18 of #100daychallenge
I don't know why I found this artichoke, one of the last of the season, to be so beautiful. Shelly was here today working on furniture and, because she is who she is, kindly watered my backyard plants. The other artichokes are about to be thistles. This was the last one to be viable.
I don't think I mentioned yesterday that I finally got prescription reading glasses, which means I am writing this sans eyestrain. It's kind of fun to see the difference between my utterly scuffed-up, barely useful glasses, and these. Maybe my eyesight will be strengthened from going between the two.
Gosh, I can see why folks get addicted to teaching yoga. Or maybe teaching in general. It is so fascinating to see people learn. Who knew?
Joe, the one I thought would be the most difficult, is totally with the program now. He absolutely glows. It is hard to hold back the tears when I see this formerly resistant person trying so hard (and succeeding) to be in a practice.
It is additionally fascinating to observe oneself in the role of teacher. Again, I am thankful I am teaching a slow and easy class. This gives me space to not fall into my ego when folks don't do what I instruct (or think I am instructing). There is one student who has been an aerobics instructor and scarcely follow my direction. But I can let that go for the moment. I don't even correct her much, rather I go back to my basic mantra in these early days, that learning your body and to find out what alignment can be is sufficient.
And who would have guessed the gratitude that I feel? The role of instructor is not small and comes with significant responsibility. Very challenging in the best way. By golly, these folks think I know something. And how much do I love them coming back from walking meditation all full of reverence and enthusiasm. I can see that they feel better about themselves.
AN INTRODUCTION TO SOME POEMS
Look: no one ever promised for sure
that we would sing. We have decided
to moan. In a strange dance that
we don’t understand till we do it, we
have to carry on.
Just as in sleep you have to dream
the exact dream to round out your life,
so we have to live that dream into stories
and hold them close at you, close at the
edge we share, to be right.
We find it an awful thing to meet people,
serious or not, who have turned into vacant
effective people, so far lost that they
won’t believe their own feelings
enough to follow them out.
The authentic is a line from one thing
along to the next: it interests us.
Strangely, it relates to what works,
but is not quite the same. It never
swerves for revenge,
Or profit, or fame: it holds
together something more than the world,
this line. And we are your wavery
efforts at following it. Are you coming?
Good: now it is time.
— William Stafford, Someday, Maybe, Harper & Row, New York, 1973
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