I tried my best to simulate my typical exertion. I closed my eyes and imagined my rpm's to be in sync with the instructor's, imagined my hill level to be in sync with my fellow spinners' virtual climb. I tried so hard to feel the workout, but all I felt was anger and frustration; no steady blinking affirmation of my accomplishments, no computerized "atta girl" to keep me going. One part of my brain had me convinced I had outdone myself, overcompensating for the disconcerting lack of information with the workout of my life. The other part had me berating myself for my laziness, convincing me I might as well have sat my ass down in Starbucks and shoveled in some extra stale pastries. Does any of this sound neurotic to you?
This was all in stark contrast to the yoga class I attended Sunday. I tend to shy away from this particular yoga class because a) it's a bit on the lengthy side for a woman of my limited attention span, and b) it's anusara yoga, which can be a little bit kooky. There are things I love about anusara -- its strict focus on alignment, its mix of the spiritual and the scientific. But sometimes the rigidity pisses me off, and sometimes I'm just too cynical for all that damn spirituality and touchy feeliness. Like the Sanskrit incantation we're supposed to chant three times at the beginning of class. WTF?
I like the current instructor better than the old one, who liked to talk about herself incessantly and went apoplectic if the mats weren't all perfectly lined up in rows. Anatomical alignment I get; compulsive organization of sticky mats I can do without. The new gal didn't flinch when someone came in late and staggered her mat between two rows. If her heavily tattooed body and braid-worthy armpit hair hadn't already convinced me she was cool, that composure under pressure surely won me over.
Sarah is beautiful, tall and lithe, with flowing blond hair, soft blue eyes, perfect, gleaming teeth, and flawless skin (on her face -- body art covers much of the rest) that belies her thirty some-odd years. Her voice is soft and soothing, and when she speaks the room falls quiet. Sunday, she hobbled in on crutches, her lean body swaying between them as naturally as if she were walking on two healthy and secure legs. I was mesmerized by her grace, the way she glided around the room, navigating her way between tightly packed mats and occasionally using one crutch to flip open curtains and grab towels without even breaking her stride.
She apologized for being unable to demonstrate poses, but talked a lot about the collective energy in the room, the group "heart." Okay, I thought about leaving for a second, but I was captivated. Throughout the class, she encouraged us to go through our yoga poses with our eyes closed, and occasionally even stopped talking us through sequences, encouraging us to feel each other's breath and energy and imagine ourselves to be moving as harmoniously as a pool full of synchronized swimmers. I have no idea whether we were all in sync -- my eyes were closed -- and I would venture to say we looked more like a bunch of middle aged folks flailing about without life preservers than synchronized swimmers, but I felt like I was a part of something, and I left that class feeling invigorated. I even promised myself I'd participate in the chant next time.
A spin bike computer went blank and I was lost (not to mention really pissed off). A yoga instructor withdrew herself and left us pretty much to our own devices, and I took a leap of faith and let go. No anger. No frustration. I just closed my eyes and went with the flow, and I knew it was all going to be okay.
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