Apocryphal

She’s speaking to all of us when she says even in the silence she can hear how hard we’re being on ourselves.  It’s one of the (many) challenging poses in this series of 26, and every yogi in the room sweats profusely in wretched determination, wordlessly self-chastising:  Why aren’t I better at this?

Those who know me well may expect this is the year I finally chuck the themes of past Valentine’s Day posts like Hew and Extemporaneity to write about romantic love.  I consider this for a brief moment and then decide to take a step back:  Before we can get to healthy, romantic love we need a regular regime of self-love; the kind a student of Bikram must train herself to employ if she’s ever going to be satisfied with her own practice.

And practice is what it is.  Self-love is a never-ending battle of the wills.  It’s calling out that voice in our heads, the one who always seems to be paying attention, never misses a beat, at the ready to find fault in nearly everything we do, say or feel.  She stands at the scales of comparison, always finding a reason we don’t quite measure up whenever and wherever we weigh-in. She can’t seem to see the good in anything.  And instead of challenging her criticism, we take her beatings as truth, hanging our heads in defeat, forfeiting the right to question, succumbing to the ceaseless reverberation of every negative word.

 

I can’t emphasize enough how much pushing back on your inner voice matters.  Every disparaging word robs us of our confidence, chipping away at our ability to put out there who we really are. And every little bit of ourselves we hold back closes us off that much more from the life-giving connections we need to thrive. The self-deprecating inner voice prevents us from sharing opinions and offering new ideas related to our work, and it makes us question the value we bring to our relationships and our worthiness to be with a romantic partner.

It’s time to get your house in order!  You can change this conversation.

 

In the hot room it’s proclaimed that yoga is not about being perfect, it’s about showing up.  Those 26 postures never get easier for a reason; they are meant to teach us how to manage our inner voices, how to recognize and neuter the soliloquy of this soulless critic.  We learn to gaze squarely and lovingly at our hard-working bodies in the mirror, so intently focused on the dialogue we don’t have a second to sneak a glance at what anyone else is doing. The constants of the practice show us we’re limited on some days, yet able to stretch on others. We learn the power our minds possess to rev the engine of our bodies. And somewhere in all of this we begin to quell those voices before they can bring us down; we see our mettle shine; we know exactly what we’re made of.

 

This very same miracle can happen outside the hot room, too.  It’s all about taking a minute to question those inner demons when they rear their ugly heads. For me it helps to take myself out of the situation; it now belongs to a friend and she’s asking me to be a sounding board.  It never fails to amaze me how quickly and blatantly this simple act of transference provides clarity. It becomes obvious when I’m wearing my blinders, when I’m blowing things out of proportion, when there’s not a modicum of evidence to support the conclusion I’ve jumped to, when I’ve lost all ability to grant myself the slightest bit of grace.

When we can objectively evaluate the negative self-talk, deciding what’s valid to be learned from and what’s vociferous to be left behind, we become stronger. We own our humanity, we become infinitely more relatable and we take ourselves a lot less seriously.  We feel willing to take more risks.  We feel worthy and ready for love.

So on this Valentine’s Day, I’m challenging you to show up for self-love.  Every day, whether you feel like it or not. Because when you regularly practice loving yourself, you bring to your most coveted relationship the greatest gift of all:  A romantic partner who is capable of receiving all the love the other is bursting to give. 

Voir Dire

He’s made the same inquiries no less than twenty different ways, but a common theme is emerging.  So I’m ready when it’s my turn. Yet once he realizes I cannot be riled by his somewhat caustic query into the job title I provide on my questionnaire, “Real Estate Executive”, I’m puzzled to discover I’ve escaped the grilling those before me endure, at least in Round One.

How to frame my reservations consumes me from almost the minute my peers in the box begin entertaining questions.  I’m one of the random twelve seated for jury selection in a civil case, surprised to find the jury in my head is still out when it comes to deciding in this situation how unbiased I believe I can be.

 

I’ve lost count by now; it’s probably upwards of six potential jurors excused before me.  But no one has the same issue I do. No one seems to be struggling with the moral dilemma bothering me; they’re making it clear lost time at work will be a problem or past experiences with law enforcement may have jaded them, just a little.  They all proclaim they’ll do their best to be fair and do what’s “right”, but even us amateurs can read between their lines.

       

The judge and attorneys are asking us to administer justice, as our society defines it, to leave our philosophizing and thinking at home, to follow instructions as dictated by the law.  And it’s in this moment I realize I am my teenaged son; the one I’d describe as defiant.  How many times have I said words to the effect of “it doesn’t matter whether you agree with the law, you need to follow it’?  And here I am being asked to put my own opinions to the side, to do the very same thing as a steward of our judicial system.

When the plaintiff’s attorney finally makes it to me, I’ve decided.  I need to take my own advice.  “Resolve your ethical issues early”, is what I always tell others, “They'll never go away.”  And so I say what’s on my mind.  I feel my face burning as the words settle like ash on those in the courtroom; I'm willing this Real Estate Executive to control the flames engulfing her face whenever she puts a risky opinion out into the world. I imagine how the defendant wishes he could prevent my imminent removal from the panel; I wonder how the plaintiff feels about himself and his situation upon hearing my words.  But mostly I’m curious about my fellow prospective jurors.  When they’re asked if they share my opinion, they all say no. Do they really mean it?  Or are they afraid to put themselves out there?

As I’m driving home I ask myself, am I capable of following the judge’s instructions and leaving my beliefs outside the room?  Yes, I’m capable. But given the choice, I’d prefer to abstain.  We don’t always get a choice, but I have a choice today.  I can speak my truth, and put this deliberation in the hands of another citizen who, with a clearer conscience, will have capacity to weigh the facts objectively, or I can keep quiet and cloud the proceedings with my own inner turbidity.

In the end, I do exactly what we are asked to do in this process: Speak truth.  My truth doesn’t have to be everyone else’s truth. The plaintiff’s attorney thanks me for my honesty, acknowledging this is exactly why they ask these questions. As I exit the courtroom, I swear I see a look of respectful regret cross his face.  Funny thing is I know under different circumstances I’d make a damn good juror.  He knows it, too.