The Theatre

by Joanna D.

The action – it unfolds in all its glory; mistakes, triumphs, joy, disappointment… drama. The scene, as if projected on a big screen in a small smoky theatre. Quite the show from the Lazyboy of consciousness.

One part of me sits there, watching. Like an old bachelorette, grazing on popcorn and sipping ginger ale. Laughing with the funny parts, crying with the sad parts. Part of me knowing what to do and what not to do, fully aware of what is happening, yet powerless to alter the moment, the movement, words, actions.

It’s frustrating to stand in the doorway, watching the watcher. Being fully aware. Appalled by the lack of action. Yelling and reprimanding, name calling, bickering, guilt… shame. What does that get me? More resistance.

An outright protest ensues nearly every morning on my mat. It’s like Rocky V in there.  Not wanting to go further into the series. Afraid. Fear of opening up again; release into the beauty and lightness of a free spine, a free and open heart. Feeling the blockages so damn clearly it makes no sense that I wouldn’t be able to move through them. And worst of all, the constant questioning of it. Suck town.

Perhaps an expectation of ultimate and immediate change through awareness is too great. Perhaps this puts too much pressure on… creating more adolescent style rebellion.

Sigh. Things are hard sometimes. The practice is hard sometimes. Opening up in backbends is really fucking hard sometimes. And for what? Because I’m afraid to open my heart to the world? Time to not buy into that anymore. Things get mucked up, and it’s likely, ultimately, I can’t do much to change them, but I can choose to travel through it without loosing my shit.

The most beautiful thing? The practice is my vehicle. And if you really look at it – it never breaks down. It is always there, in whatever capacity, to take me to the next level.

Practice, breathe – practice, breathe. Breathe.
Movement, light, loving awareness.