I've never really thought of myself as a courageous person. In fact, I regret so many things that I haven't done because I'm too scared to do them. Like many, I have a deep fear of rejection, and a fear of failure. I'm worried that I won't be good enough - not just for other's standards, but my own. I have no idea where this comes from - perhaps it comes from a moment in childhood. Perhaps it's come from some moment where my brain just flipped and the trauma of hurt remained in my body. It takes so much work to undo this conditioning and sometimes I don't feel I have the strength for it. It's far easier to ignore it and pretend it's not there. Yet ignoring it is impossible for me, as it always bubbles up to the surface anyway, so I best deal with it as it comes, and even before this happens!

It's like looking at the surface of the ocean, glistening and inviting, and being too scared of what's beneath the surface.

Dipping my toes in these waters and relishing the discomfort is key for me in healing these little shadowy parts of myself. It might be painful or uncomfortable, but this playing to my edges is so valuable. Every time I have played to my and gone to the depths of what is possible for me I've been incredibly rewarded - even if it's just a message to come back and try again later, or a re-direction onto something new. And so I continue to dive.

On my last trip overseas I remember saying to her friend I just want something that will crack me open. The sentence came out before I thought about it and what that meant, but it was real and true. Perhaps I was thinking of that oft quoted line from Cohen - that the light gets in through the cracks.

I know it's painful to dive deep into those dark and shadowy depths of myself, but I know what relief can be found by swimming upwards afterwards.

Some of you might remember me talking about my free-diving experience a few weeks ago. Initially, diving under the surface of the sea was terrifying. My mind and body went into fight or flight mode and I panicked. No way could I hold my breath and stay under for so long, and so deep, with the light at the surface so far away. Yet in the midst of that panic, I was aware that this was what I had asked for - it was painful enough for something really wonderful to emerge. Many people have said that they could never have done this, and I did (do) think myself about why on earth I chose to put myself in a situation where such fear and discomfort was inevitable. The diving instruction instructor Kevin said that we needed to find this balance - between ease and discomfort. That's the place where I could be comfortably under the water and connect to the beauty of this experience. I just needed to change my idea about what this discomfort was, and realise it wasn't going to kill me.

In fact, it was going to save me.

Playing to these edges of discomfort involves putting ourselves there finding a position and staying for time, just as I needed to do diving beneath the skin of water at the ocean's surface. In yin yoga that's exactly what we are asked to do. We find the shape, moving ourselves into a position where we find our edge (also called a 'sweet spot'). We then make a decision to be still - to stay with what is. We then stay for time. It's time that brings the benefits - just like being underwater rather than a quick dip of the head beneath the waves. It's not good enough to dip in quickly and back out again in fear. We need to sit with a sensations in the body sometimes these sensations can be so strong that they result in some pretty disquieting thoughts. When we're in stillness things arise, especially because there are no distractions to prevent is going to deep into these shadow places of our bodies, spirits and minds.

Of course there's lessons in these edges too.

Last Monday, in a wide legged forward fold, I went right over my edge - so much so that I didn't walk without pain for four days - not without my leg muscles screaming in pain with each step. This had a knock on effect everywhere else too, as my entire body tried to step in to compensate for what my leg muscles could not do. Hence the lesson - find a discomfort that's not going to be too extreme but enough to bring about some healing. We don't want to tip over our edges - just play with them.

For some of us playing to our edge actually means be willing to meet the emotions that are always arising. We need to be willing to examine them, to turn over the precious stones that we find on the sea bed, to turn them in our hands and warm them with our breath.

This can be the first step in our growth, our understanding of the self. Willingness is everything.

There are many that look at me and say I can never have done what you did, or what you do. It's sad that I don't see myself this way. When I told my partner what a coward I thought I was he looked at me and laughed. He couldn't believe I felt that way about myself. It's certainly not how he saw me and he thought the my willingness to continue to dive deep into these waters, and my continued to work myself to be a better human being was completely courageous. When I try to see myself how others see me, I feel proud that I've been willing to go there. I know it will hurt, but I willingly step in anyway, holding space for this in my life.

Thus, I stay for a time, turning over and over these feelings and thoughts and memories and then letting them go, throwing them into the air watch them bounce across the pond of my life to sink and settle below. Some things will resurface later, but some things - oh, some things! - drift and float away.

We don't need to play edge all the time. Sometimes we need to give ourselves a break. We need to just get on with life, to be with it just how it is in this moment. We can't reprimand ourselves for not doing enough, because that just adds to the cycle of self criticism and feelings of unworthiness that causes to hide in the first place.

So I'll keep playing to these edges, testing the waters there. I'll hold my breath in the stillness and stay for a time. I will turning the stones that I find there over and over before I let them go and swim toward the light at the surface.

The light is always, always there.

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