You know you're in a good yoga class when many of the students happen to also be yoga instructors. Kind of the way it works when you go to an ethnic restaurant and are surrounded by patrons who have likely cooked the stuff in their own kitchens. It's the real deal.
It wasn't easy getting to yoga this morning, even though the class is a three minute drive from home. Heat defies the laws of gravity in my townhouse, keeping my bedroom unbearably warm, but weather apps don't lie and when my phone informed me it was minus nine degrees early this morning my motivation to unfold my stiff limbs and fire up my creaking joints and actually go outside was decidedly low. By the time nature convinced me to either move or face a nasty pile of laundry, I had missed my usual class. I settled in with some Advil and coffee and tart cherry juice and omega-3 supplements and hoped my joints would be sufficiently greased for me to face the ten thirty advanced session. My knees and elbows ached just thinking about it.
By ten fifteen the temperature had risen to minus four -- doubled, actually, if you look at the numbers in the most positive light -- and I pushed myself out the door. One of the nice things about upper level yoga classes is all the wacky and often mismatched attire. This group has attained a level of spirituality that transcends fashionable health club clothing; sure, the Lululemon insignia makes more than a sporadic appearance, but all brands are welcome and often clash in amicable coexistence on the same body. It's all about openness and flexibility.
The very pregnant instructor whose class I had missed was already on her mat, her massive belly somehow leaving her equilibrium miraculously intact. The tall, quirky blond whose classes have become my favorite set her mat down right behind mine. I run into her everywhere these days, so I suppose it makes sense I would run into her at yoga. We have recognized in each other a strong spiritual connection, based in part on our ridiculous winter headgear and in part on our shared affinity for butter on our bagels. And, as it turns out, chocolate donuts. No cream cheese, no granola. Our bond is rare and special. She greeted me in code: "Hey, butter."
The energy in the room was contagious, the kind of energy you get when you are surrounded by people who know their craft. The tacos just taste better when the people at the other tables are Mexican. The instructor is lithe and striking, with black hair and alabaster skin. She speaks with authority and intelligence, and glides around the room like a ballerina. Under normal circumstances, I would despise her, but her class is like a gift. She started us out slowly, aware of the physical and mental effort it took for most of us to get there. Twenty minutes into it, when she had us stretching and contorting ourselves into unlikely poses, I had forgotten about the bone chilling cold, forgotten about my frustrations with work, forgotten about how lonely this first winter in an empty nest can be sometimes. Oh, I would pay for that extra deep twist, that extra long lunge, that exaggerated back bend later, but for an hour and fifteen minutes I became lost in the connectedness of my mind and my body and the illusion that anything was possible.
Everyone, it seemed, had become similarly lost, so much so that the instructor began to make fun of us. Our silence, our seriousness, our deep concentration -- she couldn't take it anymore. She coaxed us into a crazy balancing pose, making it more and more impossible every few seconds. "It's just yoga!" she said. "Would someone just fall already, maybe crack up?" We all laughed. A few of us toppled, some with embarrassing thuds. We continued on, still all enjoying the solitude of our own mind body connection, but enjoying, too, the support and companionship of like minded folks who fought against their own instincts to get there. We fell down, we pulled ourselves up. Or maybe pulled each other up. A feeling of wellness spread throughout the room, spread, well, like butter.
Lots of us have sleepless nights, for reasons that may not make sense to anyone else but certainly make sense to us. February in the northern half of the northern hemisphere is anything but pleasant, and contrary to the old adage, at least in my case, misery does not love company. I prefer to be miserable alone, which may be good for my friends who don't have to listen to my whining but isn't so good for me on a regular basis.
I expected nothing more from yoga today than survival and a feeling of satisfaction that comes from doing something. After all, it's just yoga. I reassured myself on the way in that I had the rest of the day to wallow in my own miseries, away from the crowd. But I pushed my envelope a little bit and stumbled a few times and got up just as many times and even gave myself a break from the action once or twice without feeling like a failure.
And I enjoyed some good alone time with my mind and body while I enjoyed the energy and companionship of other like minded people. People who wear mismatched gym clothes and funny hats and like butter on their bagels.
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