Last Friday evening I lost my sh*t (on my other half).

Ok, so it wasn’t that bad. But to make matters worse, it happened in front of a new babysitter — someone who takes yoga classes with me — on the night the other half and I were finally celebrating our anniversary.

At least she didn’t go and write a blog about it.

Well, then, allow me to do the job for her! And while I’m at it, how ’bout I just out myself now as having innumerable instances of losing my sh*t — and all since embarking on this yoga journey in earnest ten years ago in Bikram class (that’s not even including the profane rants and driving manifestos I compose in my head while driving, for fun). Call it the New York in me, the expressive Italian, or the stubborn assholian, but I got a talent for breaking my happy hippy dippy selfie-parade/always-on-my-bike-in-the-sun-yoga character — particularly if I’m tired, hungry, coming off a long solo stint with a punchy child, cleaning up dog poop for the third morning in a row, dealing with a miscarriage or other bad news, simply feeling rejected, reeling from multiple stings by a yellow jacket and — did I mention sleep deprivation already?

Wait– I’m on third series, shouldn’t I be a freakin’ butterfly unicorn rainbow kitten by now? Shouldn’t my halo blow all the evil out of me and the entire world like the biggest, baddest and sweetest care bear stare? I mean really, once your leg is spending all that time behind your head, you better have those yamas and niyamas down and up around you like a force field, you better have that ugly contained and it better smell like sugar and spice and everything nice.

I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden.

I don’t care what Sanskrit word du jour you have tattooed on your fill-in-the-blank but demanding dalai lama-like status from yourself at all moments is– come to think of it, that’s a worthy goal, and now I want to try it– but man, prepare to fail your yoga ass off. Prepare to struggle. Then again, maybe it’s just me: what else do I do with these eight limbs but struggle, as much as I do with the postures?

Perhaps I’ve got it all wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. I struggle with those yamas and niyamas because I question everything. But my regular practice has taught me at least this…to see that everything evolves from a pattern and when what appears is something I don’t like, be it a tweak in my back or a negative flow in my behavior or relationships I sit there in the muck and think: how did I get myself here? How do I change the direction so I don’t end up here again? Something about the physical practice I do for sometimes close to two hours in the morning begs me to examine the rest of the day how each and every thing I do has an effect. Something about these little missteps I make, my moments of losing sh*t, call me back to work and review, and resolve to change. It’s daunting.

“Buddhists talk about actions conditioning other actions, and my non-action conditioned a determination to do better.” ~Sylvia Boorstein, “It’s Easier Than You Think: The Buddhist Way To Happiness“

“Every second of your life, you should have more consciousness of what you are doing and how you are reacting to others,” Sharath Jois

I’m still working on it. Yes, here I stand, or falter, as I put my leg behind my head for the umpteenth time in this “advanced” series now, but I remain vulnerable to losing my sh*t here and there and goddamn it, I have yet to morph into a rainbow unicorn either.

I’m afraid of a “beyond asana” yoga police- I suppose because I’m so flawed. Is that what kindness is– holding our yogi selves to a puritanical level of unrealistic perfection and singling out those who falter for castigation, oh we sad, pathetically damned creatures (I mean don’t we know this is an eight limbed path?) I love and I struggle — am I alone? Will I get better? Will my dwi pada ever look like Richard Freeman’s and will I ever behave as ethereally as he does? (Certainly I’ve a hard time imagining Richard Freeman losing his sh*t in a Starbucks. Actually, I have a hard time imagining Richard in a Starbucks, period). If this practice has taught me anything, it is the value of practice; it is that with practice I can change things in the direction I want them to go. Heaven help me if along my way I falter, only to be met with a scarlet letter “F” for failure on this yogic path — and left at that, with nothing more than that.

Look, I judge too. I have been there: seeing someone I view in high regard act in a way that gives me pause, or just being out in public and seeing someone act unpretty and man watch the judgments roll. I have also been on the other side, and I have been on both– misstepping and judging myself for my own missteps. I hope I can do better. I hope we all can do better. I hope I get better at not losing my sh*t and I hope the next time I do lose my sh*t someone gives me a smile and a hug, offers to buy me a cup of coffee and ask what is really going on, or lightens me with a bit of humor. I know I’ll be berating myself more than anyone else could anyway.

Maybe the best way to encourage kindness is to be the first person to offer it.

Maybe I should practice that.

[Note to my husband: had you made fun of me in that moment and said, “damn we need to get you a drink” things might have turned for the better more quickly. Note to self: You need an afternoon snack.]