Last July I was diagnosed with cancer. As a 39-year-old mother of two devoted to daily exercise, organic living, and all things holistic and crunchy, the diagnosis was, to say the very least, a shock. Even now, nearly a year later and still eyeball deep in the reality, just saying the words causes quick wily tears to spring up, and a now-too-familiar cringing sensation to overtake my heart. My lungs.The pit of my stomach. Being forced to gag down a reality too harsh to even imagine, every day, every single day, has become the norm. This new shadow truth of my life is inescapable now, and it clings to me with an unshakable force no matter what else I might be engaged in: opening my eyes to greet the dawn, my daily hikes, lunch with friends, reading to my son, singing, laughing, driving. Yoga. Sometimes I can go a few minutes without thinking about it, but even those brief respites come with the truth's bitter return and its malignant angst. Sometimes the reprieve isn't worth it.
Cancer is a vicious thief. Of life, freedom, happiness, of all things which we had previously been absolutely certain. Those of us, too goddamn many of us, who have been bitten by its vile fangs, find ourselves suddenly trying to balance atop an unsolid and ever-shifting ground, our arms flailing wildy in open space for a grasp on a stable handle that is not there. For many years yoga has been that handle for me. My touchstone during times of duress and the soft blanket of cosmic assurance during all the rest of the time, the majority of which has historically been so smooth I literally felt occasional guilt for having such an easy life. As both an avid yoga practitioner as well as the owner of a thriving studio, I knew my diagnosis would inevitably change my relationship to my practice, along with all other facets of my life. I just didn't know how much.
Yoga always gives you permission to start over. I've told my students this a thousand times. Be patient. Listen to the messages your body is telling you. Practice ahimsa, I tell them. Be kind to yourself. Because my body needed to rest in order to try and heal, I was instructed to lay off physical activity for several months. This is a tall order for me, as I thrive on movement, love exploring the ways my body can open to metaphor (now you're a dog, a triangle, a leaf...), and understanding where my physical boundaries exist so that I can extend those boundaries, moving ever forward. Making what I used to think was progress. After all, if I can stand on my hands (downward facing tree!) for five breaths, then ten breaths must somehow be better. Upside down on one pinky finger! To the side! Twisted!
I was wrong. With the physical stillness demanded by my diagnosis, I have had no choice but to deepen my practice in other ways. Through mantra. Self-study. Meditation. The one seated posture all others point us towards anyway. And then deeper, simply into the breath and its soft consistent presence. With each inhale and exhale, understanding that I am here in this one infinite moment, and that within that moment I can expand and embrace my full, living reality. When our mortality is staring us in the face with bloodshot eyes and wielding a machete, each breath is a miracle. Each breath is a gift.
I have just recently begun to step back onto the mat, that little unassuming rectangle taking up just a few square feet but looking to me like the biggest space I've ever tried to consume, the whole world existing within it, my life, internal landscape, physical body, my future, career, the reality of what is... . My body is much weaker than it used to be. I find myself tucking into child's pose and asking my breath to give me the strength I need to go on, just like I have been doing for ten months. My practice-related ego has begun to dissolve (slowly, and with strong waves of return). The pride I once felt at my circus tricks has faded and been replaced with the humility I have had no choice but to embrace. As I lay in a heap, my muscles quivering, I give thanks for the breath that continues to save me.
The gift of this process has been the true understanding that my yoga is not about what my body can do. The postures are there to be utilized, but they are not our only tools in our yoga toolkit. When the body is unable to practice, then what? Then we still practice, thank God. And I was right that yoga always gives us permission to start over. Every practice is an invitation to do just that.
So I will continue to practice in whatever way I can. Giving thanks for the opportunity. Every sunrise. Every breath.