Yogini Again

Most people, I understand, will not be unduly disappointed if they are unable to wrap their feet behind their head.

Most people who know me know that is not the case where I am concerned.

Once upon a time, I lived in Los Angeles, a hotbed of uber-yoga, a place where classes constantly challenged me and no one looked askance when I wandered the aisles of Trader Joe's in stained yoga pants and hair dried into clumps from the sweat. I could take classes whenever I wanted -- no baby, frequently no job, no need to pay because I was an instructor.

Under these circumstances it becomes possible to devote one's life to following the path of yoga. Or at least the parts of the path that one can follow while still living a semi-normal, consumerist life with a sane, non-yoga-addicted spouse.

Ironically, my path led me to a life stripped of yoga classes.

First it was our move to Long Beach. I sampled a few studios and felt lost without the familiar comforts and challenges of the Center for Yoga on Larchmont. I did a little teaching in the ghettoized afternoons before the popular post-work class, but the connection just wasn't there. For a time I drove up to L.A. a couple of times a week for my mysore class, but everyone knows that yoga and L.A. freeways just don't mix.

Then there was the pregnancy. I put together a lovely little practice for myself. Alone. In a room so small I had to take care not to smash my face on the dresser as I bowed in my sun salutations.

Which was fine until it came time for the post-pregnancy yoga. Any new mother who has tried to get back to her yoga practice will recognize these popular offerings: The When Is There Ever Time??? yoga. The What Is That Blobby Thing Between My Swollen Breasts and My Varicose Vein-Covered Legs??? yoga. The I'm So Tired I Think I'll Take a Nap on the Yoga Mat yoga.

It's been eleven months now since I ignored all the medical advice to take it easy for a few weeks after birth and did a defiant bound twisted high lunge in the living room when my mother-in-law was visiting her two-week-old grandson. And while I now have a lovely large room in which to practice my yoga and a view of the trees outside the windows as I bow in my sun salutations and ceilings high enough that I can circle my arms and gather energy instead of bruised knuckles, my practice is not what it once was.

As I mentioned, I miss being able to put my feet behind my head.

Yes, I know the yogi thing to do would be to respect my body's limitations and their precious cause. And, to be perfectly clear, it was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it.

But I miss that clarity of purpose that yoga brought to my life. I miss wanting to eat healthy foods because I can honestly feel the difference. I miss the certainty of following my heart because I know what my heart really wants.

Hubby tells me I need to go to yoga classes.

I answer that he is stoned if he thinks I have time for yoga classes.

He offers to juggle his schedule so he can watch The Boy while I go to yoga classes.

I say, "Mmhmm" and turn on Reno 911 because I know it will distract him.

I did try a few Asheville studios a few times.

On my birthday, soon after we arrived in Asheville, I went to an all levels yoga class at a cozy little studio in funky West Asheville. It was nice to hear music other than one of the three Krishna Das CD's I faithfully put on when I practice at home. And the teacher was a lovely person with whom I will, one day, I promised both her and myself, go to a meditation practice. (You think I need it??) But sore muscles were not had.

Last month I ventured to a class of something called anahata yoga. The teacher said some nice things about energy but I didn't have to summon a whole lot of it to make it through class.

My options, it seemed, were dwindling.

On a visit to Asheville a couple years ago I took a class at a very scary studio where overly tanned, too-thin, suburban-looking fifty-year-olds kicked my butt in shoulder stand and the teacher frightened Hubby by changing clothes in front of an office window under which Hubby and his brother were parked. I was not anxious to return.

Which left me with . . . only a studio close to me and promising some tough classes.

I begged off because they heat the classes to 80 degrees and I have low blood pressure and a tendency to faint in steam saunas. I moaned about their schedule and my limited time and the fact that I can no longer put my feet behind my head.

And yesterday I went to a class there.

I sweated. I shook. I did not faint.

Today I am taking my sore butt back and buying a one-month unlimited pass.

I have studied the schedule and underlined all the classes I might take in order to make a one-month unlimited pass an economical choice. Most of the classes I have underlined start at noon. This means that I sit unshowered doing a few hours of work in the morning, go to a yoga class during the heart of the day when normal people are eating lunch or plugging away at a juicy work project or doing something that does not involve getting sweaty and sore, and take a shower at two o'clock in the afternoon. And I can't remember why, a few days ago, such a schedule didn't make sense to me.

Which just proves how great this yoga studio is. Because plainly it has me back on the path, where my days are, naturally, structured around my yoga practice.