clearing the path
Lately, I’ve been noticing something in class that feels… different. Maybe it’s the room. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s the universe finally tired of me ignoring it. Either way, there’s this subtle hum of energy rising before anyone really notices it. It’s the kind of thing that makes me straighten my spine—or slump dramatically, depending on the mood—and realize, yes, the old stuff is showing up again. The stagnant energy, the quiet tension, the emotional clutter we’ve been carting around like it’s a luxury handbag—it wants attention. And twists? Oh, the twists notice. They squeeze it out of you whether you like it or not.
I’ve been thinking (again, because apparently my brain doesn’t believe in rest) about how much time we spend clinging to what’s comfortable—the warm feelings, the tiny victories, the parts of life that make us feel like we’re handling things reasonably well—while simultaneously shoving the uncomfortable, messy stuff into corners we hope will forget us exist. Spoiler alert: the corners never forget. They simmer. They fester. They make surprise appearances, often in dramatic fashion, just to remind us that yes, we do in fact still own them.
On the mat, this all looks delightfully unglamorous. Twists, wrings, folds that feel like they’re trying to extort something out of you that you didn’t even know was in there. And then, eventually, a pause. A breath. An expansion. The body, in its infinite patience, lets you have a little space. It’s messy. It’s awkward. It’s completely uncoordinated, like watching a toddler try to waltz. But somehow, it works. Somehow, it does what we’ve been avoiding for weeks.
And then I notice how much it mirrors life. Those corners of ourselves that we ignore? They don’t vanish. They pile up like laundry until they form a small but terrifying mountain in the corner of our consciousness. Yoga, in its sneaky genius, gives me a way to meet those corners without having to dress them up in metaphors or tidy them neatly. I can just… notice. Breathe. Wiggle. Pretend it’s intentional. And somehow, I survive it.
This week, I watched others in class lean into that process with a kind of bravery I aspire to. It’s uncomfortable, yes. Raw, yes. Slightly humiliating? Probably. But it’s exactly what’s needed. Release doesn’t happen in fireworks and confetti. It happens in the slow, awkward increments: a twist here, a breath there, a pause that feels longer than a pandemic year, until eventually, it works. Something shifts, and we don’t even notice at first. That’s the charm.
And so here I am, overthinking it—as usual—because what else is new. Reflecting on the messy, slow, slightly ridiculous work of letting go. The work that sneaks up on you. That takes longer than you think. That asks for patience you swear you don’t have. And yet, somehow, it keeps happening. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the whole point. The small, persistent, unglamorous acts of moving, breathing, and noticing—not glamorous, not Instagram-worthy, not even particularly efficient—are somehow the real work. And if we’re honest, they’re also kind of miraculous.
For now, that will have to be enough.
