When was the last time you allowed yourself to fall. I mean, fall.
When we’re young, and unbruised, we often don’t give it a second thought as we willingly fling ourselves into the air. We jump. There is no second thought. It’s second nature to us.
We tumble. Lose our balance. Scare ourselves. We unconsciously hold this space for ourselves of what is possible. If we only just could do that thing. The other side of that would be joy. (Oh, and how we want that.)
So, the fall doesn’t faze us. We imagine the potential of soaring. We imagine how close we are to that tiny little feeling of, “Yesssss.” So we try again.
Over time, as adults we lose that sensibility. We almost forget what is possible, if we could just let go and embrace falling. instead, We equate falling with failure. We’ve lost sight of the euphoria that comes with finally, finally, finally doing that thing you’ve never been able to do before.
we have replaced it with this inner resistance. This subtle feeling of ‘I can’t.’
We may be trying – often and repeatedly -- but our bodies can intuitively feel those pangs of uncertainty. It knows without even language that there is an innate lack of trust. We don't ultimately believe it will be OK if we fall, if we hurt ourselves.
I am confronted with this observable fact every time I try to get into Bakasana, crow pose, which is an arm balance posture.
I just can’t.
I lift my knees to the backside of my arms as I tip my head forward to the floor, squeezing my thighs as close to my body as I timidly place my knees on the back of my arms. I breathe deeply into my back so that I can give myself as much support as possible. My toes begin the unsure dance of touching each other.
They briefly touch, and fall away back to the floor. I lift my torso higher, breathe deeper. Then they try again, aching to stay still and touch for longer, but they don’t.
I finally relent.
Another failed attempt.
It begins to occur to me in this recurring groundhog day moment on my yoga mat that I’m afraid to fall. I won’t allow myself to fall. I am trying so desperately to be steady, strong, secure, all while trying to do something I’ve never been able to do. This is not possible. This is not a reasonable expectation for anyone -- let alone myself.
So, I start repeating to myself:
I trust myself.
I trust myself.
I trust myself.
I trust myself.
I begin to feel a little bit stronger, and try again.
I’m not there yet, and I’m in no rush.
What I now know is that there is no space for trust where there is fear, and I have to be willing to fall. I have to be willing to fall if I want the other side of it: joy.
