When I set out to take yoga teacher training, I never intended to teach. I just wanted the rich knowledge that I knew was below the surface of the classroom experience. It was just a couple of months into that process that my sister, Katie, approached me (frustrated with her weight) and asked me to teach her what I was learning. Two times a week, she faithfully drove from Kokomo to my house, which was about 50 minutes away. Always showing up promptly at 7:00 a.m., I would greet her still groggy after 2 cups of coffee.
She was delighted at the rapid changes the practice had. At first, she could not lower her knees in a cross-legged seated position due to an old knee injury. Though I was unaware of it, her husband was taking note. J (Katie’s husband) is a big, burly guy in plaid, with a pelt of a beard and looks like he just walked in from the wilderness and who I would have described as my polar opposite in almost all ways. Much to my absolute shock he asked Katie to ask me to teach him some yoga. I was positively floored. We agreed on Saturdays, and the two of them faithfully showed up. It was with him that I realized the absolute blessing of watching someone strive towards something that I had the privilege of being an instrument for. J started out doing downdogs by standing up and bending over to grab the pool table. I was filled with bliss at each phase of his progress and the transformation I was witnessing.
About 3 months after graduating from teacher training, my other sister’s seventeen-year-old son tragically died. I recall her phoning me to tell me of the incident and felt a jolt strike through my right side like I had been stabbed with a hot poker. My sister’s grief response was misdirected rage that ultimately led me to retreat from the relationship.
When it was time for Katie to show up for yoga that following week- I was unable to teach. I felt like all my training, garnered wisdom, readings, meditations on compassion, and spiritual centering was fruitless. That when challenged, I was left feeling vulnerable, raw, victimized, powerless to help and compelled to run, run, run. Who was I to lead us through some higher-minded process? Clearly not me.
That morning, I dropped my arms in the middle of the first sun salutation and told Katie and my husband that I simply couldn’t teach that day. Without missing a beat, my husband closed his eyes, brought his hands into prayer position at his heart and said, “inhale up, swan dive down, exhale, inhale, look up, exhale, look down, right foot back, left foot back, exhale all the way down.” He continued for a good 10 minutes parroting my teaching words, Eric’s words, Linda’s words, Babbageeze words, Pantanjolis words. Words spoken through lifetimes, in joy and in sorrow, in hope and in stress, in fun and dismay. Tears dropped upon my feet as I bent forward, and my eyes lifted up as I bent backwards. I experienced the healing that this movement brings to those who practice through all of life’s journeys, not just the days you feel strong, wise, capable, energetic.
After about ten minutes of his teaching (such a loving gift), I was able to resume our little class.
Even today, I reflect on my earlier reasons for thinking that I could never truly teach yoga (I’m not flexible enough, charismatic enough, energetic enough. Whatever.) I am reminded that when I come to the class in a humble, vulnerable, real way- well, that’s when I show up exactly as needed. We do not teach by being statuesque yoga Gods, or zenned out recluses, poised and perfect. We teach by being a living example of breathing through the discomfort, going to a place of benefit, smiling and being happy for all that we do, and understanding and respecting our edge-in life as well as in the studio.
And sometimes, maybe most of the time, those we teach, teach us.
Namaste – Riya Stratton
