Meeting resistance

Almost immediately after reading this sentence you’ve already made some sort of judgment in your head about it.

You like it, or you don’t.

Maybe you find my vulnerability uncomfortable.

Perhaps you’re interested in learning more. 

Yoga aims to diminish this chatter, or vrttis, of the mind so we can experience life as it unfolds rather than through the lens of our distorted perceptions. If you meditate or practice yoga, then you already know this is easier said than done. But this in itself is the practice: the noticing.

In my classes this month, we’ve been practicing twisted asanas and exploring the idea of resistance. We resist twisting postures for a good reason: they’re not easy! In these asanas, we must lengthen our spine while simultaneously engaging our deep abdominal muscles. We do not often find our bodies moving into a twisting position when we’re not on the mat.

So, when the teacher cues Parivrtta Utkatasana, we are not only transitioning into a posture that we probably don’t want to do but also one that does not come naturally to us.

What happens, then, in the mind? 

We might attach expectations to the experience (this will be hard) or decide to give up without trying to explore our potential (I can’t do this). We might even begin to judge the teacher (why is she making me do this?) or ourselves (I am bad because I cannot do this). 

This is the mental chatter that yoga challenges us to become curious about. 

It’s not about judging ourselves for having these thoughts — because, as humans, we’re wired to operate this way. Instead, yoga is a practice of observation. One of seeking out the subtle differences between perception and reality. Discerning between the authentic self and the stories we create deep inside the mind.

Because of these same stories, we are consistently resisting, whether or not we are conscious of it at the time. At the root of it all? Often, fear. But, by holding on tightly to what’s no longer serving us, we leave no space for new opportunities. And, usually, the very thing we resist is what we need most.

Here’s an example. When I first started my yoga practice, I was running away from myself due to some personal hardships I had faced. I desperately needed to slow down, but I did not want to. My muscles were tight, but I refused to bend my knees or use props. I needed to breathe deeply, but I unconsciously held my breath.

At the time, if you asked me why I didn’t like a slower-paced class, I’d tell you it was because it was not physically challenging. Really, I “didn’t like” certain classes because judging something external was more accessible than holding a mirror up to myself. 

I didn’t want to slow down and sit with my thoughts because I did not like myself. 

I didn’t want to bend my knees or use props because I was ashamed of my inability to do things I believed a body “should” do.

I didn’t want to breathe because I was afraid of the emotions that deep breathing would release. 

My practice finally changed when I stopped resisting. So did my life.

After over eight years of forcing myself to attempt physical shapes that my body wasn’t ready for, I finally let go. I began to modify. I focused on moving intentionally and listening to what I needed instead of trying to be better than I was the day before or the person next to me. I took necessary rests when my body was exhausted. 

And ironically, doing this is what allowed me to become physically stronger. It allowed me to experience each asana on a deeper level, which I unexpectedly found was much more physically challenging than moving half-heartedly through a fast-paced class.

Soon, I realized that the practice and life were the same and that life is not something to rush through in a dissociated state. It is meant to be felt, no matter how messy, difficult, and humbling that may be at times. It is an experience, not a performance or competition.

Instead of resisting my feelings, I began to let myself experience them. It wasn’t easy. Sometimes it felt terrible. 

But guess what? Once I let myself feel the sadness and anger I held onto for so long, I felt much lighter. The more I was able to cry, the more I was able to laugh, too. 

I started to see the beauty inside of myself, which allowed me to see the beauty in everyone around me. The world became a much different place. One where people were no longer threats because I was safe inside myself. Really, though, it was the same as it had always been because I had unknowingly created the dangerous world I had been living in.

There will always be more to release. In fact, the deeper we dig, the more we’ll uncover. It’s one of the most beautiful parts of the practice, the perpetual possibilities. Like nature, we grow, bloom, shed, decay. Then, do it all over again. 

If we can simply learn to let go and trust the process.

Love and peace to all,

Lex