Welcome to your Temple
I remember the first time I tried Yin Yoga, over fifteen years ago, when I lived in the UK. Across the road was a yoga studio, and curiosity led me over. I had no idea what Yin Yoga was, and was very surprised when the teacher asked us to hold the pose.
There was one pose in particular that involved applying weight and pressure to our toes for about a minute. Never had I felt such discomfort. It had me reeling as I held it, my mind starting up its noise and chatter. Resistance disguised itself as questions. Why am I doing this? Does this teacher enjoy inflicting pain? One minute felt like an eternity. I'd like to tell you I then moved past the resistance, and the rest is history — but that's not my story.
At the end of the class, I got out of there as fast as I could. What had just happened? I decided, then and there, never to do that stupid practice again.
But then I changed my mind.
A few years later, living in New Zealand, I was doing a very different practice — CrossFit. I was in full active mode: squatting more than my body weight, climbing ropes to the ceiling. I loved it, but my body needed some care, and my coach suggested Yin Yoga as a counterbalance. I wasn't sure about returning to 'the stupid practice,' but I held a lot of respect for my coach, so I tried it again.
This time it was different. I'd been pushing myself hard — sometimes training twice a day to get a personal best on the scoreboard. Now, as I held the pose, I felt the shift into stillness. The contrast was all-consuming. I was exploring my edge, but with gentleness, and with kindness.
That gentleness followed me to Bali. It was the move here that formed my bond with Yin. Every Sunday, I would go to 'Church,' as I called it. Each time I showed up, I learned to find my edge and sink deeper into the stillness.
A few years ago, I qualified as a Yin Yoga teacher. The principles I learned are embedded in me now: find the edge, hold the position, be in the stillness, be gentle. They aren't exclusive to Yin — they've woven into the rest of my life. It is this weaving that is my temple. Through the day, I take moments to stop entirely and be in it. Sometimes they last an hour or more; sometimes just a minute or two.
The beauty of being in your temple is that it doesn't matter how long you stay. Only that you are still — even for a few moments.
