experiences: summertime yoga

(from NamWizard on flickr)

Yoga is, in my belief, one of the best things you can do for yourself. Not only is it a good workout, strengthening the core and toning muscles, but it is also a test of emotional stamina. Finding balance, in many poses, requires immense concentration and focus. The end of the practice is both a relief and a moment of suspension. You have finished the workout, but you have not yet rejoined the world outside the yoga studio. The real world. It's a very pure, raw moment.

I went to candlelit yoga tonight, by myself. It's rare that I go to the studio by myself; yoga has become a very social "sport," if you will, the "cool" thing to do. But tonight I mustered up enough motivation to go alone. Summertime yoga is intense. The heat and humidity of the day weigh heavily in the air, and once 60+ bodies begin to move in sync, sweat droplets begin to form. They grow bigger during chair pose, forming rivulets that run down the back, the face, the bare legs. I used to hate breaking a sweat--but now it feels good. It feels good to know that my body is working, and it feels like I am doing something good for my body.

What is wonderful about yoga, at least the way it is practiced at the studio I go to, is that you can go at your own pace. You can take a break when you need to (and boy, did I need to). You can make any sorts of weird noises that you want. When the going gets rough, it is so liberating to be able to release a huge sigh or groan and not be judged for it.

The last few minutes of class find me practically glued to the mat, panting. We are able to take these last moments and go into any pose we'd like--so I go into my supported shoulderstand. My body is tired, dripping with sweat, but my pose is unfaltering. My concentration has not yet been broken. Finally, the teacher opens the windows, and a cool breeze comes floating through the room, and with it, some raindrops and relief. A quote is read:

"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves."
-from Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver

Together, we breathe one last breath. As we exhale, the Tibetan singing bowls are played, and the sound rings and echoes in my head for a few seconds after the teacher has stopped. The first few notes of an Iron & Wine song come floating from the speakers in the back, and the first few tears from a hidden well in the back, somewhere, float their way down my face.