Sometimes the Power Goes Out
Welcome to 2019!—may we all thrive in the new year.
Last night I was teaching my 5:30 class in the barn in Thetford. Wehad a lovely, small group; the space warm and lit by fairy lights anddim sconces. The sky was pitch black by the time we started.
And then, it happened. Sometime between 6 and 6:30 the power went out.Completely out. The space went dark. There was no storm, no wind, noobvious reason we should lose power. Outside I could see that severalhomes on the hill were dark. Because I often teach at least part of theMonday evening class by candlelight, I quietly lit about 8 tea lightsand put them in the middle of our space and we carried on. It was prettywonderful, actually. The space had been warm already for hours, I'dbeen practicing before our class, so our space stayed cozy, sweetly litby flickering candles, soft music playing on charged devices.
The students were beautiful, the space was beautiful. Watching, teaching...it took my breath away.
The sudden outage really kind of made the class.
We all noticed that with less light, balance was really hard. As I ledstudents into Natrajasana I felt my own foundation and confidence wobblein the flickering, shadowy light. But even that was delightful andsurprising.
By the time we got to ground for some seated postures, we were drawninto the flickering light, and lingered a bit in a short trataka (candlegazing) meditation.
I left them tucked into Savasana, and snuck out to hunt out someflashlights for the end of class. the music went silent as myphone-—serving as flashlight—got further from the studio. When I cameback, the silence felt thick, comforting and, unlike the flickeringflames, utterly still.
Sometimes the power goes out. For no reason, we are plunged intodarkness. Maybe we expect it when the winds are howling, the rainpounding down around us, or snow draping trees and lines in a heavyblanket, but last night was quiet. No weather to speak of.
Sometimes the power goes out and we give into powerlessness; not thefrustrated, angry kind, but the kind of powerlessness that has noalternative and is instead comforting. It's the kind that lets us offthe hook so that we are embraced by the quiet and the dark, our sensesprickling, listening and waiting.
It was still quiet when my students had gone, the candles snuffed, themusic off, the door shut. My house too was silent and lightless, theonly sound the phone battery beeping. Here too I lit some candles,settled in to read a bit and wait for the power to come back on, and forGreg to come home.
And then, the power came back on.
As I always do when the hum of electricity boots back up after anoutage, blinking in the sudden light, I felt regret. A brief sense ofloss that what showed itself to me in the dark and the quiet had nowslipped away. It's sometimes how I feel after meditating, or after adeep, slow yoga practice. Sometimes, after a class. A reluctance toreturn, a desire to be held just a little longer in shadow. A graspingat something that is no longer there.
We don't have light without the dark. We don't have dark without the light.
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The new Monday class, by the way, is happening every week in Thetford,5:30 pm. I do hope to pull in a few more regular students, so that wecan continue the class on into the Spring, when 5:30 will once again befull daylight in our fair state. Take a look at the descriptionsto see what "Unwinding" is all about. Essentially we spend the first30-40 minutes on the floor, out of gravity, exploring gentle somaticmovements that train subtle body and subtle awareness, and then we moveto our feet to explore more demanding postures, using the more subtlework as a resource for understanding challenging poses and actions, andlearning to apply "right effort" to difficult asanas.
I do hope you can join us!
As always in Winter months, be sure to check the website and facebookfor weather-related cancellations, when road conditions are dicey.
Love
Leslie