The yoga of nervous laughter

'The next session will be partner yoga,' said Tashi at Kaliyoga in France.  My heart sank.  We'd done this in Spain and, to be honest, I hadn't been wild about it then and my view hadn't changed with the benefit of hindsight.  I don't know why but it doesn't feel quite like yoga to me.  It's more of a party trick.
Above all, I get anxious.  I worry I won't do it right (if you're doing it wrong on your own that's fine, you're only letting yourself down...but with someone else...).  And yes, I know there's supposedly no such thing as 'wrong' in yoga but still... oh, you know.  So I turned up late, rather hoping that everyone would be neatly paired off and I could slope back to the pool with my book.  But no.
'Ah, there you are,' said Tashi.  'And there's your partner waiting for you.'  Poor Rosa.  Not only had she had to drive me for four hours from Nice airport but now she'd landed me as a partner.  She must have been wondering what ghastly thing she did last week to deserve this karma.

It didn't start well.  She pressed into me so I pressed back, assuming this was what one did.  She tugged my arm; I tugged back and we got into some kind of weird tug of war.   'Oww,' she said, finally.  'That hurts.'
'Me too,' I said. 'What are we doing wrong?'
'I don't know,' she said.
'But you've done this loads of times, right?'
'Nope.  This the first.'
'Oh.'
'It's all about trust,' said Tashi.  Rosa and I looked quizzically at one another and soldiered on.

'Oooh, look at those wonderful long limbs,' said Tashi, pulling out her camera.
'Oooh, look at the difference in our skin,' said Rosa, laughing at the contrast between her delicious Italian olive skin and my gleaming white slightly sunburned and madly freckled pelt.

 We managed a few moments of relative calm but, truly, it still wasn't quite doing it for me.

 'Everyone swap!' said Tashi and we shifted around.

This time Anne-Marie drew the short straw.  Not that she's short; just that I was a fair bit taller.  Even I had to admit it was pretty comical.

Then it got worse.  A lot worse.  Don't even ask what we're trying to do here - and yes, that's me on the bottom of the pile.

This is the point at which Candida is reduced to a quivering bunch of Balasana while I make a quick getaway - can't quite decide if I look more like Renfield or Quasimodo here.

And this is how it should be done - Emma and Tashi looking serene and rather lovely.

Dreaming is free

Goodbye and good riddance, January.  Sheesh, what a particularly nasty month you were. I’m still reeling from the amount of death, disease, discord, debt, destruction, desperation, depression, deception and despair you dispensed with such damned doleful dark delight.  Doesn’t D just have the very ring of doom? Dread, with a D on either end, sums it up.  And really such a dreary month, so dismal, doleful, dank and dire.  And so much damp…the windows are breeding mould again; I spend dolorous days digging at the crystal froth sprouting from the damn walls of the dank dungeon. 

But. We made it. Well, most of us, anyway. We’re still standing. Okay, so some of us are hobbling on crutches; some of us are clutching our hearts; some of us are poking desperately with sticks at doctors and bailiffs.  But we’re still here. More or less.

And now it’s February.  Yes, it still seems cold and damp, dreary and dark on the outside but look closely and there are small signs that life is beginning again. Snowdrops are scattering the hedgebanks on Exmoor. In fact, if I squint hard, I can see them out in the garden from my turret window too.

In Native American tradition this is known as the ‘Cleansing Time’; the time when the world is scoured and purified before the cycle of life starts over again.  It’s the pause before the fresh start.  And before a fresh start, you need trust and hope.

Today or tomorrow (depending on your tradition) is Imbolc, that the Christian Church transformed into Candlemas  - the festival of lights.  It marks the midpoint of winter, halfway between the shortest day and the spring equinox.  It’s the festival of hope, of trust, of dreaming of better times to come. 

I’ll brave the icy garden to pick some snowdrops (superstition says you shouldn’t bring them into the house before Imbolc). When Eve sat weeping after being expelled from Eden, the snow fell all around her, her tears turning to ice. An angel took pity on her, caught a snowflake in his hand, breathed on it and let it fall to earth as the first snowdrop. The flower bloomed and hope was born.

I have this little ritual I usually do at Candlemas. I’ll wait until darkness falls and sit quietly in the velvet black. Then, slowly, one by one, I’ll light tiny candles (whispering a wish with every one).  Gradually the light will increase. It will, it will.

Our ancestors held on hope as they looked out on the bleak landscape; they had faith that the sun would return. Imbolc is about keeping faith – in ourselves, in those we love, in life.

Even when it seems as though life has taken everything; even when you are let down and hurt, dejected and despairing, the one thing nobody and nothing can take away from you are your dreams. 

Dreaming is free. 

Of course there is another way.  Sometimes you look at the snowdrops and the little candles and you just say, oh feck it! Feck the lot of it! And then you just crank up the music, set the controls for the heart of the sun and you just, just, just….