Today I walked into yoga and there was a different teacher from our
normal one. "Oh man," I thought. "Where's Laura? Who is this lady?"
I disliked her right away.
She had this sharp tone in her voice and she sounded like she was shouting. She didn't use a microphone because she didn't need one. Her commands were as sharp as her tone - quick and terse. It didn't feel comfortable to me. Laura is soft and flowy. I felt like this was going to be pretty painful.
I sat down on my mat and started following her directions. I had to squelch my laughter as I knew that I felt ridiculous having yoga instructions barked at me like orders. I remembered when I first tried yoga about four years ago in college and I felt ridiculous then, simply because I wasn't used to the philosophy or physicality of the practice. So I tried, with what little effort I wanted to put in to this unexpected interruption in my yoga practice, to just be open.
I saw her walking around the room a lot and immediately felt nervous. She was directing people individually, correcting their mistakes. Touching them. She'd better not touch me, I thought. Not less than thirty seconds later did she come up to me while I was in a crouching position and run her hands all the way down my back several times. I'm really not sure what she was doing, but I clenched my jaw and kept whispering to myself in my mind, "Open! Open! Just be open!"
I'm glad that I did.
After a while I started feeling the practice in a different way, and I felt like I was starting to meld or connect with her different style of vocalization. It ceased to bother me as much. I got used to the louder volume and her more demonstrative style. I stopped judging and trying to figure out exactly why she spoke the way she spoke or moved the way she moved. It didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was the sameness we shared - we knew the yoga poses, we knew their names and what they were for. We spoke the same language, if only a few words. A few words were all we needed.
Some of the words she spoke which I particularly enjoyed after hearing them a few times were, "This is enough. Here," with her hands on her body indicating how far we were supposed to reach or stretch or pull, "...here. This is enough. If not here, then here. No one really cares, anyways." That is absolutely right.
During the last ten minutes as we were winding down, doing relaxation poses on our backs, I got to experience her direct instruction again. This time she came over to me and pressed down on my shoulders. Hard. Then she ran her fingers along my breastbone and back over my neck and massaged my neck. It felt incredibly good. I also felt incredibly vulnerable. She really didn't have to do that. I felt a good deal of gratitude during that moment.
There truly are so many varying styles and methods and personalities of teachers - as many as there are learners. This is encouraging for me to see, as someone who aspires to teach someday as well.
This is enough.
I disliked her right away.
She had this sharp tone in her voice and she sounded like she was shouting. She didn't use a microphone because she didn't need one. Her commands were as sharp as her tone - quick and terse. It didn't feel comfortable to me. Laura is soft and flowy. I felt like this was going to be pretty painful.
I sat down on my mat and started following her directions. I had to squelch my laughter as I knew that I felt ridiculous having yoga instructions barked at me like orders. I remembered when I first tried yoga about four years ago in college and I felt ridiculous then, simply because I wasn't used to the philosophy or physicality of the practice. So I tried, with what little effort I wanted to put in to this unexpected interruption in my yoga practice, to just be open.
I saw her walking around the room a lot and immediately felt nervous. She was directing people individually, correcting their mistakes. Touching them. She'd better not touch me, I thought. Not less than thirty seconds later did she come up to me while I was in a crouching position and run her hands all the way down my back several times. I'm really not sure what she was doing, but I clenched my jaw and kept whispering to myself in my mind, "Open! Open! Just be open!"
I'm glad that I did.
After a while I started feeling the practice in a different way, and I felt like I was starting to meld or connect with her different style of vocalization. It ceased to bother me as much. I got used to the louder volume and her more demonstrative style. I stopped judging and trying to figure out exactly why she spoke the way she spoke or moved the way she moved. It didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was the sameness we shared - we knew the yoga poses, we knew their names and what they were for. We spoke the same language, if only a few words. A few words were all we needed.
Some of the words she spoke which I particularly enjoyed after hearing them a few times were, "This is enough. Here," with her hands on her body indicating how far we were supposed to reach or stretch or pull, "...here. This is enough. If not here, then here. No one really cares, anyways." That is absolutely right.
During the last ten minutes as we were winding down, doing relaxation poses on our backs, I got to experience her direct instruction again. This time she came over to me and pressed down on my shoulders. Hard. Then she ran her fingers along my breastbone and back over my neck and massaged my neck. It felt incredibly good. I also felt incredibly vulnerable. She really didn't have to do that. I felt a good deal of gratitude during that moment.
There truly are so many varying styles and methods and personalities of teachers - as many as there are learners. This is encouraging for me to see, as someone who aspires to teach someday as well.
This is enough.
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