Taking Place in the Midst of Life

Because the moment you actually sit down, something happens.

You stop moving away from yourself.

And when you stop moving away, you begin to notice what is actually here.

What have I been carrying?

What have I been avoiding?

What am I feeling beneath the doing?

What has been asking for my attention?

What have I been moving through without actually meeting?

And perhaps most importantly:

How do I meet myself when there is nothing to distract me from myself?

For me, yoga has never really been about what happens on the mat. Of course, the physical practice is beautiful and powerful, and it can be a doorway into so much. But yoga, for me, is ultimately about life. It is a way of living.

It is about bringing the wisdom of the yoga philosophy into the way I move through an ordinary Tuesday morning, the way I speak to someone I love, the way I respond when I am triggered, the way I eat, the way I rest, the way I work, the way I relate to uncertainty, discomfort, loss, joy and everything in between.

It becomes less something I do and more something I live. And yet, there is something I keep returning to.

Something very simple. Something that can almost feel too simple to be important.

Sitting.

Actually sitting down. Taking a place. Giving myself the space to listen to what is moving through me before I immediately turn it into something I need to understand, solve, change or get rid of. I sometimes imagine it as taking my seat in the seat of awareness.

Not becoming the feeling.

Not becoming the thought.

Not becoming the story.

But sitting beside it. Being willing to meet what is present.

And asking:

Can I stay here for a moment?

Can I feel this without immediately needing it to be different?

Can I listen before I act?

Can I be with myself without needing to perform wellness, spirituality, strength or positivity?

That, to me, is a very different kind of practice. And perhaps a much more courageous one.

Because what happens when you finally stop?

Something interesting happened when we began Self-Aware September. I myself got sick. I caught a cold, but quite a heavy one, and suddenly I found myself feeling completely congested, tired, uncomfortable and not particularly interested in getting up at six o’clock to sit there myself.  And there was a part of me that thought:

Oh no. I would much rather stay in bed.

And Three weeks in the Self Aware September month a family member very close to me got the message to be very sick and was directly taken into the hospital, not knowing how long he has to live.  And some other bigger challenges came along this month. 

And honestly, that made me smile a little too along with the rawness of it. 

Because isn’t this life?

You decide to create more space. You decide to become more aware. You decide to slow down and listen. And then life itself starts talking. Sometimes very loudly. And perhaps that is exactly what happens when we finally create enough space for something to move.

When we keep going, keep working, keep organising, keep caring, keep producing, keep responding, keep holding everything together, there can be very little room to actually notice what is happening inside.

We move on before we have felt. We solve before we have listened. We distract before we have experienced. We continue before something has had the chance to complete itself.

And then, sometimes, we stop. We go on holiday and suddenly we get sick. We finally take a weekend off and suddenly we feel exhausted. We lie down after months of pushing and suddenly we realise how tired we actually are. We sit quietly for fifteen minutes and suddenly there are tears. Or irritation. Or sadness. Or a thought we had forgotten. Or a sensation in the body that has been there all along. It can feel as if something has suddenly gone wrong. But perhaps nothing has gone wrong.

Perhaps something has finally been given enough space to be felt. And that is not always comfortable.

Sometimes awareness doesn’t immediately feel peaceful.

Sometimes awareness first reveals the things we have been successfully avoiding.

The resistance is part of the practice. This is something I find incredibly humbling. We often imagine that creating space for ourselves will immediately make us feel better. That we will sit down, breathe, meditate, do some yoga and emerge calm, clear and centred. And sometimes we do. But sometimes we sit down and discover that we are angry. Or restless. Or bored. Or sad. Or completely exhausted. Sometimes the mind is racing. Sometimes the body doesn’t want to be still. Sometimes fifteen minutes feels like an hour. And sometimes the first thing we encounter is resistance.

I don’t want to do this.

I don’t have time.

This isn’t helping.

I should be doing something useful.

I need to get on with my day.

But what if the resistance itself is something we can sit beside?

What if I don’t have to overcome the resistance before I can begin?

What if I can meet the part of me that doesn’t want to sit?

Can I become curious about her?

Can I listen to what she is protecting?

What does my resistance know that I haven’t yet allowed myself to hear?

And perhaps this is where practice becomes life.

Because we don’t only need to take our place when everything is beautiful. We can take our place when life is uncomfortable too. When someone leaves. When something falls apart. When our plans don’t work out. When our body says no. When we are disappointed. When we are afraid. When we don’t know what comes next. When we are grieving something that nobody else can see. When the future feels uncertain. When we are confronted with a version of ourselves we don’t particularly like.

These are the moments when our instinct can be to get up. To run. To fight. To fix. To control. To keep going. To hold ourselves together. And perhaps sometimes the most nourishing thing we can do is something entirely different.

Perhaps we can sit.

Not because sitting will make the situation disappear. But because sitting allows us to meet the situation from a different place.

What if you didn’t have to hold yourself up?

There is a particular kind of strength that we are often taught to admire. Standing tall. Keep going. Being strong. Being resilient. Holding everything together. And there is absolutely a place for that.

But I wonder if we have sometimes confused strength with never allowing ourselves to sit down. Never needing support. Never stopping. Never admitting that something is difficult. Never allowing ourselves to be affected.

What if strength could also look like sitting down in the middle of it all?

What if strength could look like saying:

This is hard.

I don’t know.

I am tired.

I am hurting.

I need some space.

I don’t have to know what to do yet.

There is something deeply grounding about that. Because when we stop fighting reality, even for a moment, we can begin to feel what is actually underneath the fight. And from there, perhaps something can soften. Something can move. Something can be digested. Something can be released. Something can become clear.

Coming home.

Feeling the ground beneath us again. And perhaps that is what taking your place really means. Coming home to the place within yourself where you don’t have to perform. Where you don’t have to explain. Where you don’t have to be productive. Where you don’t have to be anything other than what you are.

So, can you sit with yourself?

Not tomorrow. Not when the house is quiet. Not when the children are older. Not when the work is finished. Not when you feel better. Not when you have more energy. Not when you finally have your life together.

But now.

Can you take fifteen minutes?

Can you sit somewhere and let the world continue without you for a moment?

Can you feel the body?

Can you notice the breath?

Can you listen to the thoughts without having to follow them?

Can you notice what emotions are present without immediately turning them into a problem?

Can you ask yourself:

What is here?

What wants to be felt?

What have I been moving past?

Where am I holding on?

What am I resisting?

What would happen if I didn’t need to change anything for these fifteen minutes?

And perhaps the deepest question:

Can I stay with myself when what I meet isn’t what I hoped to find?

Because that is where the relationship begins to deepen. Not when we meet the polished version of ourselves. But when we meet the tired one. The impatient one. The grieving one. The uncertain one. The joyful one. The angry one. The frightened one. The one who doesn’t know. The one who needs rest. The one who simply wants to be held. All of them belong. All of them are part of the whole. And perhaps taking our place in the midst of life means exactly this:

That we stop waiting for life to become different before we allow ourselves to fully inhabit it.

We sit down in the middle of the mess. In the middle of the beauty. In the middle of uncertainty. In the middle of the ordinary. In the middle of our own becoming. And we listen.

Not because we are trying to get somewhere. But because, for a moment, we are willing to be here.

Here.

In this body. In this breath. In this life. With whatever is present.

And perhaps that is yoga.

Not escaping life. Not rising above it.

But taking your place right in the midst of it.

Taking your seat. And finally meeting yourself there.