“Whoops!” I lost my balance, keeled to the left, lowering my right foot to the floor.
“It’s nice to hear you do a whoops, too.” She giggled.
I was in the middle of them, demonstrating Warrior III.
“I fall all of the time.” I was rattled by her relief; I know she was joking, but there’s honesty in every joke.
There’s this misconception that being a teacher gives illusive street cred as a master; it’s bullshit.
There are more poses I can’t do than ones I can. I know what I know and that’s that. What I do know, I teach, even though I wobble and fall; I know what it feels like in it. I also know what it feels like to lose it and to find it and to lose it again.
It’s the failures, the mistakes and the whoops that give me the authority to teach. I don’t have to know it all, I just have to know what I do know, intimately.
That goes for my writing, too.
Someone once asked me: “When are you going to get out of this spiral, move past this and start writing about something else?”
That really pissed me off, because, this is what I know, what I am vetted to teach.
Despite how much I mature and evolve, I continue to experience heartbreak, wrestle with insecurities and ponder my reason for being.
It’s the same as falling out of Warrior III: I can teach it, demonstrate it and have a whoops moment, all at the same time. That’s what makes me an effective, influential teacher.
I don’t have to be a master; I just have to know what something feels like somatically, cerebrally, emotionally and spiritually to share it with others.
My whoops moment helped my student feel comfortable. It put her at ease. It helped her feel less isolated and inspired her to keep going.
Whenever I’m at ease, I also find my footing; steadiness follows, and isn’t that what life is all about? Finding that balance, that peace?
I think so, but I can’t know that balance until I know the fall.
I stepped my right foot forward: “Let’s do the other side now.”
And–we did, together. ~Rebecca