At First I was Afraid
When I first started teaching yoga, I was afraid I didn’t know enough. I was afraid I didn’t have anything worthwhile to offer. Now, I’ll ceed that the first part was a rational fear. Three and a half years into teaching, I still believe your 200-hour certification provides you with the framework needed to understand exactly what you don’t know. Yoga is the very definition of a practice about depth; and as such, teaching it provides a whole lot of opportunity to scratch the surface. A large part of my initial fear and apprehension in teaching was concern about whether I was capable of sharing the nuance and depth of a practice I knew I may never fully master in the Western sense of the word.
How do you command a room when you can’t command your own body to do a more advanced posture safely? This question alone led to much debate and discussion amongst my peers. Many of my colleagues argued a teacher shouldn’t be teaching a pose that he or she isn’t able to actually do. Matthew Sanford, an amazingly gifted teacher, and wheel-chair-bound paraplegic, provides the very real life counter argument. The ability to physically do a pose and teach a pose are very different skill sets. And while I do believe there is a larger conversation to be had about learning to accept the context of the physical body where it is, this fear of not knowing enough persists.
Recently, I got certified to teach AcroYoga. A practice I thoroughly enjoy and love for it’s depth of possibilities, I am comfortable with the idea that I may never fully master it. Yet, I still find myself uncomfortable with the idea of teaching something without the feeling of full mastery. I shared this fear with a friend and fellow monkey from the Boston local community and she said something quite helpful in reply. “I don’t expect you to know everything or be able to do everything. I’m looking for a safe space and a teacher who can help me to keep refining, keep learning.”
You mean I don’t have to know everything? Other people aren’t expecting that of me? Why, then, is it so common to expect it of ourselves?
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It is so easy to try to take on too much. This idea of mastery certainly feels like aiming high with the hope of landing in the stars. Perhaps the moon is a constant reminder that perfection is the enemy of the good. Even after landing on the moon, the space program continued to push out, look out, explore. In my teaching practice, it’s been very much the same. Learn. Share. Play (call it Research). Refine. Share. Learn more… It’s a process.
What I’ve realized is that fear is a part of my process too. It keeps me checking in, pushes me to learn, and in a somewhat backwards way forces me to build confidence and comfort around the things I really do know. That anxious, am-I-good-enough fear is one voice. The training and study is another. Practice creates yet another voice of experience. Students and friends have voices too.
Completely removing fear is a tall order — another form of mastery in its own right. Another approach? Acknowledge the fear as one voice and keep going. This approach requires a significant commitment to self patience. But it’s the only one I’ve found that works.