived from Roseanne at It’s All Yoga
Baby. In it she describes her own recent depression and writes:
Underneath it all, however, is a vague
sense that I’m failing at my practice, that I’m as broken and f[‘]d up as I was
before I committed to yoga (chronic and clinical depression was what drove me
to practice in the first place), that the practice isn’t working. There’s also
the vague sense that I’m not allowed
to be feeling this way – there are many stories of miraculous healing from
depression (and everything else) through yoga, but nobody talks about the
relapses. I feel like I’m doing something wrong.
While my issue has been more physical (though I fully
believe physical pain can and does stem from emotional pain), I fully
understand her sentiment here. I have been feeling embarrassed about the pain
on several fronts, but mostly because I’m 30 years old, and I’m a yoga teacher.
How can I be in such debilitating pain, especially from what appears to be
really, really tight muscles.
It is extremely easy to get caught up in the pain and ignore
the lessons. I would say I sort of have been living in that space. But there are
brief reprises, brief moments where I can take the time and not only
cognitively, but energetically and emotionally, see the gifts and lessons the
pain has to offer. And the Festival of Lights has helped me see that.
First, as
discussed before, our darkest places bring us closer to compassion and
connection with others. I never fully understood how debilitating physical pain
can be until the past two weeks. As a yoga teacher and a lawyer, I deal with
people suffering from all varieties of pain. Having had an experience to relate
to that pain changes not only how I interact with the person, but how they
respond to what I say. It is very easy to stand on the outside, look at
someone, and give them all sorts of ideas of how to make their lives “better.”
It is quite different to look at them and say, “I feel what you are
experiencing. I experienced something similar myself, and you are right. It is
debilitating.”
This pain has taught me a different level of compassion as
well. I often get upset with people who turn everything into a story about
themselves and their own experiences. But these past two weeks, it has been
comforting to hear from people who understand how painful sciatica is. I get a
bit overwhelmed with everyone offering different advice, but the sympathy and
understanding has been greatly beneficial. As a result, I have learned the
importance of connecting with others through our own stories. We can offer our
stories less as a way to say, “Look at me and my suffering” and more of a way
to say, “I understand, and I know you can get better.”
And of course, this pain has been the universe’s way of
telling me to slow down. That is a lesson I am not heeding so well. But I have
learned where I feel comfortable letting go and where I still need to work. I
have said it before, and I believe it even more today, meditation and yoga are “easy”
at an ashram. I put easy in quotes because they are never actually easy, but
they fit a structure and their lessons come more quickly. But try meditating in
Times Square. Try meditating when the pain is searing through your leg. Try
just breathing when you feel like all hope is lost.
And amazingly, in those moments, sometimes the breath does
come. And for a brief glimpse of relief, the breath softens whatever is
currently hardening us. It may be one breath in a hundred, but that one breath
can be what keeps us going. And that has been the greatest lesson so far. Even
when I feel as divorced from my practice as ever, something (or someone) always
manages to bring me back.
It may feel like it needs a miracle similar to the miracle
of Chanukah, but the holiday can help remind us that we all have that light
within, and even when it feels impossible to reach, we can turn to it, and it
can offer us a little hope that things can get better.
What lessons have you learned from stress, pain, depression,
etc.? Are you able to find those brief glimpses of coming back to yourself?
What helps?
Namaste!
©
Rebecca Stahl 2012, all rights reserved.
