The End of the Longest, Shortest Month
I won't miss February.
At 28 days, yes it's the shortest month but it just seems to drag its heels all the way through.
Nine years ago in February, I lost one of my oldest friends to cancer. I found out en route to Canada where our youngest son was auditioning for the National Circus School.
That evening, feeling bludgeoned by a deep, heavy sadness I bent over to pick up a towel and "threw my back out." I never really understood the phrase until that moment. I was in so much pain I could barely walk. Full of sorrow and physical agony I arranged for a massage with a kind, soft spoken therapist who could see how fragile I was. While I don't remember much of that hour, I do remember I sobbed and sobbed, soaking the sheet with tears and snot beneath his caring and gentle hands. I couldn't have stopped the flow of tears even if I wanted to, and I didn't want to. I gave myself completely to the sorrow and the bewildering physical pain and just let loose.
We've all experienced loss and it wasn't my first profound loss, but I suspect the death of my friend, the unrelenting gray of that February and the impending leave-taking of my youngest all played a part in my sodden emotional state and my vulnerability to injury.
I healed and moved on, as we do. I've had plenty of opportunities since then to feel deep wells of sadness and loss but also to feel resilience and joy.
I find myself, on this spectacularly sunny day, revisiting that time. (on the Wednesday I am writing this it is glorious and bright—I understand there is more weather to come.)
Amie's death popped up in my facebook page a few days ago (9 years!) as these things sometimes do, and I won't lie, I went down a bit of a rabbit hole of depression and self doubt. I de-activated my facebook page in a moment of what felt like self preservation. My night was peppered with dreams of friends I have lost to cancer, numbering more in recent years. I woke feeling almost desperately sad and clawed my way out of the mire to teach, and then fell back in.
Much of February felt this way: pull it together to show up to teach and record and work, and then sink back into sadness. I don't think I'm alone in this; I wouldn't say I am generally depressed, but February often delivers a wallop. The studio struggles in February—even before Covid, I often didn't make rent in February and would grapple with whether I could keep the studio going. But here we are in March (just barely) and it's a beautiful day and I find myself feeling more buoyant and hopeful.
Finally, I just want you to know that if you are struggling or have struggled with depression, worry, and self-doubt, you are not alone, nor are you flawed. When you come to a yoga class, you are welcome, exactly as you are, and you are inherently whole even if you don't feel that way when you walk through the door or join class on Zoom.
I hope, with February in our rear view, that we can all feel open to the possibility of change, dissolution of despair, and an ever widening, encircling pool of brightness.
I've begun a few classes this week (and my own practice too) with Vajra Pradama Mudra, which reinforces unshakeable trust, faith and confidence. Scroll down for a photo and description of this mudra.
In Vajrapradama Mudra, cross your fingers at your second knuckles, holding your hands in front of your heart, and gently pull your elbows away from each other. Close your eyes and breathe deeply, feeling the opening in your chest, the strength of your arms and shoulders, and simultaneously, softness around the eyes and throat.
