Mutterings on life, yoga, fear, singing in my Gospel concert tomorrow...
Eleanor Roosevelt said “Do Something you’re afraid of each day”. It’s Olympic time, and so we watch brave athletes hurtling over mountains, feet first down icy tracks, triple axiling their weightless limbs through groin pulls and nagging injuries, and we are reminded of this; it isn’t that these folks are less fearful than us, or more brave, or unencumbered by doubt, or competition, it is just that they do it anyway. They get out of a warm bed and onto a cold slope because as they fly over half pipes as if their lives depended on it, they are met with passion, purpose, and resonance, so something clicks, and they are meant to be there.
E.L. Doctorow said “Writing a novel is like driving at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” In order to be present, I remind myself of these universally applicable words- Life is like driving at night, singing a solo in front of 500 people when you haven’t performed in 15 years is like driving at night; you look right there at what’s in the headlights, or spotlights, and you stay there, because that’s all you need to do right now. It is the getting ahead of ourselves that messes us up, inciting panic, doubt, and suffering. It is the jumping into the future to the next measure, or paragraph, or task, or conversation, it is what is going to happen next, which challenges our little thumping heart. “Some of the worst things in my life never even happened,” said Mark Twain. So we breathe, and we find a focal point, and we take our yoga off of the mat and into our daily lives, beginning to integrate its age-old lessons.
My yoga practice helps me face this rather intense stage fright I’m experiencing, so perhaps instead of battling it, I let it be there, noticing the feelings and thoughts, as simply electrical impulses from this complicated, curly organ in my skull, and I think notice them, I think, find that Dristi, soften the gaze, and come back to the breath, as an anchor.
I am afraid of being in front of people. Tomorrow I sing in front of 500 of them. I am afraid of looking at a group of people, and I am afraid of them looking at me. Even in my yoga classes, sometimes, I am afraid of being seen, but there, it’s ok if I close my eyes. My friend Rebecca, who frequently performs said, if you close your eyes the whole time you sing, people will think you’re inside yourself too much, not engaging with the audience. I’m like that kid who closes her eyes and says, you can’t see me! Fear of being seen. Fear of failure. Fear of worthiness, fear of shining, fear of feelings, fear of fear. Like so many others, I want to be good at what I do, and my standards are high, and quite likely higher than anyone else’s. The insidious thing about fear is that it feeds itself, compounding, and doubling back on itself, until it reaches epic proportions. Notice your fear and let it breathe, be with it, next to it even, instead of letting it own you. Notice the difference between intuition, and fear.
The other night at rehearsal, I experienced an anxiety attack, replete with a spinning room, wind-tunnel sounds, and an internal dialogue which went something like this- that wasn’t good, ok, that was even worse, you suck, you’re doing terribly, people can tell you’re not doing well tonight, people think you’re not happy, you look anxious, you feel anxious, you’re getting anxious about being anxious…you don’t deserve to be up here, no one likes you, no one else is suffering like this, what were you thinking, thinking you can do a solo, you idiot… and on and on until I wanted to run out the door, give up, and ultimately, quit. I decided to stay. I decided to practice non-attachment to the outcome, and I toyed with the idea of being bad at singing, fraudulent even, imperfect, less than ideal. I’m not ok with it, but I’m working on it. The show must go on, but not without reflection. We can do things we are moved to do, but afraid of, and we can glean meaning from the mental acrobatics, milking these experiences for rich, expansive lessons.
A comforting aspect of yoga practice, is that this is where it ends; it is entirely about process, and does not culminate with a concert or competition, or match. We may never achieve pretzel status, touching toe behind us to the crown of our head, or making vinyasa look effortless, and we may forget to breathe, or topple over out of headstand or fall in and out of balance and strength. We can use our yoga practice as a way to practice staying present with difficult and uncomfortable physical postures, and we can apply this to all aspects of our lives. Stephen Covey extracts meaning from the word responsibility, quite literally, reminding us that it is the ability to respond. We are steering this boat, and we are choosing how to be in our car, or in line, in our relationships, in the yoga studio, or up on stage, we choose how to respond to life. We can send love to our fears and shadows, even when it stretches us quite literally, well beyond our comfort zone. We can choose how to respond to all parts of this raggedy, beautiful, messy medley of a life. And maybe we even sing about it.
Eleanor Roosevelt said “Do Something you’re afraid of each day”. It’s Olympic time, and so we watch brave athletes hurtling over mountains, feet first down icy tracks, triple axiling their weightless limbs through groin pulls and nagging injuries, and we are reminded of this; it isn’t that these folks are less fearful than us, or more brave, or unencumbered by doubt, or competition, it is just that they do it anyway. They get out of a warm bed and onto a cold slope because as they fly over half pipes as if their lives depended on it, they are met with passion, purpose, and resonance, so something clicks, and they are meant to be there.
E.L. Doctorow said “Writing a novel is like driving at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” In order to be present, I remind myself of these universally applicable words- Life is like driving at night, singing a solo in front of 500 people when you haven’t performed in 15 years is like driving at night; you look right there at what’s in the headlights, or spotlights, and you stay there, because that’s all you need to do right now. It is the getting ahead of ourselves that messes us up, inciting panic, doubt, and suffering. It is the jumping into the future to the next measure, or paragraph, or task, or conversation, it is what is going to happen next, which challenges our little thumping heart. “Some of the worst things in my life never even happened,” said Mark Twain. So we breathe, and we find a focal point, and we take our yoga off of the mat and into our daily lives, beginning to integrate its age-old lessons.
My yoga practice helps me face this rather intense stage fright I’m experiencing, so perhaps instead of battling it, I let it be there, noticing the feelings and thoughts, as simply electrical impulses from this complicated, curly organ in my skull, and I think notice them, I think, find that Dristi, soften the gaze, and come back to the breath, as an anchor.
I am afraid of being in front of people. Tomorrow I sing in front of 500 of them. I am afraid of looking at a group of people, and I am afraid of them looking at me. Even in my yoga classes, sometimes, I am afraid of being seen, but there, it’s ok if I close my eyes. My friend Rebecca, who frequently performs said, if you close your eyes the whole time you sing, people will think you’re inside yourself too much, not engaging with the audience. I’m like that kid who closes her eyes and says, you can’t see me! Fear of being seen. Fear of failure. Fear of worthiness, fear of shining, fear of feelings, fear of fear. Like so many others, I want to be good at what I do, and my standards are high, and quite likely higher than anyone else’s. The insidious thing about fear is that it feeds itself, compounding, and doubling back on itself, until it reaches epic proportions. Notice your fear and let it breathe, be with it, next to it even, instead of letting it own you. Notice the difference between intuition, and fear.
The other night at rehearsal, I experienced an anxiety attack, replete with a spinning room, wind-tunnel sounds, and an internal dialogue which went something like this- that wasn’t good, ok, that was even worse, you suck, you’re doing terribly, people can tell you’re not doing well tonight, people think you’re not happy, you look anxious, you feel anxious, you’re getting anxious about being anxious…you don’t deserve to be up here, no one likes you, no one else is suffering like this, what were you thinking, thinking you can do a solo, you idiot… and on and on until I wanted to run out the door, give up, and ultimately, quit. I decided to stay. I decided to practice non-attachment to the outcome, and I toyed with the idea of being bad at singing, fraudulent even, imperfect, less than ideal. I’m not ok with it, but I’m working on it. The show must go on, but not without reflection. We can do things we are moved to do, but afraid of, and we can glean meaning from the mental acrobatics, milking these experiences for rich, expansive lessons.
A comforting aspect of yoga practice, is that this is where it ends; it is entirely about process, and does not culminate with a concert or competition, or match. We may never achieve pretzel status, touching toe behind us to the crown of our head, or making vinyasa look effortless, and we may forget to breathe, or topple over out of headstand or fall in and out of balance and strength. We can use our yoga practice as a way to practice staying present with difficult and uncomfortable physical postures, and we can apply this to all aspects of our lives. Stephen Covey extracts meaning from the word responsibility, quite literally, reminding us that it is the ability to respond. We are steering this boat, and we are choosing how to be in our car, or in line, in our relationships, in the yoga studio, or up on stage, we choose how to respond to life. We can send love to our fears and shadows, even when it stretches us quite literally, well beyond our comfort zone. We can choose how to respond to all parts of this raggedy, beautiful, messy medley of a life. And maybe we even sing about it.
posted by powdermonkey at 3:38 PM
1 Comments:
Franny and I are thinking about you! We wish we could be there to hear you sing. We think you are so brave...xoxo
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