Yoga Teachers, It’s Ok If You Don’t Know Enough (Sort Of)

Recently a friend of my caused a stir in the blogosphere by writing a punchy piece of her mind about what is wrong with teacher trainings. Perhaps some of it went over my head, but some of the negative commentary from new yoga teachers surprised me. Maybe their reaction stems from the way the blog outed us teachers when it charged: “You don’t know enough.”

Shit. How did she know? Is my ignorance showing through my see-through yoga pants?

I completed my 200-hour teacher training almost four years ago exactly. The truth is, I did not know much then (notwithstanding a stellar training over six months with a beautiful teacher who changed my life and really set me up to start teaching), and I still don’t know a lot. I also know some things deeply. But still there’s a lot I don’t know and even more that I don’t even know exists to be known yet that I don’t know.

So, teachers, you do not know enough? Join the club.

 “I don’t know.”

I’ll never forget hearing a certified Ashtanga teacher utter those words in response to a question from a member of the throng surrounding him at one of his Sunday post-practice talks. Those words stuck with me more than anything else he may have said that day. This teacher, with all his years of study and practice, doesn’t know everything? And he admits to it, in front of lots of people?

In that moment, this venerable teacher reminded me of a small handful of people I have met over the years in different settings — smart people, leaders in some respect at what they do, and they all share this in common: there are a lot of things they admittedly do not know.

They have imparted a valuable lesson: There is something to be gained from not knowing it all.

Frankly, it’s a relief.

Of course, It still feels like I am supposed to know everything. It feels like every question is a test that determines my entire worth. I am supposed to know the right thing to say, the perfect thing to wear, the answer when my toddler points to some nebulous vision in the distance only about a hundred times a week and says “Mommy, what is that? I’m also supposed to know the answer to your question about how to start practicing when there is no yoga studio near your new home and what’s with that pinching you felt after doing backbends yesterday and what to do when one wrist bends more than the other and what you are supposed to do when one teacher says X and the other says Y.

It’s hard to admit that I do not know the answers to all of your questions, let alone my toddler’s. As wonderful as it is to have examples of smart people who confess ignorance on a regular basis, I have years of practicing know-it-all-itis behind me. I was the girl in grade school raising my hand –no, I admit, waving that hand wildly, actually, because “I knew” the answer. For crissake I’m writing about “not knowing” here and I still sound a bit know-it-all-ish.

So when a student in my yoga class asks a question, I want to give her everything she is looking for. I immediately want to open my mouth to speak with authority. And God forbid, if anything in her question reeks with skepticism about me and my teaching, then back the f—k up as all my ex-lawyer and ego-protective neurons start lining up for battle. Defend! Defend!

Something pulls me back and I remember: this is different. I just have to give what I have to give. Sometimes the only thing I can say with confidence is “I don’t know.”

Thankfully, I have this handful of people in my life who joyously do not know it all teaching me to embrace what I do not know and to use what I don’t know to learn more. Visits to the Mysore practice room serve as reminders for my thick-headed know-it-all-self. In mysore practice (where I have had the most lovely teachers in Boulder and DC and Philly) I’ve learned it is ok to be where I am in my practice (sort of) because teachers lead by example. And it is ok to not know everything about yoga practice (sort of), again, because teachers lead by example. Once I was struggling with a pose and grabbed the teaching assistant for counsel. She said, without hesitation, “I don’t practice this pose so I can’t really tell you. But, I do know several people who have told me that doing [this] really helps them.” Another time, a mysore teacher told me “I don’t teach handstand” when I asked her a question about it (this was, ahem, before I learned about the controversial position of handstand in ashtanga. But I digress). The point is, in that moment, she became my hero.

Oh, I get it — so you don’t have to know everything or how to do every pose, and that’s ok, because you just don’t teach it. And when you get asked about these things by a student, or when you introduce things you are still working on, you just speak honestly about what you do and do not know and where you are in your own practice. And then maybe they will trust you, kind of like how I really trust you right now for being real.

This is what I am trying to do now — to be real about what I truly have in me to offer. I confess: I’m not perfect at it. But it’s a relief not to have to know everything. It is a relief to allow myself to just be (sort of).

I say “sort of” because – here’s the thing–I don’t want to stay where I am. For f—k’s sake I wouldn’t be practicing ashtanga if I wanted to stand still. So I want to know more; I want to know the answers to your questions like the oracle you seem to think I already am. I am not suggesting otherwise. I’ve stood before the weighty presence of a veteran teacher who knows their shit and your shit and everyone else’s shit too. I just endured a semi-private session with two teachers who seemed capable of writing a book about my entire physical history. And then there’s that brainiac Iyengar teacher I used to take classes with in Colorado. Her body seemed to churn with nimbleness and knowing no matter who walked into the room. I often thought that if an alien from a sci-fi movie walked into her class she wouldn’t skip a beat. She’d be just as sure-footed, silently deciphering exactly what to do with it’s ten extra alien legs and –is that even a neck? Before you could blink she would already be working something out with the blocks, and perhaps a chair.

No doubt knowledge is power, but I’m more fascinated by the power of not knowing — the power of loosening the grip on my know-it-all-ness so I can not know a few things and then learn something new. Students have inspired me to call teachers I know and ask questions and to test things out on my own mat–I may not know the answer, but I sure as hell have a lot of wise yogi teacher friends who just might (hint hint: they’re the ones who continually practice and study). The questions students have fired at me also inspired me to look into additional ways I can study and learn. My bag of yoga teaching tools is necessarily missing a tool or two; I want nothing more than to fill the ever-present and ever-shifting gaps.

Study and teaching don’t strike me as black and white, higher and lower, or as separate in any way.

It’s funny– because I didn’t know the answer some recent questions from students – and because I didn’t squelch the learning process by offering some b-s answer– I’ve learned a lot of new stuff and I’ve simultaneously primed myself to keep learning. Not knowing, it seems, liberates and drives me to learn.

Maybe the only true ignorance is thinking that you already know it all.

 

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3 thoughts on “Yoga Teachers, It’s Ok If You Don’t Know Enough (Sort Of)

    • Thank you Susan! SO nice to wake up to this comment today. I know i am not in your neighborhood as much these days but I hope we connect again soon!

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