“Put some muscle into it”, my lighting teacher instructs me as I struggle with unscrewing the overwhelmingly heavy and expensive light hanging in the catwalk of the Helms Theatre. I manage to finally get the cold, hard screw to budge and as I raise my hands in the air triumphantly to celebrate, I realize my thumb is covered in blood and is now split open as a result. Fantastic. Only three minutes into class and I already have a flesh wound.
Let’s rewind now shall we. Earlier that morning I had begun my day at an intense yoga class. What a great way to start my Wednesday, right? Well, finding the right yoga studio in Charlottesville had been an epic quest for my sister and I, seeing as we are big downward dog advocates. See, the previous week we attended Allied Yoga, which was an experience. I’m not sure if it was the skeleton wall decals or the ropes that looked like nooses, but from the minute we walked in, we knew we were in for a ride. Not only were we the youngest participants, but this yoga class felt like Bridge Club–with everyone named Peggy and Lou Ann, and they all knew everything about each other. With the age gap, my sister and I felt confident we would be breezing through the class, advancing through our chaturanga faster than everyone else. Well, to our surprise, not only were these ladies probably amazing at Bridge, but they were amazing at yoga. Their form was perfect–and even with the help of blocks and belts–they nailed every position. I found myself being corrected multiple times by the instructor, with her personally addressing me in an unrelenting manner, “Emily, try to keep your core engaged!”, or “Emily, align your spine better in crescent warrior!”
Desperate to find a new studio, my sister and I decided we were going to try Ashtanga Yoga which had more of a Vanyasa flow and was going to be more of a workout, as opposed to a series of gentle, but intense, stretching poses. We walked up the stairs to find colorful yellow walls and bright red curtains, a much better first impression than the skeleton decals. The room was warm, not hot, and we knew we’d be sweating out our toxins while in downward dog soon. This class proved interesting though because again we found ourselves to be the youngest participants. During complicated lift positions my sister and I would continuously struggle, while the older women would be high in the air making it look absolutely effortless. Oh and I can’t forget about the music. Now, I am all about music guiding me from warrior 1 to warrior 2, especially if its to the Lumineers’ “Flowers in Your Hair”, but when I’m planking and I hear the lyrics “Jesus Take the Wheel” it’s getting to be too much. It’s that moment when you’re struggling to engage your core and you’re thinking, “God how are these older ladies kicking my butt right now?”, “At least I will have earned my Bodo’s bagel after this last sequence”, or “I’m sweating so much right now I could slip n’ slide on this mat if I desired! I feel so attractive!” Then you hear the voice of your yoga teacher screaming, I mean politely reminding you, “Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!”
My favorite moment of class would definitely have to be when we moved to headstand position. I have never been able to successfully do a handstand, but thanks to how hot I felt with the heat in the room I felt extra bold and wanted to attempt this impossible feat. I immediately tried to kick into the pose, only to receive a strong, negative reaction from my instructor. “No, no, no Emily! Never kick into headstand! NO!!” Whoops.
So now we’re back in lighting lab where I butcher my finger. Now, you can see why this was particularly frustrating. I had begun my day with an intense 90-minute yoga class–I felt totally relaxed and ready to conquer the day–yet everything after yoga had gone so terribly wrong. My advisor kept me waiting for over an hour, causing me to be late to class, and then I busted my finger open. And when I see blood, I freak out. It can even be just a paper cut and I will faint. But here I was in lighting lab, in front of all these technicians who are strong and would probably diagnose their own appendicitis as just a casual “stomach ache”.
I run out to the hallway and to the bathroom to try and clean my thumb. Staring at myself in the mirror I try to think of something to calm my nerves and stop the tears. My normal go to, downward dog, is clearly out of the question with my left hand out of commission. Instead I think of this morning and sing “ommmmmmm”. I burst out laughing at the irony of my entire situation. This morning I had felt ready to take on the world, yet cutting my finger open was enough to make me feel terrible about the day and somehow my life.
But what I realized in this moment is that yoga was just a mask I was using to feel better throughout the day. Just because I go to yoga, or do a good deed, am I guaranteed to have one of those days where you march to your own personal soundtrack and everyone cheers your name as you pass by? Sadly, no. This is just a fantastic fantasy we play in our heads to feel on top of the world, when really we feel like the bug splattered across the windshield. I suppose at the end of the day it’s not about what we do that should make us feel like a good person or not, but rather how we deal with what we do. I’ve always heard, “Surely it’s not what you do, but how you do it”. In yoga, class is concluded with you bowing your head to your instructor and saying “Namaste”. While in India this past semester, I learned that this phrase means, “I see you”. And I think that’s the most important lesson there is. No matter what type of mask we try to put on, ultimately we need to just let go and let people see us for who we really are. I am clearly not going to be the next lighting technician, nor will I probably be that yoga superstar in perfect headstand position, but only when I finally admit my faults and doubts can I ever hope to accomplish anything great and live fearlessly in the most authentic and truthful way possible.
Ommmmmmmmm.