Home, sweet home?

After two months on Prince Edward Island, it hasn’t been exactly easy to come back to Montreal.  The city feels foreign, grey, devoid of friends, and all-too-familiar all at once.

Granted, it is springtime in the city which essentially means the air smells like six months of frozen dog turds spontaneously and suddenly softening in the ever-widening sun; cigarette butts, salt and gravel coating everything in a sooty blanket of dirt:  a winters’-full of numb-fingered negligence.

It feels aggressive.  Loud.  And I feel very sensitive to all the noise.  As if I somehow, somewhere, I lost my city shell.

And though the city feels slightly alien, like a piercing that never quite took properly; always somewhat infected and softly oozing puss, the studio feels like warm apple pie.  (Although that analogy has been significantly ruined by the movie, whereas the main character, so moved by the cliché that, well…..you know what happens next….)  The studio feels as comfy as a Norman Rockwell painting.  Solid as a rock.  Welcoming as a breast-feeding bosom.

I started practicing at this particular studio 5 or 6  years ago.  It is the place of my undoing and my doing all at once.  Back in the day when I used to grunt, fidget and sweat through a class only to march across the street afterwards for a beer and a cigarette.  This shy student who always wondered if my teachers, who were changing my entire worldly outlook, even knew my name.  I was that girl.  The one who would bawl uncontrollably whilst the first scratch, tickle, or rug-burn of yoga was just barely breaking the surface.  And don’t we know: the first cut is the deepest.

Imagine all of the droplets of sweat-disguised tears that have splattered onto this cork-board floor.  Imagine all of those vapors of fear, insecurity, joy, sorrow, anticipation, expectation, disappointment and triumph that have been released into the heated, Nag Champa scented air.

For me, this studio has consistently been the one place that can transport me back to the magic of yoga.  It is a place where there is endless love and constant support.

And though that is true, let’s not sugar-coat the obvious.  This studio was also my undoing; the place that first caused me to fall in love and then later, filled me with dread.  A place where every day, and let’s not kid ourselves, every hour, I questioned my ability to teach.  My lack of presence on the schedule caused me to doubt my ability, my strength, myself; doubt so cyclic in its’ power it actually rendered me insignificant as a teacher.  The more worried I got about my teaching, the worse my teaching got.

And so I left.  I left to practice.  Nothing like a good dose of practice to put a little bee in your bop.   Everything takes practice.

Coming back here has helped me realize that nobody is perfect.  Not even my teachers that consistently have filled me with awe and wonder, those who consistently enable magic to take place inside my skin, not even they are perfect.  (Although there are a few that still come damn-near close.)  The pedestals have been lowered and we can now see eye-to-eye.

The truth is, we are all just here.  We are in this together.  Practicing day by day.  Chugging along and doing the best we can.  Because that is all we can do.

And that is enough.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. lis315
    Mar 24, 2012 @ 12:14:30

    just as I leave to practice (and get past my doubts) in Toronto….such perfect timing. Thank you, xoxo


  2. Jennifer Mitchell
    Mar 26, 2012 @ 23:23:20

    Perfect timing here too because I just spent some time expressing gratitude for being humble and accepting everything as it is…….just as it should be, minus those expectations that just bring us down. There’s something so refreshing about acceptance……..mostly everything! xoxo


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