When the pandemic hit American soil, we were faced with job loss, business closure, and the impending doom of lowering productivity. We began facing the fear that we were unprepared to step away from the office or school. We feared for our lives. We hoarded toilet paper and rolled up our yoga mats, shoving them away in a dark corner in attempts to address the matter at hand. Our practice wasn’t on the mat anymore, and it would be tested as such. We came face to face with our fears, and it seemed the only people prepared in the world were our yoga teachers. They sprung into action. As our stress levels increased, so did their online class offerings. We practiced pranayama, which to me was ironic – that we became so focused on our breath while many struggled to do so in hospitals. We were breathing for those that couldn’t. We were separated by distance yet together online, determined to continue breathing together.
“We were breathing for those that couldn’t.”
I got stressed. You know the kind: the stress that makes you drive to the yoga studio you haven’t seen in weeks and unroll that old yoga mat, which sticks to itself and crackles as you release its tight roll. The noise is so audible in the studio that the teacher may assume it’s your first class. These same crackles and pops of an unused latex mat seemed to mock me as I unrolled my own for a practice I yearned for. I turned on Jennifer Prugh’s very first YouTube livestream in my room, which wasn’t big enough to spread my ams. The smallness of my space annoyed me, and I thought to myself, “Great, I’m off to a great start.” It hadn’t been long since I had been in a studio, yet the crackles and the end of the mat that wouldn’t lie flat said otherwise. I sighed in an attempt to let the stress exit my body. My eyes closed slowly as Jennifer’s voice serenaded me through practice. “Marianne! Dinner!” my mother yelled about halfway through class.
I was still sitting upright focusing on my breath and trying to push out the reoccurring thoughts. Would we be okay? I kept thinking that phrase over and over. That phrase regularly berated me, as if I had some sort of verbal retaliation stored inside to yell at it and make it go away. My mind was jumbled, and that little question began to dissipate with each breath, yet, when my mother called for dinner in the middle of yoga, it was like I had been plucked from my pandemic-free cloud and thrown back into the shark-infested waters of my own mind. My mother continued to call my name when she didn’t hear my dazed response of, “Coming… I’m in yoga,” which wasn’t as audible as my usual responses. This wasn’t a normal yoga class. My mother finally realized her mistake of interrupting me, as I had warned her to leave me to my mat for an hour prior to class. I was able to resume practice once again, mostly distraction-free, if my mind could handle it.
The last few weeks of March turned to April and then May. My practice began to slip, despite the fact that we were bombarded with endless free classes to choose from online. I remember questioning myself in March; how am I going to learn yoga from home? I needed a teacher, a guide, someone to tell me those little thoughts I was having weren’t the real me. I needed some wisdom, and I wasn’t sure I could get the same effect online. I needed a physical space, preferably with prayer flags hanging from the ceiling and the scent of essential oils where particularly-strong ones fought to be inhaled and savored. I needed my mat, my yoga blocks, my blue water bottle, and my favorite teachers.
I became a spoiled yoga brat inside my mind. I practiced at home in a small space with one block, two dogs, and all the distractions in the world. Finding an inner studio experience seemed unattainable. It was now the middle of the pandemic, and I still struggled to recover the same feelings of class pre-pandemic. Yes, I am a yoga teacher and was teaching class, but I knew my students felt the same as I did. I balanced college, work, and yoga teacher training from home until I realized what I was doing wrong. I had begun to devalue my practice off the mat and outside the studio. This pandemic was a test, and maybe it was okay that my yoga mat spent a week in darkness while I began to shine light on who my real teachers were. I finally began to obtain that inner studio experience.
My mother, endlessly teaching me patience. My father, who became my meditation teacher as we compared experiences of our twice daily practice. My sister, who lives so far from me, teaches me to respect physical boundaries and yearn for them to cease to exist when I miss her. My uncles teach me humor in our weekly Zoom calls. Even in the darkest of times, we can still laugh. I began to realize that teachers surround me, both in person and only a phone call away. I learned that if I could see strength and knowledge in others, I could see it in myself. I taught myself how to learn within and treasure the teachings of those I surround myself with. Soon, my mat practice became more prevalent, and I became more confident. I think fondly of my dogs during this time, as many of us do with our pets. My old chocolate lab teaches me the beauty that is slowing down and resting. I love laying with her side by side, sometimes even on the floor as she can’t jump on our beds anymore (she has a thing for my cushiony yoga mat). As her health problems have increased over the past few months, she has taught me to be thankful that time can be slow. And even when that time is painful, you can still see the beauty in lying side by side, breathing together.
