Two months ago, one of my former colleagues, mentors, and yoga instructors, Terry Winter, passed away. In an email to some of his students, the studio owner where we worked wrote “the cause of his death was sudden, natural, and unknown, and of course it’s been a shock since he was so vital and healthy.” I got this message while visiting the quaint capital town of my parish, Lucea and being surrounded by sunshine and good spirits, I went about my day as planned after shedding a few tears of confusion and surprise behind a post office building.
It wasn’t until the next few days faded into a couple weeks that I noticed how the news had entirely impacted my being. If you know me, you know #YogaEveryDamnDay isn’t just a social media hash-tag. It’s a mantra I’ve adopted as I’ve made an active effort to incorporate at least a few minutes of yoga, meditation, and the like into every single day for the last few years, especially when I don’t think I have the energy or time. Starting work at a yoga studio soon after was inevitable, and that’s where I met Terry and began taking his classes 2-3 days a week. But after learning of Terry’s passing, when mind, body & soul ached for healing, the thought of stepping onto my mat was completely overwhelming. I rolled it out a few times with the intent to practice but when feet met foam, I quickly found something else to occupy my sometimes mumbling and tired mind.
I was smalled up in a one taxi (a taxi, which is already brimming with bodes but can accept one more, usually slender passenger) when the secret to my aversion slipped into a tiny, unsuspecting crevice of my mind. It had Terry’s voice and reminded me that tightening my thighs would help me more fully engage my core and in this scenario, spare my lower back from the 45-minute hunch it was about to endure. As his words of instruction echoed across a moment in time that seemed entirely foreign to his usual context in my life, I froze and snapped into realization of what was keeping me from going with the vinyasa flow. And even though I thought I had extracted every drop of his essence from my daily life until I was truly ready to deal with his departure, there it was, and there he was.
My first downward dog after two and half weeks ushered in a haunting warmth behind my eyes as I again heard Terry’s voice asking if I was holding out on him, an all-too-common question for his students when fear of falling had kept us firmly planted in any balancing pose. I imagined his healing hands on my body, providing the subtle adjustments my spine so longed for as the tears finally collided with my sweat and sweet release washed over me. Terry concluded each session with, “as always, it is an honor and privilege to lead you. The light within me, honors with light within each of you. Namaste.” But all of us know that we are the ones fortunate.
We carry your heart, Terry, we carry it in our hearts.
in the land of wood and water 