samskaras, blocks and sweaty washcloths

I have often likened my mat as similar to the square of carpet my pre-school aged son worked his “jobs” during his Montessori-style education. Sitting on the floor with carpets side by side, the preschoolers learned in a kinesthetic way by manipulating beans, beads, little colored blocks and the latter to workout their problems within the confines of their little carpeted square. They weren’t just learning math and language skills; they were learning about personal space.

I do the same sort of exercise on my mat each morning. I roll out my mat in a straight line with the others, not too close and not to far away, and perfectly lined up with the grain of the wood floor beneath me. I line up my props along the front or back edge of my mat (not both) so as not to take up too much space. I am careful to keep my extremities within the confines of my designated space, and I am cautious to keep my moans, groans, and thoughts to myself as much as I am able. Cognizant of others so as not to collide in the empty space between the mats during transitions. I try.

All good. Right?

Well, here’s the rub. I expect the same of others — without ever telling them. I just expect them to know. Like the preschoolers, I expect that everyone is operating under the same rules. Which might make sense, except these are my rules (not the rules of the room).

When my one of my peers has placed their block off their mat so that it doesn’t interfere with their asana, yet it now interferes with mine, I’m a little annoyed. It’s that space in between, where arms reach around to bind in the Maris or clasped hands extend towards the floor in Prasarita Padottanasana C that were talking about. One might think of the space as unused space but is really a shared space that requires negotiation via staggering or timed entry and exit.

Of course, these are my guidelines — not theirs.  Put another way: these are my samskaras. Therefore they are mine to work out, just like the rest of my practice is mine to work through.

And supposing these spacial samskaras stem from a bad case of middle-child-syndrome woe’d with hand-me-downs, the top-bunk, leftovers, and never being heard. That too is my problem; not my fellow ashtangis. If anything, it all adds texture to the exercise of me working through it. Every block in, sweat-soaked wash cloth, and foot in my way is a gift for me to work through it. For this, I should be grateful.