A Spa Pee
Hi hi Yogafolk —
After giving birth and awkwardly learning how to balance a baby, a diaper bag, and a yoga mat, I trudged to a postnatal class with Jane Austin.1 My tiny human was mewling and I wasn’t yet able to tell his hungry cries from his tired cries, much less my own happy tears from sad tears.
Jane offered to hold my infant so I could squeak out a few postures. But more than anything, more than a down dog or a trikonāsana, I needed to pee. “Do you mind?” I asked her. “Not at all, she said. Take your time. In fact, take a lot of time. Have a spa pee.”
If I remember correctly I keeled over on the spot. I had been peeing with a quickness and a fierceness so that I could return to my baby NOW, that I hadn’t even considered I might be able to take my time; to let the stream come naturally; to pull up and zip my pants fully before rushing out the door; to wash my hands thoroughly; to take a breath. In that moment, Jane became my personal patron saint of sacred slowing.
"For fast-acting relief, try slowing down!"
—Lily Tomlin via Black Bird Bookstore
Slowing seems to be the antidote we’re all desperate for, but actually slowing can feel Herculean. In my ethnographic study on śavāsana, Ashtangis almost unilaterally confessed to taking very cursory rest after practice, even though they suspected it to be highly important. Life is calling! We’re movers, and doers, and it is time to GO! But rest is vital; slow is where we find the juice.
And so I offer a few practical suggestions on how to have yourself the equivalent of a spa pee:
Do one thing at a time. As a totally outlandish, I’ve-definitely-never-done-this example, only pee. Don’t also brush your teeth while you pee. It’s so obvious, and stupidly simple, but really easy to forget. Be here now, wherever here may be.
Walk in silence. No music, no pods, just a slow, steady, mindful walk.
Ritualize your day. Ritual practice can be as small as a 1-minute daily meditation, or as infrequent as a biannual solstice ceremony. What matters is that a ritual punctures the monotony, breaking up the rhythm of a day, a season, or a year, and infuses each demarcation with meaning…time stops and spins around that centrifugal moment.
Write. To yourself, to your ancestors, to your children, to your community, to your dreams, to nonsense. Let it be an unspooling, allowing your thoughts, your feelings, yourself to come undone. Writing stretches time.
Read a book. Like, a paper book. Visit your local library. Join a book club. Start one. Gather ‘round the long form.
Ponder art. Or make it.
Lay down. As a focal point you might notice how your belly feels when you rest in śavāsana. Really let your whole person drop, relax, and settle. Allow gravity to press its heft on you.2
“In an age of constant movement, nothing is so urgent as sitting still.”
— Pico Iyer (via Jay Johnson)
Make a meal. Chop vegetables, soak beans, sprinkle herbs or press waffles. Share with a friend or tiny tot, and pair with tea, sunshine, maybe both.
Til next time,
Erica
P.S. San Francisco-based offerings are percolating, keep your eyes peeled here for updates. And if you’re in the Bay, let me know you’re interested.
Jane Austin (the very much alive yoga teacher and hero, not the deceased author) has shepherded thousands of birthing folks, their partners, and their babies through the murky perinatal waters over the last several decades. This post is humbly dedicated to Jane and her wisdom.
If you have a very stable headstand practice, you might notice how your belly falls and softens when you go upside down and find that perfect balance point. Stay with that sense of equilibrium and steadiness as long as you’re able.
Headings and illustrations for Yogafolk are by Leah Tumerman and Chelsey Dyer.
