An uncomfortable feeling.

For instance: this morning's vinyasa krama class.  For the first time in a long long time, I found myself annoyed that we weren't doing more.  Some of my thoughts included intense frustration at all of the standing and moving of the arms.  My legs and hamstrings were sore, I wanted stretching.  Movement.  MORE MOVING. 

When I finally noticed the quiet rage welling in my chest at the slow pace of the sequences, I gently hushed myself, and gave myself a peaceful reminder that I was being given the opportunity to practice love and stillness in yoga, even in movement.  So I had precisely the opportunity to practice yoga, not just a series of asanas.


Okay, let's get real.  This morning's frustration is about more than a slow class or my monkey mind.  My yoga has suffered because of tension between myself and two of my teachers, who happen to be the owners of the studio where I practice.  (I'm not sure who I'm writing to, here, because the existence of this blog has not been publicly announced, but perhaps the seeming privacy is why I [ironically?] feel so much relief in the freedom to open my heart about this frustration, without fear of persecution surrounding this topic, because no one in my current yoga circle will read this.)

I suppose, despite my hurt and frustration, I don't feel the need to air the dirty details of this conflict, but to say simply that the conflict has left me feeling so hurt, feel so taken advantage of, and confused.  By yoga people.  It is so especially painful because of how much I have admired these people, looked up to them and looked to them for direction, teaching, and generosity of heart and spirit, and to be included in their inner circle of those they trust and have befriended.

I am disillusioned to say the least, and conflicted at the worst, because I find myself backed up against a wall where I am having to defend my intentions and also guard my best interests without support, but also my relationships with these people and the studio that has given me the gift of yoga.  And it's a small town: there are few yoga options.

It's here, in this conflict, that I'm seeking the Middle Path.  Somewhere between self-efficacy and selflessness, I need to find balance, because the conflict remains, as do all parties involved.  And it's here where I'm learning to accept my teachers as human, flawed and deserving of forgiveness, and that I have to loosen my grip on myself, too, and allow some wiggle room for healing, because if I don't, my yoga will be tainted.

As it was this morning.  As it has been for weeks.

It's unfortunate that my yoga has come to circling this drain.  This is so earthly, and so uncomfortable.  It's like the point at which you realize your perfect new boyfriend actually shits and has hair on his butt.  The illusion is dead.

I don't know what else to say.  I was going to be so wise and make some really good points about moving through uncomfortable feelings, and instead I have resorted to talking about shit and butt hair.  Such is life.