The tracks of your tears are beautiful

Somewhere, a dam has burst. A river of tears is running through the studio, trickling down faces, dripping on mats and soaking eye masks. There is a feeling of release, a cathartic giving up of hanging on, holding it all in.

What is it about yoga that allows, or creates, this release? Perhaps it is the stretching, releasing physical tension; however I have also found that many yogis arrive at the door with lips already trembling, eyes glistening. I definitely think the stillness and resting part of yoga brings us closer to ourselves, which can be confronting. The sitting with what is goes against our instinct to deflect, stay busy, deny the difficult feelings.

Often, when people are upset, they will apologise. 'I'm so sorry/I just can't stop crying/I can't seem to get over this/I don't know why I'm being so silly' etc etc. There is no need to apologise for letting your feelings show. The clouds have to move across the sky so that the sun can shine through. So too the tears have to flow, to make space for healing, perspective and incremental progress.

The reasons behind the tears are wide and varied. Grief - devastating, all consuming grief. Burn out - a body and mind fried and exhausted from the effort of holding everything together. Change - whether planned or not, equilibrium is upset and life is unsettling. Despair - being in a place of hopelessness, and not knowing how to change it.

I had my own tears on the weekend. I had been a bit run down, fighting off a virus. My emotions were close to the surface, but I kept that lid latched shut. Bump bump bump went the lid as every little thing threatened to set me off. I kept it together until after spending time with my daughter. My lip trembled all the way home, where I curled up on the bed and soaked a pillow with my tears. An overwhelming feeling of sadness and 'not neededness' had me sobbing like a baby. At the core of my tears, of the gut-wrenching tension in my body, was loss. I mean, she lives in Mt Lawley, so to point out the obvious, I haven't lost her. But I have lost baby her, childhood her, the her that needed me for everything. And with that comes a loss of some of my identity, some of my purpose.

All of this really surprised me. I'm a big fan of kids moving out, and getting on with their adult lives.

So I sobbed and moaned, said out loud all the things I was worried about, all the things I thought I was losing. I let myself be sad and superfluous and a second thought. I went to bed early. On Monday morning, the virus I thought I was fighting had gone. My head was clearer. I felt like there was more space in my chest. In my heart.

I know this does not come close to losing a loved one, or receiving a devastating diagnosis, and my instinct is to minimise my sadness, but that might also minimise yours. I don't want to do that. Let's agree that we can feel the feels, let the tears out, the light in, and repeat that for as long as it takes, which might be forever. Let's agree that crying in class is perfectly fine. No need for anyone to feel uncomfortable about it. No need to leave, to hide, to pretend to be okay. No need for anyone else to fix anything.

Just be. Some days you will be the one cracking the jokes. Some days you will be the one offering a hug, a tissue, a non-judgemental ear. Some days you may be the recipient of the hug. It all counts, it all belongs.

Let life move through you with as much grace as you can muster, and allow yourself to be supported, as you so generously support those around you.

With love,

❤️

Amanda xxx

PS.

I would love you to join me for The Art of Slowing Down Day Retreat on Saturday 7 November from 10am to 4pm. It will be a fun day of yoga, relaxation, pottery and connection with other lovely women. Click here for more information, and here to book.