I only have one more class to teach at my Yoga studio.
Closing it down has been an interesting observation of human behavior. I did all my grieving and mourning when I first made the decision to close down. It was a painful display of boo-hooing, let me tell you. But since the tears dried up and I have come to sweet peace over my decision, I have been observing other people's reactions and then, as a true yogini, my reactions to their reactions.
This has gone from watching students cry over it, "Where am I going to practice?" To the dumbfounded stares, "But it's such a beautiful space." To students bringing in disposable cameras they picked up on the way over to take photos of the space. Oh, and then there's the pout with the "it's too bad it didn't work out" comment attached to the pout.
That last one has been making me laugh. The first time someone said it I had no idea what they were talking about. I actually said, "What didn't work out?" From my point of view, everything worked out exactly as it was supposed to. I did the job that the universe called me there to do. Heal the space.
This was no small job either, by the way. This was a very large space in pain. The space and the students attending there needed healing. I didn't realize this was the job I was called there to do until well after I was already there. That's just the way God rolls with me.
Now, it's not the space or the students who need me. It's me who needs me. That is truly the basis for my decision to close. And although there is part of me who is still melancholy over this transition, I got the ultimate validation last evening during class.
In order to save money on babysitting I bring my children to the studio with me when I teach. They are forced to stay in my little office watching tv or playing their video games. Marley, my 7 year old daughter, likes to do arts and crafts with my office supplies and my 9 year old son, Elijah, usually can't take his eyes off of his DS. In the beginning, they would sneak out of the office to watch my class through the curtains. They would be making noise and I would be panicking, wondering if the students were angry about my kids ruining their peace. After a while, they got used to staying in the office and, truth be told, there have been very few times when they weren't perfect during class.
Last night when we got to the studio my daughter begged me for something she has never begged me for before. She asked to take my class. That old panic set in. What if she got ansty? What would the students think? Ugh. Well, I relented and actually told her yes. She set up her mat, blocks, blanket and pillow. Then she layed down on her mat and fell asleep, during class. When I began to lead class, she would reach out and hold my hand or stroke my arm, while sucking her thumb. So sweet and loving is this girl.
About 45 minutes into class, I heard Elijah sneaking down the long hall. He was trying to get my attention. I was back at that anxiety ridden fear place again. What is he doing? The students are going to get mad. Then I realised that he wanted to join class. He brought down his two blankets and sat down next to me. And he followed along. He was actually following my instruction, something that rarely happens when I am asking him to do chores. He was respectful of the practice, of me, and most importantly, of the students. And when he could, he too was reaching out to touch me.
And there we were, the three of us, facing my students and the students facing back. And it became clear to me. My students are such amazing gifts to me, my own teachers. I love them dearly whether they know it or not. But my children and being the best mother I can be is the sadhana that I was really called to earth for.
So as the three of us held hands and chanted aum, I was truly at peace.