The Wounded & Healing Dream, Part 2


After washing the remnants of last night’s dream away, I forced down a light breakfast and a glass of water. My body, soul and mind all felt detached from each other. There was this grey funk looming around me that eventually followed me to yoga this morning. It was a depressing thought that all the other women were going to be wearing their new leggings (as we all bought matching leggings yesterday after class), and mine were with my ex.

As I sulked through the door, instantly the other gals locked eyes on my pants. Carefully I told them how my leggings have been a victim of karmic balance. They asked what happened and if I were alright. They had been concerned since I sent a mass text out last night trying to find someone to pick me up after being stranded. Kelley, who had picked me up, just looked at me sadly. The frayed edges of my heart blowed in the wind as I told the women warriors how I was left alone just because I felt violated by someone insisting on kissing me. “You have some work you need to do on yourself too,” said the girl who picked me up last night. My ego wanted to yell, “it is all my ex who needs help!” But I didn’t, she was right.

    During the first portion of our class instruction, I sat there, unable to focus on the words coming out of my instructors mouth. “The ligaments… protect the patella … hamstrings are tight when …. ” was all that registered. I was numb.
    An hour later, we set our mats out for a morning yoga class. As I sat on my mat, one of the older women in my intensive class sat on hers next to me. Without saying a word, she leaned toward me and whispered, “He hurt you. You don’t have to say it or explain the details, but he hurt you.”
    I don’t know if it was her big soft blue eyes that struck me, or the sheer honesty of her words, but as soon as she said it, the tears started flowing. As quiet as possible, I cried hard through the hour of yoga postures. It got to the point where my mat was soaked in tears and child’s pose became my home. As I lied there folded up, our instructor (who is male), told us, “Find whatever you have been holding on to too tightly, and give it permission to leave. Find whatever it is that isn’t serving your spirit, and with every out-breath, let it out.”
    The hour felt like a year, as I sobbed through poses. It didn’t matter who saw me or heard me. This was my time to feel. I had pent up this hurt for so long to keep strong that I forgot how liberating it was to cry.
    At the end of class, in savasana (final resting pose), I lied on my back with dry eyes and a clear mind. I craved a hug, to feel like things were going to be ok. Grabbing opposite shoulders, I hugged myself tightly.
In yoga, it is said, you are ok as you are.
The rest of the day got infinitely better. Spoke to my parents, went to the raddest thrift store, said hello to strangers, made a good meal, meditated, and bought a new candle. I even got my leggings back, as my ex left them at his parents house near San Diego.

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