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One of the things that make teaching teenagers such a joy is their fearless abandon when it comes to trying new things. They fall down, and it doesn't even faze them. They laugh at themselves and get up and do it again.
I'll never forget the first time I attempted to teach Down Dog using yoga swings that hang from the wall as a prop. I had just demonstrated what the students were supposed to do, and they had just started to try it for themselves when ... THUMP! One of the girls had decided to try to swing through the air, lost her balance, and landed flat on her knees. My impulse was to run over to her and frantically ask if she was OK. I realized this was unnecessary when I saw that the student and two of her friends were rolling on the floor with laughter. "OK... Let's try it again... This time more carefully, please?"
I've experienced several of these moments in my classes. Luckily, none of them have resulted in a disastrous injury (knock on wood). But I have seen the effects of my students' carefree, risk-taking lifestyles through their various injuries. These aren't just the kinds of injuries that are often addressed in teacher training.
For example, this week, I had a student tell me she wasn't in class last week because she had injured herself. What was this injury, I asked? She showed me a six-inch gash in her thigh that had been created by the blade on an ice skate worn by a "top level" ice skater. It hurts just thinking about it.
Let's just say, when I ask if anyone has injuries, my students are more likely to point to bruises and scrapes than talk about strained muscles or achy joints. This isn't a bad problem to have. It means that they're healthy, active teenagers! But could someone please tell me how to modify yoga poses to accommodate a bloody, six-inch gash in one's thigh flesh? The best I could come up with was ... "Take things easy, and go into Child's Pose for a few breaths if you feel any direct pain."
The first time I heard snores during a Savasana I was leading, I couldn't help but smile. If a student is able to relax enough in the five or ten minutes of Final Resting Pose at the end of a class, I view it as a good thing. We all need more moments of complete relaxation in our lives, right? Of course!
Unfortunately, it can become a problem when the snoring became loud enough to elicit giggles from other students. First, that means it's disrupting the rest of the other students, which no teacher wants. Secondly, I remember being 15, and I remember how mortified I'd be if I my peers were laughing at me for snoring. Nobody wins. So I have to devise a plan to help the snoring cease.
During my teacher training, I remember this topic came up. My teacher's advice was all you have to do is point at the sleeping student and he/she will energetically feel uneasy and wake up. Everyone else in the room is in Savasana, he said, so no one will know. I tried this and it didn't work for me. I've bee advised by other teachers to offer a gentle adjustment to ease the student awake. This works, but since I don't give a whole lot of Savasana adjustments, I think it might be a little too obvious and the last thing I want to do is make a comfortable student uncomfortable.
I've had the most luck with softly speaking to the entire group the first time I hear the faintest hint of a snore—so before the giggles start. I give a cue to try to maintain in the present or to relax the eyes, face, jaw, and tongue. The beauty of this method is that it doesn't really matter what I say. If my students are deep in Savasana, they'll probably tune me out anyway. Those who aren't deeply into it will be gently reminded what they're doing and come back into their bodies. And this way I don't single anyone out.
What method do you use to squelch snores?
As much as I hate to admit it, I didn't really read the Bhagavad Gita (a classic yogic text) during my teacher training. I bought it and carried it around with me for a few weeks with the intention of reading it cover to cover. But every time I opened it my mind wandered off to something else. I had heard the story from a few different yoga teacher, and I had skimmed it a number of times, so instead of forcing it I just put it away and moved on to The Autobiography of a Yogi or some other obscure text that was on my reading list. Like so many other books in my collection, it sat on my shelf undisturbed for more than a year.
But a couple of weeks ago, something strange happened. I was lying in Savasana (Corpse Pose) at the end of a particularly lovely yoga class, trying to focus on my breathing, when something else popped into my mind: the Bhagavad Gita!
"I never really read that," thought my Monkey Mind. "I should probably do that. You know what else I haven't read? That Ekhart Tolle book someone recommended ... Who was that?... Oprah? ... Wait. What am I supposed to be doing? Oh yeah, Savasana."
Anyway, a couple of days ago, something moved me to take the Bhagavad Gita off my bookshelf, dust it off, and start reading it. I'm having a completely different experience than the last time I attempted this important book. I'm only reading a chapter or two at a time (that is, a chapter of interpretation followed by a chapter of the actual text), but each time I've put it down I can't wait to pick it up again. I'm so into the story, I find myself pondering it as I commute or whenever I take a break from work.
Once again, I'm stunned at this phenomenon I've noticed numerous times in the years I've practiced yoga. Deeper poses, meditative moments, wisdom, new levels of understanding—they all reveal themselves to you when you're ready. You can't force opening. You just have to wait for it to come.
Right now I'm in the process of developing my first ever Saturday workshop. It's going to be twice as long as a normal class, and on a lazy summer day. Since this will be my very first workshop, I want to make sure I choose a theme that resonates with my teenagers and will help them to deepen their understanding of the practice. I'd like to come up with something that might attract a few new students, as well as my regulars. But above all I want it to be fun!
I've decided to do a little Web research into yoga workshops to see what themes other teachers are offering their students. Maybe I can draw some inspiration from their ideas ...
It seems like the most common workshops focus on a specific part of the body (like shoulder openers) or a kind of poses (like backbends), but I feel like I want to do something more general. I found a lot of interesting ones I thought I'd share.
In Oakland, Kimber Simpkins is hosting a workshop called Bringing Your Practice Home. The description says: "Tune in to your inner teacher and take your yoga wherever you go, vacations, business trips, the beach, the mountains, your living room." (For more information see http://namasterockridge.com/events.html.
San Francisco vinyasa teacher Les Leventhal is doing a workshop this summer about "embracing the playfulness of the dormant child." It sounds really fun, but I'd have to take the workshop to understand exactly what that means in terms of sequencing. (For more information see http://www.yogatreesf.com.
The Laguna Beach YogaWorks location is holding a workshop for Girl Scouts where they can earn their Stress Less badge, and another one where brides can get in shape for their weddings.
What workshop themes have you had success with?
I have very few complaints about the yoga studio where I teach my weekly class. There are lots of friendly, smiling faces, a gorgeous skylight, and ample props. But I've always been a bit peeved that the studio offers foam rollers, tennis balls, wedges, a small yoga ball, and a lot of props I wouldn't even know how to begin to use, but it has only one (two, if we're lucky) eye pillows for students to use during restorative poses!
But nobody likes a complainer. So I've decided to take matters into my own hands, literally. This weekend, I gathered a few materials, and set to work making lavender-scented eye pillows. I made five and brought them to my class, and, lo and behold, had exactly five students! There were a big hit.
Here's what I did! (Pardon my pictures. It's not easy being crafty and taking pictures at the same time!_
Materials (Yields 1 Pillow) 
- Organic Flax Seeds (2 cups per pillow should be about right)
- A 9-by-9 inch square of a soft fabric (Organic fabric is best, but use whatever you have onhand—fabric remnants work well, too.)
- 1 Heaping Tablespoon of Dried Organic Lavender Per Pillow
- 1 Funnel
- A Needle, Thread, Sewing Machine (with zigzag stitch), Scissors, Measuring Tape
Step By Step
1. With the right sides together, fold the fabric in half.
2. Sew a straight edge around the three cut edges, leaving a 5/8-inch seam allowance. IMPORTANT: Leave about an inch at the corner not sewn!
3. Zigzag stitch around the raw edges, to keep your fabric from unraveling. Again, leaving about an inch at the corner not sewn.
4. Turn the fabric inside out through the opening you left at the corner.
5. Insert the funnel into the opening.
6. Using the funnel, fill your pillow approximately half of the way with the flax seeds and dried lavender. 
7. Sew together the one-inch opening in the corner with your needle and thread. Make your stitches as close together as possible.
Voila!
I'm completely freaked out by all the recent events that point that the economy is quickly heading for a recession: sky-high oil prices, airlines bankrupting, record housing foreclosures, high unemployment rates. It's not pretty, and I really feel for all the folks out there who are struggling right now. To put it in the terms they teach in college economics courses, people are cutting back on "luxuries" so they can budget enough for food, shelter, and other necessities. For a lot of people one of those luxuries, it seems, is pricey yoga classes.
I'm noticing a decline in attendance in my class as students who were once regulars are now coming sporadically at best. When they do come, they're asking for ideas on how they can practice more at home.
Since teaching yoga isn't my main source of income, my small classes are no big deal. (In fact, I kind of love that I can give each student more individual attention.) But this has caused me to wonder if this isn't a bigger trend in the yoga community. Are other teachers noticing a decline in attendance, or am I just paranoid? If you have a policy that offers free or reduced rates for the financially challenged are more people taking advantage of it? Are you doing anything to cut back on your own costs as a teacher?
-- Yoga is a necessity for me. But I'm cutting back on $18 classes and practicing more at home. (I think this is actually helping me come up with fun, innovative ideas to share with my classes!)
-- I haven't bought new yoga clothes in more than six months. (This might be a record.)
-- I'm using public transportation whenever I can—and walking longer distances to save on public transit fees!
-- I keep in touch with my students through email and Myspace, as opposed to expensive fliers or advertising campaigns. (Though, I admit this is half thriftiness and half laziness.)
-- Last but not least, I'm being picky about what organic foods I buy. I choose seasonal, local fruits and veggies that tend to be cheaper than the out-of-season stuff. And if I really need to keep my grocery bill down, I only buy the five most important things in organic using this guide.
Yesterday, I left my yoga class with $20 cash in my hand. I went to the local grocery store and bought a package of cupcakes from the baked goods section. These cupcakes were not made of whole-grain flour. They weren't trans fat or sugar free. They weren't even organic. There was nothing healthy or natural about them at all. But they were awfully yummy. As I was standing in the check out line I caught myself thinking, "What if one of my students is watching me buy these? Is this the example I want to set?" After some deliberation, I've decided that it's a fine example to set.
Let me explain.
Recently I've been noticing a big misconception in the yoga community about what yogis eat—or at least what they should eat. Take a minute to look around you the next time your workshop or training breaks for lunch. You might not be surprised to see lots of ridiculously healthy foods—fresh, organic produce, trendy energy bars, rice cakes, tofu, etc. This was the case at the last training I took. But when I got back to the hotel where I was staying and started chatting with my roommate, I discovered that we were both starving. We had both packed uber-healthy lunches because we didn't want the other people in the training to think we were unhealthy. It's not that we are unhealthy eaters normally, but it's a feeling that we'd be judged if even one fried or sugared morsel made its way into our otherwise healthy lunch! We had a good laugh about it, and then had a nice, healthy-ish dinner together.
Realizing how ridiculous this phenomenon is, I've recently turned over a new leaf. I think it's healthy to indulge sometimes. In fact, I think it's unhealthy to try to mask the fact that you sometimes eat a cupcake. Instead of pretending to be healthy all the time, I'm embracing the fact that I'm not. It's part of who I am, and I'm not hiding it anymore. Sure, my diet has improved significantly because of my yoga practice, but I'm no saint. And I know I'm not alone. Even the Yoga Journal office has a candy bowl at the front desk that must be replenished several times a day.
Do you ever feel the need to hide your indulgences (food or otherwise) from your peers or your students?
Words are infinitely important to me, both as a writer and a yoga teacher. Most of the time, I feel like I'm a decent communicator. I've been working hard to come up with new, accessible ways of describing essential yoga actions to my students since I taught my first class. I look at each class i teach as an experiment. I describe the same pose in as many different ways as I can, then watch closely to see which words actually translate into actions in my students' bodies. When they look up at me with furrowed eyebrows, I make a mental note that that combination of words didn't work. Then, I take a deep breath and try again, and again. This has been effective so far. I've honed the way I describe a number of poses, and I think I'm a better teacher for it. But there's one thing I've never quite gotten a handle on. There's just no eloquent way to describe a butt.
Imagine this scenario:
My students are in Child's Pose after a challenging Sun Salutations sequence. I want them to rest for a few breaths before we move on to standing poses. The tone of my voice goes from playful to soft and soothing. Then, like out of where I say, "Straighten and tone your arms, tuck your toes under, and reach your heiny to the sky for Downward Dog." That's right. I said "heiny." The class erupts into laughter. But I am sure I turned 14 shades of red. It kind of ruined the moment.
This wasn't an isolated occasion. Last week, when my students were resting in Savasana, I instructed my students to release tension in their eyes, jaws, shoulders, neck, and, of course, their "gluteus maximus." (Thinking maybe the scientific word would elicit fewer stifled laughs.) Wrong!
I've had discussions with other teachers who work with kids about this. Every teacher has a different approach. Some teachers just avoid any reference to the butt, and refer to the hips or pelvis instead. But that's not always accurate. Some suggestions I've tried include (but are not limited to): butt, bum, booty, backside, buttocks, rear end, tail bone, sitting bones, and yes, even heiny.
Let's just say, I'm still searching for my word. I'd love to hear your suggestions!
Those of you who frequent yogajournal.com have probably noticed by now that we're now offering weekly, downloadable, audio podcasts. In each podcast, a seasoned yoga teacher who teaches us once a week in the Yoga Journal offices. Jason is the kind of teacher we all love. His language is precise. He gives just enough—never too much—instruction. He challenges us, but encourages us to slow things down when we need to. Basically, he's an awesome teacher.
Because I have the most fabulous job in the universe, I've gotten to practice along with Jason as he tapes the audio podcasts. And what I've learned from it is valuable to me as a teacher, so I thought I'd share. The fact that the podcasts are audio (i.e. no visuals) means Jason's language has to be not only clear and precise, but simple and concise enough to get a beginner into a pose quickly with little confusion. On top of that, the podcasts are all around Maybe this is wrong of me, but I kind of delight in the fact that even Jason messes up on occasion! 20 minutes so there's no time for lengthy explanations.
Yesterday, when we were taping podcasts six and seven, Jason and I had a long conversation about how to best describe a simple movement from Sukhasana (Easy Pose) to Ardha Matsyendrasana (Half Lord of the Fishes Pose). From Sukhasana, Jason kept telling me to move my left foot toward my left buttock, meaning my RIGHT foot. I was very baffled. I was trying to do what he was saying, but that wasn't exactly what he meant.
Communication is SO important to the art of teaching yoga. Not only the words are important, but the tone of your voice, how quickly you say the words. Sometimes, it seems, the difference between a good teacher and an amazing one is the willingness to sit down and think through the way you describe each pose, practice that wording on your students, and then modify it until it works . . . Or maybe I should say, "re-think your pose descriptions, practice that wording, and then modify"? . . .
Since I got my first job at the ripe old age of 16, I've become so entranced by my jobs that I would think about them all day long and dream about them at night. First there was the computer game store, that induced dreams of being stuck in the back room unable to simply open the door and give the customer the Game Boy Color he desperately needed for his child. When I was a server at a fish restaurant, you won't believe the obstacles my subconscious came up with that made it impossible to deliver a tables' hush puppies on time (I had to hold my breath and swim through a trenches, in one dream!). When I was a newspaper reporter, I would routinely wake up in the middle of the night in a panic, questioning if I had gotten all my facts straight.
It makes sense, then, that my dreams have turned to yoga recently. Last week, I dreamed I got to my class early to prepare. I had just unrolled my mat when the ground began to shake and the studio's ceiling and walls began to collapse in on me. Somehow my students still came in, ready take class, and I had to explain to them (in a surprisingly calm manner) that we wouldn't be having class. I just didn't feel up to it after the disaster.
Last night, I dreamed I was demonstrating a seated twist for my class when one of my students pointed out that my hips were swiveling, when they should have been stable. The furious student jumped up and ran out of the studio yelling, "She's a fraud! She's a fraud!"
I don't know what all of this means, of course, but I hope I never showed up to teach naked!
Am I completely nuts, or do other teachers experience similar teaching dreams/nightmares?
This week, I got an email from a student who is enrolled in the teacher training program. The student said she is interested in working with teenagers, bless her heart, and she asked if she could observe my class to see how it's done. (I'm not joking! This really happened.)
At first, I was completely dumbfounded. I haven't been doing this long really, and I wouldn't consider myself an expert by any stretch of the imagination. Next, I was flattered. I am embarking upon my second year of teaching in the next couple of months. I guess I might know a few things this student doesn't. But those feelings were quickly replaced by sheer and utter terror. What if I mess up in front of her? What if I set a bad example? What if she writes down everything little thing I do, and shares it with her class so they can pick it apart . . . pointing out all the things I could have done better? (I've been through teacher training. I know what it can be like.)
Ultimately, I decided not to be a wuss. I'm proud of what I do. And I know I've grown leaps and bounds as a teacher in the last year. So what if I mess up? There's value in seeing a teacher mess up when you're in teacher training, right? I know I still feel a little tinge of validation when I hear one of my senior teachers tell me to bend my foot instead of my knee. I told the student I'd love to have her! And I meant it, too . . . eventually.
I admit it was intimidating at first to have someone watching, taking up her pencil and notebook between Downward Dogs. But it was nice to have a little extra grown-up support, too. When I went to help one girl, a girl on the other side of the room could ask the teacher trainee for help. Most of all, it was an amazing reminder of how far I've come since I sheepishly entered one of my own teacher's classes as an observer for the first time. What a rewarding experience!
The class I taught this week seemed like a success. Besides a few mis-spoken words, it went pretty smoothly. There were no loud outbursts. If anyone rolled their eyes, I didn't notice. And the sequencing seemed to be well-received. So when class was over I gathered my belongings with a smile on my face and a twinkle in my eye.
But looks can be deceiving, I suppose. When I walked outside of the studio one of my students was waiting on me—and she didn't look particularly pleased. "I'm so happy you made it to class today!" I said with a hopeful smile.
Her response was more or less a list of grievances—a very long list. She poses I teach are too hard. She gets a headache during class. And, frankly, she's only coming because her mom is making her.
How's that for honesty? Ouch!
At first, this hurt my feelings. But as I gave it more thought, I realized what a brave act it was for this young girl to confront her teacher with issues that were bothering her. She should be applauded for bringing this to my attention. If the class isn't benefiting her, I need to know about it. Maybe I should offer more modifications or give more personalized instructions for different bodies. (Of course, this is easier said than done. I am who I am, and there's a limit to my knowledge and how much attention I can give one student in a group class.)
If that doesn't help, maybe I should just accept that my teaching style won't be everybody's cup of tea . . . and hope she can find a class, and a teacher, that meets her needs.
A couple of days ago I woke up with a scratchy throat and a bad feeling that I was coming down with a cold. This is never good news, but it is even worse if you know you have to teach in a few hours. There are a million arguments for not showing up to teach a yoga class when you're under the weather. Of course, there is the concern of spreading germs. Then, there's my personal dedication to embodying what I teach—and how can I really say to my students, "Slow down and take care of yourself," when I show up to teach sniffling and sneezing. Realistically, though, I knew it was too late for me to find a sub. I had two choices: cancel class at the last minute or put my game face on and teach to the best of my ability without hands-on adjustments.
It was the first class I had the opportunity to teach since my studio closed for the holidays, so I opted to teach. It was the only time I'd hoped for a small turn-out. Naturally, it was my biggest class ever. I had four brand new students—two who showed up alone, and two who were friends of my regular students. (One of them even brought her big sister who was visiting from college!)
I knew I had made the right decision when a number of my students wanted to chat after class. This was the first time I had ever been approached after class by any of the girls with anything other than questions about how much they owed for the class.
It didn't cure my cold, but it definitely warmed my heart.
I have a very strong attachment to my yoga mat. He's natural rubber, PVC-free, eco-friendly, biodegradable, and one of my favorite colors in the whole world—plum. He protects my feet from germs and/or sweaty puddles remaining from previous yoga classes. When I carry him home on a smelly, crowded train, I hug him close to my body—protecting him from the cold, harsh world.
I unroll my friend in a specific way, with the small, square label in the top left hand corner. I roll him back up the same way each time—slowly and carefully, so the edges are even and tidy. It's a little ritual that signifies my mini-vacation has come to an end, and I must return to my life.
In fact, I haven't been so attached to an inanimate object since I was a toddler toting around my precious Blankey. So when my well-intentioned teacher asked me to abandon my dear mat for a series of standing poses, I was not pleased. It was reminiscent of the times when my mom ripped Blankey from my hands to wash him. I would spend what seemed like hours (but was more likely a few minutes) jumping up and down as I helplessly grasped for Blankey, which had been maliciously hung out of my reach on the laundry line. In yoga class yesterday, I stared longingly at my mat, as I struggled valiantly to remain upright in Trikonasana (Triangle Pose) on the ice-skating-rink of a rug.
There's a moral to this story. The fact that I found it SO hard to remain upright in standing poses on the carpet taught me that I haven't been engaging my muscles enough in my daily practice. This is a valuable lesson because now I know where I should be focusing my attention when I practice—and it's not on the pretty color of my mat. Maybe, just maybe, I should try practicing without my mat for a while so I can learn to stand strong in my poses all by myself. I'm a big girl now!
The only thing more gratifying than watching your students get stronger, is watching their confidence build as they progress.
I don't know what it was, but during my class yesterday my students all seemed to be beaming! Their Plank Poses (one of my students coined the modified version with knees down "Broken Plank") were steady, their Chaturangas were smoother, and they moved into beautiful Down Dogs with ease. I deviated from my plan quite a bit to give them an extra challenge—and they were up to it! Obviously, I am proud of the progress.
But what I'm most proud of is how they seemed to be having fun whether their poses were perfect or not—which, as far as I'm concerned, is what it's all about. Yay!
This week, I'm thrilled to report that I introduced my girls to Bakasana (Crane Pose) for the first time. I was incredibly nervous about this because I remember how I used to feel when teachers taught this pose before I was ready for it—bad. And I want yoga to be a self-esteem booster for my teenage students, not have the opposite effect.
Despite my reservations, I knew a few of my students have been practicing regularly and might be up for the challenge. I think I was right.
After doing a lot of asanas that teach keeping the arms strong, and pulling the belly in—Cat/Cow, Down Dog to Plank, modified Vasistasana (Side Plank Pose), and Malasana (Garland Pose)—it was time. I demonstrated Bakasana standing on the edge of a block. Then, I talked them through it. I watched with anticipation, offering suggestions and hints along the way.
Guess what?! At least one or two of them flew, if only for a second! I think it was more fun for me than them! The icing on the cake: After class, one of my regular students asked me if we could try it again next week. I think I'll call this one a success story!
The holiday season is in full swing, and instead of my usual holiday ritual of running around like a chicken with its head cut off I'm pretty much done with my shopping obligations already. I made the decision almost six months ago that this year I would make gifts for my family members.
With all this talk about gifts, charities, and generosity, I've been contemplating giving my time—and yoga teaching abilities—to people who could really use it this holiday season. As nice as it sounds, I have a few reservations.
I question if yoga really the best thing to donate. I'm interested in volunteering to teach at a group home, a senior center, or an after-school program, but is this really the best way to help? Yoga helps me cope with life, but the people in these programs might get more use out of a sack of groceries.
Then, a while back I read an article that explores why various yoga teachers have decided not to teach for free. Yoga is an exchange that has value, meaning, and worth. If you give it away for free, some people may realize it's value and take it for granted. So maybe it would be better to have a yoga class at a studio (with students who practice yoga already) and donate the proceeds to charity?
Once I wade through all of my thoughts about the most appropriate way for me to give, I will have to start my search of organizations who need (and merit) help. Considering the ginormous number of non-profits there are out there, the holiday season might be over by the time I'm through. Is it even worth it?
I am a nice person usually. And I want my teaching persona to be nice—warm, inviting, uplifting. (I'd like my normal, everyday persona to be like that, too, but that's a loftier goal.)
Here's my problem. Nice, warm, inviting, and uplifting people don't generally tell someone they need to change the way they're doing something. Naturally, I'm inclined to let everything go in my class. "It's hard for you to hold Plank Pose for five breaths? That's OK, come down to your knees for a while. You don't like this pose? Try this instead. Your feet are cold? Well, I don't recommend it, but if you really want to wear your socks I won't make you take them off."
I know I have to draw the line somewhere in order to keep my students safe and to foster their growth as yogis. I want to empower my students to listen to their bodies and do what's appropriate for them, but I know if I'm not firm about certain things it will be like an invitation for them to fall into old patterns (samskaras) and remain stagnant. I just hate being a mean teacher.
How do I inspire my students to strive to do more and go deeper without being a crotchety, old teacher that sucks all of the joyful spontaneity out of the practice?
I apologize in advance for the overt sappiness you're about to read. I simply can't hold it in... Recently, I have been on the verge of bursting with gratitude for the yoga community.
Let me very clear, when I say "yoga community" I'm not talking about the the wonderful group of yogis from all over the making the world a better place through their consciousness and their worthy causes. (Of course, I'm awed and amazed by that, too.) I'm talking about my yoga community. The network of people that listen to me, support me, and help me when I'm feeling down or upset. These are the people who are the first to notice when I'm feeling down, and the first to congratulate me when something amazing happens.
I know that many of the people who read this might think, "Yeah, yeah. We all have friends who are important to us." But this is different than any "non-yoga" friendship I've ever had. Don't get me wrong. I have amazing friends from all different phases of my life. But things are different with my yoga friends. Whether it's my teachers, people I met in my teacher training, or just someone I've been to class with for a while, (and once or twice with people I've only spoken to by phone or email) I can tell that my yoga pals "get it." There's an unspoken connection that is both mysterious and awesome.
I'm still trying to put my finger on what it is that connections us. A deeper understanding of body/mind connection? An intuition that we hone from years of intuiting how to move our bodies to get into deeper, more satisfying poses—and ultimately more satisfying relationships? Whatever it is, just being a part of it makes my heart swell.
I didn't feel like teaching yesterday—I just wasn't in the mood.
In fact, I didn't feel like doing much of anything. The time change happened over the weekend. It started getting dark way too early. I just felt, for lack of a better description, blah. (It was the kind of blah that makes your whole body feel sluggish and heavy—like the simple act of standing up takes more effort than you can bear.) But, as my mother often reminds me, sometimes we all have to do things we don't want to do. So I pushed myself out the door and went anyway. Blah.
As my students trickled in one by one with their shining smiles, my mood went from blah to so-so. Despite my foul mood, the class went surprisingly well. In fact, I only mixed up right and left a couple of times (which might be a personal record.) But more importantly, I think I am beginning to get a better feel for how much—or how little—my students need in a class. My mood went from so-so to elated when I announced that we were going to learn to hang upside down from the yoga swings and my students faces lit up with excitement.
I am proud of myself because I am able to relax and be myself in front of my class—even when I don't feel like it. More importantly, I'm learning to slow it down, offer fewer poses with longer holds, and longer restoratives and Savasana. (Which worked out beautifully, since the sun went down just as it was time to tuck my students into a nice, long one.)
I'm not going to lie. I have a few students who I love so much I wish I could go back to high school just so we can be best friends. They wear the cool clothes. They listen to the cool music. They have the coolest Myspace pages. And, well, they're my yoga students, which pretty much makes them the coolest teenagers ever to walk the face of the earth.
But there also have been students who have not made me feel so warm and fuzzy. You know the type. These students stop class to make comments that start out with, "But what if," every five minutes. ("But what if you can't get your balance?" "But what if your arms don't do that?" "But what if your legs are too long?" "But what if it's too hard?") I realize that these comments give me the opportunity to offer more modifications and individualized instruction, and thus are a blessing in disguise, but that doesn't make it less annoying. Then, there are the silent protesters—the girls who sit as far away from me as they possibly can and roll their eyes when I stop to explain the importance of not over-arching the lower back in Bhujangasana (Cobra Pose).
For weeks, maybe even months, I have been feeling extremely guilty that I am not completely in love with all of my students equally. After all, shouldn't I be able to see and understand that this resistance is just a natural reaction to being a little out of their comfort zones? And if I do recognize that, I should like all of my students the same, right? Unfortunately, I'm just human, and this class is a learning experience for me as much as it is for my students.
Recently, though, I've seen a shift in one of my students. In the past, this particular student had objected to nearly everything. I could tell that she struggled physically with some of the poses, and despite my attempts to help her, she was agitated. For a while, I wondered why she kept coming back because she didn't seem to enjoy it at all. Lately, though, she's been different. She hasn't struggled as much. She is beginning to learn to soften in the poses—even the hard ones. Even her demeanor seems to have softened a bit. She smiles. She doesn't interrupt class as much. I'm realizing that I really really like her!
Lately, my students have been asking to use a prop I've never used—it is, in fact, a prop that I don't even know the proper name for. I'll try to describe it. You know those thing-a-ma-jigs that hang down from the wall that look like a cross between a trapeze and and pulley? It's got handles and Velcro . . . I think it's used for inversions for students that don't have the strength to hold themselves.
Anyway, its become a question in class that I have to admit I dread: "Can we use the wall this week?"
"Why, yes, of course we can," I reply. "But not that wall—not today."
I'm not pretending I know something I don't—I've admitted this freely. But I understand their curiosity, and I even share in it. So I've asked a senior teacher to give me a demo—and if I really get it, I might include it in a future class. Maybe.
It was a Wednesday morning when Ashtanga yoga teacher and My Yoga Mentor Panelist David Swenson asked for his class to raise our hands if we were going to be at the Yoga Journal Conference for a full week. When I raised my hand, he looked me square in the eye and said with a knowing smile, "When it's all done, you're going to wake up the next morning with a Yoga Hangover."
No offense to David, who was my favorite teacher the whole conference, but I think he got that one wrong. If anything, I came back with an even stronger "Yoga Addiction." I couldn't wait for my next yoga fix. (I'm just thankful that this isn't the kind of addiction that requires rehab.) Luckily, I got my fix the next day as I was welcomed back to a class of shining, excited guinea pigs—I mean, students—on which I could try the new adjustments I'd spent the week perfecting.
In my class, I tried to be the Cheshire Cat like Chuck Miller. "You want to adjust so that you can gradually disappear, leaving only your smile as the visible sign of your happiness that your students are doing it on their own," he says. As I learned from Jivamukti teacher Alana Kaivalya, I used my "Barbie hands" to avoid the poking my students with the tips of my fingers. (In case your wondering, this means you keep your four fingers together and straight, and your thumb stays by itself a few inches underneath.
However, the things you learn in a workshop never translate exactly perfectly in a classroom setting. I quickly remembered why I don't do that many physical adjustments with my class. At most, I got to adjust three or four times. But I do think I was more efficient and this will only improve with experience.
BTW, my students liked my sub last week, but none of them requested that she become their regular teacher. (And the two new students who came for the first time last week, were back again this week!)
This has been a sad and somber week for me. I'm preparing a trip to the Yoga Journal Conference in Colorado—something that I couldn't be more excited about—but, that means I can't teach my yoga class this week. This makes me very sad in light of the sudden interest in my class and amazing gush of enthusiastic students.
I have to find a substitute for my next class. I know it's necessary to keep the momentum alive and all that, but I'll be honest with you—I don't wanna.
First of all, subs are hard to come by. I've already asked all of the teachers that I know well and completely trust, and all of them are teaching other classes. This can only mean I am going to have to arrange something with someone I don't know well, and trust that she or he will inspire and motivate a group of teenagers who know very little about yoga (many of whom have had only one yoga class or are completely green). I know, from experience, that this can very quickly go wrong.
In fact, there are SO many things that could go awry, I get butterflies in the pit of my stomach to even think about it. I'm worried about the logistics of the tricky door that has a history of locking poor, unsuspecting students out. I worry that my class will think that a substitute yoga teacher means the same thing that a substitute teacher often means in school: a chance to be completely unruly. (Although, I can't really imagine my yoga angels being SO unruly.) And, of course, I worry that someone will get hurt, and I will be responsible even though I'm not there.
To be even more honest, what I'm most worried about is that my students (especially the regular students who have been taking classes with me for a while) will really love the substitute teacher—more than they like me. I can already image the cries of, "But that's not how [fill in the sub's name here] taught it!" and "Can we please have [fill in the name again] come back next week?" It's selfish and horrible and an obvious testament that I'm insecure about my teaching abilities. But it's oh so real—and all I can do is venture to learn from it.
I guess non-attachment will be my mantra until these feelings pass.
My short teaching career has consisted of week after week of planting seeds and waiting for them to grow. Each carefully planted seed—a call to a school, a strategically-placed flier, an random email to youth organizations, had seemed to be fruitless. For months, I spent more money on parking my car for the hour I taught my very small classes of four or five students (on a good day) every week. It was a good investment. Suddenly, I have an entire yoga garden!
It finally seems that my days of wishing and waiting, hoping and dreaming for students have come to an end. The number of students in my classes has doubled overnight.
Yesterday, I had a whopping five new students as well as a couple second-timers I hadn't seen in months in addition to my regulars. You could've knocked me over with a feather. Their faces were so bright and shining with enthusiasm and eagerness. The usual shy, awkward pre-class environment was alive with chatter and momentum. As I sat before my students waiting to start class, one of the new students demonstrated her own version of a pose that looked like something like a cross between Bakasana (Crow Pose) and Tripod Headstand. She then began to instruct her friend (another new student) on how to come into this pose. I took that as my cue to start class.
It didn't take me long to realize that a robust class full of excited 15-year-old girls was going to bring with it a whole new list of robust teaching challenges.
Here it is:
Classroom Etiquette. I'm sure this is an issue in every beginning yoga class, but I think with teenagers it's particularly hard to address without coming across as preachy. (They at preached at all day long at school, and I'd like to give them a break.) I'm going to have to come up with a subtle, clever way of getting across this idea: "If you come into class late and can see that we're in the middle of seated meditation, please don't scream out, 'What's UP!' to announce your arrival.
So Many Bodies, So Little Time. Beginners need more adjustments to keep them in alignment. Unfortunately, they can't hold poses for as long, so it's impossible to offer everyone the adjustments they need. This is when a classroom assistant could come in handy, but until then I have to be really specific and clear about the way I bring students into and out of poses so everyone is safe and learning.
New Bodies. Up until a couple of weeks ago, most of my students were of comparable fitness levels. Many of them also took dance lessons or played sports and had good body awareness for beginning yoga students. This isn't the case anymore. I have students who are flexible, but not so strong. I have students who are strong, but get winded easily. And I have students who struggle with even the most basic poses. Adjusting my teaching to include everyone—without boring to tears the students who have been coming to my classes for months—is going to take some practice.
I have many more thoughts running through my mind right now, but I realize I will be likely be working on these three challenges for years to come. Any advice you might have for me will be much appreciated!
Good news! The last time I taught my class, I had the biggest turnout ever. The students I'd been missing recently returned—and some even brought friends! After six months of teaching, I'm finally beginning to see some positive momentum. I have a base of students who come regularly. I get question emails from potential students every now and then. I even have one student who is using my class to get credit for her high school physical education requirement. Life is good!
There's only one problem. More students means more interaction between students. And in a class of teenage girls, that means more whispering, more talking, and more giggling. So I'm learning how to make sure the environment is fun, safe, welcoming, open, and orderly all at the same time, which can be challenging.
That said, I am loving the giggles.
A few weeks ago, I decided it was the perfect time to introduce my young students to Ujjiyi breath. I teach a lot of vinyasa-like sequences, so I wanted to show them how to really use their breath to help. I asked them to practice breathing as if they were going to fog up a mirror first, then again with their mouths closed.
As we tried the first round. I watched them look to both sides to see if the other students were participating. (Most of them had this classic my-teacher-is-insane look on their face, but they tried it anyway, bless their hearts.) Then, I asked them to try it with their mouths closed. I noticed I didn't hear any breathing but my own, so I asked if everything was OK. One student let out a gasp of air. "Wait. Are we supposed to be breathing out our noses now?"
I had forgotten to tell them that they were supposed to push the air out of their nostrils instead of their mouths. We all erupted into laughter for several minutes. In the end, I think we all learned a lesson about the importance of breathing—and the importance of laughter.
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