I can’t om. That ethereal sound which often begins or ends (or both) a yoga class. I simply can not do it. My mouth refuses. My chest cavity solidifies into hardened clay. It is as though in place of my heart there exists a small seed wrapped in one of those annoying rolled up paper kazoo things you blow into on New Years Eve. Those horrible squeaky party favours that inflate and unravel like a long crackly frog’s tongue. When asked to om, to rise and shine, the little fern unspools from inside my ribcage up into my throat where it grabs on to my vocal chords and clenches tight. Slams shut. There will be NO oming. Just a quiet, unsteady exhale from the sad lady on the light blue mat.
Some of the many definitions of om include: the sacred sound, the song of the universe, the infinite, the all encompassing, the whole world, the truth, the ultimate reality, the finest essence, the cause of the Universe, the essence of life, the vehicle of deepest knowledge, and Self-knowledge. There are many many more. Perhaps the reason for this weird om paralysis lies somewhere within its vastness. It is just too impossibly big. Om is enormous. If I om I open myself up way too wide. That is an incredibly vulnerable place to be. The idea of being open enough to welcome the knowledge of everything is scary, overwhelming and way too powerful. I don’t want to know everything and I’ve had enough surprises, thank you. Oming is for the brave. Or the blissfully ignorant. Or maybe oming is too much like singing. Sure, there are plenty of artists who turn their personal sadness into block buster music like our girl Adele, but for me singing is about joy, the expression of an unburdened soul. Mine is still buried under a pile of rocks. Continue Reading →