In the ancient Vedantic texts of Hindu philosophy there is reference to the physical body and the subtle body. The physical body is comprised of cells, tissues, muscles, organs—all things visible to the naked or microscopic eye. And yet, this subtle body is difficult to pin down. No x-ray, scan or biopsy can capture its existence. However, for centuries people have been engaging in physical disciplines in attempt to properly channel the energy of the subtle body along seven chakras, or energy vortices, that run the length of the spine, from the bottom of the sacrum to the crown of the head. The chakras are imagined as wheels that whirl powerful life energy upward through the invisible channels collectively known as the subtle body. This imagined spiritual body figures in the practice of Yoga, Tai-Chi, and many Eastern styles of meditation.
I let these ideas about the subtle body, and its fanning petals of light, occupy my imagination when I am in the most difficult of yoga poses. In fact, without the intention of breathing deeply or being super mindful of everything I feel, I am positive I would not last one class. I am, for starters, the most inflexible person on this planet. Despite an entire childhood of dance, ice-skating, and physical training, my legs still burn and quiver as I attempt to touch my fingers to the floor. I am elastically challenged. So the idea of subjecting myself to Yoga’s contortionist demands presents as pure lunacy. And yet, I am completely transfixed by the mysterious encounters I have each time I unfurl my lavender mat.
I surprise myself, for one, by routinely doing the impossible. Last night we were instructed to assume a backbend, or the Wheel, against the wall. (A word on the titles of poses: I secretly suspect that the difficulty of the pose directly corresponds to its exoticism. If you have a domestic sounding position, like Downward facing Dog or Happy Baby, you’re safe. It’s when the instructor offers up the Bird of Paradise, Elephant, or Scorpion, that you should probably take a water break. For the weak of ligament such ad hoc theories are essential for survival). Anyway, the Wheel and I have just recently become acquainted. If I muster all my strength I can hold a position resembling an arch for half the time given, before I collapse in total exhaustion.
“I’m going to stretch each of you a bit further in your Wheel today,” Jackie, our teacher, explained as she walked the periphery of the room. Anyone for a water break?
When Jackie arrived at my half-sunken wheel, she began to pull the small of my back to the ceiling and told me to inch my feet closer to my hands, thus exaggerating the arch. And then she continued to pull, so far, that I literally thought my spine would snap in two and propel my heart straight out of my chest. “A little more,” she urged. This is impossible, and torturous, and insane, I thought. But having grown to trust Jackie’s experiential wisdom of the body, I relented my struggle, and allowed her to lift my back a vertebrae further, until,
Whoosh.
Something opened up between the spaces of my spine, and a rush of pure bliss poured forth. Breathe expanded freely, as if for the first time, tickling every cell and fiber it passed. My spine felt like a stiff glow stick, that when snapped, became magically illuminated.
And so I walked home that night, weaving in and out between the cars caught in rush hour, heaving their dirty exhaust, yoga mat strung from my shoulder like the only thing I would ever need to feel my back as a glowstick and my lungs- a sail for heaven’s breathe.
So this is the subtle body, I thought. Where have you been all my life?
Comments
Post a Comment