Have you ever attended a yoga session? Does bikram, ashtanga, up dog, lotus, tree, warrior, namaste, orujjayi mean anything to you? Or do you think yoga is a quack trend for health freaks? Or maybe something else entirely? Well whatever you answered know that this is not a story about the greatness of yoga practice (although I happen to think it is quite beneficial). More importantly, this is a story about how a 90-minute class transformed hate and loathing into gut-punching self realization.
For those not familiar with yoga, it is the practice of controlled breathing while holding and transitioning between poses, and isolating various areas of the body and the corresponding mental processes. All of which is considered physical and mental preparation for the end goal of meditation.
And here's another tidbit: Yoga is not only known throughout the world for its physical and mental benefits but is also a cash cow. In a 2009 Forbes article the annual reported revenue of yoga in the US was 5.7 billion dollars in 2008. That's billion with a B! That includes studio memberships, teacher trainings, certifications, apparel, accessories, retreats, etc. And that's not even considering the health food tie-ins. There's even an inside joke among yogis--those that practice yoga--about meeting or running into each other at Whole Foods Market after a class. Haven't you seen the Youtube videos?
Now for my story: My latest yoga session came on a beautiful sunny day with 70 degree weather. Not that I was able to enjoy this weather during practice being that it was indoors, but it does fit into my story regarding why the following events took place. Like every session I attend there is a level of expectation; not in the sense that I want to get something out of it, but more in the sense that like anything one does, elements of one's experience become commonplace, and thus predictable. Think I'm wrong? Ask yourself how much of your day is framed by routine, whether induced by yourself or an external factor such as your job. The way I see it, we begin to need predictability in order to understand our world. We're really all philosophers on some level. So predictably, I considered this session to be what other 90-minutes sessions had taught me: that a hot and sweaty experience would leave me temporarily purged of my most recent conflictions.
Ironically I came unprepared. There's 3 things I always bring to a hot yoga class: mat, "yogi toes" (a frictionless clothe overlay that help absorbs sweat), and water bottle. I forgot to dry my yogi toes the night before. So when getting ready to leave, I went to the laundry room only to find that it was still damp; left in the washer. So I had to make do. Instead I brought a hand towel thinking that I could wipe away the sweat on the mat as I practiced. This was a gross miscalculation.
When I entered the studio it was already quite hot; more than usual. I supposed that this was heat generated from the previous class. However as the session progressed, the instructor made no effort to reduce the temperature. Most classes' temperature sits around 93 degrees, today's was well over that. Thirty-minutes into the class it felt like 100.
Trying to focus on breathing and my poses, I noticed that my mat was quickly accumulating a pool of my own sweat. I began to diligently swab the areas where I placed my hands and feet but this became futile when I realized I was spending more time swabbing and less time yogiing. Distraction is the force that keeps one from the balance we seek on the mat. I was now entering that arena.
As the session continued anger began to build. Why was I so stupid to forget to dry my yogi toes! I thought. As my mat reached its sweat capacity my hands and feet squeaked with every move. How embarrassing. I began to curse the yoga instructor for allowing the temperature to rise to this point of exhaustion.
I looked at my water bottle. It was empty. Shit! I thought. Now I had to leave and get more water. I was ambivalent. To get water would mean I could release myself from this this self-ridicule for a moment but not without acknowledging to myself and everyone else that I giving in. This was ironic since at this point I was already taking child's pose--an inverted resting position--more than actually following along with the group. Pride. Vanity.
Water bottle refilled I made my way back to the studio only to find another student resting outside the door. We exchanged looks and commiserated. Yeah it was damn hot in there we both agreed. Was the instructor a sadist? I decided to man up and re-enter.
Five minutes later and re-synchronized with the class, I had drunk half of my water. The pool on my mat had now moved onto the floor, passed my mat and almost onto the yogi next to me. Grrr! I thought, this is stupid why subject myself to this! And what the hell is wrong with this instructor!? Did she get joy out of the fact that half of her class was comatose already? I understand the logic of the yoga practice and the instructor to a certain degree--overcome adversity on your mat and you can overcome anything--but this is crazy! And then it hit me. SNAP!
Like a 2x4 to the head I realized (like most periods of self-realization) that I was only doing this to myself. That I was only experiencing this for myself. Not one single other yogi could claim to be experiencing the EXACT same thing I was. Nor could I do the same for them. I was projecting all of my inner destruction outward instead of letting it pass into the ephemeral abyss of relative thinking. Every emotion, every movement, every breath was a simulation of the real world. My mat was a microcosm of my life. Pushed to the limit I was susceptible to anger, loathing, self-ridicule, and isolation. Did my instructor know she was a genius? On some level she knew that we would need to be pushed much harder today.
On a beautiful spring day, when throngs of people escaped their artificial air-circulated cubicles; rubbing and readjusting their eyes from the tungsten-lighted catacombs they emerged onto to the day with hope that the world was inviting them out for a time of frolic. Yet yoga students found their way back inside for a period of self-discipline and evaluation. This act of our fortitude speaks volumes for the ways in which we live our lives. Not to say that those not yogiing are lesser in some way, but as yogis are concerned we need more from life. A sunny day is wonderful and will be appreciated, but our discipline grounds us in yoga practice come rain or shine. Or maybe we're just insane.
Insane or not. Our instructor knew the score: a beautiful day called for a beautiful practice. And a beautiful practice equated to the hottest yoga session in years. Can you push yourself to meet your own expectations? Well until the 2x4 I didn't. So the worst yoga class offered up enough wisdom to put in my back pocket for another day. Of course on the sunny ones I will remember to bring my yogi toes.
J.M.
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