By Deborah Shouse
I tried yoga once but took off for the mall halfway through class, as I had a sudden craving for a soft pretzel and world peace.
~Terri Guillemets
I walked in and unfolded my yoga mat like a matador unfurling her cape. I looked in the mirror and dared myself to stay in this room for the whole ninety minutes. Already, the heat coaxed out sweat on my arms and behind my knees. I was thirsty and I was wondering why I had thought I was capable of doing Bikram (or "hot") yoga.
I tried yoga once but took off for the mall halfway through class, as I had a sudden craving for a soft pretzel and world peace.
~Terri Guillemets
I walked in and unfolded my yoga mat like a matador unfurling her cape. I looked in the mirror and dared myself to stay in this room for the whole ninety minutes. Already, the heat coaxed out sweat on my arms and behind my knees. I was thirsty and I was wondering why I had thought I was capable of doing Bikram (or "hot") yoga.
Every year, I like to try a different physical activity, something I'm not good at. When I first heard about "hot yoga," I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to spend ninety minutes in a room heated to 108 degrees, rapidly going through a routine of yoga poses. The yoga classes I had taken long ago were slow and contemplative; the teachers were intuitive and experimental in choosing the next poses. There was a gentle flow, punctuated by breaks and conversation.
The Bikram method featured the same twenty-six poses every session with no time for anything but focus and concentration.
"You'll love it," my friend Liza had promised me. I loved the introductory price -- $10 for as many classes as I wanted to take in ten days.
The teacher entered the room and everyone rose. Feet together, arms by our sides, we stood like well-behaved schoolchildren ready to walk to lunch. Listening to her instructions, we interlaced our fingers, folded our hands under our chins, pressed our arms together, and began with breathing. Then we moved into stretching, knee bending, and balancing postures. I wobbled; I shook; I fumbled. The heat, which was supposed to help deepen stretching as well as cleanse organs, was wiping me out. I felt woozy, dizzy and dumb. Halfway through the class, I fled the room.
"How did you like it?" Liza called to ask later that evening.
"It was terrible. I was terrible," I told her.
"You're just not used to it. You need the point system. You get fifty points just for showing up. You get another forty points if you stay in the room for the whole session. Even if you're lying down half the time, you still get those forty points. Then you get another ten points for trying the poses."
She knew me too well. I liked the idea of amassing points. I liked the idea of measuring myself. I wanted to achieve at least ninety points before I quit.
I went a second time, determined to stay in the room. Only two poses in, I already felt dizzy. I lay on my mat, embarrassed by my weakness.
"Look in the mirror. Keep focused on yourself," the teacher advised. "Breathe. Breathing is the most important component of this practice."
I stood up to rejoin the group. I looked at myself and sent an affirmation: "You are very brave." I realized just how brave I was when my attention wandered and I saw I was the least supple person in the class.
To touch the floor, I had to bend my knees. My backward bend was a slight lean. When everyone else was gracefully curling her spine upward from the floor, I was barely raising my head. I had never been so inept in such plain view of so many people. "Don't judge yourself," the teacher said. "Just try your best."
My best at that point was sitting down again while the class went into another stretching pose. I dabbed at the sweat, then stood up to do the Tree, a balancing posture I'd done at home, a posture I was usually good at. But instead of posing as a graceful willow, I stumbled across my mat like a piece of tumbleweed.
Each pose seemed harder than the next. I felt like an awkward crow among lovely, lithe finches.
Then I reminded myself that this was a spiritual practice as well as a physical workout. I was an acolyte seeking knowledge.
Somehow I stayed in the room the whole ninety minutes, although I was flat on the mat during a third of the poses. Still, at the end, when we all lay on our backs, relaxing and letting the benefits of the exercise come deeper into our bodies, I felt a small sense of calm and accomplishment.
The next class, I managed to try every exercise.
I called Liza to report my progress.
"You have 100 points," she said. "You should be so proud."
I was. Too proud, perhaps. Three classes later, during the one-legged tree pose, I peeked over at the strapping strong man next to me and noticed I was better at balancing then he was. I smiled inwardly and instantly fell out of the posture. My friend hadn't mentioned deducting points for competitiveness and comparisons: the yoga practice took care of that.
"What's the rest of the point system?" I asked Liza, two months into my practice. "Do I get points when I learn to do the Camel? What about the Crow? That arm balance looks really difficult."
Liza smiled at me and shook her head.
"What's really difficult is now to let go of achievement and just enjoy where you are in the practice."
I stared at her. "I'm terrible. I still can't touch my toes. My chair posture looks like a bar stool."
"Are you showing up? Are you breathing?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Then enjoy the process."
That Saturday, walking into the warm studio, I felt a sense of humility, joy and ease. Though my body was slow to show improvement, something inside me was blossoming. I liked being in a roomful of people of all ages and all different types of bodies and abilities, each of us pursuing the same spiritual and physical practice. I liked leaving more emotionally flexible and more relaxed, knowing that no matter how deeply I stretched or how aptly I balanced, I still had so far to go and so much to learn.
The Bikram method featured the same twenty-six poses every session with no time for anything but focus and concentration.
"You'll love it," my friend Liza had promised me. I loved the introductory price -- $10 for as many classes as I wanted to take in ten days.
The teacher entered the room and everyone rose. Feet together, arms by our sides, we stood like well-behaved schoolchildren ready to walk to lunch. Listening to her instructions, we interlaced our fingers, folded our hands under our chins, pressed our arms together, and began with breathing. Then we moved into stretching, knee bending, and balancing postures. I wobbled; I shook; I fumbled. The heat, which was supposed to help deepen stretching as well as cleanse organs, was wiping me out. I felt woozy, dizzy and dumb. Halfway through the class, I fled the room.
"How did you like it?" Liza called to ask later that evening.
"It was terrible. I was terrible," I told her.
"You're just not used to it. You need the point system. You get fifty points just for showing up. You get another forty points if you stay in the room for the whole session. Even if you're lying down half the time, you still get those forty points. Then you get another ten points for trying the poses."
She knew me too well. I liked the idea of amassing points. I liked the idea of measuring myself. I wanted to achieve at least ninety points before I quit.
I went a second time, determined to stay in the room. Only two poses in, I already felt dizzy. I lay on my mat, embarrassed by my weakness.
"Look in the mirror. Keep focused on yourself," the teacher advised. "Breathe. Breathing is the most important component of this practice."
I stood up to rejoin the group. I looked at myself and sent an affirmation: "You are very brave." I realized just how brave I was when my attention wandered and I saw I was the least supple person in the class.
To touch the floor, I had to bend my knees. My backward bend was a slight lean. When everyone else was gracefully curling her spine upward from the floor, I was barely raising my head. I had never been so inept in such plain view of so many people. "Don't judge yourself," the teacher said. "Just try your best."
My best at that point was sitting down again while the class went into another stretching pose. I dabbed at the sweat, then stood up to do the Tree, a balancing posture I'd done at home, a posture I was usually good at. But instead of posing as a graceful willow, I stumbled across my mat like a piece of tumbleweed.
Each pose seemed harder than the next. I felt like an awkward crow among lovely, lithe finches.
Then I reminded myself that this was a spiritual practice as well as a physical workout. I was an acolyte seeking knowledge.
Somehow I stayed in the room the whole ninety minutes, although I was flat on the mat during a third of the poses. Still, at the end, when we all lay on our backs, relaxing and letting the benefits of the exercise come deeper into our bodies, I felt a small sense of calm and accomplishment.
The next class, I managed to try every exercise.
I called Liza to report my progress.
"You have 100 points," she said. "You should be so proud."
I was. Too proud, perhaps. Three classes later, during the one-legged tree pose, I peeked over at the strapping strong man next to me and noticed I was better at balancing then he was. I smiled inwardly and instantly fell out of the posture. My friend hadn't mentioned deducting points for competitiveness and comparisons: the yoga practice took care of that.
"What's the rest of the point system?" I asked Liza, two months into my practice. "Do I get points when I learn to do the Camel? What about the Crow? That arm balance looks really difficult."
Liza smiled at me and shook her head.
"What's really difficult is now to let go of achievement and just enjoy where you are in the practice."
I stared at her. "I'm terrible. I still can't touch my toes. My chair posture looks like a bar stool."
"Are you showing up? Are you breathing?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Then enjoy the process."
That Saturday, walking into the warm studio, I felt a sense of humility, joy and ease. Though my body was slow to show improvement, something inside me was blossoming. I liked being in a roomful of people of all ages and all different types of bodies and abilities, each of us pursuing the same spiritual and physical practice. I liked leaving more emotionally flexible and more relaxed, knowing that no matter how deeply I stretched or how aptly I balanced, I still had so far to go and so much to learn.
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