Category: Learning

Upside Down and Out of Control

As Week Two of my Yoga Teacher Training wrapped, I caught myself marveling that I can, in fact, do hard things. The rhythm of my days looks a little something like this. I get up early and walk to the training through my empty barrio. I wind my way through the narrow maze-like roads, my footsteps echoing off the stone buildings. The maze ends and suddenly there is open sky and morning sunshine as I cross in front of Cathedral de Barcelona. I stop for a quick espresso at my favorite coffee shop that is tiny and local and almost always has the little old man whom I have named Sandro.

By the time I have arrived at the doors of the Yoga Shala I feel ready for the day head. This is when the real work begins: a half hour of meditation. An hour class of yoga. Learning different asanas (postures) and how to correctly do them and teach them to avoid injury. After learning, there is more practicing these asanas, and then, sweet relief…breakfast. The rest is short lived because next comes another full hour long class of yoga, this time led by one of the students (yours truly included). Then there is some more learning, more stretching, and I realize that I have made it through another day.

Week One I characterize with the word “Ow”. “Ow! My arms!” As I shrug on a coat. “Ow! My shoulders!” As I pull my purse over my head. “Ow! My legs!” As I walk out of the Metro station, climbing the handful of stairs to the street level.

Week Two “Ow” faded away and I realized that I was craving this daily movement. “Ow”, I realized, was shifting to “Wow”.

Wow, I made it through Week One and Week Two. Wow, when I stop my body wants to keep going. Wow, I can’t believe I just did that.

Wow, especially, today.

In life,I do not like going upside down. At all. I do not like roller coasters. I could never do a cartwheel as a child. As a swimmer, I chickened out of learning the acrobatic “kick-flip”, where you do a little somersault under water and kick off the wall, shaving valuable seconds off of your lap split.

And in all of my years doing yoga I have never, ever done a headstand.

Until today.

There was no great build up to this. We were in our first yoga practice of the day like any other, and we were in some variety of a Surya Namaskar (sun salutation) when we were guided simply and gently into a headstand preparation. Internally I rolled my eyes, willing to go as far as a downward dog, when our teacher walked behind me and encouraged me to “just kick up”. And in what turned out to be an anti-climatic moment, I did.

I did a headstand.

And it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t dangerous. It was strangely…peaceful.

I came back down safely and found respite in a quiet child’s pose. What had been holding me back all these years? I told myself I did not have the strength to do a headstand. I convinced myself it was unsafe. Every yoga class that incorporated it I would sit back on my heels and watch. I’ll just sit this one out, I would think as my yoga progress stalled at this very place again and again.

While I am not on my way to the Olympics for swimming anytime soon, I also see how my progress in swimming has stalled as I opted out of kick-flips. Joining leagues or Premium swim teams always felt so out of reach – how would I explain that I cannot do this simple little somersault a child can do?

As I lay curled into a simple child’s pose I realized with a start that all of this delayed self-growth was in the spirit of… not losing control.

I mean, who likes to lose control? Control of our time, of our work life, of our love life – “losing control” has a notoriously bad reputation. But what if this learning to let go, to loosen the reins a bit and trust the process is exactly the moment when we become a better version of ourselves? What if…we face our fears and come out the other side relatively unscathed. Perhaps that is the moment when we realize that we are less fragile than we thought. That our inner strength is actually much greater than anything we ever imagined. Today it’s a headstand. But how will this one little headstand reshape my opinion of exactly what is possible – and what might be next.

Italian: Level 1

My beloved and I made a deal before our European adventure: He would try to learn some French, and I would study Italian. This would cover us, we figured, for the month that lay ahead of us. My Italian would help us through a five day hike through the Dolomites, Venice, Cinque Terra, and Florence. Then we would head to the South of France and finally Paris, where my beloved would navigate us with his French.

Fluency felt like a fool’s errand since I was starting from scratch, so I set a goal that felt achievable: order an Americano or a bowl of pasta without sounding like a complete jackass. Every morning leading up to the trip I poured myself a large cup of coffee and settled in with my Duolingo app, the little cartoon characters cheering me along. By the time we landed in Italy, I could clumsily order food and drink.

When we started planning our return to Italy, I realized I wanted to get serious about Italian. Now that I had this foundation, I glibly told myself, what if I became fluent? The fact that I reasoned a few months of Duolingo was a foundation was already magical thinking, but the dream had taken root. I caught myself daydreaming of my newfound fluency, my head thrown back in laughter, sharing a joke with a local as I trilled along in flawless Italian.

I searched for classes at the local community college. I looked for Italian tutors. I explored small language schools. It was around this time that I read a piece by David Sedaris, where he referenced that he used Pimsleur to help him learn languages. If it’s good enough for David, I reasoned, it’s good enough for me. On that logic alone, I downloaded Pimsleur and away I went.

I would pop in my headphones and take our dog for her morning walk, zig-zagging my way through the cul-de-sac, mumbling out loud as I repeated phrases that left me wondering what in the hell was going on in Italy.

Marco: “Do you speak Italian?”
Gabriella: “A little.”
Marco: “When can we eat?”
Gabriella: “Not now.”
Marco: “Later? Can we eat together a little later?”
Gabriella: “No, not now, and not later.”
Marco: “What about ten?”

I found myself mentally chastising Marco. She said no, Marco! Leave her be! Then, a plot twist.

Gabriella: “No, I am married and will not have dinner with you.”
Marco: “You are married? Where is your husband?”
Gabriella: “He is back at the hotel.”

I thought about the people I passed by as I walked. Did they speak Italian? What must they think of this woman muttering to herself this Italian soap opera? I began questioning the Pimsleur method, and frankly, David Sedaris, but pressed on. Gabriella returned to the hotel ostensibly safe and I returned home, hoping that this would all somehow pay off.

I practiced every day, wondering to myself who was responsible for the scripting over at Pimsleur. After the, let’s call it pushy, section between Marco and Gabriella, we progressed to the section dedicated solely to asking after someone’s family. This felt like less dangerous territory to tread into, but I found myself rolling my eyes and questioning whether or not I would find any real purpose in knowing how someone’s child was, how old someone’s child was, how many grandchildren someone had, and where on earth all of these children lived currently and in the past. Where were the phrases that would get me checked into a hotel? Or the phrases that would educate me on finding the best pasta in Cefalu?

Trust the process, I chastised myself. Just keep going.

By the time we landed in Palermo, I had finished Level 1. I realized all of the conversations I had been listening to had given me the power to string together a reasonable sentence to check us in to a hotel after all. I was still patting myself on the back by the time we hit the street on the hunt for Real. Italian. Pasta. We made our way to a highly lauded ristorante promising molto autentico Sicilian cuisine. We walked in and, discovering that no one spoke English, I realized that this was it, this was my moment.

I cobbled together words for “Table” and “for two”, undoubtedly from the section with Marco and Gabriella, and was pleased when the woman responded kindly. After ordering, I noticed an older gentleman hovering around our table. As soon as I made eye contact he rushed over to check on us. As it turned out, this was the owner of the restaurant, and the woman who sat us, his adult daughter. And here it was, Pimsleur in all their glory coming through for me.

“How many children do you have?” I asked, my memorized lines from Pimsleur flooding back. His eyes lit up and he smiled as he told me he had three children, and six grandchildren. Then he proceeded to show me pictures of everyone. When I asked where everyone lived, both past and present, he answered with delight. Eventually he drifted away and we enjoyed our pasta and seafood, my eyes wide staring at my beloved. “Well I’ll be damned. Pimsleur worked.”

We are currently planning our next trip. This time we will be five weeks in Spain and I have again turned to Pimsleur for help. Now as I waltz the streets with my dog on her leash, muttering phrases about needing to work hard, I feel confident that someday soon I will be in a conversation and think: Well I’ll be damned. Pimsleur worked.