Les is More

I've been absent, stressed, overwhelmed and sick. At such times, the yoga mat should be a magnet, a dumping ground -- one of those newfangled mats on which you place your cellphone and it magically recharges to reconnect you to the universe.

I don't know whether I didn't want to connect, or I was so depleted that I couldn't, but for months, now, I have avoided my practice, all the while knowing it was the one thing that would calm my roiling mind.

I lost any sense of my body, and soon began to be at odds with it. When I wasn't focused on a specific task like dishes or taxes, I was scolding myself for being fat, out of shape, flabby, lazy and a big, giant larva-like loser. It got so bad that there wasn't a second -- no matter what was going on - when I wasn't actively hating myself, the self-loathing playing like a bass line under the melody of the moment.

Not that I wasn't accomplishing things. In fact, I've been changing my life, transforming my work, doing a huge volunteer service to my coop and, oh yeah, Jeff and I got married on November 12, after 12 years together. I have three book proposals in various stages, sold an article to O Magazine, was published in the WGA's Written By, and made my own wedding dress by hand, every stitch, every bead. I have managed, after several tries, to make it through Zoloft withdrawal -- which is patently horrible, but I am finally free of SSRIs and hoping my metabolism appreciates the effort. If only we could pay the rent...

But hard times are no excuse. Yoga is available for free. I have four mats, two blocks, a belt, an Iyengar yoga chair, a host of dvds and a chorus of teachers' voices in my head. How did I get so steadfastly in my own way?

I've mentioned before that my favorite class of the week is Sherman Morris's Saturday morning power class at Yogaworks Westside. Every Saturday morning for the past few months, I've laid in bed mentally going over chaturanga, and concluded that my body could not possibly accomplish it in my current state of decay. The thought of holding myself up was exhausting and impossible. So I ignored my friends' urgings to get my butt to class, their worry, their offers to take me to lunch. How could I let anyone see me like this?

All along, though, my higher self knew that the only way out of this depressive stew was to buck up, show up, and breathe.

Yesterday, I did.

I was scared that I would collapse, quivering, on the sweaty floor like a deboned tilapia in a grand mal seizure. That, while adjusting me, Sherman would be unable to restrain an "Ew" as my free-roaming fat rolls rearranged themselves. That I would cry... or die.

I gave myself permission to put my knees down in chaturanga, and to take basic variations if necessary. I hid behind my friend Taylor, rather than claiming my preferred place beside her at the front of the class. Butterflies squaredanced in my stomach.

But when Sherman walked into the room, I instantly felt like I was in the right place for the first time in more than three months (even if my mat wouldn't lie flat for being rolled up so long). From the very first plank pose, I couldn't stop grinning. And when he instructed us to chaturanga, it happened. I took the pose without thought, and it felt amazing. I hadn't lost everything.

I began to sweat out the credit card companies who call me five times a day as if that will fatten my bank account, my anger at a bullying colleague, my concern for my extended family, the dream job I'm waiting to hear about, and my recitative of self-loathing. With every breath, I felt my heart open a little more, and my worries lose their power. Overweight or not, I was still strong, flexible, resilient and surprised.

Inversions were a different story. I couldn't remember how to get my hips over my shoulders. I couldn't process the physics. I was afraid. At first I couldn't decide which inversion I was going to try -- which makes going upside down very dicey. But I pulled out one forearm stand with Sherman's help, and as soon as I got into it -- I found and rearranged my hips, shoulders, upper back, core and head -- and all the reasons I love the practice came flooding back. And nobody said, "Ew." Myself included.

The mat was there for me. And so was my teacher. They had been there all along.

I won't lose my way again.

I, the Disclaimer

I am a disclaimer. I've suspected as much for a while as I noticed myself leading with an excuse at the beginning of any social interaction. This would be especially true for my yoga teacher, Sherman.

"I sprained my ankle." (True, but still...)

"I ate dairy last night." (So what?)

"Work stress." (Who doesn't?)

Who cares?

I would like to feel enough as I am. In yoga, this should be a given. I mean, it is not a competitive sport. I was reminded of that recently when I missed Sherman's class and used the opportunity to practice with Yogi Charu at Pure.

Yogi Charu is completely different in style from Sherman, but awesome in his own right. He leads with the caveat to seek union with your own body -- not someone elses's -- meaning, in this case, not to judge your practice by that of the person next to you or across the studio. I normally don't do that; I stand near the front, so I can't see anyone else, for exactly that reason. After his disclaimer, Charu proceeds with a serious pranayama practice. Then sun and moon salutations and so forth. The class is unique and challenging, and the perfect Sunday morning follow-up to Saturday's Power Yoga.

One warning Pure yogis: If there's a tiny but verbose seventy-ish lady in a purple belly shirt next to you and you are asked to pair up for headstand -- do not make eye contact. That is, unless you think you might enjoy going up into headstand and having her drag your right leg straight out sideways so she can reach your ankle. Then, when you are coming down, she may not let go of said ankle, even when you yell up at her from the floor to do so, and you may wind up coming down on your knee. I'm just sayin'.

Back to I, the Disclaimer. I'm friends with an amazing woman named Yasemin, of whose brilliance, spark and beauty I am in awe. The other night I met her in the backyard and led off with the announcement that I was braindead, preverbal and not firing on all cylinders. I think I actually used all three of those expressions before saying hi. I was feeling very punk, it being my second day off coffee after a longstanding ten cup a day habit. In fact, I considered having my left hand replaced with a cup holder, that's how serious was my addition. So I was hurting when I met up with Yasemin, but she pointed out that I never fail to give the "Leslie Disclaimer" and that I don't need to. She's right, and I was relieved someone finally noticed.

I often wonder if most people walk around feeling awesome all the time. In recent years, I've felt crappy in one way or another pretty constantly . Devastating migraines, a long-undiagnosed eye condition, sore feet (likely from my weight), achy back, allergies, mood swings... a myriad of issues I refuse to chalk up to age in order to give up and self-medicate through the second half of my life. I remember when I felt best -- back when my yoga practice was fierce. So how to get back to that fierce, non-disclaiming self?

The answer, as always, is simple. Go back to the mat.

No disclaiming. And I'm doing an elimination diet for the next three weeks to figure out what's causing all my disparate symptoms. Five days off coffee, I already feel much, much better. No gluten, no dairy, no nightshade vegetables. I'm hoping, now that my coffee withdrawal headache is gone, that the migraines stop. No migraines would mean no migraine medicine and no skipped practices because I'm holding my head on with my bare hands.

One thing is certain: the change in diet has me feeling more centered and far lighter in body as well as in spirit.

I feel like smiling. If giving up eggplant and Subway sandwiches is all I have to do to stay this way, it's worth it.

I'm feeling almost social again.

So, if you catch me disclaiming, be nice, but tell me I don't need to make an excuse for being. That's a habit I certainly don't need.

Outed

I can't do a headstand.

It's true. When I first began to practice yoga eleven years ago, every class wound down with headstand. I was getting close, and then, all of a sudden, headstand was out and everyone was ending class by teaching handstand against the wall. Don't get me started on that.

When I began practicing with Sherman a year ago June, and he taught pincha mayurasana in the center of the room, I decided inversions weren't going to stop me anymore. Like an inchworm I crept up on the pose. Until, a few days ago, Sherman instructed those of us still finding the pose to begin with headstand and then press up into forearm. I froze. He noticed and, from across the room, told me to try it the new way.

I was forced to confess the gaping sirsasana-shaped hole in my practice.

It doesn't make sense that I can't stand on my head at this point. So I decided to go at it with fresh eyes, and asked a friend, the inestimable Taylor Spearnak, for some help before class. For months I've watched her press carefully and deliberately into headstand after class, and I know she practices like a demon at home. A zen demon. She advised me to stay in my tuck for a while. I don't mean a few minutes. More like, a few weeks. I have trouble getting my legs off the ground into the tuck, and I sense that this is because my hips need to be an inch or so further over my shoulders.

I know where I'm going. I've had the feeling of perfect balance, where my feet seem to float off the ground on their own. And I love that feeling of balancing in the full pose -- which is in no way static -- more like a stalk of wheat swaying with the revolution of the earth.

I know where I'm headed. I know the steps necessary to get there. Putting it together has me stuck.

So, Taylor advises me to press down with my wrists and I realize it's not about my literal wrists, but rather the first three or four inches of my forearms. I press down as hard as I can with the "wrists." I remember a tip from Jerry Bianchini, who put a soda bottle a few feet behind my mat for me to focus on while upside down -- because I tend to forget where I am in space like a lost diver, who forgets to follow the bubbles toward the surface. And then Sherman tells me to stay forward on my head (Really?!! Revelation.), and not to grip my hands so tightly together. I tend to clutch my fingers behind my head as if my hands are my brakes, which, in this case, they aren't. The hands don't do much at all -- what a coincidence -- another opportunity to LET GO!

I got into my tuck, balancing, and awesome Taylor screamed like Coach Taylor on Friday Night Lights -- "Suck in your gut! Suck it in! Suck it in!" And I do. The fact that I could find my gut while upside down was a breakthrough. I compacted myself, and remained conscious, all the while balancing on my head. Awesome.

It makes perfect sense that I am challenged by forearm stand. I skipped from A to D. Now I have to go back and fill in B&C. Humbled once again, I meet myself on the mat, the sum of all my teachers. (Whether or not they choose to claim me.)

***********

On another note: I feel like crap. I'm on my third day of a migraine -- it feels as if my brain is sloshing around my skull like the bubble in a carpenter's level.

In addition to the headache, the spots in my vision, and the nausea, I'm battling a heavy case of stinkin' thinkin'. Do any of you walk around the streets -- or drive them -- arguing with people in your head, defending yourself to them, stressing yourself out via your own imagination? If these arguments do come up IN REALITY, it's not like solo practice is going to make any difference. This self-inflicted angst is not doing the pain in my head any good.

I know how to heal myself. Yoga, obviously. I tried today, but left after 55 minutes because the floor was pitching like the deck of a Bering Sea crab boat. I'm already known at Yoga Sutra as The Girl With the Vuvuzuela Fart. I'd hate to be The Girl With the Coconut Water Puke All Over Her Mat. I have enough problems.

But I think my weight is out of control, and the extra 60 pounds hanging off my frame is pulling everything out of whack. Including my spirit. I wish I could just let it be -- I'm proud of myself in most areas of my life these days. But my body? Despite its strength and flexibility, I am ashamed. I never look in a mirror anymore. Sometimes I don't go out because I'm embarrassed about the way I look. It was one thing when I had the stress and demands of writing As the World Turns keeping me in my chair around the clock. That is gone. I'm all out of excuses.

I need to return to the original Yogini Bikini mission. I have 5 months left. And the bikini's still hanging on the closet door.

I have a vision of myself speeding along Manhattan streets on my pretty pink bicycle, sundress blowing out behind me, feeling pretty and free. The dress doesn't fit right now. Most of them don't. And buying new clothes won't help. Anything looks good on a body in balance. And conversely....

I have so much gorgeous fabric waiting just across the room to be made into sundresses for biking, dancing, brunching.

I guess I'm asking for help. I'm not sure what kind of help I need, but I'm hoping you, my friends and readers, have some words of wisdom for me. All comments welcome.

As I start over... again... I thank you for being part of my yoga adventure. Namaste.

The Missing Link

I overslept (again) on Friday morning. Set my alarm for Sherman's class every day last week, and missed every single one. Not all of them due to oversleeping. I'm working on a bunch of projects and sometimes I want to sit and work first thing rather than fight the sidewalks of New York. I practiced in the afternoons instead, and it was nice, for a change of pace.

For months now, I've been toying with the idea of returning to my ashtanga practice. Not replacing Sherman's power yoga class, but supplementing. When I looked at the Pure schedule for Friday afternoon, in search of a class, there it was: 90 minute Led Ashtanga at 5 pm.

I used to practice Mysore-style ashtanga -- a self-practice in a group setting. It's hard and extremely personal. Ideally, you can't fudge anything, because you are alone with your practice, working your way through the series, asana by asana, counting your breaths. I find it deeply centering in the way I find lap swimming centering. As I swim laps, I inevitably find myself counting with each stroke: one, one, one, one. Then two on the second length, and so on. It quiets the noise in my brain. Ashtanga does this, too, as I count one through five breaths in every asana.

My teacher, Christopher Hildebrandt, left Yoga Sutra soon after I farted like a vuvuzuela when he gave me a superhero assist in Marichyasana B. In order to fully grasp the experience as I lived it, you should know that the room was dead silent but for the sound of ujjayi breathing. I crumpled and capitulated: "Oh my God."

"That's what it's for!" Christopher crowed, as if announcing a winning goal.

Never, ever, ever eat sauerkraut at midnight before a 7 a.m. yoga practice.

Needless to say, I have post-traumatic gas issues with finding a new studio for my practice. With the added worry of not remembering the sequence (as if no one else in the room will be doing the same asanas in the same order) -- I hadn't gotten around to trying ashtanga at Pure.

I made it there Friday at five, and the moment the teacher began counting in Sanskrit, it was as if I could here the voices of all my previous teachers calling out "chatwari," and, as if by muscle memory alone, I was in chaturanga, just as I had been thousands of times before. My body and my breath remembered everything. I had missed this practice.

After the practice, in savasana, I felt like my body was more compact -- hugging the midline -- burning away the things I didn't need. I'm sure the extravagant number of twists in the primary series creates this phenomenon. After power yoga, I feel awesome, but because, with Sherman, we do a lot of backbends and arm balances, I feel spent in a different, looser way.

Yesterday, Saturday, I went to Sherman's 11:15 class at Yogaworks -- and I felt strong, still and centered, like I hadn't for a long time, despite the classroom being overcrowded and steamy -- too crowded to work on my forearm stands with confidence, for lack of falling room.

This morning, my quadriceps woke up before I did, then demanded to be heard. Ouch. But it was good to feel them still there, still strong. Between Sherman and ashtanga, I feel balanced -- and stiff -- but as if I've found the missing link in my practice.

Life evolves. Practice evolves. Thank goodness.

I've been feeling a bit lost without my weekly script deadlines to mark the passage of my days, so this week, I've got 7 yoga practices in the book. I'm going to let the daily mat milestone pull me through, and remind me which way is forward, when I get turned around.

But right now, it's time for some more Advil. Lots of Advil.

Small Gestures

It's been too long since I've blogged. Chalk it up to overwhelm. I'm facing an enormous life change in the next few months -- my job is going away -- and in pondering and preparing for the next phase, I fried my brain. I'm proud to say that I've continued to practice, though, and that is the thread that is carrying me through. My yoga practice remains constant, while everything around me is moving so fast that at times I feel like I'm inside a snow globe.

Something cool happened: I entered a contest on Twitter and won a new Manduka mat in the sexy, limited edition color: Black Cherry. It is fab. It looks like the spawn of my two older mats: the majestic Black Manduka and the lightweight maroon Prana mat that has been with me for many years. It has that new mat smell. Getting the mat in the mail -- and a love handwritten note from Manduka -- felt like affirmation that I'm on the right path, and for that I am grateful.

Meanwhile, lately I seem to leave yoga looking as if I've gone five rounds with (super hot) UFC welterweight champion Georges St. Pierre. First, I blackened my left eye. A week later, I did the same to my right. Then, last Wednesday, I was in pincha maryasana when all of a sudden blood began to drip off my face onto the mat. Ever lame, I had ripped open my lip with a quick swipe of a towel just before going upside down. After class, Sherman put me right.

One of my issues is that I never think I'm working hard enough. I didn't pick this up out of the blue. It was planted deep in my psyche early on. I'm working on it... still... always... But something Sherman said on Friday about there being no finish line where the practice is concerned made me realize that I've brought this particular neurosis with me to the mat. Surprise.

It's not that I muscle through the asanas, but, rather, I throw myself around a bit, and rather than inching up to the edge and peering over to see what's there, I dangle a limb or two over the abyss just to test the air currents. I do this because I suspect I'm a lazy wimp, that I'm too easy on myself. It's gotten worse recently, along with feelings of shame that my body's not changing fast enough, and a host of other "not enoughs" that are currently playing on an endless loop in my over-active cerebellum.

What Sherman was basically saying was slow down.

So this morning, I decided to dedicate my practice to "seeing what happens." I went to an unfamiliar spot in the room -- a corner where I could feel fairly private -- hooked my mind to Sherman's voice, and let myself be as if this were the first class I'd ever taken. I made myself forget what was coming next, and, for some reason -- exhaustion? -- it worked. I flowed in flow class. My shoulders were tired after three days in a row of hard practice, but at a certain point they released and the rest of whatever I was holding onto followed, like dominos.

In some asanas, I went back to basics, choosing not to try the advanced options because I knew I'd just end up sitting on my butt waiting for it to be over. In others, I tried to take a small step forward. I have tripod headstand in my sights -- mostly because it looks fun. And since I had the wall right there, I took a stab at sending my feet up to the sky. They would have gone, too, except that I actually took the pose correctly -- hips over shoulders -- and my feet lifted off the ground all by themselves. I held them there for a split second, then freaked out and did what I can only call the dance of the dying house fly.

Afterward, over hummus and babaganoush at Le Pain Quotidien across the street from Yogaworks, I read the following about tree pose in Dani Shapiro's new memoir: Devotion:

"Standing on one leg, the other foot pressed into my upper thigh, I reach my arms over my head and then - then, I bend. I lean to the side, and allow my head to be dead weight. I forget about the idea of balance. I forget that there is a self who is balancing. I have learned that this is the only way that balance is possible. The minute I start thinking about it -- Oh, look at me! Look how far I'm bending today -- I will fall."

Amen, Dani. In the micro, I mangled my tripod headstand because I noticed I was about to do it. But in the macro, today's entire practice was an exercise in balance. In fact, when the dread direction: "High Plank," rung out, and I knew it was time for push ups and crunches -- that class was winding down -- I had to turn and look at the clock. We had been practicing for 75 minutes, and it felt like 45 -- or rather, it felt outside of time, because I had let go of the goal and thought only about what I was doing right then.

Or maybe it was my new mat.

Always We Begin Again

"There's another class at noon."

"You deserve a rest. It's a holiday!"

"You need to shower, and it's too cold."

"This is your chance to finish the Wire in the Blood marathon. Only three more seasons to go!"

Such was the cantata of excuses that began with the 8 a.m. blare of my iPhone alarm clock. I'd changed the ring from the cloying "Marimba" to the opening bars of M.C. Yogi's "Ganesh is Fresh." Ganesh is the remover of obstacles. I was hoping he could remove me from my bed.

He was losing the battle until I recalled the feeling of being in Pincha Mayurasana (forearm stand or peacock feather pose).

I have a mental block when it comes to inversions. It's called fear of death. But when I do go upside down, it's ecstasy. Simply stated, inversions make me feel as if I can do anything, which would lead one to assume I spend as much time upside down as humanly possible. Not even close. When it comes to yoga inversions, I have perfected the ninja art of invisibility. The moment a teacher says "handstand," I vaporize without actually leaving the room. Most teachers assume I'm sitting out these poses because, overweight, I'm not strong or advanced enough to execute them properly. The bigger I get, the more invisible I become.

But one Saturday morning last June, I rolled out my mat -- with trepidation -- for a new Power Yoga class. The teacher, Sherman Morris, had just moved east from San Francisco. Fifteen minutes and a half dozen sun salutations into the ninety minute class he threw me for a loop.

"Drop down to your elbows, and if Pincha Mayurasana's part of your practice, go ahead. If you have no idea what I'm talking about..."

I knew. But I was marooned in the center of the studio. No wall to hurl myself into. Nothing to stop me from breaking my neck. I did a few half-hearted hops and curled into child's pose, defeated and bored with myself. Then I felt a tap. I looked up from my pity party to see Sherman give the universal sign of "get your feet over your head right now." He wore an expression of utter confidence. He believed I could do the pose. Despite the metallic taste of panic in my mouth and the double knot of fear in my belly, I kicked up and, before I knew it, he was holding me upside down by my ankles.

"Less banana," he said from somewhere in the stratosphere. I sucked in my stomach and tucked my tail bone, gaining another two or three inches. All of a sudden I realized I was doing something I didn't know I could do.

Sherman's generosity and faith shattered the wall that had been blocking my progress for several years. I found the joy in yoga again. And now, every time I show up on the mat, I attempt death-defying feats. I practice. I fall down. I laugh. I practice again. One of these times I will stick the balance. Anybody can stand on their feet. I'm going to stand on my elbows. Maybe even tomorrow.

All I have to do is show up.

Weird Things I Saw in the Locker Room Today Department:

As I was getting dressed after class, the girl next to me took off her pristine Beyond Present yogawear ensemble under which she was covered, knees to rib cage, with saran wrap.