Yoga.
Good for the soul, bad for my tear ducts.
I don’t know if it’s because I’ve reached this benchmark in my life known as Womenpause or if it’s simply the pull of the moon, but I must say, I cry a lot. Like, a lot.
My kids have a little game they like to play which, loosely translated, means: “Let’s make mama cry.” They’ll tell me stories of orphans, or drug-addicted babies or my Clinique lipstick color being discontinued. They then watch as my eyes fill and lip trembles and then they wrap it all up with the heart-tugging Extra gum commercial and that’s all it takes.
And it’s always ugly.
Maria cries ugly.
I mean, I ‘ve always been a big crier. It’s not a challenge. Some people think I have a heart filled with ice and coal, but that’s not true. I’m sensitive! Especially involving any unfairness and abuse to children in any way, shape or form.
That’s understandable.
What’s not understandable is that I now cry during yoga.
I asked my yoga teacher, Anne, about this disturbing tendency. Yes, that Anne. She’s everywhere. It’s like I don’t have any other friends. But whatever, she’s my yogi.
She insists tears during yoga is normal. She said it’s a time of intense introspection and that lends itself to lowering my guard and essentially, letting it all hang out, like my thighs during pigeon pose.
I understand all that, but the truth is that I’m not that introspective.
What she doesn’t know is that while I’m breathing deep, restorative breaths, I’m not concentrating on the transformation of my being. I’m thinking about writing this column. Or why my son has only 65 cents in his student account. Or when my other son graduates in May, where the heck he is headed.
I cannot turn it off and connect to deep examination of my ugly soul!
My chakras are offline.
Chakra gone.
During downward dog, I’m looking at my feet and trying to figure out how to finance a fancy pedicure without my husband knowing.
I can say The Woodhouse is a grocery store.
That may work.
During triangle pose I’m wondering who else can see my varicose veins and if they think it’s a bad tattoo.
As I wrangle myself into plank, I expel a cloud of violent raw eggs and how can I self-reflect if I’m trying to gauge who around me was hit with that special gift?
Whoever smelt it, dealt it, man.
Cat pose? Sneezing. You know, because I’m allergic to cats.
Cow pose? I no longer have udders, so this seems pointless.
Tree pose? Should be concentrating and evaluating my life, but I’m giggling because Anne is staring at me and trust me, it’s just funny.
But, it’s Savasana that kills me, fittingly referred to as The Corpse Pose.
We lie down, hands and legs spread, body heavily into the floor and we do what I hate most: think.
Ugh.
And the tears spring forward like flies to a crap sandwich.
This is when my stomach lurches and I feel not sad, per se, but maybe, unmoored. This last moment, when nothing is expected of me by my yogi or my husband or my kids or myself, I’m floating, and for five minutes, I cannot think of a way to harness myself.
So, I cry.
Before I master Warrior II, I must first master my feelings.
During corpse pose, I may see dead people, but I need to also see my light.
I just need to buy a new lipstick color, cleanse my breath and keep my air from expelling. And then, perhaps my chakras will realign.
Namaste.
