Lying on a yoga mat, cued by the voice on the recording, I slowly inhale and exhale. I draw my attention to my body, reorienting my mind from a multitude of swirling thoughts to focused attention on my body, my breath, and this moment. Recently I’ve been taking a Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction course, created by Jon Kabat-Zinn, and a daily 40-minute body scan is part of my homework. One wouldn’t think that lying still on a yoga mat for 40 minutes is difficult; however, I’ve yet to make it past 30 minutes. “Today is the day,” I think, as I take another breath.
Initially, I’m instructed to attune to my body on the mat and notice any areas of pain or discomfort. I’m aware of an ache in the small of my back as it resists gravity’s pull. Instead of becoming frustrated by the pain, I simply notice it. I’m learning, as Kabat-Zinn puts it, to practice “awareness that arises through paying nonjudgmental attention, on purpose, in the present moment.”
Nonjudgmental isn’t the word I’d used to describe my attitude toward my body; in fact, I can think of a litany of other words that would be more accurate—self-conscious, cynical, critical, and scornful to name a few. Perhaps that’s why spending 40 minutes in nonjudgmental awareness is so difficult. I’m cultivating a new relationship with my body, so while it looks like I’m simply lying on a yoga mat doing nothing at all, I’m actually doing very hard work.
The voice cues me to focus on my left foot, and as she slowly draws my attention to its various parts, I find I’m picturing a narrow foot donning a toe shoe for the very first time. It felt so elegant to slip my young foot into the pink satin slipper and lace the silky ribbons criss-cross around my ankle and up my calf. An ache in my arch reminds me that my dancing days are long gone, and now the laces I tie are for my orthotic sneakers. I am aware of the temptation to curse my aging feet; instead, I offer them a blessing. Steadfastly, they have carried me across many miles.
As I bring my attention back to the voice prompting me, she’s telling me to focus on my left leg—the calf, the knee, the thigh. I’m aware of how it’s all connected—stable and strong—and I am grateful. Recently I’ve begun to run again. Seventeen years after my one and only 5K, a desire to run has reemerged, and with each run, I initially think, “impossible.” Soon, though, I marvel that my legs, while older, are capable still.
After repeating these attentions to my right foot and right leg, the voice draws me to focus on my hips, pelvis, and low back, and I am once again aware of the ache. I am tempted to fixate on it, to entertain memories of debilitating back pain from five years ago, and to worry that the ache is a forerunner of future pain. Instead, I choose to release these thoughts with my next exhale and allow my mind to simply observe, not obsess.
Soon, I am invited to focus my attention on my stomach, and I notice that I naturally shift to belly breathing. I move my hands from my sides and tenderly lay them atop my tummy. I confess—I have long had a contemptuous relationship with my stomach. Perhaps it began with my dad’s instructions to “suck it in” when we’d take family photos. Then decades of weight gain and weight loss, along with two pregnancies, resulted in stretch marks and flab that easily provoke my disdain. Now, as I approach menopause, my “muffin top” is transforming into the dreaded apron belly. Who came up with these names, anyway? As I lie on my mat, I recall so much shame, so many curses, and I repent.
Under the warmth of my hands, my stomach receives my sacrament of reconciliation.
My body scan continues to my shoulders, which have carried the weight of the world. I notice that in this moment, they feel unburdened. I draw my attention to my arms, which have held so much together, and I am aware that they are at ease. Then, I consider my hands, now showing signs of age. I bless the story they tell. In this moment, with this breath, I am able to be present and at peace with myself.
Now, the voice prompts me to bring my attention to my head, and I become aware of residual tension I’m still holding. It reveals itself in my furrowed brow and locked jaw. Gently, I release both with an inhale and exhale. Noticing (inhale), releasing (exhale), naming (inhale), blessing (exhale)—there’s a rhythm to this practice of presence.
With the final cue to return my attention to my entire body, I notice a sense of settledness that extends from head to toe. That’s a significant shift in just 40 minutes. As I wiggle fingers and toes and gently roll to my right side, I consider this settledness and realize I feel this change beyond the yoga mat too. The turbulent season that has stretched on for several years seems to be settling, calming, changing. Naming (inhale) and blessing (exhale), I conclude my body scan with a feeling of peaceful presence and expansive gratitude.
Weekly Editor
Susan Tucker is a lifelong lover of story, and with curiosity and openness, she often explores in her writing the tension that life holds. A former English teacher, Susan loves meaningful use of language, especially when used to stir the soul and whet one’s appetite for more truth, goodness, and beauty. Compelled by a burgeoning interest in trauma recovery, she pursued training at The Allender Center, completing the Certificate in Narrative Focused Trauma Care, Level I and Level 2. Susan and Tim, her husband of 30 years, are the parents of two sons, now young adults, and are adjusting to a nest that, while different, is far from empty.nbsp
