Mariela’s Sunday Thoughts: Grounded

If you’ve ever taken my Yin class, you know that’s usually the time I use to think out loud: your presence and practice often inspires me to go deeper within myself, within yoga, and within the philosophy of it all. Sometimes I tell you stories, sometimes I tell you what I’ve been learning, sometimes we just enjoy the silence.

My Yin class is one of my favorite moments of the week. It’s not only another opportunity to hold space for you, hoping you walk out of my class feeling something, more connected with yourself and with the practice, and maybe even a little inspired; but it is also a time for reflexion. I get to be fully present.

Ironically, teaching Yin is when I feel my practice at its deepest. And I have you to thank you for that.

Each week, I come to class completely unprepared. And I absolutely love that.

That’s what I mean about having no expectations: I walk through the doors of the studio not knowing what poses we’re going to be holding, or what theme the class will be about (if any), or even what words I’m going to say. I’m just trusting that you will show up, I’ll be able to see you, and hopefully, I will humbly guide you through exactly what you need.

This past week, we talked about the concept of Grounded. As usual, this wasn’t planned, but it popped up through the class and it had the gears of my heart, mind, and soul turning. I was feeling grounded, I was feeling my students being grounded, and we happened to be at Grounded. What a happy coincidence. We were even using our new grounding mats: the theme was right there, floating above us, I had no other choice but to grab it, and start walking with it.

I asked my students to think of five words that, one way or another, define what it’s like to be grounded. Throughout the class, I kept asking them to notice what they were feeling, and curiously see if any of those words popped up.

As I was guiding the class, I kept looking around: at my students and the plugged-in grounding mats they were on, at Grounded as a building, as a space, at the plants that our teachers and community so lovingly brought to the studio, at the moss art my kind sister-in-law (and super talented sculpt and yoga teacher) created for us, at the props that, against all odds, arrived just in time for the opening, at the paint on the walls that our friends, neighbors, teachers, and students placed there with so much work and care, at the many renovations that were needed that our handyman Sam and our floor expert Jim worked so hard on to get done in just three weeks. I was seeing it, I was feeling it, and we were all being part of it. We were all Grounded.

I told my class the funny detail of how Grounded cannot be literally translated into Spanish, and how my friends and family back home keep calling the studio Spanish words that get close to “grounded”, but are not quite there: my brother called it “arraigado” (rooted), my friend called it “terraneo” (earthed), my mom called it “a tierra” (connected to Earth).

Grounded doesn’t translate because Grounded belongs here.

As the class went on, I started sharing what my five words were:

-Collective

-Intuition

-Attentive

-Strength (determination)

-Here

I moved to Sandpoint in 2019. I did all the things one does to make a place one’s new home: I found community, I made friends, I joined clubs, I even bought a house. Yet, through the years, Sandpoint always felt temporary, a surface-level moment of my life, a place that I was just passing by. There was always a looming sense of not fully belonging, a sense of being here, but not fully being part of it. My husband and I would have very frequent conversations about “where to next”, and I would often wake up feeling like buying us some plane tickets and getting out. I knew that Sandpoint had embraced me, but I couldn’t quite feel it.

Until May 8th this year, when I got the keys to this special space and, right after getting them, I sent that text that freed me from the place I no longer wanted to be part of. I started feeling it: a sense of belonging, so foreign, so unusual, so sweet.

May 9th gave me an experience I’ll never forget: my community was so there it could not be ignored. My friends, my students, my family, my Sandpoint. Everyone stopped by to help, say hi, drop supplies off, or just to check out the space. Always with a smile, always with trust, always with excitement.

I felt at home in Sandpoint for the first time on May 9th, and ever since then, I’ve felt grounded.