What happens on the Mat

I was probably around 4 or 5 years old when my uncle picked me up from the airport and took me to my house to get my things. I had been away for a while, visiting my grandparents on the East Coast. I desperately wanted my mom to pick me up — I missed her so much. When I saw my uncle I knew something was going on.

I don’t remember asking questions.

I do remember the drive to my house was quiet.

I was looking around, taking it all in.

I was confused but too young to speak up.

We got to the house and it was empty. My mom was not there, her boyfriend was not there. I walked upstairs to get my stuff and there was blood on the wall. It was smeared. Something felt very wrong. I did not like being in the house anymore; it was full of ghosts, it was too quiet.

I got a few things probably, I don’t really remember, and we left.

My uncle took me to a place I had never been before.

“Your mom is here.” He told me. And behind the gate, there she was.

I did not really understand the complexity of this situation, and I don’t really know how long we lived there, at the shelter.

The days were so long, they would not let us be together and I was not in school yet, not allowed to be off the property for fear of being found.

During the day my mom did chores and participated in support groups with the other women. The kids were grouped together — we were allowed to go outside, to the back, hidden by the huge gates that surrounded the driveway and the blacktop.

I did not speak to the other kids. None of us really bonded, I think we all just wanted to be with our moms. And we were scared, but quiet.

Mindful to not make too much noise outside, “You don’t want anyone to hear you or know you are here.”

The whole transition to the shelter had been a huge contrast from my trip to the East Coast where my Grandparents had a big house, sweet dogs, a dining room with a chandelier, a housekeeper who adored me.. food and luxury everywhere. The shelter felt cold and quiet and lonely. And the truth was, we were in hiding and that puts a whole other level of fear into your bones.

But I was a kid, I did what I was told.

I kept quiet and eventually, we moved on.

I don’t know if she ever saw or spoke to him again.

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A few years ago, I was laying in Savasana in yoga class.

It was a big class, everyone was still. And in the quiet, once my mind was at ease, the memories started flooding back to me, like a scene from a movie.

As an adult, I had never really talked about living in the shelter, never allowed myself to bring up those painful, confusing memories. I had preferred to keep them locked inside, only the occasional hint or story when I had been drinking too much, and often in very dramatic renditions.

I had never come face to face with this memory.

Never turning towards it in daylight, sober, alone, gently.

There, on my mat in the safety of my breath — I saw it all. I saw the brick walls and heard the ball bounce softly on the black concrete. I heard the whispers of my mom and myself at night, when we were finally reunited in bed to share the stories of the day. I remember the bed being so warm — the only place I felt like I could relax and feel safe.

There on my yoga mat, I started crying. Not loudly, not dramatically, just tear by tear and as the memories flooded my brain, I brought them closer. I held them. I embraced them. The memories were lifting out of my body and my heart and my cells, I realized I had built the strength to handle this scene.

I can go there. I can feel this.

I could walk the halls of the memories that were too painful before.

Another flashback from this house, the night I woke up to lights flashing everywhere. Noise, sounds, darkness.

I ran out of my room and onto the porch where people were crying and lights were everywhere and it was so dark.

A bicycle, laying on it’s side in front of our home.

No one on it. People crying. “She died” they said.

“Go back to bed” they told me. My mom crying, upset.

I went upstairs. My mind racing.

This house was full of darkness. Fear, abuse, death, yelling.

A scary place for a little girl.

I allowed myself to be there.

I held this fear close and I took lots of breaths with it. I let the memories flow in and out with my breathe. I relaxed into them.

My yoga practice has gifted me countless benefits ranging from external to internal, personal to esoteric. But the thing I come back to over and over is that my practice has given me the tools and the strength to handle these memories. As I lay there on the mat, I was able to give that little girl a hug and tell her it would be okay.

I was able to clear out the cobwebs, bring a little light into a place where there was complete darkness. I was able to go places I had not gone before with compassion and love and warmth. Healing. A release.

It’s fascinating — now that I have been teaching and studying yoga 20 years, people STILL say to me, I can’t do yoga because I can’t touch my toes!

And I smile and nod… to me, it’s not about touching your toes, it’s about touching your life.