Savasana

I sit here eminently like the rest, polite and dutiful. But in truth, I am far from being like the rest, not really. For I am here undercover.

I shuffle awkwardly on my sit bones, somewhat cross-legged. The room is a gentle buzz of hushed greetings and warm exchanges, but I do not participate.

Neat rows of brightly coloured mats line the varnished planks of Oakwood Manor’s ballroom. Floor to ceiling windows flood the room with bright January light, as a small, tanned woman busies about. Along the right-side of the room, expensive looking cabinets and armchairs have been pushed aside, cluttering the corners. To the left is a dusty open fireplace, bordered with a high stack of logs, like an Alpine cabin postcard. This is where I sit. On my very own mat. 24 by 72 inches, just for me. Just like all the other women and occasional men here to enjoy Oakwood Manor’s first Country Yoga Retreat. Though I’m all too aware how unlike them I am. For they are keen paying guests, whereas I am here without charge, instead, with a duty to upkeep.

Without delving too deep, dire financial need has left me open to all and any opportunity. Today it has led me here. I am to light and maintain the fires throughout the yoga retreat, disguised as a guest myself.

Here I wait, about to partake in my first ever yoga class. Specific and admittedly cynical expectations had filled my mind before arriving. Though already these expectations are being challenged. I am not surrounded by the sculpted athletes I had imagined from magazines and Instagram, head to toe in luminous Lycra. Instead, I am joined by very ordinary looking individuals. There is Lycra, but it is worn with scraggly home-knitted jumpers, baggy t-shirts and tousled ponytails.

“Welcome everybody”, the tanned lady beams as she brightly hops onto her mat, light-footed and fairy-like. Her gaze scans over us all, clearly recognizing some faces. I wonder if she is nervous.

Then we begin.

Inhale arms up, exhale melt down, inhale look forward, exhale relax, inhale step back, exhale to the ground, inhale cobra, exhale downward dog.

Two hours of flowing movements, deepening breaths and amusing sounding poses ensue. The class could not be farther from my naïve expectations. Yes, there is bending, lifting, holding and stretching. But this is not the competitive and performative sort of stretching familiar to me from years of ballet training. It is also far from pretentious. There is no forced requirement of serenity. It is simply, honest.

We start on the floor and gradually work our way up, evolving once more to standing beings. Lengthened spines, long necks, strong arms but relaxed shoulders. I become aware of parts of myself I didn’t realise I could feel. I keep a side eye glance and catch the flames of the fire diminishing and mentally take note to add a log at the next opportunity.

Other participants aren’t afraid to let out noisy sighs, to stop and take a moment when their body warns to, the occasional expelling of wind is politely giggled at.

The focus is acceptance. Accepting the body and mind just as it is, taking a step back, becoming the observer.

“Return to the breath”, the teacher frequently reminds, and I bring my wandering mind back to the physical sensation of my breath within my body. I could feel it in my chest before, but now its deep within my belly.

“Now, we come to the most important pose of the practise”.

To my surprise, we are directed back down to the floor, to simply lie down onto our backs. Arms and legs relaxed, abdominals softened, eyes closed.

“Savasana. Corpse pose”.

The word shocks me, the hours have been filled with lotuses, cats, halfmoons and pigeons, but now, corpse pose?

As my spine comes into contact with the mat, I notice I feel somehow, more here. I begin to realise that through movement, our purpose has been to find stillness. This ritual of poses and transitions, guided by breath, has been simply to return to a newly revived, restful place.

We lie in savasana. The teacher guides us, scanning our attention down through our bodies, from the crown of the head to the soles of the feet, not moving, just becoming aware. As she does so, I am reminded of a memory I have from when I was about nine years old. When I couldn’t sleep, I decided I would trick my brain. I would make my body as heavy as I could, consciously letting go of any resistance in each muscle, letting go and releasing, heavier and heavier. Mimicking how my unconscious body would be when I were to fall asleep. Like a corpse.

This is how we lie now. No sucked in stomachs, no clenched jaws or faintly raised brows. I hear a snore from the mat to my right, but no one seems to mind. The crackle of the fire smoulders away and I feel it begin to lull me towards a similar dreamy place...

“And coming back into the room” the soft but crisp voice of the teacher brings my attention back. Was I asleep? I can’t tell.

As we peel ourselves away from our mats, some realisation in me knows that these past few hours have been significant.

I put another log on the fire.

That night I sleep deeper than any night I can recall.

12 Years Later

We sit around a wreath of rushes, dried flowers and tealights. One by one we share our first experiences of yoga. I’m accompanied by six other ‘yoga teachers in training’, in a twilight studio, tucked away in County Clare, Ireland. The light has gone now, but in the morning the sun will reveal meadows and a dry-stone wall running all the way down to the Atlantic Ocean.

Life has been a rush between then and now. University, boyfriends, living away from home for the first time. But one particular shadowed memory, now reveals itself as a blessing in disguise.

I’d never felt I had a justifiable reason for experiencing what I did, I have been blessed with the kindest life, but still, something went wrong. Maybe genetics, a chemical imbalance, or all the little things just piling up?

Most people who experience panic attacks remember their first one. Mine was when I was small, but I recognise now I had been living with anxiety to some degree most of my life. Though for whatever reason, these moments of ‘feeling funny’ had suddenly started to intensify so rapidly that I felt I was falling away from myself.

An ordinarily optimistic, energised and generally happy person, I was suddenly pounced on by panic attacks. One after another. A sensation of utter terror and fear for no known reason, so physical and so real. I had a desperate desire to escape my own body and mind, eventually leading to a period of depression where I truly felt I would never be myself again.

Nevertheless, with time and the help of some compassionate and remarkably clever people, I was given the skills and resources to find lightness again. Mindfulness was the key, being present, not ruminating on the past or worrying about the future. It was then that I was directed back to yoga. It became medication. A reason to get out of bed. A daily ritual. Sitting on my mat, flowing with my breath, returning to savasana. Learning to become comfortable in my own skin again. Learning to accept discomfort, sit with it and allow it to pass. As a result, my sleep improved, my mind calmed, and yoga became an essential part of my life.

Now here we sit and share, one month of yoga teacher training ahead. It is strange to be so vocal about such personal experiences with people I have only known for an hour. But within a few weeks we will all be bound by an invisible connection, one tied with Atlantic swims, garden-grown foods, intimate conversations and hours of journaling.

On returning home from Ireland, I delighted in starting to teach my own classes. Thriving in a newfound confidence and my relearning of what mindfulness truly is. Though little did I know, this joy was to be cut short, for something was brewing, something nobody would have predicted.

What felt like overnight, a global pandemic shut down the world. Enforced isolations, conspiracies and a wave of fear and unknown blanketed the globe. Routines changed, group gatherings halted, and eventually my own personal yoga practise began to cease.

Occasionally, I’d do a long sweaty class on YouTube. But I would skip savasana. Unable to keep my mind and body still, conscious of 'more important tasks'.

Any sense of routine and regularity had dissolved. Unnecessary late nights combined with uncomfortably lazy mornings, the kind that leave you drowsy for the rest of the day. Gradually the haze of anxiety started to seep back in, until the panic returned worse than ever I had known. This time, manifesting as an unfamiliar dread of going to sleep. The unknown of surrendering to the unconscious became overwhelming. I knew I was holding on, trying to be in control, when really all I needed to do is stop fighting the feeling, accept, release and let go.

Now I am here. A cup of tea steaming beside me, a warm marmalade cat curled against my thigh, and a candle burning down to a waxy mess on the table. Twenty twenty-two. I like that number.

My resolution for this year is to return.

Return to calm.

Return to balance.

Shake off the all-or-nothing attitude that I’ve drowned in over the last two years and return to my yoga practise. Return to acceptance. Allow those days where I don’t manage, to not be perceived as failure. Return to the nurture of slowing down. Return to my body’s rightful state of calm. But mostly, I will endeavour to return to ending my practise as I was taught all those years ago, with savasana.