I used to do yoga. I loved it. Well... sometimes during the class I hated it, but then loved it so much after that I would forget I hated it.
I think I miss yoga mostly because goes against everything that is natural within me. And for 90 minutes a week, that might be just what I need. A little swim upstream to shake me awake from what is usual and expected of me.
Last week a friend of mine asked me to go to a new yoga class. Our old teacher had fallen in love (with a tree, or some pretty rock formation, no doubt) and moved away to get married. She promised the new teacher was comparable to the former teacher who we both had swooned over. And by swoon, I do hope you know I mean, we loved him for his impeccable sirsasana and peace chants.
This new class started with 10 minutes of meditation--or in non-yoga terms; awkward silent sitting. 10 minutes may not seem that bad, but just try sitting completely silent for two, even three minutes.
After meditation, we did the normal yoga stuff. Dogs (downward and upward), pigeons, and warriors. You know the drill.
After the usual stuff of yoga was over, the class came to an end. Which means savasana. Aaaaah, the celestial nap that marks the end of suffering. This savasana was so welcomed that at one point I had to pick my consciousness up off the floor, give it a good smack on the hinny to make sure I was awake. I actually had a moment of panic thinking that I may have drifted off into a deep
I wasn't. This time.