First Dog of the Day

I flung myself out of bed on this wet, foggy morning and went to Shambhala Yoga Center (it's hard for me to write that, or say it, without thinking of Three Dog Night). The studio had become sort of my new best friend, but lately I've been ignoring its siren call.

On my way, I walked past Yanarella's dance school across the street, where tiny ballerinas and their stage-door moms were arriving for class. It was 9:00 AM on Saturday, so these girls were hardcore bunheads. Their dedication inspired me. It also reminded me of the thousands of hours I clocked at Eleanor Connell's School of Dance in New Jersey, when I thought I wanted to be all that.

I'm not sure what I wanted. I started when I was 4 as a way to straighten my knock knees and pidgeon-toes. Shockingly, my secret ambivalence toward the artform lasted through 20 years of study. It's really this chapter of my life that forever shaped my attitude toward organized athletics of any kind. It's love-hate. I'm a defiantly lazy girl, yet still unable to last a week without a dose of pain-inducing physical exertion.

Which brings me back to this morning. Yoga has changed my life. M.P. took me to my first class 11 years ago. At the time I thought that, with my background, the practice would flow easily but it took many years and different styles of teaching for me to be any good or achieve any benefits. I am still uncomfortable with the chanting and meditation but sanskrit is an absolutely beautiful language and you can be assured whatever the translation, it's ultimately about love and tolerance.

One of the most important things I've learned and what I try very hard to communicate to friends who are justifiably turned off by the more cliche aspects of this community, is that if you ever encounter what is referred to as a creepy yoga girl/guy (CYG), ignore them. Their smug self-aggrandizing is not only distracting, it's anathema to the practice. One of my worst social experiences in recent memory is, surprisingly, when I attended the Yoga Journal Conference this year. More CYGs in one room than any rational person could tolerate. Even the smallest pearl of yogic wisdom came with a price tag. The guest instructors may as well have been reality TV hosts and, frankly, they were exalted in that way. I'll never go again.

The very nature of yoga and the rewards that come from practicing it demand consistency and dedication. And it gets more of that from me than anything else in my life--although not so much lately, for possible reasons I've already discussed. Sure, I'm pleased with the physical results, but it's the constant verbal coaching, the repetition of the tenets of non-attachment that has kept me from going completely bonkers. There have been classes in which I feel almost romantic love for my instructor.

I like what I become in yoga class, which is very different from any dance instruction I've ever taken. Boxing's pretty good, too, but that's because you get to beat the shit out of stuff. The process begins even before I get to the studio, when I'm at home getting dressed and planning for the time. Upon arrival into this urban sanctuary, I pretend that I'm a person who is always calm and spiritually-devoted. Everyone becomes polite and respectful, if they weren't already. The cell phones get turned off and tucked away. Most everyday sounds are left waiting outside the door.

I become more accepting of my own and other's limitations, which conversely creates more space. The less I think about pain, the less it exists. I become a better listener. Today my teacher kept saying "prepare in your mind for the next pose." Think first about your next move, so that you can complete it with the fullest integrity (words to live by). I breathe so much more deeply that my lungs pop like the opening of a bendy straw. The bones in my chest actually crack open. In yogic terms, this is referred to as the anahata chakra, the heart center.

S. was right. I am glad I went. Namaste.