There was a moment of almost elegant, weightless air time after tripping when I knew there was nothing I could do to avoid slamming into the pavement. Worse than that complete loss of control, though, was the realization that there were witnesses: 150 middle schoolers 20 feet away.
I was running, because, as usual, I was running late, and when I spotted the herd of crop-topped girls and sagging-short boys reluctantly re-entering the building after recess, I sped up so as not to get stuck behind them. Why was I picking up my son early on the last day of school anyway? Oh right, my husband wanted to avoid traffic.
Down on hands and knees, asphalt suctioned to my raw pink palms, blood pooling under my patella as I pushed myself to standing, a few kids glanced my way with that obligatory gaze I’ve seen when I chaperone on poorly docented museum field trips. But not one — thankfully — moved toward me. Congrats, parents, me culture and mid manners are intact.
It’s never a good time to fall, but this was particularly poor timing. I’d recently decided to make a professional pivot, turning a lifelong passion into a job: to teach movement by blending yoga with dance and other modalities in my own style.
All of my life, I’ve been a dancer — a mover, practitioner, and performer. From a young age, I was drawn to movement for its ephemerality, for what seemed to me like the antidote to obsessive thinking, with its ability to be there and then gone. But never did I have the urge to instruct, just to follow, to turn off my mind while my body moved to another person’s sequences.
But then, suddenly, at the age of unimportant, I felt the drive to share my philosophy, my phrasing, and my choreography, to help others inhabit their bodies in ways that made them feel graceful and grounded, even invincible. Embodiment, Chat called it when we last spoke. Because, in my experience, nothing in life compares to feeling your own form, alignment, and rhythm.
Over the past two decades I’ve watched others fall: my two parents with Parkinson’s, my kids, aunt, mother-in-law, and fellow dancers at Dance for PD. But I am not the faller; I am the one who helps them up. I use gravity and my own weight to strategically counterbalance, in that contact improv way dancers practice and perfect.
“You should do it,” says my husband definitively, channeling the start-now-don’t-overthink-it way he has that I lack. “I mean, maybe you have 10 more good years,” he follows optimistically. Does he mean a decade to teach or to live?! “If you’re lucky,” he adds.
And so I do. I get certified, launch my business and brand, and test my method on friends and family.
And then, I fall.
“Injury is the best teacher,” says my girlfriend who works in physical therapy. No thanks, I’ll learn in other ways.
I do not practice what I teach. I don’t accept setbacks, forgive myself, or slow down. And when my wounds don’t heal fast enough, I take myself to urgent care in Bridgehampton to ask the existential question: “Am I doing this right!?” This being generic Neosporin and Band-Aids.
“Rachel, is it?” replies Len, the physician’s assistant who treats me. “You and I are not 18 anymore. Our balance isn’t what it used to be.”
Len has a suntanned, youthful look to him, but I’d place him — conservatively — in his mid to late 70s. I’m a lot closer to 18 than you are, Len, I think, but don’t say. And my balance is excellent. A surprise curb can bring anyone down. By the looks of his body language, he is ready to dismiss me, but I continue nonetheless.
“How long are we talking until I can, you know . . . bear weight on my knees? I spend a lot of time on them.” The instant the words come out, I regret them. Len may have lifted an eyebrow; or I may have imagined it. “You know, because I like to garden and I teach yoga.”
I sense a hint of irritation, but it’s not like I’m taking up a room. It’s too early in the summer for alcohol poisoning and heat stroke.
“It will just take time,” he assures. “Remember, we heal from the inside out.”
Bingo, there it is, thank you, Len! That’s brilliant. I just got my $75 co-pay’s worth.
The following week, I interview at an assisted-stretching studio, where I answer the question of why I want to work there: “Stretching is like the dessert of fitness.” By the owner’s facial expression, I can’t tell if this statement is ridiculous or deeply profound. You tell me — I’m hired.
So I pull on my big-girl grip socks and get to work learning how to stretch various muscle groups while keeping my own body safe. To do this effectively, you can’t just use the force of your hands and arms; that causes strain, injury, and burnout. Instead, you must use your own body weight as leverage to increase a stretch.
“Fall into it,” says my instructor over and over again.
It’s common for yoga teachers to talk about the virtue of not being afraid to fall. Yet I’ve only heard one instructor explain why: “You know, off the mat,” she said, “no one is ever going to ask you to do Tree Pose. But figuring out how to pick yourself up after you fall out of Tree Pose, now that’s a useful skill.”
And so now, every day, I fall a little — into the sole of someone’s foot, the fold of their hip, the curve of their back, and deeply, wildly, more into myself.
Rachel Anne Abrams teaches private and group classes at Ground Cover Yoga in Sagaponack and works as a flexologist at StretchLab in Brooklyn. She is online at groundcoveryoga.com.