Yoga. I’ve done it. Four times. And sure, I’ve enjoyed it each time. Taking a class once a week isn’t turning me into a Yogi anytime soon. I’m not quitting. Don’t fret. Don’t get your little leotard in a bunch. Don’t go all warrior pose on me. I like it. It makes me feel longer. It gives my third eye purpose. It offers glimpses towards the day when I will have control, somewhat, over my branium. It gives me the faintest notion of what mind, body, soul could mean, possibly, at some point in the terribly distant futureUnderstand, I’m inflexible to say the least. I’m like elastic if elastic was concrete. I’m malleable like a church pew. My hamstrings creak like an attic floor board at the slightest folding of my waist. And while the waist doesn’t fold as neatly as it once did, it doesn’t need to because the hammies won’t allow it. My hips give ball-and-socket joints a bad name. My shoulders should be called levers and my back, well, I just discovered I have one.
As much of an obstacle as my rigidity presents to my yoga progression, it is the reason I’m taking classes. And so I diligently grunt and grind almost and nearly into these alien-like positions. And as a newbie, I scope the room for guidance and direction in my feeble and ill-fated attempts at mimicking poses that themselves mimic every creature that’s every walked the earth. I know I should be breathing deeply and putting all daily-inspired thoughts aside, but I’m still at the stage where I can’t help but think that child’s pose would be more aptly named The Fart Cannon. As much as I should be focusing on a spot in front of me and timing my movements to start and finish along with my inhales or exhales, I can’t help but think that down dog could come in very handy, but she’d have to be strong and on the shorter side.
If you’re not familiar with yoga, you should know that for the souls-of-stiffness blocks are supplied that save you those extra six to nine inches of lean giving beginners a much needed break from the inevitable muscle-ripping that would ensue had you jumped head first into the deep end of the yoga pool. These blocks are no saving grace, but more like a “rubba-dub-dub thanks for the grub” before dinner at a god-fearer’s home. In other words, you still hurt even with a block under your arms, elbows, ass or back – the side of my body I recently discovered.
As I said, I’ve been to Yoga four times. More than enough visits to the temple for my ego and competitive nature to take hold. Granted, it might be akin to a kindergartener’s determination solve that F’ing bitch of a riddle that is the shoelace, but I entered this class determined to make progress. Not leaps or bounds. No breakthroughs or momentous strides forward. But progress as defined by me – mind, body and soul.
Class beings with a directive. Directive number one, find yourself in starting position – Succasunna, otherwise known as Indian style. Mind you, the last time I successfully folded myself into this position was within a stone’s throw of the fourth grade. Maybe sixth. Certainly no later. Say, some twenty-two to twenty-five years ago was the last time anyone has ever seen yours truly sit Indian style and I can bet I was none-too-happy about it even then. In the ensuing decades, it isn’t like I haven’t tried, attempted, struggled, to fold leg over leg, widen the hips and sit for more than one millisecond with heels tucked. One millisecond being a lofty goal to shoot for even as my twenties approached. With my failure grew indifference and with age grew my inability to even conceptualize my hips and hammies allowing this position, let alone achieving it.
Oddly, this is a classic position of which everyone knows and one in which most every girl is able to sit in, seemingly comfortably. I suspect no balls has something to do with it. In any case, the oddity of Indian style is that it is semi-entertaining to watch uber-taut guys at some degree of advanced age attempting to conjure their days of yore by landing, if ever so fleetingly, in the Indian Style position. Trust me. Ask your dad or husband to do it and try not laughing. That’s just how it is with Indian Style.
As was the case on Yoga class visits one through three, I sat with a block under my “sit-bones” to ease the stress on the hips and reduce the angle of incidence necessary to get one leg over the next and heels locked in. This was not the case on Yoga class four.
You’re doubtlessly getting whiffs of the odorific stank of break-through wafting towards you from the end of this tale. Inhale deeply my friend and smell the smell of break through.
Forged with determination and focus, I placed my “sit-bones” directly on my yoga mat and demanded of myself that I get into fucking Indian position even if it meant tearing ligament away from bone. As I always have done, and has always come naturally, I folded my left leg easily into position. Sure, I hadn’t done anything, but it was a start. Next, I lifted my right leg and bent my knee. It was folded into a position that would sure have tucked neatly into place, if my hip would have cooperated. Plan b involved lifting my right heel and forcefully pulling it towards my pelvis. And while my hip flinched a millimeter or two, my knee yelped audibly and the outside of my hamstring mocked me by sending a warm rush of pain from hip to ankle.
Sweating. Hurting a bit. Plan C was hatched. With left leg folded and heel in hand, I rocked back, leaning deeply onto my left hip and pulled with all of my focused, third eye inspired strength. Need I say the only success I had was in rolling myself onto my back? Need I describe the reaction of the others?
Yes, I had given up. Though I wasn’t upset about it, nor embarrassed. Not after class three when The Fart Cannon got its name. I was simply satisfied with my effort and we were about to move onto the next position I didn’t have a spec of a chance at landing.
However! And whether I had subconsciously connected with the earth’s energy, or whether it was my body lending my mind a hand (figuratively), I don’t know and I don’t care to know. Because just as we were about to move to the next pose, my legs inexplicably repositioned themselves. I watched with a disconnected curiosity as my right leg folded itself first and my left leg lifted easily over it and slid into position. Heels locked. My heels fucking locked! What the fuck? And I was only in moderate pain.
Now, I’m sure this is not the essence of yoga or maybe it is. I truly have no clue. What I do know is that from the sixth grade on I’ve tried unsuccessfully, several times, to sit Indian style and I’ve attempted it the same way each and every time. Right over left. Right over left never worked and I never even contemplated that their might be a different way. Say, left over right? Maybe that would work?
Mind you, I had nothing to do with it other then the fact that these were my legs involved. It was voluntarily involuntary. It was consciously unconscious. And I’m not saying it was a greater power lording over me. I’m not saying that I’m the Zen Buddha. I’m just saying that it’s amazing the level of stupidity that I can sometimes attain. This time, pleasantly so.
Smell the sweet scent of breakthrough, do ya?
