Reflections on Day One of Yoga Teacher Training (#1 TriYoga)

TriYoga is meditation. It is slow. It is breathing. It is me, finally moving at a slower pace. Finally coming into being……It’s driving me freaking nuts! Studying at home, I thought possibly I was insane, that time had stood still. I thought possibly it was just the videos. I believed that classes would somehow be…different. All of these, I guess, were possibilities; but the slowness is not just the videos and I’m not insane, at least not completely. This is slow meditative deep yoga. Here I am. I had better get with the program and slow down!



I arrived a small rural Pennsylvania town, with it’s upright and crowded buildings, and a measure of run-down-ness. I sat in the lot until enough yoga-ish women had come and entered the repurposed school building, so I was not first or last arriving, even though I got here an hour earlier.   I entered the old school house.  It looked just like the schools that I had gone to while growing up, which was comforting. Upstairs one of the converted classrooms was a nice modern day yoga studio. While, it’s always intimidating to meet a new group of people, the stranger’s were all women who greeted me like friends.

Once we got started, I was unsure if I was ‘doing it right.” I had taken this system of yoga for about 10 years with a teacher back home. Now, I wasn’t getting much correction. I didn’t know what that meant.

During the yoga practice, a part of my inner self wanted to protest: She was grumpy with direction. She was grumpy with lack of direction. She didn’t like the fact that there was a structure in the training system or the fact that there was a hierarchy. She was rebelling against anything authoritarian. Speaking of hierarchies, she started feeling bad about getting me getting second degree black belt. She/I also felt guilty teasing Eddie Sanky when I was in kindergarten. I sniffed myself. I wondered if I smelled bad like Eddy smelled. I wondered, did Eddy actually smell bad, or what wasn’t it just that his last name sounded like ‘stank’.  Is that why we called him smelly.  OMG!  It was!  How could I’ve been such a horrible child? How could I’ve been so mean? I felt just awful! I was a bully! I had not even known it.  I had probably scared poor Eddie, who was actually really pretty nice.  How horrifying! Why couldn’t I have been nicer as a child. Why did I dislike hierarchical authoritarian systems? I’m the one who signed up for them. Was I was so clearly clueless, so bad at yoga, that they weren’t even going to talk to me?  Why did I have to be so aggressive and hurried on the road?  Why couldn’t I be a better driver?  Or at least be a nicer adult? How did these behavior still show up in my life?  I think my armpits smell………

It was a long evening.

After about an hour and a half of this sort of backtalk from what I like to call “my inner roommate,” the one in my head that never shuts up, the volume went down; down all the way to mute.  I slowed down enough to pass by the room-mate, and leave her behind. I blessedly entered a meditative space.

The peace I experienced was everything I’d come for, it was what I drove eight hours for. The slowness was everything I was looking to do with my life.

Will I find this yoga is “my” system, go for certification? I’m not sure. But I do know that I’m here in PA now. I’m going to go tomorrow, and do some more breathing. That’s really all I know, and that is just fine.


by Tama Cathers, DVM, MS, BA Biology and Sociology, 2nd Degree in ToShinDo,  Threshold Choir Director, TriYoga Teacher Training Student, Sangha Yoga Teacher Trainee, Poet,  2000 miler Appalachian Trail hiker, Gardener, Herbalist.…


Photo by Igor Ovsyannykov on Unsplash


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s