Letting Go

I practice Bikram Yoga, you know that crazy body-contorting version of yoga that’s done in a 105-degree studio? That’s the one.

I’ve been doing it for five years, and dare I say I’m pretty good. Being Type A, and therefore hyper-competitive and all about myself, I can’t get enough of this stuff. You stare at yourself in the mirror from various poses and postures for an hour and a half. How awesome is that? Granted, you’re not looking your best since the humidity slicks your hair to your face, and your cotton-lycra wardrobe is stained with massive sweat patches, but still there’s a lot of people in that room dripping just as much as you.

Usually the classes are packed so you find your mat slammed up next to your neighbor’s, which is great because then you get a good view of how much better you’re doing than she or he is. Not that it’s a competition or anything.

And you get to brag to your friends that a few times a week you burn roughly 30,000 calories by standing still on one leg in a hot room. I am all about Bikram Yoga.

But about a year ago I discovered that Bikram Yoga isn’t all about me. Hmmm. It’s actually about the un-me, so to speak.

I had been listening to the teachers warn that certain poses can really open up your chakras (excuse me?), particularly your heart chakra, and you might become overwhelmed with emotion, which you should just let go. Right, I would snicker to myself, like I’m going to let the waterworks go in a class where I’m clearly outperforming everyone and making it look so easy.

And then it happened.

I was coming out of my second set of floor bow, in which you lay on your belly (or core, as we Type As call it), bend your knees, grab your ankles, and majestically lift yourself off the floor so your balancing just on your belly button. (However, I never understood why they call this pose ‘bow.’ Is that like bow and arrow, or bow on a birthday present? Minor point.) I have always struggled in this pose; I tell myself the front of my upper body is so tight (read: muscular) that I have a hard time bending up and back in such a manner. Ends up, I’ve been struggling in this pose because I’m so uptight.

On this particular day, when the rest of class let out a communal sigh of relief that the second set was over, I let out something between a whimper and a wail. Whoa, did that come from me? To make matters worse, I started hyperventilating. Well not really, but it felt like it. If you started to cry in a 105-degree room after extreme excursion and chakra-opening, you’d think you’re hyperventilating, too. I laid still for a while during Savasana (Sanskrit for Dead Man’s pose, nice) and got my breathing under control. Just like the teachers warn, I had that feeling of 'what the heck just happened?' And then I learned what yoga is all about: it’s about letting go.

It just so happened this flash of un-me occurred at about the same time I was learning more about my faith. That, too, is about letting go. Hmm, there’s a theme here, as well as a life lesson for someone who constantly struggles to stay in control. Even while standing on one leg.

Ever since that experience, yoga has changed for me. I still stand really close to the mirror to see as much of me as possible, but now I routinely practice letting go. Letting go of thinking, planning, figuring out and fixing everything about my life; letting go of trying to be the best in the class; and, when needed, letting go of my emotions. I focus on being here now, and that’s when I can really tap into my faith.

I still struggle with floor bow, but it’s now a give-and-take of how much of me I’m comfortable opening up at that moment. Sometimes I still cry when the pose is over – letting go is a powerful experience – but most often I appreciate that every little step toward letting go counts.

Cara Garretson, writer and human pretzel, is based in the Washington, D.C. area. If you're a corporate technology geek, you can read her work on her day job, but you'd probably enjoy her DC Suburban Moms blog more.