Failure is relative….really.

“Take the class through a collective breath, and then I’m going to take over.”

The voice was gentle and kind, and yet I almost had to choke back tears as I did as I was told, asking everyone to take a full, rich inhale and heading toward the back of the room as I haaaaaaaahed the air out, knowing full well their next inhale would be at someone else’s instruction.

I’d hoped to finish teaching a full class last night, and was pretty crushed when it didn’t happen. For the remainder of the class I stood at the back of the room and willed myself not to cry. I didn’t understand why I’d been pulled, but watching the teacher’s beautiful, seemingly effortless guidance, I began to have an inkling: I wasn’t good enough.

Once my stinging eyes dried up at the patient request of my breath, I could clearly see how deficient I was in my teaching style. I hadn’t been speaking in a low, soothing tone, and I sure hadn’t been tossing in pearls of wisdom. I began to wish I were on the mat taking the class I’d started but failed to finish, instead of standing, awash in undulations of disappointment, shame, anger, and envy–not necessarily in that order.

I later learned that the tsunami of self judgment was uncalled for. (Surprise, surprise!) I’d been pulled not because I haven’t yet perfected my vocal nuances, but because I missed a step in the sequence I’m required to teach verbatim. In fact, if I hadn’t omitted power lunge on the second side, I might well have finished class.

But I did omit power lunge on the second side, and so I was pulled. It was fair, and I understand why it happened–I was so absorbed with getting my words right, I wasn’t fully in the present moment. If I had been, I would have noticed the handful of students who caught my mistake and came into the pose on their own, and that would have reminded me to address it. I’m not exactly sure how to improve in the aspect of staying present, since it’s not exactly something I can study, but I’m trusting that with time and effort, the ability will come.

In the meantime, I’m coping with the fact that I didn’t succeed according to the standards I set for myself. I had hoped to be writing a post about how I’m good-to-go to graduate, and instead I’ve got who-knows-how-many more classes before I’m really ready. And I’ve decided that’s okay. It’s not so bad to need another chance, and I’ll have it. What’s important is that I’ve realized failure is relative, and I get to set the terms.

I had to remember that realization tonight when we did 108 sun salutations in group practice. In yoga tradition, 108 is considered an auspicious number, and I was looking forward to the challenge and the meditation. I figured a good long ritual on the mat would help me work through some of the distressing emotions I’ve been processing lately. And I guess that’s exactly what happened, though not in the way I was expecting.

Since 108 sun salutations is sort of like a yogi marathon, I started out slow and steady (so as to win the race). My movements were careful, my breath long and relaxed. I was taking my time. And then suddenly it was two and a half hours later and almost everyone was finished but me. I’d noticed when the first few people completed their cycle, because the teacher said something like, “If you’re finished, take this time to explore the sensations of your choosing.” But I mistakenly assumed those people were speed demons and that I was right on track.

Of course, I was right on track, in my own way. The teacher had gone to great lengths to emphasize that there was no way to do this wrong, that it was a personal experiment, and simply to see what came up for each of us. So it would be fine if I didn’t finish.

But I had expectations. Maybe I hadn’t gotten through teaching a full class the night before, but there was no way I was going to leave the yoga mala incomplete. For one thing, I’m stubborn, and for another, I’m a wee bit OCD/superstitious. It would have driven me crazy to have to stopped at a number below 108, both because that was the stated goal and because it’s an auspicious number, so anything less than would feel unlucky. And like failure.

Which is why, when I heard the teacher asking us to wind down our movements and transition into relaxation, I glanced at the beans I was using to keep track of my progress and burst into tears. I only had ten or so left. So close, and yet I was going to have to admit defeat. It didn’t seem fair. I was working hard, being loving to my body yet dripping with sweat all the same. I was trusting myself and taking it at my own pace, just like we were told to do. But there wasn’t going to be time for me to finish.

As I continued my salutations, I toyed with the possibility of giving in, of allowing the practice to be what it was. Hadn’t I learned just the night before that failure is relative, that my best effort equals success? But then another part of me, a small, fierce, determined part, cried out for justice. It wasn’t right that my ritual should be cut short; I’d been devoted and disciplined, and there were only a few beans left.

So I hustled, and since the room was dark and I was near the front it’s hard to tell for sure, but I suspect I was the last one standing. I’m so grateful the teacher didn’t gently ask me to stop. He could have, and I would have listened. But it felt so important for me to finish, like I would prove something valuable to myself if I succeeded. Like I wouldn’t be a failure.

But, having finished, and having heard reactions from friends who didn’t, I don’t know that I’m any better off. (Though I might be a little extra sore tomorrow.) It wasn’t like angels trumpeted as my last bean hit the bowl. And it didn’t feel awesome to rush through my final salutations, either. I suppose I got caught up in the expectation over the experience–just like last night.

I wonder what it will take for me to really believe and accept that failure is relative, that success is a state of mind. Maybe if I remind myself 108 times?