running outta ink

Something atypicial happened in my class a couple days ago. Since I'm a writer at heart and by trade, I immediately wanted to incorporate this into my yoga practice, as well, ever since I started teaching. So at pretty much all my practices, you'll find a notepad/piece of paper and pen by your mat, waiting for the inevitable.

I find the process very fruitful for excavating the subconscious. Often, even a short practice can yield strange new ideas, or unexpected insights. Sometimes, you just draw half a butterfly. Whatever works for you. So after I guide my students through the lesson itself, and land them peacefully back on their mats in savasana, I encourage a little creative journaling exercise. Not to share with the class, or even just with me. Of course, I always welcome feedback and all, but I don't pry. What you scribble is just for your benefit, and a lot of students seem to enjoy it. I've even had some break down in tears during a few of these closing exercises.

Indeed, I'm often surprised by what I come up with (since I can't just sit there staring at them, I journal also):

But a couple nights ago, after a slow yoga session, I asked the students to take a few minutes and see what thoughts and emotions have come up. And having scribbled down my own insight quite quickly, I glanced up to find one of my students, a new one, writing with a pen that didn't work.
Now, I've quite an army of pens in my bag and it sometimes happens that some don't work, but normally, most students just tell me and ask for another.

She didn't.

I was so struck, so curious.
I wondered why. After all, it's perfectly understandable, takes only a minute.
But she kept scribbling, her thoughts and feelings invisible to the world. So I came up with two possibilities:

1. She didn't want to disturb.

So often, we move through the world quiet, unobtrusive. Worried about rocking the boat. We walk as something loud, bothersome, rude. A loud phone conversation in a quiet auditorium. Except we're not. Most of us, those of us walking through life like this, certainly don't register as such gauche, obstrusive noises.

It's one thing to try and avoid being needlessly rude and disruptive, except like for this girl, asking for a basic need or saying "i'm sorry, this doesn't work, can we try something else" is neither.

For her, things could've been as simple as putting up a hand or even waiting to catch my eye and giving me a quiet nod. Sometimes, that's all the Universe expects of us, but if we go through life considering that too bothersome, we tend to arrive at unpleasant situations. To make ourselves small for no one's comfort.

What a senseless waste of voice.
What shame to go through life viewing your beautiful voice as a disturbance.

2. Her insight didn't need 'my' validation.

Or reality's, in general. When she handed me back the pen, she did mention it didn't work, and I asked her (couldn't help myself), well, why not say? She told me it didn't matter that much, she knew what she had to say anyway.

And I know most people wouldn't say about disturbing, but I genuinely hope this was the truth. I have no idea what happens to these little pieces of paper after class ends. I expect most end up in the bin. Maybe some are found weeks later, mislaid in a shoulder bag or coat pocket. Perhaps they elicit a reaction. Maybe they're just water off a duck's back.

I must say I resonated much more with this second option. Something that worries me with these classes is the performative nature of yoga, especially in our Western world. I always tell students they don't need to look a certain way, and should avoid trying to mimic a pose just because I or someone else is doing it.

For my practice, the goal has always been intuition. Listening to the inner voice, in the idea that it knows how you need to move instinctively. It doesn't need orders from without, just guidance. Same's true about journaling.

I encountered this often in movement and dance workshops I myself attended in the past. I noticed that when people were asked to journal knowing they'd afterwards have to share with the class, they tended to censor their writing. To write nice, bland things like I feel peaceful, happy, free.

Maybe they did. But it's also the most obvious thing you'd expect someone to say after such a class. It seems to me we already waste so much of our lives speaking the lines someone else dictates, doing what we intuit someone else wants us to do.

So much so that people will lie or go against their own obvious discomfort in a yoga class they paid for and that's supposed to help them relax and feel good, just to look alright in front of a virtual stranger (me).

I admit I went away from my class with two key takeaways:

• One, I need to clean out old pens.
• I'd do well to remember that my private journey still works on invisible ink.

Just because you don't see it doesn't mean my progress is invisible.

I must first know my truth before I can speak it to the world.

If speaking out loud my discomfort or my insight disturbs the room, I must be in the wrong room.