Sometimes, when I’m teaching, I draw a complete and total blank. We’re in downward dog, or warrior one, or some other pose–it doesn’t matter which one. The point is that we’re done the sequence on one side and now need to move onto the next and I can’t remember for the life of me what we did.
The pause before I speak again, with directions, feels eternal. My mind races, thinking back, trying to bring up what we started with, and what came after it. But I can’t do it. I just can’t remember. I imagine myself having to stand up and say, “Hey, anyone remember what we did just then?” (Ironically, our mind can race us through an eternity of anxious thoughts before others even realize we’ve paused.)
So I just leap. We step the other foot forward. And suddenly, it’s all there: every pose, every modification, every unique alteration and addition. Everything’s there. The entire sequence.
I’m not sure exactly how this works–I have a feeling that taking our mind’s attention off worry has a lot to do with it–but it feels important. It feels like a life lesson is within this moment of saving grace.
Maybe the lesson is about having faith. Maybe it’s about trusting ourselves. Maybe it’s dropping out of worrying and planning ahead. Maybe it’s all of these things.