Note: all of the descriptions of students are the words they have used to describe themselves. While I don’t agree with many of the self-assessments, their feelings are theirs and theirs alone. I love them all.
All people are real people. But my students are pretty damn real, in the very stereotypical, overused sense of the phrase, ‘real people’.
The flexy-bendy glam-squad doesn’t flock to my class, though there’s always a handful of physical magicians present. Typically, I get a lot of people ‘hot off an injury’, ‘fresh from a break-up’, ‘falling apart’, ‘struggling with weight’, ‘just here to breathe’.
I know ‘the faceplant queen’. I teach ‘the farter’. I’m friendly with Mr. Heavy-breather, and Ms. struggle-bus. More than one of my students has ths ability to ‘sweat-like-a-pig’, and I teach the dude who ‘can’t touch my toes (still)’. Often he sets his mat down by the woman whose ‘boobs moved south for the winter and never moved back’.
But they all smile. They show up. They move. They breathe. The are beautiful. Their practice is perfectly-imperfect. It’s not the cover of a magazine. It’s better than good lighting, organic mineral make-up and sleek yoga pants. It’s the real magic of people coming together to do something positive for themsevles.
My class isn’t glamorous – though I chuckled once when I realized that two local celebrities (at least to me) happened to drop in on same day. My class is full of people working on their own stuff. I love them for it. They are all real. They are all beautiful. They are the reason I show up every. single. day.