Finding Strength in Surrender

Sometimes, a name can tell you so much more than just what something *is*. Ustrasana, Camel Pose, it’s a rather dramatic designation, isn't it? *Ustra* means camel in Sanskrit. And the image—the vulnerability, the openness—that’s what truly strikes you. It's a pose that asks a great deal of you, and it’s not something you rush into. I remember years ago, trying it for the first time, feeling utterly ridiculous, frankly. Like a clumsy, oversized child attempting something far beyond my capabilities.

The initial challenge isn't the backbend, though that’s certainly significant. It’s the surrender. The release of the need to control, the letting go of the feeling that you must maintain a certain posture, a certain image of yourself, to be acceptable. Think of a camel, trekking across a desert. It cannot carry its burdens if it is stiff and rigid. It must yield to the landscape, adapt to the conditions. It bends to drink, to persevere.

I've been thinking a lot about adaptation lately. Retirement, as it turns out, is quite the exercise in it. After thirty-four years of structure, of a very specific rhythm to the day, suddenly there’s…space. And space can be frightening. It’s lovely, of course, to have the quiet mornings and the time to plant things – the petunias did beautifully this year, you know – but it also reveals a landscape within yourself that you perhaps hadn't fully recognized before.

It's rather like that feeling when you first start learning a difficult piece of music. Your fingers fumble, the notes blur, and you feel a rising panic. The urge to stop, to give up, to return to what’s comfortable and familiar, is very strong. But then, a moment of clarity arrives, a small victory, and you realize that the difficulty itself is the path to something more profound. Ustrasana can be like that. That moment of panic, that feeling of being completely undone – that's where the strength lies.

When I first started teaching yoga, I was obsessed with alignment. Everything had to be *just so*. But I’ve learned over the years that the true value of a pose isn’t in achieving some arbitrary standard of perfection, but in what it reveals about your relationship to your body, to your surroundings, to yourself. It’s not about looking like the picture in the book. It's about the sensation, the feeling of your own breath, the awareness of your own weight shifting.

Phyllis and I had a small gathering in the backyard after the equinox this year. Simple things, really – a few appetizers, some good wine, and the late afternoon light filtering through the trees. It was wonderful to be outside, sharing that quiet contentment. And it struck me then how much we all crave that feeling of being held, of being supported, of being able to let go, just for a little while. Camel Pose, in a strange way, offers that – a moment of profound support, not from another person, but from within.

It’s a pose that asks you to look up, to open your chest, to feel the sky above you. It’s a reminder that there's always something beyond what you can immediately see, something waiting to be discovered. You'll feel a disorientation, certainly. A slight wobble, a tremor of fear. But if you breathe, if you keep your gaze fixed on a point ahead, you'll find a surprising sense of stability. Resilience, perhaps.

It's remarkable, isn't it, how often the greatest growth comes from facing what frightens us most? Not conquering it, necessarily, but simply acknowledging it, feeling it, and finding a way to move forward, even if it's just a tiny, hesitant step. Just like that camel, enduring the desert. And finding the water.