Pretty much every time I instruct or practice a class, someone makes me feel appreciated -- whether it's through gratitude, a hug, a smile or even just a look that indulges my desire to affect positive transformation. Maybe it's because I push a regular just that little bit extra -- a drive that person always has that occasionally needs igniting; perhaps a story or joke I share allows an unnecessarily-furrowed brow to soften; a practitioner may find acceptance upon facing whatever he has in the mirror and choose to work with, rather than against it.
Surely, rewards are bountiful in the hot room and tend to foster relatively relaxed, positive souls outside of the Bikram bubble. As an instructor, however, it can be painfully difficult finding a monetary balance because we truly do what we love and, of course, more often than not, what a person loves doing often fails to keep them financially afloat. The industry standard income for hot yoga instructors is oddly dissonant with the substantial role we play in the lives of our students and communities.
So as reality is often somewhat harsh, I shall soon be pairing down my teaching to seek a more stable livelihood down another avenue, one which will hopefully at least have ties to teaching, health and wellness.
Molding impressionable young minds in a high school classroom has often beckoned me. Well, if I'm being honest -- and that is the point here -- to be honest in sharing one's challenges, triumphs and wisdom accrued from such experiences -- teaching in its traditional form (the kind that provides a decent income, great vacation time, health benefits and a solid pension) has been shoved down my throat from infancy.
My Grandpa taught elementary school and, early in his career, celebrated the firm hand of authority he naturally delighted in exercising on anyone willing to submit by becoming a principal. Never fulfilled ruling one when he could have several under his firm, but loving grasp, for 14 years, he simultaneously served as a principal for six schools in the BC interior. Up north, communities are still and always were small because of course, it's up north. So for over a decade, my dear Grandpa rented out his waterfront home on Vancouver Island (the property he was able to purchase socking away most of his teaching salary) and happily squired the hearts and minds of his most captive audience.
My Mother, growing up with a stellar example of success through dedication and stability, followed suit and, by 22, was running her own classroom. Not having a natural affinity for small children, those who know her are still puzzled by my Mother's choice to teach elementary school; as she is, however, easily intimidated by independent, mature minds, those who truly know her understand completely.
I'm fairly certain she finds most of every day in the company of seven-year-old hooligans (these are privileged kids from a fairly affluent community, most of whom have grown up running amok whenever they please) grueling, but -- here it is again -- she has afforded herself a lovely life. She works 8 am to 3 pm, during which time, she has of course a fifteen-minute recess and a forty-five minute lunch, as well as occasional prep time. She has every long weekend to do with as she pleases, 2 weeks off at Christmas, spring break and 2 months off for the summer. Sure, some teachers choose to coach track and field or have to supervise recess once a week -- either way, not a bad gig at all.
The past few days in particular, having taken their toll on me physically to the point that I open my mouth to make a verbal adjustment in class and nothing but the squeaks of what is left of my virus-ridden voice are audible, I have made what I feel is the responsible decision to revisit the pursuit of teaching high school. I would, of course, teach English -- this being the subject in which I earned my Bachelor's Degree because it was the only choice I knew would keep me engrossed in and writing fanciful analyses of great books over muffins and coffees at my favourite neighbourhood haunts. I can't even tell you the extent to which I deplore libraries -- I try to avoid them whenever possible -- and studying -- of any kind. Isn't life best lived? Pleasure please; I'll take as much as I can get.
And as anyone who works hard for their money knows, pleasure comes in many forms, most of which can be costly. So as Maya's Mommy -- a girl who insists on indulging in at least some of the finer things whenever possible -- trying to make it on my own in a city of unforgiving cold, even more unforgiving men and a barely-there transit system that pretty much necessitates having a car, I've accepted the time to shift gears from a Hot Yoga Teacher to a hot English Teacher as now. Applications are due in early spring, volunteer hours required and, hopefully, by next September, my stilettos will be pounding the pavement back in Van at UBC for a year of High School Teacher certification. I look forward to a new forum in which to boss people around.
