Shraddha
by Lorena M. Sanchez
It feels disingenuous to call myself a yogi. And yet, I've been wanting to write this for years.
I first came to the practice through a former partner. I'd join him for sun salutations on most mornings and we'd one day spend a week at a Sivananda Yoga Center in Kerala. In the ensuing years there would be yoga challenges and periods of notable dedication, usually due to friends who shared the yoga bug and loved the way it made them feel. I still believe that practice in a heated room equals happiness for my skin. In 2017, after a big life change and some considerable heartbreak, I'd enroll in a 200 hour teaching program.
The intensive program became a weekly communion with myself. Starting with the drive across town, I'd push everything else to the margins making space for the murky feelings. These weekends--physical, thoughtful, teeming with community and the prospect of friendship, slowly put me back together.
And here is where the protagonist might've found her purpose, the ah-ha moment, the path forward. Or no such thing.
During that time, I also took lessons in photography, ceramics, life drawing, printmaking. I became a scuba diver. Ran a half marathon. Taught a course on public speaking. Started mentoring girls in creative writing. Constantly searching. What a breathwork teacher once called filling the bowl.
What I understand now is that the plot is to keep evolving, that each choice, each adventure is a temporary mooring post. An opportunity to discover, and if necessary, to change course. As well as point to return to. For me this is the legacy of my yoga study. Unearthing and learning to have faith in my own shraddha.
According to Yogapedia, "Shraddha is present in the most intense emotions that we feel, both happy and sad. It reflects our inner Self and our virtues, as well as the values that we hold in highest regard."
The Bhagavad Gita, an ancient yogic text, says that a person is what their Shraddha is.
For me, it’s an inner compass, a certainty that I am moving steadily in the direction of my mountain.
It is necessary to pause here and say that I have spent most of my life trying to do the opposite. To straighten the squiggly line. For point B to follow directly after point A. To gather and weave together the tangents so the story makes narrative sense. And for that progression to compound, to reflect evolution, maturity, and growth. To signal the opening of a door.
Which is why I do not usually say that my divorce gave birth to a near dream-like life in Paris. Or that an affair carved out much needed space for each of us to find our voice. Instead, I speak in generalities, common experiences. Sometimes it is his fault. Most of the time, it’s mine.
My yogi journey has been about dismantling these face-saving techniques and building a practice that is in alignment with my shraddha, with who I am. A practice rooted in self-acceptance, supportive of detours, that recognizes dissonance as a necessary phase. A practice that may wander and falter but that is thoughtful and conscious.
This is what I want to impart.
Being a yogi means reflecting on our life’s intention. What do I value? What am I devoted to?
Questions like these need time and space to examine. Time to go inside, to go back, to listen for the answers. It can happen on the mat, in meditation, through in our actions and reactions, in our work, in our advocacy, and in just about every interaction or encounter we have.
Take the time to create the space for these practices of reflection and understanding to happen. Build out what it means to you to be yogi based on your values, your experiences, your shraddha.