The only way I can make it to my Monday yoga class on time is if I wear my yoga clothes under my work attire and strip off the outer layer as I’m getting out of the car.
I’ve got to dodge chit-chatting co-workers, skip my usual after-work bread store stop, and yesterday, when icy roads added a few minutes to the drive (and necessitated both hands on the wheel), I even had to forego my snack.
It’s so worth all the hassle. I just love exploring the mind-body interface, whether that‘s seeking strength in stillness or peace amid the turbulence of boat pose.
I’m laughably bad at this sort of thing. Besides my astounding stiffness, I’m an erratic breather. But the teacher — whose name I don’t recall, perhaps because I’ve never arrived early enough to hear her introductory remarks — is incredibly understanding and nonjudgmental. And every once in a while, she’ll have us move into a pose that I can almost sort of do.
But even when I’m way off the mark, when I’m just going through the motions, it feels like I’m getting better acquainted with my body.
I can’t exactly say that I feel refreshed afterward, the way I do after aerobic exercise. But I do feel a sense of exploration, of discovery, that all too often eludes a “try-hard” like me.