I planted my hands, lined my knees up on the backs of my arms, came up onto my toes, and rocked my weight forward. And it happened.
The float. An autopilot feeling of weightlessness and ease.
I was in bakasana for the first time in my years of practice, and it was seemingly effortless as my feet had lifted from the floor with precision and intention.
Once balancing, I barely held the pose because I couldn’t contain the emotions inside, which were bubbling over with unexpected euphoria and borderline disbelief.
Six inches was all it took. My teacher – who has observed my practice blossom and advance for years and knew my inability to access this posture – after watching several confused attempts one class, instructed me simply to move my hands forward six inches and try bakasana again.
It created a level of body awareness I had not yet felt in an arm balance, and despite my teacher likely not realizing the major impact of this minor cue, it allowed me to float – to move into a pose as if it was a well-seasoned part of my practice.
Unsurprisingly in hindsight, this float came during a time I began to earnestly pursue a more intangible aspect of Yoga – pure, unyielding effort and dedication to my practice while letting go of the results.
In this instance, I had let go of what bakasana should look like for me and decided I would continue to relentlessly pursue its fundamental elements in order to build physical strength and refine my mental focus.
If I never got into bakasana – even though less experienced yogis to my left and right were muscling up into it – then well… I never got into it. It was as simple as that. The ego had to subside within these frustrated attempts at a “core” pose of modern-day Yoga in order for me to progress.
The results aren’t Yoga; my journey, my growth, my pursuit of a smooth, steady mind through asana are Yoga.
And once I realized this – I floated.
marylaneyoga 