Warrior Pose and Metaphors: The Struggle to Stay Still in Yoga

This morning's yoga session felt different.

With a spring in my step, I carried confidence as uplifted as the lift that comes with pricey high-quality wired bras.  

Usually, I save myself a spot at the back of the class, but not today. Today I sat boldly in the middle of the class – right under the nose of our unbelievably stunning yoga instructor, Rachel.

Rachel’s worn a bright green sleeveless top – a green that’s as deep as emerald and as lush as fresh grass.

“You look great, Sanobar! What’s up with you? Your skin’s glowing!” Rachel notices the unusual sparkle in my eyes – especially considering it’s a Monday morning.

“I feel good, thank you! I went for a performance workshop last night and surprised myself by joining the performance! I was reading aloud, creating music with my hands, feet and fingers, and swaying to the rhythm created by other participants - my body swinging left and right - in front of a room filled with strangers!”

Rachel looks straight into my eyes and smiles at me – her warm, knowing smile - and, encourages us to close our eyes.

A couple of breaths in, instead of relaxing during yoga, my mind begins performing cartwheels.

With every breath Rachel encourages me to take, I take a step closer to my body – a place I’ve neglected forever.

But, now that I’m learning to feel at home in my body, I find it difficult to contain the excitement of feeling alive and staying still.

The energy is exciting; there’s a desire to move, to sing, to dance and to bounce around like a child.

My body wants to party. In the middle of yoga.

I start making mental notes.

I want to write to record all the sensations flooding through me. I want to remember this excitement before I forget!

As Rachel guides us into a downward dog position, I surprisingly don't flinch at the sight of my dry, brown hands with turmeric-tinted nails. They bring a smile to my face as I’m reminded of my writing coach,

Raju Tai

who would have expressed this exact moment with such vivid metaphors.

While my capacity to express myself metaphorically is still developing, I’m eager to learn, even if it means sporting haldi-tainted nails for now.

My toes, on the other hand, always appear dehydrated – no matter how much oil or butter I slather on them, they’re always parched. Maybe I need to cover them more often - but they love to roam around free, barefoot, or, in soft, open-toed sandals.

I have tiny but broad feet. I make another mental note to call the salon lady home for waxing. There seems to be more hair sprouting from my toes than there is on my head!

In the background, my French teacher refuses to give up on us: “Try to gently guide your wandering thoughts back to this moment, to your body.”

“I am in my body, my body wants to write what it feels like when it’s practising yoga with you, Rachel.”

I don’t tell her that.

Surrounded by tall, slender, beautiful light-skinned women adorned in well-fitted yoga tights and silver jewellery, I notice I’m the only desi woman in the room - a short, round woman who deliberately leaves her make-up and jewellery behind. Some days. When she feels brave.

I’m clad in safe black today. Soft, cotton baggy black T-shirt paired with large-sized black leggings that snug at my tummy comfortably but wrinkle around my thighs and shin. I had unknowingly reached a small size only two years ago.

“It’s okay if you look different from your neighbour…” Rachel continues.

As we transition into a warrior pose - my squishy breasts press against my knee, trying to make room for themselves over my protruding, pregnancy-like belly. Instead of drowning in embarrassment, I’m reminded of the times I’ve nursed my babies – 10 months, sadly, for my firstborn, overcompensating it with my secondborn for slightly over two years.

My droopy breasts feel like soft marshmallows now.

This metaphor business is tricky and looks tacky on me!

“Dissolve into your skin, bones, tendons and cells. Become one with the universe. Nothing is permanent; it will all pass, then why resist? Give in….”

I like silver jewellery. It served a higher purpose of rebellion in my teen years when my parents worried about collecting enough gold for my future wedding. My older, married self has saved that gold – just in case I need to sell them if I ever have to leave this country and bear the expenses of taking my cats with me.

Silver looks good on white skin. But, gold looks sexy on caramel skin, I tell myself. I could try gold next time.

Funny how my feelings for my body morph when I don’t see it with the gaze of a man.

“Smile and be grateful to yourself,” Rachel concludes the class in her signature warm voice. “Thank yourself, thank your heart for showing up today - for yourself, for the love of your body….”