Suspension

The temperature rose as more people filed into the small room. Just when I thought no other yogis could fit, people shuffled and scooched their mats closer together, making room for one more, two more, three more.

We hadn’t even started our yoga practice, and I was already coated in sweat. I like to come to this 5:30 a.m. Wednesday class specifically because there are typically only a handful of people in it. I love the peaceful feeling of flowing through asanas in enough open space to pretend I am alone.

Not today. At least 30 people filled the studio with their body heat and breath. I started to panic. My heart rate climbed as beads of sweat formed on my upper lip. I felt my breath shorten and catch in my throat.

“Run!” my mind screamed. “All the air is outside! Go outside and breathe!”

But just then, Nikki came to the front of the crowd and began our practice. “Let’s start in child’s pose today,” she said.

I have difficulty keeping my face planted on the mat in child’s pose, so I chose to remain in a seated meditation pose. I held my towel tightly against my eyes and forced myself to control my breathing.

In through the nose, hold, sigh it out. In through the nose, hold, sigh it out.

After about three long, deep breaths, my pulse slowed and the wave of panic in my gut calmed. I felt my shoulders soften. As we moved into tabletop position, I kept my eyes closed and focused only on my breath.

In, hold, out. In, hold, out.

Halfway through the first sunrise asana, eyes still closed, a memory surfaced: On my last trip to Europe, my ex-husband and I spent a night on top of a mountain in France. There were more sheep than people up there on that clear, warm night. Sitting in absolute darkness, I felt I could reach right out and touch the Milky Way. I felt small and insignificant in the most reassuring way. Space was vast above me. The earth spun effortlessly below me. I rested in between, suspended in sheer peace.

So long as I kept my eyes closed and focused on breathing through the positions, I forgot about all the other bodies in the room with me. I was alone within myself.

I have a lot of difficulty letting go of what others think of me. Too often I care more about how I look than how I feel, how others will react to something I do rather than what I want to do. This kind of thinking inevitably leaves me feeling frustrated, unfulfilled and angry. And often that anger gets misdirected toward the people I am closest with.

If I can just retain that weightless feeling of being alone on that mountainside, I might be able to forget about all the other bodies around me on the planet. If I can just close my eyes and inhale deeply, sigh out my worries and pretend I am alone, maybe I’ll hear that quiet inner voice a bit more clearly.

When I left the yoga studio to walk home, I marveled at how fresh and clear the morning air was. A few cars whooshed by on their way to work, but the streets were still mostly empty. I felt proud for staying and working through my anxiety, strong from moving through the poses, happy for once again having space and air around me.

Today my muscles are sore, and that feeling of peace alludes me once more. But I am going for a long walk to breathe in this longest day of the year, savor its warmth and length. Perhaps in its wealth of daylight, I’ll find more space within myself, more patience with myself and others, more mindfulness of this fleeting moment.

And maybe the next time I feel that crushing anxiety, that urge to run from looming panic, I’ll suspend my response and breathe. This simple strategy is still so difficult for me to embrace, even with that bit of success Wednesday. But as a good faith first step, I’m suspending my own judgement of myself, allowing myself to be imperfect and vulnerable, accepting my faults with love. And sighing out all my expectations.