A number of years ago, I fulfilled a long-time dream of signing up for a pottery class. I loved the idea of creating wheel-thrown pottery. I spent so much of my daily life in mental activities that I craved the visceral and embodied. I yearned to sink my hands into a lump of moist raw clay and feel something beautiful spring into life as my fingers pulled forth a unique work of art.
Some days I think I will never get anything right.
No matter how many yoga classes I go to or how many hours I sit on my meditation cushion (OK, some of those moments are spent checking my Facebook page), I still manage to piss people off by forgetting to invite them to something or giving them advice when they don’t want it. I hate that I can’t stop rolling my eyes and being sarcastic, and I’m still mad at myself for telling a good friend all the reasons I dislike someone she adores. What is wrong with me?
Several years ago, I was preparing to teach my Tuesday morning Mindful Yoga class at Circle Yoga in Washington DC. I was sitting at the front of the class as students streamed in, setting up mats, blankets and bolsters.
Four minutes before class was due to begin, one of my regular students walked into class and straight to where I was sitting. She handed me a small newspaper clipping without saying a word. I assumed it was a yoga comic or other funny yoga tidbit. It wasn’t.