CHANGING THE SHAPE OF MY
GRIEF THROUGH YOGA
Grief is a powerful emotion and
experience that has the capability, if we allow it, to take over the body, the
mind, and the senses. Kim Weeks, owner and founder of Boundless Yoga and a
teacher, describes grief as “processing the emotion of loss, and a lack of
fullness in the heart.” Weeks sees real grief, most commonly
associated with the heart or fourth chakra, as residing in the throat—the fifth
chakra—“because it is the process of experiencing the truth of ‘right now.’”
The fifth chakra is the translator of truth, of energy, of sound and
vibrations. It is the gateway between
the energy of the body and the mind. We
have all felt that lump in our throat as we’ve tried to fight back tears—not
wanting to acknowledge our grief, our sadness. Grief is also the process of
letting go of an attachment that no longer exists—the loss of a loved one. This
paper is my attempt to translate how yoga helped my grieving process when I
lost my mother on September 13, 2008 after her courageous battle with cancer.
Book I, Sutra 2: “The
restraint of the modifications of the mind-stuff is yoga.”
The only time I could restrain my mind
was during yoga practice. Being in class
was how I imagined what a major league baseball pitcher felt like when he
entered “the zone:” all extraneous sounds and sights ceased. It was just him
and the ball and the catcher’s mitt. In class, the
only voice I allowed myself to hear was my teacher’s. The only sight I focused on was her body in
the pose. It was my mat, my teacher, and me.
But at the end of the class when
students would collapse with relief onto their mats at the word “Shavasana,” I panicked. “Here it comes,” I’d think. The tension that I’d just spent 90 minutes
trying to release from my body would seep back into my muscles, my heart rate
increased, and my mind began racing. This was what I had come to class to
avoid—being confronted with my overworked mind.
I didn’t know surrender; surrender was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Lying
on my mat in the cool darkness of the studio, listening to the soothing sound
of my teacher’s voice guiding me to “Let go, go in,” it was all I could do to
keep myself from bursting into tears. In
Shavasana, my mind was constantly bombarded with the
news of the day regarding my mother’s cancer and her treatment, how it was
failing, and her impending death.
As the cancer ravaged my mother’s
body and our family began to unravel, all I wanted was for someone to tell me
what to do. “What do I do?” I asked my
mother’s devastated partner. “Just tell me what to do,” I pleaded to my Aunt
Rose who was barely hanging on herself as she cared for her dying sister and
tried to hold our family together with what little strength she had left. “Please, please give me a sign as to what I
am supposed to do,” I whispered every night to a God I was slowly losing my
faith in, before I eventually cried myself to sleep.
At Boundless, they told me what to
do. “Draw up on the quadriceps. Take your sit bones up towards the ceiling.
Extend your heels back to the baseboard. Breathe.” I could follow these
instructions without thinking about my mother’s cancer. I could focus on my
body¾moving my muscle here, shifting my bone
there, breathing¾without falling apart. Here was 90 minutes that I could turn off my
phone and do what they told me to do.
As Elizabeth Kadetsky
stated in her article “Living in the Moment” (The New York Times, July 8, 2009), “By concentrated mediation on
the moment and each moment that follows, the yogi gains sacred knowledge.” I could just concentrate on the instruction
in the asana. “Cut your left sit bone under you and draw the shoulders away
from the ears, almost stacking them on top of one another.” I couldn’t control my mother’s cancer, but I
could do Trikonasana. I could think about my body and
didn’t have to worry; even if it was only for an hour and a half out of my day,
it was worry-free.
Antonella Accinelli, an
instructor at Woodley Park Yoga, concurs. “The focus on the breath and gazing
point means that your complete attention is there in the moment. You don’t have
a chance to think about what is going on in the outside world, or let your mind
wander, if you are really focusing on your breath, bandha,
and dristi.” I knew the messages with the dire news
about what the doctor had said would be waiting for me when I got out of class.
Book II, Sutra 16: “Pain
that has not yet come is avoidable.”
When my mother was diagnosed with cancer
in March 2007, I used to ask myself if it would be better to know that the
person you loved most in this world was going to die, or have her die suddenly,
without warning. If you knew she was going to die, you could savor every moment
with her, tell her everything you always wanted her to
know¾the stuff you thought you had a lifetime
to say. But you would always be waiting for death, anticipating its arrival,
holding your breath until the moment it happened. If death came suddenly, there
would be no impending dread. But what if
the last words she heard from you weren’t “I love you”?
Patanjali tells us that the cause of our suffering
comes from identifying ourselves with Prakriti—the
seen, Nature; with our possessions. My entire life I had heard “You are so your
mother’s daughter.” People told me I had
her attitude, her quick wit, her temper. If I wasn’t MaryEllen Burke’s daughter, then who was I? If I didn’t
belong to her, then what was my place in this world? My identity was wrapped up in my mother.
Anodea Judith, in her book Eastern Body, Western Mind, explains that the third chakra houses
our ego identity, our self-definition. She also notes that our sense of
personal power is related to the third chakra. “Power is not a thing, but a
way. It is a process of becoming real…The more we dare to take risks, to
question, to be true to ourselves, the easier it becomes…Power is the ability
to determine our own destiny”
(p.
183).
As the idea of losing my mother became
more and more of a reality, I was having an identity—a third chakra—crisis.
Throughout her illness and death, I felt totally powerless. Cancer had all the
power. Cancer was determining our destiny, and nothing she or I or the doctors
did could reclaim it. I felt helpless and weak…except when I was practicing
yoga. When I practiced, a quiet strength surged through me. I felt connected to
my body, to my breath. I felt focused, I felt steady and even.
Book
1, Sutra 12: “These mental modifications are restrained by practice and
non-attachment.”
Non-attachment wasn’t even in my
vocabulary. In Book 2, Sutra 3 of The
Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, he names “clinging to
bodily life” as one of the klesas or obstacles. I clung desperately to my mother, to my
memories of her. I gave her a mini
recorder so that she could make tapes for me, telling me stories about my
childhood, leaving me sage advice for all of the potential monumental events in
my life that she wouldn’t be there to witness—my wedding, the birth or adoption
of my children, my first book being published. I planned to interview her about
her childhood, my grandparents, being married, having a child, getting
divorced, eventually coming out. That never happened. I have one tape, with a couple of minutes on
it of my mother and I singing two of our favorite
songs: “A Bushel and a Peck” and “I See the Moon.” After she died, I played it
once a day, right before bed, careful not to wear-out the tape.
Practice…practice I could do. I needed it.
My body missed it if I went several days without practicing for one
reason or another. When my mother was
initially diagnosed, she made me promise that I would go see a therapist.
Begrudgingly, I went, but yoga was my true therapy. My mind felt constantly
drained from worry and anxiety, from trying to make it through each day without
breaking down. My eyes were raw and red from tears. I relished the physical
exhaustion that followed each yoga class; the soreness in my muscles from
lengthening and stretching was a joy.
Book II, Sutra 46: “Asana is a steady,
comfortable posture.”
“I didn’t have a plan in doing yoga each
morning except that I noticed it made me feel calm and clear,” Mary Taylor
writes in her article “Good Grief: Use Yoga and Meditation to Make Sense of
Loss” about her experiences with her mother dying of cancer (Natural Solutions Magazine, October 1,
2007). I had been practicing at
Boundless for seven months and in general for just over a year when I went to
Even in hospice, where my mother spent
two weeks in the last month of her life, I practiced—one pose, at least. Headstand. Prior to
moving down to
“Look mom,” I’d say,
my heels against her closed bathroom door for support.
“That’s wonderful, honey. You’re so strong,” she’d say, her frail body
propped up in bed.
My Aunt would laugh. Each time they
entered the room to poke or prod my mother, the nurses
didn’t even blink at the site of a girl attempting to balance on her head.
Carolyn Barndt,
in her article “Full catastrophe yoga: postures to help relieve sadness, grief,
and depression,” (Examiner.com, April 14, 2009) calls Sirsasana
“‘the king of the asanas’ because it benefits
virtually every system in the body, including and perhaps especially the brain.
Physiologically, inverting this way causes oxygenated, glucose-rich blood to
flood our grey matter, nourishing the areas that manufacture anti-depressant
neurotransmitters like dopamine and serotonin…Psychologically, the posture
literally turns the world upside down, reminding us to look at things differently…When
your world turns upside down, sometimes it helps to turn upside down with it.”
Through my Teacher Training at Boundless,
I now know about the doshas and their
characteristics, and would label that time in
Mary Taylor references David Kessler’s On Grief and Grieving in which he
applies the five stages of loss (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and
acceptance) to grieving and affirms that working through these stages is vital
to the healing process.
Although I wasn’t fully conscious of it
at the time, yoga helped established a sense of normalcy to my time in
Book I, Sutra 14: “Practice becomes
firmly grounded when well attended to for a long time, without break, and in
all earnestness.”
After my mother died on September 13,
2008, I dove even further into my practice, coming to class nearly every day.
At first, it was the only part of my day when I wasn’t in tears. I always felt better, a sense of release. I
only had to focus on one thing—my body and my breath in the present moment.
But my teachers cautioned me how to
practice. As a balanced pitta, I naturally gravitated
toward forward folds. Uttanasana, Paschimotanasana,
Parsvottanasana, Prasarita Padottanasana—I could stay in them all day.
“Be careful of forward folds if you’re
feeling depressed,” Kristen Krash warned one day
during her 6:15pm Wednesday open hatha class.
“They will make you draw in even further. You might get lost.”
Granted it was winter, and dark descended
far too early. We spent the class doing backbends—fourth chakra or heart
openers—which made sense at the time. I had built up a wall around myself, my
heart in particular, in my sadness. Of
course I needed to open the chest, let in the light. I left class feeling
openness and expansion in my chest. But
as I drove home, I began sobbing uncontrollably. “Physical sensations
associated with grief may be stored like a memory in the body,”
The heart is where we most experience
loss, where we commonly store grief. Melissa Garvey, in her article “Energize
Tired Backbends,” (Yoga Journal, July
2009) cites Katrina Repka—co-author of Chakra Yoga and a yoga teacher—who says
that most of the energetic action of backbends takes place in the fourth
chakra. Garvey warns, “Be prepared. When students begin exploring chakras
during backbends, they may experience sensations of vulnerability, grief,
anger, or sadness. But Repka says it’s a form of
discomfort that ultimately leads to healthy transformation.”
“The spiritual and illusive reasons
for doing asana have been removed to fit into a very materially based
society. The idea that the body is just
what we can see and touch dominates everything we do. We have eliminated from our thoughts that the
body includes the mind/psyche, emotions, and other intangible qualities,” says Antonella Accinelli of Woodley
Park Yoga.
Leading up to and initially after my
mother’s death, I didn’t want to focus on what was inside. I only wanted to focus on what I could see
and touch—the physical; to be physically tired instead of emotionally or
mentally tired.
“If you take someone that is grieving
from a loss, you need to examine what effects grief has on the entire person,” Accinelli continues. “Grief is a set of complex emotions
and how you approach it needs to be examined carefully. You can view your
practice like a dose of medication—you want to make sure that you are taking
the appropriate dosage at the appropriate time in the right condition for you.”
Mary Taylor offers a sequence of poses
that correspond to the five stages of grieving: a seated twist to relieve
feelings of depression; cooling breath to release anger; supported bridge to
become calm and clear during the bargaining stage; supported backbend over a
bolster to allow emotions to gently surface during the denial stage; and
child’s pose, inviting acceptance for the way things are.
“If a student came to me and said ‘I just
lost someone very dear to me and I’m having trouble sleeping, focusing, and
eating,’ I would recommend that [she] do poses that are going to ground them,” Accinelli advises.
“Basically you want to do something that stimulates the parasympathetic
nervous system (PNS). The PNS slows the
heart rate down, contracts the pupils, stimulates digestion, and stimulates
lung constriction. In other words, it
brings your body to a state of rest. The PNS is stimulated through the craniosacral regions of the body—meaning hip openers,
forward folds, and twists that hit low on the spine will act on the sacral
area…while movements of the head and neck with different gazing points will
activate the PNS nerves in the cranial region.”
Kim Weeks believes that forward folds are
the ability to surrender control. I knew
that forward folds felt good physically and mentally—they were safe, quieting,
comforting asanas. What I didn’t realize was that
though consciously I tried desperately to regain some kind of control over my
life and my mother’s illness, subconsciously I was seeking surrender in my yoga
practice. I was learning the process of letting go, of release. I was learning how to surrender and accept.
Book II, Sutra 28: “By the practice of
the limbs of Yoga, the impurities dwindle away and there dawns the light of
wisdom, leading to discriminative discernment.”
It is almost one year since my mother’s
death, and I am still reflecting on how I got through the initial sense of
overwhelming loss, how I continue to deal with my sadness and grief. Yoga was, and is, my remedy. “I knew you would get through it, because you
are your mother’s daughter,” my Aunt Rose told me. “But I don’t think you would have handled it
with the grace and courage that you have shown if it were not for your yoga
practice.”
My mother was the strongest person I
knew. As I practiced, this strength started manifesting in me. Where was it coming from? Had it always been
there? Yoga helped me to discover my inner strength.
Over time, I have learned both mental and
physical flexibility. When I got stuck in a pose, I learned to wait, and
breathe. Movement would come in time. I began to apply this to my interactions
with people and my relationships. Where
before I would be so quick to react, I learned to wait, and breathe before I
acted or didn’t act as the case may be. I used to get so frustrated in
headstand and handstand and my inability to balance without the wall in Sirsasana, or to even go up with handstand. I have since learned to let go, to not attach
myself to being in the pose. Balance
will come. “You achieve much once you
stop telling yourself you can’t do things,” advises Elizabeth Kadetsky, author of First
There Is a Mountain.
In backbends, I learned to allow my
emotions to surface and explore them.
This brought a sense of integration and stability to Urdhva
Dhanurasana. They now bring a feeling of joy to my
practice. Whereas before I sometimes panicked at the idea of an entire class
devoted to backbends, I now smile.
Yoga has helped me to learn that there is
no statute of limitations on the grieving process, that it takes time and not
to rush it but stay with the process. Through practice, I am learning not to
suppress my feelings, as this will have both physical and mental ramifications.
If a wave of sadness wells up in Shavasana or after
any particular asana, I allow my tears to come and try not to ask myself “Why
is this happening?” Yoga has allowed me to get out of my head and into my body,
letting my anxiety move through me and dissipate.
The Boundless Teacher Training program
helped transform my life after the loss of my mother. I know that I will use
the tools I have learned and continue to learn for the rest of my life, in all
aspects of my life. Yoga and the Teacher Training program helped shape my
identity when I was struggling with who I would be if my mother were gone. I have become a teacher—a part of myself that was buried deep within that I didn’t know
existed. Yoga brought that to the
surface. Yoga literally transformed the shape of my grief. Rather than lying in a ball on the floor,
curled inward to protect myself, I make beautiful shapes through asana. I cannot change what happened to my mother,
but I did change myself.
Works
Cited
Barndt, Carolyn, “Full catastrophe yoga:
postures to help relieve sadness, grief, and depression,” (Examiner.com, April
14, 2009)
Judith, Anodea, Eastern Body,
Western Mind, (Celestial Arts, 1996), p.183
Kadetsky, Elizabeth, “Living in the Moment” (The New York Times, July 8, 2009)
Garvey, Melissa,
“Energize Tired Backbends,” (Yoga Journal,
July 2009)
Satchidananda, Sri Swami, The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali: Commentary on the Raja
Yoga Sutras (Integral Yoga Publications, October 15, 1990)
Taylor, Mary,
“Good Grief: Use Yoga and Meditation to Make Sense of Loss” (Natural Solutions Magazine, October 1,
2007).