Last week, doing warrior pose in yoga class, I remembered how, right after Trump had been elected, my usual teacher, Annie Hoffman, was out of town—so we’d had a sub that day. A wonderful teacher, the sub had prepared a themed class; a series of poses and movements readying us to become women warriors. “Cool idea,” I thought; my body felt differently. Moving slower and slower as if weighted down, I finally stopped altogether.
“What’s going on?” the teacher asked.
“I’m not ready to be a warrior yet,” I realized. “I’m still too sad.” ( So she Immediately set me up in a restorative pose. Where I cried. And felt my muscles twitch and relax.)
Since the tax bill vote I’ve been in a funk. (Yes, today’s news from Alabama is definitely lifting my spirits!) After a year of being a warrior, though, I no longer deny my occasional need to crawl under my quilt for twenty-four hours. “Re-covery,” my yoga teacher quips.
When in this melancholy state, a favorite Rilke poem, “Title Poem” from The Voices, always comes to mind (Eerily apt vis a vis that tax bill, yes?) :
It's OK for the rich and the lucky to keep still, no one wants to know about them anyway. But those in need have to step forward, have to say: I am blind, or: I'm about to go blind, or: nothing is going well with me, or: I have a child who is sick, or: right there I'm sort of glued together. . . And probably that doesn't do anything either. They have to sing, if they didn't sing, everyone would walk past, as if they were fences or trees. That's where you can hear good singing. People really are strange: they prefer to hear castratos in boychoirs. But God himself comes and stays a long time when the world of half-people start to bore him.