Yoga and the Fury (What They Taught Me About Writing)
When my twins were three years old, my friend, Beate, invited me to join her for a weekend yoga boot camp. Although I would have preferred a couple of days in the city, sleeping alone in a huge hotel bed until late and wandering around the shops, I figured the ashram was better than nothing. It would be a break from the kids and the relentless grind of housework.
Yoga made me feel good. It had helped strengthen my postpartum body and it balanced my mind, so I decided to ignore the boot camp part. I figured this would probably involve some more rigorous sessions of stretch and flow, and hopefully a whole lot of lying on my back in shavasana under an eye pillow. I mean, how militant could a pack of yogis be?
We drove out to Mangrove Mountain on Friday afternoon. The ashram was nestled in a green clearing surrounded by tall native forest and along the bottom boundary ran a tidal creek. The grounds were peaceful, the people calm. Yogi Tim wasn’t screaming at us to do pushups, or a hundred rounds of sun salutation. Nevertheless, aspects of the setup were not ideal: dorm-style bunk beds; 6am wake-ups for yoga and meditation before breakfast; no talking until lunchtime; no caffeine or alcohol. This was so far removed from my vision of lazy sleep-ins, followed by gossip with Beate over brunch, that during the first meditation I found myself quietly weeping.
The yoga, too, was not what I was expecting. What I’d hoped would be long sessions of rejuvenating asanas turned out to be an hour of hatha, followed by other types of yoga, such as karma yoga, selfless action performed for the benefit of others — in other words, chores. My chore yoga involved shovelling an enormous pile of compost to the vegetable garden, a job I wouldn’t have minded, except the compost was littered with long clumps of hair from a recent yogi home-salon session, and digging around in it made me feel sick. Hair isn’t compost, Yogi Tim; it’s human remains and shouldn’t be disturbed. My mood began to darken. I couldn’t fathom why I needed to practice this — my whole life was karma yoga. I was already slave to two young children who required every small thing done for them; every day I submitted my ego for the benefit of others. Wasn’t this weekend supposed to be a chance to nourish myself for once, have a bit of a rest?
On the second day, Yogi Tim gave us a talk on how we needed to practice pushing ourselves out of our comfort zones in order to grow spiritually. Listening to this, I became enraged. After carrying, birthing, breastfeeding and raising twins boys, I was grappling with the existential crisis of motherhood. My body had been stretched beyond recognition, I’d suffered recurrent bouts of mastitis, my whole identity had been erased and I was teetering on the edge of post-natal depression. I’d had to shelve the novel I’d been working on because my husband was away on jobs for long stretches and I was full-time with the kids. Although I was still making notes for the book here and there, progress was glacial. I hated myself for not being able to finish it. It felt like I’d already submitted to the point of giving up everything, and I wasn’t even asking for very much. Right now all I wanted was for someone to bring me a coffee and leave me alone to sit in the sun with my eyes closed.
I started to wonder if Yogi Tim was a misogynist.
In the afternoon, Yogi Tim informed us that for our final morning we would be rising at 4am for a swim in the creek, followed by pre-dawn meditation. ‘Do we have to?’ someone quipped (it was me). Yogi Tim smiled. ‘Of course, nobody is going to force you to do it. It’s up to you.’ I was relieved. Then he went on, ‘But I’d ask you to consider why you’ve come here this weekend. Why did you accept this challenge? Perhaps there are unexpected benefits to be gained from taking part in these experiences.’
I really wanted the benefits, but this sounded like bullshit. Inside, my self-improvement streak was thrashing around like a black snake run over by a Kombi.
I was so pissed off at this point, I decided I was going to skip the stupid creek swim and sleep in. Sleep was what I really needed. But when Beate’s alarm rang at four, I got up too. As we gathered on the lawn in the dark, I noticed a few people were missing. Immediately, I was annoyed with myself, wishing I’d had the guts to rebel. Yogi Tim led us by torch-light down the dirt track to the creek. The water was tidal, and at 4am the tide was low. Our ‘swim’ was a wade through cold mud to squat in the brackish shallows among the mangroves, while small panicked creatures slithered under out feet. There was nothing transcendent or refreshing about it.
This was probably my lowest moment. I began to have serious doubts about Beate’s friendship. Why would she bring me here and submit me to such pointless torture?
The morning felt endless. We rinsed off and meditated, did yoga and meditated some more. Finally, after breakfast, Yogi Tim asked us what we thought the ‘yoga bootcamp’ weekend had been about — all the early rises, and hard work, and abstinence? I was at a loss, and could barely keep my eyes open.
‘Endurance,’ he explained. ‘It was about pushing you that little bit further, beyond your normal limits, in order to reach a deeper self-awareness.’
And that’s when I got it.
I was unhappy with my life, but I felt too exhausted to put in the extra work required to make any changes. That’s why I was stuck, why I felt so helpless. Then Yogi Tim said something that resonated like a gong.
‘Wherever you direct your energy in life, this is where you will have success. If you put energy into your work, you will be rewarded there. If it’s family or relationships you concentrate on, then this is the part of your life that will flourish.’
It was true. I knew that I was a good mum. I had built a fine home for us all. And though I railed against how slowly my book was progressing, in fact I hadn’t been putting any energy into writing it. How could I expect my book to progress if I never worked on it?
I saw I had a choice to make: either accept that this was my situation, and cut myself some slack, or put in a bit more effort.
By the time Beate dropped me home that evening, I had a plan. It was simple: for two nights a week, instead of collapsing in front of Everyone Loves Raymond with a glass of wine, I would go into the office and work on my book. Just for an hour or so, no crazy word counts; build it fragment by fragment. By tapping away on a regular basis, I could keep my head in the story; then, when I did have a day to write, I would already be immersed and could make better headway.
This is how I finished my second draft of Watercolours. It took years, but I wrote it to save myself, to remember who I was. I felt excited again. The story became a source of joy in my life, a rich and pleasurable retreat. Writing brought me the calm and clarity I’d been missing.
In the end, the endurance was worth it. So thank you, Beate. And thanks, Yogi Tim.
A.F.
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