How a familiar posture, a twinge of pain, and a moment of stillness reminded me to pause, reflect, and honor the present
The other day, I was taking my usual morning yoga class at the hot yoga studio where I’ve practiced for years. The particular yoga style, once called Bikram Yoga and now referred to as 26 & 2 (26 poses and 2 breathing exercises), has been part of my life for nearly thirty years. Over the years, the sequence has grown so familiar to me that it’s ingrained not just in muscle memory but in my autonomic nervous system. I know these postures, their cadence, and their form, the way I know every nook and cranny of each room in the house I’ve lived in for over 30 years.
About twenty minutes into this particular class, during a posture I have done thousands of times,Dandayamana Janushirasana (Standing Head to Knee Pose), something unexpected happened.
As I transitioned in the first iteration of the pose from holding my right leg out while standing on my left leg to extend it forward toward the front of the room, a sharp, intense pain shot through my lower back and hip nearly immediately as I fully extended my leg. Wincing back in pain with as little drama as possible, I slowly maneuvered that leg down next to my right leg, not completing the posture, instead gingerly lowering myself to the mat to assess the severity of my injury.
Suffering in Silence
My mother used to tell me that suffering should be done in silence, and no where is that more applicable than in a yoga class. I sat out the second iteration of the pose, in which you’re supposedly more warmed up and flexible, then rose up carefully to join in the next posture, Dandayamana Dhanurasana, Standing Bow pose. Enterring that pose, I moved slowly, deliberately, with a touch of renewed confidence, hoping this inverse posture would rebalance my spine and set everything right. It didn’t. I proceeded thoughtfully through the remaining 30 minutes of class, focusing on getting through the class.
I had intended, as I often do, to double up on classes, following this practice immediately with a hot Pilates class, which has become part of my recent effort to strength train. But as I lay prone on my mat for the half hour in between classes, a line from Shakespeare’s Henry IV came to mind: “The better part of valor is discretion.” This time, I listened, leaning into the hot floor for a while, then getting up before the next class began, changing out of my clothes and driving home accompanied by thoughts of defeat and fear.
More Than Just Physical Pain
There was more layered into my decision to forego the next class than than the lower back strain alone. I had been feeling a touch of a sore throat before class, and was increasingly irritated that the instructor, who had been sick both that day and the day before, insisted she wasn’t ill, only hoarse from shouting at a football game to justify her presence the class. Of course, she had positioned herself to stand inches away from me throughout most of the class.
I intentionally choose that corner to minimize being surrounded by people (and their germs) and now she was positioned so close to me, every time she spoke I could feel the germs jumping onto me. Even though I envisioned myself in a protective shroud of white light, I found myself stressed, annoyed, and preoccupied with why she insisted on leading the class sick, not wanting to get sick myself. I had a lot lined up for the coming week.
Each time she moved to the other side of the room, I felt relief, wondering whether she could sense my discomfort through my body language or even my thoughts just as I had sensed her microbes heading in my direction.
By the time I left the studio that day I felt shaken not just physically, but emotionally. On the drive home, all the what-ifs flooded through me: What if I get sick and don’t feel up to my hair-cutting appointment on Wednesday? What if i can’t sit through the concert next Saturday that a friend invited me to because of my back issue? What if I can’t get to the gym for a few days or a week?
The Search for Meaning
Today, two days later as I sit with the reality that I’m dealing with two interruptions to my routines at once: feeling unwell and nursing what is likely an SI joint irritation, I question whether there’s a message in double-whammy.
Without hesitation, I researched for my phone to investigate the spiritual signficance of lower left–side back pain, and was struck by what I found. Repeatedly throughout the articles and posts i read through, I learned that the left side of the spine is associated with feminine energy, more specifically with nurturing, caretaking, emotional labor, and the tendency to overextend oneself in service of others while neglecting one’s own needs.
I couldn’t help but notice the irony. The injury I sustained in Standing Head to Knee Pose, a posture that literally requires you to balance on one leg while extending the other forward, grasping the foot, and folding the body over itself. It’s a pose that demands strength, flexibility, focus, and control, and it’s one that relatively few people can do fully. I’ve practiced this pose for years, albeit with a bent knee, thousands of times, and yet, in that moment, on that day, my body defied my will, shouting out, “no more.”
It makes me wonder in what ways have I been overextending myself at this point in my life?
From Doing to Being
For most of my life, I’ve been a doer, never been content to simply sit and be. I remember a particular boss of mine saying “you’re a doer” as if she was accusing me of a crime when I had handed her several articles she had assigned me a few days before. Another boss of mine used the nickname Shpilkes, the Yiddish word for “ants in your pants” to refer to another member of our team. I remember researching the word and learning of its meaning, thinking that could just as well describe me.
I’ve always been that way, always moving, tending, fixing, organizing, caretaking, planning, running here, running there, filling every quiet space with activity. Silence has rarely been comfortable for me. I’ve even tried hypnosis a few times, only to find myself subtly resisting, my mind refusing to soften, to let go, to drift into the quiet realm of the subconscious. Instead, my thoughts fluttered endlessly against submission.
There is always the replaying of the past, rehearsing alternate endings, worrying about the future, cataloging fears, all the mental noise that keeps me and so many of us from fully inhabiting the present moment.
And now, here I am today sidelined by a lower back injury, nursing a mild cold, and staring out my window at a frigid winter morning. The trees are dusted with snow. Ice glints on the branches. Frost coats the cars. The sky is a crisp, cloudless, cerulean blue above the rooftops softened by white. The wind moves through the bare limbs, and everything feels hushed and suspended in a way I wish my mind could emulate.
But there is that habitual impulse. I am beckoned to get up, shovel the walkway, scrape the windshield, start the car, turn on the defroster, keep moving. keep doing, faster, harder, better, whether I feel like it or not. And there was momentarily also a quieter, steadier voice asking me for something different. What if you didn’t rush out? What if you simply observe? What if you allow yourself to exist in the beauty of this moment that you will never experience again instead of attempting to manage it, conquer it, move on. past it?
I wondered what if this injury, this interruption of my life-long routines is not a vile punishment or a signal of failure, but an invitation to sit in the moment, to stop extending and bending myself forward endlessly? And to simply stand on both feet, grounded, balanced, whole, simply being and not doing?
