shannon (continued from Testimonial page)

I can thank that red-headed Heidi MacMurray for not giving up on me.  I think it was about six months later, I’m not sure, that she brought me back.  Who knows why I agreed?  Something in her gentle demeanor, the power of suggestion, or maybe that insinuation that I could not handle it, and I tried again.  I don’t remember those days, perhaps I have blocked them out.  All I know is that I kept going.  I don’t know if felt good or if I was even able to be conscious of the changes happening in my mind/body. 

In the spring of 2004, I began writing my master’s thesis and found that my creative process and my concentration were boosted on days that I attended class.  Huh.  Interesting.  Go to yoga and think better.  This is major.  Anything I could do to get my head functioning won points with me.

Slowly, slowly I began to hear the words.  They seemed to find their way into my joints and muscles.  The disparity between my mind and my body began to lessen.  As I had no major physical injuries to mess with, minus a few scars from broken bones, I had certain freedoms that I now understand others do not enjoy.

That summer, my sweet Henry dog passed away unexpectedly.  I was crushed.  He had been my constant companion and constant source of love and humor.  It was as if one of my own appendages had been severed and I grieved deeply.  Many evenings I entered the studio and just laid there, crying, feeling, and, I realized later, practicing for the big grief that would come later.  And slowly, slowly the words came back to me. 

I love the wood trim in studio.  It reminds me of the pine paneling I had in my childhood bedroom.  The knots and whorls take on personalities and trigger all sorts of images.  There is a spot in the back left corner of the studio that has the perfect arrangement of three spots in the wood that exactly resembles the black eyes and nose of my Henry.  Laying in sivanasa, the image of my friend looks back at me, urging me on.  Some days I can’t go back there to that corner, some days I have to.  And I realize that it is quite perfect to miss him as I do.

As you know, the following year my father also passed away unexpectedly.  I was working in New Zealand at the time of the accident so I hurried home to San Francisco to be with my family.  Once there, well, you can imagine.  We were zombies, bumping into each other, trying to comprehend what was happening.  I found myself in the local Bikram studio, getting my ass kicked from one side of the room to the other.  C’mon, is it really necessary to have the studio so hot?  I am freaking melting in here.  I wondered if these strangers could see my grief.  I thought I was choking with sadness that never seemed to abate. 

After three weeks of zombie-ing around my family, the decision was made that I would return to New Zealand to finish my contract.  While working overseas in this capacity, there is essentially no time for oneself, which I happen to think is exactly what I needed at the time.  I like to think of it as a “psychic break” from such intense grief.  I had a few strategies though, a few tricks I used to attempt to stay in my body and deal while simultaneously working nearly every second of the day.

For starters, I began to keep a dream journal.  Every morning, before the crew woke up, I took a few moments to jot down the pictures from my dream world.  It was powerful to be with myself in this way and yet to be quiet.  There was neither time nor space for talking about my feelings regarding my sense of loss, so I wrote.  It was utterly important to me to retain the quality of the trip for my clients and I knew that it meant that I had to find quiet ways of dealing.

Additionally, I practiced yoga at every opportunity.  Sometimes, it was all I could do to hold a single posture for a few breaths.  Or maybe during a long driving day, I would send breath to my shoulders or remind myself to relax my brow or simply to take one good cleansing breath.  I was grateful for any moment when I could focus even briefly on this unit I call my body.

Upon returning to Bozeman, I entered a dark time.  I found that my capacity for interacting with other human-types wildly diminished.  Those first few months home are a blur.  In my regular life, skiing and socializing take up my winters.  That winter however the only thing that dragged me out of my cocoon was going to the studio.  I knew that I could walk in that door, head down, cry on my mat, sweat, cry more, then stealth out the door without ever really having to have a conversation.  My body took on the task of my grief as my mind swam to far corners.  The thought of speaking words actually terrified me because I never knew when I would fall apart.  If someone looked at me just a hair too long or with too much compassion, the tears would come and my moment of keeping it together would come to an end.  Still, the silent support I felt in the studio offered something I had not found anywhere else: a collective healing energy that soothed my heart’s trauma.  And slowly, slowly the words came back. 

This yoga has been everything to me.  It has provided the space for me to seek peaceful existence and the backdrop for finding myself as I continue to transition.  Engaging these postures, I encounter a spectrum of feelings, from fear and disappointment to relaxation and courage.  Truly, it is a practice.  I enter the studio, practice living, then take what I learn into the world and let it lead me in my relationships and in the ways I get to know myself.  Even though my work life overseas means that I cannot attend classes regularly, this practice is always available to me as a means to consciousness, wherever I am.

Most days I try to live this yoga.  Some days I forget or I am angry so I put the yoga aside.  But there is a consciousness now that I did not have before.  I can choose to be present or I can take a vacation from myself.  But even then, when I pretend to not be here, well, there I am.  Still. 

Grief has much to offer me and I am learning.  In these recent years, I have lost two beings who have loved me completely and with perfection.  I am deeply fortunate to have known this experience.  The empty spaces that were once occupied are spaces nonetheless.  The absences have a character all their own and thus the negative spaces become filled with memories, dreams, and fresh sources of creativity.

In other words, Chris and Rebekah, my teachers, thank you.  You have shown great courage bringing this practice to our fair corner of the world.  I realize that I have grown rather private and I may not show how appreciative I am as often as I would like.  So I take this opportunity to express my gratitude to you and to this practice.  It has made all the difference in my life. 

Your friend,
shannon