My eyes were closed as I absorbed this idea when she instructed us to think of a characteristic that came to mind when we thought of a close person in our lives. If the connection was romantic, she asked us to put aside looks and attraction and focus on more practical qualities. I immediately thought of my husband and the many things I was drawn to when we first met, but one stood above the rest: his discipline.
My husband’s discipline is worthy of admiration. If discipline were a person, his would be carried on shoulders after scoring a goal in a stadium; mine, on the other hand, would be met with a chorus of boos. This isn’t self-deprecation, nor am I fishing for encouragement. It’s simply a fact—at least so far in my life. Discipline and I don’t have a lovely relationship. It’s mostly love and hate. When I’m disciplined, I love myself, and when I’m not… well.
He has it—discipline in his art, his work, and his spiritual practice. I thought about how incredible it feels to meditate, to write, to connect with myself, and how little I actually practice those things. And how he, rain or shine, sick or sad, gets out of bed at 6 a.m. every single day for his yoga practice. Meanwhile, I can think of many—trust me, many—reasons not to do what I know makes me feel whole.
So I said to myself, I like this mirror, and I’m claiming it. I will practice yoga with him, rain or shine. Let me clarify: in Miami, “shine” can mean 98-degree weather that feels like 104 with humidity. Just saying.
Proudly, I decided to join him every morning, waking up at dawn when my entire body feels made of lead—bricks tied to my ankles, like I’m about to be dropped into the ocean by a mafioso with a heavy Jersey accent. Moving feels nearly impossible, but I rally.
On weekdays, his yoga practice is at home. I place my mat behind him and shadow his movements as best I can, struggling to keep my balance. On Sundays, he attends an outdoor class on Miami Beach, and I’ve been tagging along, always making sure we don’t set our mats up front. He’s an expert; I need to be right in the middle so I can watch the person in front of me and follow whatever they’re doing.
Being in a group class isn’t my comfort zone, so when the instructor asked us to find a partner we didn’t know, my husband and I exchanged a smile. A little white lie wouldn’t hurt anyone, I thought, and it felt cute to pretend we were strangers. As we did the exercise, I looked around and noticed how shy people seemed, especially since it required sustained eye contact.
When the exercise ended, the instructor asked us to wave at the people across the space. It took me straight back to childhood, to the many Sundays spent at church with my family. During the sign of peace, I dreaded turning around and finding people who somehow managed to look everywhere except at me. It happened so often that I began to believe I must be invisible.
That feeling of invisibility followed me through life and slowly became my comfort zone. Eventually, I even started to think of it as a superpower.
So there I was, in a yoga class, now in my fifties, looking at a group of people and feeling relieved that they were at a safe distance. I connected with one person, then another. And suddenly, she appeared—my inner child. She grabbed my arm and started waving at everyone. She took over my face, too, stretching it into an excited smile. What did I have to lose, after all? I still had my superpower—my invisibility cloak.
Except everyone was waving back. Not only waving back, but doing so with genuine excitement. They didn’t see the guarded adult I thought I was hiding. They saw the child who had taken over.
That’s when another mirror revealed itself: my inner child had awakened theirs.
But how could they see me? The invisibility cloak must have fallen. A split second of panic stung me, followed by something entirely unexpected—relief. It felt refreshing and new. Who would have thought that searching for discipline would lead me here? To a moment of deep awareness. It all lasted only seconds—five at most—but even one second of being seen that day felt like being discovered by the universe itself.
No comments:
Post a Comment