by Steph Creaturo
We fall. We fall all the time. We create loop-di-loops in our head to cover up the fall, no matter what it is. We screw up at work, we talk behind a friend’s back and get caught, we trip and stumble off the curb. We fall off the perch we’ve set up for ourselves in our head. That hurts our ego. We feel embarrassed, our cheeks turn red. The piercing eyes of self-mortification burn inwards with words like “stupid”; “why can’t you do anything right?” plays Ring Around the Rosy in our heart. The insidious perfection continues its mossy growth that dims the brightness of our soul.
Then we step onto our yoga mats and are encouraged to fall. The art of the fall is heralded, celebrated, lauded, even taught. We learn to fall small, out of something like tree, which teaches us the blow to the ego is mostly self-perpetuated. We learn to fall big, out of headstand, and stop/drop/roll takes on a whole new meaning. We fall on our face in crow. We flip over in forearm stand. The chorus of falls feels louder than the solo of poses we nailed. But, once we nail a pose, we lose perspective on the art of the fall that got us there. We recreate our process as a linear destination as opposed to the messy engagement of process.
The more we flip, slip, wobble, and topple on the mat, the better. The pose in and of itself isn’t worth much without the falls that got us there in the first place. Falling sharpens our senses, recommits the tentacles of engagement. It keeps us humble and makes us strong at the same time. It reminds us to laugh and lean into momentum of the universe, of the greater energies around us, as opposed to fighting it. If we never learn the fall and its value, we never appreciate the effort it takes to balance on one foot, two hands, or the crown of our head. Or gain the perspective that falling bestows on us each time we do it. So, go ahead and fall. Laugh, cry, let those cheeks burn bright, but whatever you do, make sure when you fall out of a pose to topple perfection off its perch when as you splunk.