Several people leapt in mid-air and landed with their knees stuck firm and tight to the backs of their forearms while others had “performed” and had already flown back into chaturanga from their meticulous bakasana. Few people struggled.
Once everyone’s feet settled back on the mats I heard a faint voice behind me, “I’m a special snowflake,” she half-whispered in the calm silence.
Her feet didn’t lifting despite her various diligent efforts. She wiggled and sweat and struggled and glanced nervously around the room. Everyone else seemed to simply “have it”, and if I might humbly add, flaunt it.
For months I’ve thought about that moment, and how it feels to be the odd one out.
Later on in my classes when everyone floats right up into pincha mayurasana and I’m left clumsily shifting my shoulders, attempting to tighten my core that feels more overcooked rice noodles than the ripped muscles of a yogi, drips of sweat pouring into my eyes that I think, “I’m a special snowflake, too.”
I’m still here.
And I’m trying despite how futile my attempt might be.
We are all unique creatures of one Universe, and this revelation sinks into my heart and resonates more than ever. Me. You. Our children.
The wise yogis say that our most challenging asanas (poses) teach us the most because in those moments of what looks or feels like failure is a gift. The chance to look in the face of fear and be present. isn’t that what our children are doing every single day?
Making it look “right” isn’t what any of us are here for. We’re here to stand in our truth, breath deep amidst occasional discomfort and embrace who and where we are.