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How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
Othello (II, iii, 376-377)
A Practice of Patience
Tonight, in my first yoga class of the year, I kicked right up into a headstand and held it for five minutes—not without effort, fear, and the occasional panic that I might emerge with a broken neck—but in fact headstands always leave me feeling wonderful (the reverse of all those fluids, they say). I know for me, it’s partly knowing that I’ve achieved a goal, one I thought I’d never reach. Inversions tie into my fear of heights, so it’s not just a matter of physical strength, but an inner struggle. And it’s interesting that as I gradually learned to accept headstand, I overcame one big part of my lifelong acrophobia—now I can go on the down escalator (great rejoicing on the part of traveling companions who’ve faithfully wandered with me in Czech undergrounds, looking for elevators).
In fact, though, inversions aren’t really the hardest part of yoga for me now, although I’m still struggling with handstand. Now it’s arm balances, which means strength and balance, two things I haven’t got. But what I learned from headstand is that it doesn’t all happen at one time, and it doesn’t happen without falling on your ass, more than once. But after all that, maybe, sometime, it happens.
That’s the part that’s been the hardest to learn, that it happens by degrees, and includes little failures. We all knew it once—otherwise we’d never have been able to walk, but would still be scuttling around on hands and knees. But once we can stand, we get the idea that it should all happen on the first try. Well, no, it doesn’t. We don’t lose weight, we don’t get jobs, we don’t find love, we don’t make marriages work, we don’t get published, etc. Not right away, not the first time. It just takes falling and trying again and again, and learning to recognize each tiny baby step that means the potential for progress is maybe there.
I wish I’d know that when I was younger—somehow I thought then that love came only as some headlong rush, that a truly great dancer rose up on her toes with no effort, that good writing just boiled out of the brilliant brain. Now I understand that you work at it. And the work is the good thing. Every great dish is really chopping onions and watching it all simmer slowly, and every garden is clearing out the dead weeds and planting again, one more time, even after droughts and frosts have killed it all.
And yeah, that little scar on my foot you can hardly see: once that was a horrible burn, but each day the good skin grew and the pain receded.
Othello (II, iii, 376-377)
A Practice of Patience
Tonight, in my first yoga class of the year, I kicked right up into a headstand and held it for five minutes—not without effort, fear, and the occasional panic that I might emerge with a broken neck—but in fact headstands always leave me feeling wonderful (the reverse of all those fluids, they say). I know for me, it’s partly knowing that I’ve achieved a goal, one I thought I’d never reach. Inversions tie into my fear of heights, so it’s not just a matter of physical strength, but an inner struggle. And it’s interesting that as I gradually learned to accept headstand, I overcame one big part of my lifelong acrophobia—now I can go on the down escalator (great rejoicing on the part of traveling companions who’ve faithfully wandered with me in Czech undergrounds, looking for elevators).
In fact, though, inversions aren’t really the hardest part of yoga for me now, although I’m still struggling with handstand. Now it’s arm balances, which means strength and balance, two things I haven’t got. But what I learned from headstand is that it doesn’t all happen at one time, and it doesn’t happen without falling on your ass, more than once. But after all that, maybe, sometime, it happens.
That’s the part that’s been the hardest to learn, that it happens by degrees, and includes little failures. We all knew it once—otherwise we’d never have been able to walk, but would still be scuttling around on hands and knees. But once we can stand, we get the idea that it should all happen on the first try. Well, no, it doesn’t. We don’t lose weight, we don’t get jobs, we don’t find love, we don’t make marriages work, we don’t get published, etc. Not right away, not the first time. It just takes falling and trying again and again, and learning to recognize each tiny baby step that means the potential for progress is maybe there.
I wish I’d know that when I was younger—somehow I thought then that love came only as some headlong rush, that a truly great dancer rose up on her toes with no effort, that good writing just boiled out of the brilliant brain. Now I understand that you work at it. And the work is the good thing. Every great dish is really chopping onions and watching it all simmer slowly, and every garden is clearing out the dead weeds and planting again, one more time, even after droughts and frosts have killed it all.
And yeah, that little scar on my foot you can hardly see: once that was a horrible burn, but each day the good skin grew and the pain receded.
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And good for you!
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I really, really wish I could tattoo this on my brain.
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Congratulations on achieving one of your steps.
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And I'm telling myself all this in hopes it'll finally sink in.
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