The yang with the Yin

I took a Yin yoga class this afternoon after my usual morning swim. I was rushing through swimming, looking at the clock and worrying that I would be late. It seemed like every light turned red just for me, and then the icing on the cake: getting stuck behind a huge, Mac truck driving through back roads just ahead of me as I drove along the final mile to the studio.

Maybe, I should just turn around and go home. I did not want to show up late.

But I had promised myself that I would go. Part of my commitment to yoga intensive studies was to go to regular yoga classes. With my recent back pain and then the plate that attacked my finger, my entire being has been off kilter; yoga classes have not yet happened.

I pulled into the parking lot, grabbed my mat and water, and ran to the door. i walked into a dark space. Shutting the door behind me, I took in the dimly lit room and allowed the bright sunlight to fade away. Class was just beginning. I had time to sign in, throw my things on a bench, and remember to take off my flip flops just before entering the practice space.

I unrolled my mat and in typical, rushed chaos, it made a loud snapping sound as it slapped the floor. I cringed, made apologetic eyes at the teacher, and plopped down and crossed my legs.

My arrival made four: an even number.


The yang with the yin, which was just what our teacher explained.

Yin yoga is about balance. It is about feminine energy, learning to let go of control, and patience.

Practicing at noon, we balance morning energy with afternoon energy.

I could feel my clenching body loosen ever so slightly.

I followed her instructions, moving my body, breathing in and out. It was not until one of the final poses that I began to feel myself relax.

And once I began to relax, I could feel the tears at the ready.

I lay on my mat, breathing and feeling a deep sadness willing itself up from inside.

Though strangers surrounded me, it never occurred to me to hide my tears or sadness. In this space, I felt safe.

The sadness passed, and I carried on.

I was lying on my back and shifting my left and right leg to the left side of my body.

Let go, came the voice of the instructor.

And something happened. My body instinctively responded. I felt myself collapse into the floor, a dead weight.

In that moment, nothing mattered. Time did not matter. Pain did not matter. The impending separation from my partner seemed far away.

I left feeling safe and empty and full at the same time. It was such a fleeting feeling that I am not sure I can explain it. But I hope to experience it again.

Maybe tomorrow.

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