Learning to Fall, or Fat Girls Can Float

I've been absent. Not from the mat, just from the net. I've been overthinking like a champion. And my body has responded by rebelling against my will. So much has happened, that I don't know where to start.

I woke up to the fact that I was in trouble about ten days ago when I caught myself thinking clearly and distinctly: "I hate myself." I was horrified, but not surprised. It's not true. I don't hate myself. And at the same time, I do. And the craziest part of this is that when I work myself into this particular self-loathing corner, it is always, ALWAYS about my weight. My weight issues have robbed me of so much life. They are the ONLY thing that stop me. And I've sunk to a depth now where they sometimes stop me from even leaving the house.

I'm suffocating inside of a fat suit. Something has to change.

I had a medical scare last week that continued until this afternoon. My body seemed to seize up -- and not just in one way. I had four migraines in seven days. Some female issues. Not one but two rashes on my back. Defcon-2 allergies. And such a dearth of energy that I was too tired even to relax. Something was wrong, but it felt systemic. And I was terrified that I would be forced to stop practicing while I got fixed. Some days in class I felt physically weak. Sometimes I was mentally weak. And then there were the days when I felt needy as hell. Like I was in a tornado of terror -- stuck in the vortex -- not connecting with anyone else.

And still I felt myself move forward in some of my asanas. Which is what has kept me coming back.

This afternoon I had to go to the east side for an icky test -- and when I went into the dressing room where the gown was waiting, neatly folded, on the chair, the technician quickly said, "Wait a minute. Let me get you another gown." I wanted to get all faux-jovial and say, "You mean a fat girl's gown?" But I couldn't muster my old ally: self-deprecation. As the tech bustled around the corner I heard a male voice say something I couldn't make out, but which sounded like pity. My tech chuckled and replied, "It's not that bad." For a brief moment I hoped that I was mistaken and "it" was not me. But then the tech appeared around the corner with a maroon robe and closed the door behind me. When I unfolded the gown, it was big enough to wrap around myself twice. I wanted to wear it over my head in shame.

All my tests were fine. I'm apparently normal. Which means I'm fat because I did it to myself. According to my BMI, I'm obese. I realize I don't look it, but I weigh so much more than you would think. And yes, the number on the scale is supposed to be unimportant if you look okay -- which I no longer do. I am lugging this body around with me -- with extra weight equivalent to a dozen canned hams. My mind flies but my body nails me to the earth. And it is profoundly exhausting.

I love to move. It makes me unreasonably happy and always has. I would like to move freely, without having to use my hands to manually shift my belly fat so I can go deeper into a twist. I love clothes. I love making my own clothes -- I love being pretty. But I can do none of those things these days. I can't wear most of what I own. I have recently bought a few fantastic dresses -- because dresses are my outfit of choice -- and they don't yet fit. Anything looks good when your body looks good. Nothing looks right when it doesn't. And worse, nothing feels right.

When people look at me -- not everyone, but salesclerks, for example, and the star yoga teacher I saw in the locker room a few weeks ago before she taught a workshop at Yogaworks -- I can see what they're thinking. "Lazy, slothful, unaccomplished... the girl just doesn't try or she wouldn't look the way she does." None of that is true. The opposite, in fact. But I'm still hiding inside my own skin.

But I am so ready to strip it off. In fact, I have to do it, because my life is changing in a big way. Earlier this week, I completed a year-long graduate program. And on June 8th, I hand in my final script for the final week of As the World Turns. After 11 years of writing soaps -- with only about 3 months and the 100 day strike off in all that time -- it's done. My book is waiting for me. And my mind is beginning to sprout stories and ideas when I take time to listen. I have a vision for my life beginning June 9th. It's creative and exciting and expressive -- and in my vision I'm wearing sundresses and doing cartwheels.

The problem is, right now, I can't see through the fog from where I am to where I picture myself. But I can't stay here.

And so I am learning to fall. Since last June, I have been working on pincha mayurasana -- forearm stand. Oh my God, has it been slow. But my teacher hasn't given up on me. And I haven't given up on myself. Lately we've been working on the pose with split legs -- easier to balance -- as if one is walking a tightrope while holding a pole -- like Philippe Petit walking the wire between the Twin Towers. I need to find that balance point -- I keep skipping back and forth across it -- and I've begun to fall over -- with an earth-shaking thump that doesn't hurt a bit. In fact, it makes me want to giggle when it happens. At least, when I land on my ass, I know I haven't made an excuse for not trying. I haven't let fear or fat get the best of me. It's actually kind of an adventure. A necessary step in the pincha process. Now that I know I can overdo it without killing myself or others, it's time to back off and float into the asana.

And yes, fat girls can float. I intend to prove it. To myself.

Ebb in Flow

Argh.

Sherman was teaching Power Yoga this morning, but over in the corner, I was in a cage match with my mind, emotional state, and left ankle.

It all started last Wednesday after practice. Riding the bus downtown, I was watching a large and aggressively strange woman act out by refusing to move to the back of the bus. I was so busy ragging on her in my mind that, when I squeezed by her to get out the door, I stepped down and landed on the side of my foot. If I hadn't been as loose as Gumby after class, it probably would have broken, but it was only a sprained ankle. Since then, upward dog is impossible, and I'm skittish about most things on my left side, but I'm still practicing.

I feel like a wimp, though. And coupled with that, I went to the doctor on Friday and weighed myself when I was alone in the room. I feel like I've lost 20 pounds, maybe more, based on my clothes. Haven't lost an ounce. I could have cried, but there was nobody to cry to, so I just sagged, and have stayed saggy ever since. I am slipping into the slough of despond.

Sherman has added some new elements to his class -- and I'm feeling challenged, but I'm also feeling like the needy red-headed stepchild. A disappointment where I was once an inspiration. Stuck.

I know from past experience that my practice ebbs and flows. Some days I can't do anything. Then the next day, for no apparent reason, I feel stronger than ever. I know the key is to show up and trust the practice. I know that I am not the number on the scale. I know that I am in the middle of huge changes in my life and work and diet -- none of which can be ignored. I'm even growing out my hair, and tapering down on my Zoloft. I'm trying new things in every area -- although I plan to keep my awesome boyfriend just as he is. The mountain must eventually move. Right?

So why did I feel like a disappointment in class today? Well, besides my lame cobra modification in up dog and some technical difficulties with my back foot in Warrior One -- Sherman has begun suggesting split forearm stand. I've been thinking about the mechanics -- and I get that it will be easier when I hit the full pose, but I'm paralyzed with fear at the prospect of getting into it. Today I was in regular pincha, and Sherman told me to bend my back leg -- but, being upside down, I couldn't figure out what that meant until it was too late. Disappointment. I felt like I let him down.

We've also been working on going from rock star pose into a full wheel -- and I'm sure I can do this, but I can't figure out how to turn my bottom shoulder so that I don't snap my arm off. I suspect I'm supposed to turn my bottom hand but when? Homework.

Then there's my post-traumatic bridge syndrome. We're beginning to go from shoulder stand into bridge then full wheel. I believe the trick is to work one's hands up the back close to the shoulder blades. I was working on this several years ago and seriously torqued my wrists and thumbs -- no lasting damage, just an unforgettable shooting pain, the memory of which haunts me. So I weasel out in this bit, squishing around on my mat... pretending. Disappointing.

Speaking of mechanics, we're also working on Eka Pada Koundiyanasana II. Needless to say, the below picture from YogaJournal.com is not me.

It's an insane arm balance, but I think I can manage it strengthwise. It's a matter of where I put my weight. Right now I can't lift my back leg off the floor. It feels as if it's encased in cement. Today after class I watched another student get instruction in the pose, and I realized that he works his front leg way up toward his elbow. That may make a difference with weight distribution. We'll see.

So where to go from here? Liposuction? Fat camp? The sideshow? Back up to 100 mg of Zoloft? Not yet. I'll stick it out a little bit longer, and get back on the mat.

After class, I finished Dani Shapiro's Devotion, while consoling myself with an Other Caesar Salad at Peacefood Cafe. She writes about yoga and faith. The book got me thinking about a statue my father bought many years ago. It is, I'm sure, very old. A Buddhist acolyte gazing at his unseen teacher in devotion. Where Buddha statues are covered with jewels and mirrors, the acolyte -- James, as I named him when I was a kid -- is simple and unadorned. Before I knew what meditation, yoga, Buddhism or pretty much anything else was, I would sit on the floor beside him and simply breathe. There is something sacred about James, the statue of the eternal student, that has always spoken to me. Maybe he's telling me to calm down and listen for the teaching. After all, James has been sitting in my mother's house for 35 years, and he's still listening.

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.

Fall Down Seven Times, Get Up Eight

I got a black eye in yoga class. I kind of like it. Jeff says it's not bona fide, but I know I earned every busted capillary. I feel like a boxer. Maybe it's the hat. I know yoga is not meant to be a contact sport. Nobody hit me. I hit my eye on the floor. It was kind of like a tripod eyestand. The great news is that I balanced in flying pigeon for a few seconds. I was so thrilled that when I started to fall forward like a giant oak tree, I completely forgot that I could just put my knees down and stop myself. Oh dear, what will this do to my modeling career?

My beloved and talented upstairs neighbor, John Quilty, took the above photo. He rocks.

I'm glad I fell on my face. The ten seconds before that were real progress. And now I know I won't die in Flying Pigeon. If only I could master the somersault.

What I Learn From the Olympics

I have been watching the Olympics since Munich 1972. My father, a surgeon, used to come home from the hospital at night and pull a chair very close to the TV. He'd usually have a paper napkin and four Pecan Sandies on his knee. The volume would be low, the lights off. Sometimes I would wander in, barefoot and in my nightgown, and sit on the floor beside him. We'd watch together in silence. That is, until the Munich Games. We watched and cheered for Mark Spitz and Olga Korbut. And we listened to Jim McKay's reports as Black September took the Israeli wrestling team hostage and ultimately killed them.

Despite the tragedy, I have been a huge Olympic fan -- both Summer and Winter -- ever since. I will watch every event, no matter what the sport, because I get four years worth of inspiration from those 16 days of competition. Talk about practice. Olympic athletes practice thousands of hours for a moment four years in the future. They show up even when injured -- although I would be quite happy never to hear about the pain of Lindsay Vonn's shin bruise again -- her smoky eyeshadow and professional-looking mascara don't say agony to me -- then again, I don't think I could WALK that downhill course, much less hurtle down it wearing a white catsuit -- and smoky eyes are beyond me.

Then there's figure skating. Evan Lysacek is said to be the hardest working man on figure skates. Those in the know say he had a "very tight warm-up" last night. But when he took the ice for his long program, his muscle memory took over, and all those hours of practice paid off. That was mildly inspiring to me. But the guy who breaks my heart every time is Johnny Weir.

Maybe it's because I want us to wear pink pajamas and hang out together watching a Celebrity Rehab marathon. But I have friends with whom I can share tawdry television. Not one of them can do a triple axel. What I love about Johnny is his absolute commitment to being himself. Last night, before he took the ice, he was quoted as saying, "I'm an Olympian. I'm a very good athlete. I think people forget that sometimes because of my personality." (I've had more than a few of those moments myself.) Then he skated a clean program (except for that bizarre stall mid-spin). He told a story on the ice, and made me forget about points and jumps and quads. He's had his share of public humiliation -- including being left off the national team after a disastrous skate at the U.S. Championships. He fought his way back by showing up to the ice, and doing what he had to do.

What does this have to do with my yoga practice? I wrote a scathing anti-competitive yoga post earlier in the week, after all. Ultimately, the figure skating coverage reminded me that nobody feels great all the time. I'd venture to say elite athletes rarely, if ever, feel 100%. Strong spirits show up anyway.

This morning as my taxi pulled up outside Pure -- six minutes before class -- I could feel the ghost of a migraine making its presence known. I was suddenly dizzy and queasy and tempted to turn around and go home. But I love Sherman's class. It's one of my favorite things in life at the moment. Unfortunately, the only available (okay, acceptable) spot was front and center. You know it's going to be a long ninety minutes when your very first high plank makes you moan out loud. Every time I stood up my head felt like a drunken gyroscope. I took an embarrassing number of water breaks. Even so, when the option came for tripod headstand -- I prepared to take my inverted dissectible frog position and my legs floated off the ground, seemingly on their own. So even on a crappy day, a small step forward. It's time to start sending my feet to the ceiling. I've been watching others take the pose, and suspect I may have an easier time lifting my feet from a wide second position to meet in the middle, rather than sending them straight up through the midline. I know that once I can persuade my knees to move, I'll get it. At the moment, I'm stuck like a gnat in an amber necklace. I think, when I finally manage to fully express the pose, I will explode with joy. I should probably do it at Pure, where they clean the mats between classes.

Bogus-ana

If I were to tell you this was the weekend of the Seventh Annual Yoga Asana Championship, who would you guess was behind it? Bikram Choudhury, of course. Oh, where do I begin?

I just wasted too much of my Friday watching a live feed from L.A., where the competition is underway. Even on the grainy video feed, you can tell it's Bikram, by the skanky grey floor covering on the stage. When I think of Bikram the yoga, I think of synthetic, staph-infected carpet.

If you're a Bikram addict, stop reading.

In brief, the Yoga Championship is a tournament. One competes in state contests, then regionals, nationals, and finally, internationals. A poser has three minutes to complete seven asanas. Five are compulsory. Two are yogi's choice. It's really boring. I mean, maybe if somebody fell down or farted, but, just like a Bikram yoga class, it was stultifyingly predictable, right down to the men's Speedos and jangling bits.

There are points, judges, rules, trophies, a federation, and cheesy music, just like figure skating. What there isn't is body fat.

The Choudhurys want yoga to become an Olympic sport. Dudes, it's not an athletic endeavor! There's enough catty competition in yoga classes as it is, with all the designer yogawear and the fight for a good spot in the room. Enough, already! Go tend to your empire and leave us yogis alone.

How does one score asana anyway? With an x-ray machine? My perfection is not yours. And what is my best effort today may be impossible for me tomorrow. Yoga is personal. And frankly, what is easy for you, Mr. Stretchy-Stretch Finger-Balancing Flyweight, may be an Olympian effort for me. Personally, I can't stand mirrors in the studio, much less judges.

One Bikram acolyte justifies a yoga asana competition by comparing it to skiing. The bullshit was not easy to interpret. Some super-spinny nonsense likening shushing down the slopes for fun to yoga class, as opposed to ski racers, who are like yoga competitors? It made no sense for so many reasons, not the least of which is that there is no "timing" in yoga (although competitors can earn points for good timing in the contest. Whatever.) Oh, and... it's difficult to die in an asana, even though I tend to forget that whenever I attempt an inversion. But I digress.

I loathe Bikram yoga. I've tried to like it. I've taken a dozen or so classes. I've lasted all the way through every one. But five minutes in I inevitably wonder what the hell I am doing there, and it's not just the heat. It's the bitches who beg for more heat. When I practice, I create my own heat, and I sweat like a waterfall. It's gross, but I always know when I'm working. In a Bikram class, I just know that I showed up and paid.

Another thing I can't abide is the stupid script! The verbal cues are standardized. But my practice isn't. And it's not just the idea of the script that I despise. The script itself is frickin' dangerous! In what circumstance would a drill sergeant-like bark of "Lock Your Knees" be appropriate? None. Nowhere. Nada. Never in life do you lock your knees. Not if you want to avoid surgery. I happen to be a hyper-extender. If I lock out my knee, my leg is no longer straight. Knees are not built to lock. (Perhaps Choudhury gets kickbacks from the orthopedic community.) "Lock your knee" is a horrible instruction. No wonder you have to sign a waiver at the front desk.

There is little talk of breath in a Bikram class after the first exercises. Maybe that's because there is a dearth of oxygen and a plethora of unearned b.o.

It seems to me that this particular twenty-six asana series, plus the heat and script, encourages mental tune-out, especially in a word junkie like me. The only thing that gets my attention under such circumstances is a stumble, an errant phrase, or a dollop of real yoga wisdom tossed in to spice things up. Otherwise, the script becomes white noise and the asanas rote.

I am anything but opposed to a set series. In fact, astanga is my practice of choice. But within each asana in the astanga series, there are infinite permutations, countless discoveries, unending challenges. There's always more breath, more grounding, more bandha. I don't know that a bikrami would know a bandha if it smacked them in the kisser. And one just might with all that overstretching.

I find Bikram's particular asanas relatively unchallenging. It's clearly about surviving the class and losing the body fat. I've heard it described as "yoga for the type A personality." Sigh.

Don't let me forget to mention the umpteen instances of throwing oneself into savasana as if one is a hooked fish flopping around on deck, ready for gutting.

Yet I always leave a bikram class feeling good. Righteous indignation is so satisfying.

Occasionally, when feeling fat, I am tempted to sign up for the Bikram 30 day challenge, 30 classes in thirty days. It would be an act of defiance. See, Bik! I can do it. But to achieve that sweet moment of high Nellie Oleson would require going to a Bikram studio. Nevermore.

In my opinion, Bikram is the fast food of yoga. It fills you up but is in no way nutritionally sound.

Finally, let me mention a few of the teachers I've practiced with. The first one wore a concert mike into which she hollered the English names of various asanas, and not all of them correctly. She stayed on her little stage platform for the full ninety minutes. I suspect she was wary of contracting athlete's foot fungus. Next there was G, a tiny gray-haired woman with a manner so cloying it's like snorting saccharine. She was highly recommended to me by others at the studio, but when I took my place in the room (away from the heater, near the door), I realized this was the same woman who put me off yoga for five years after I wandered into her class at Manhattan Plaza Health Club back in the Nineties. I soon remembered why. This woman not only strayed off script, she would not shut up! Attention: Bikram Choudhury! She's improvising! Before we began, she found out I had ten years of yoga practice, but only ten Bikram classes under my belt, with a condescending look, she encouraged me to try my best to remain in the room, that would be a victory in itself. For whom? A polar bear? Once we got to the asanas and she realized I knew what I was doing -- she aggressively ignored me. As if I'd offended her. Perhaps I had. The woman worships Bikram, the man. She waxed on and on about his genius, and then pulled out a copy of Iyengar's Light on Yoga. She read a quote from the book -- a famous quotation, although I am blocking it at the moment -- and then she marveled that she had heard Bikram spout this same philosophy a few years before. "Even Iyengar is quoting Bikram!" she gushed. I couldn't help but laugh. Dear G: Light on Yoga was first published in English in 1965.

There was, however, a bright spot: a funky older African-American teacher who filled in one afternoon -- and I was nuts about her. A newly minted instructor, she'd had a life before yoga. She was on a journey, and because she was present and real, she took me on one, as well. (To the Gobi Desert.) Here's her secret: she didn't bother with the script.

Several friends of mine swear by Bikram. I wish I could get them to another studio to try something else. Anything else. Yoga class is not the stage. One cannot properly be in the moment when spouting a script. Besides, there is so much more to yoga than booty shorts. And you can always have both.

But then again, maybe I could be the Dara Torres of Suryanamaskar B! Me in my yoga swimsuit and my contact dermatitis. My chaturanga is better than your chaturanga. And utkatasana? Nailed it. It would give "victorious breath" a whole new meaning.

I'd sooner do the ski jump. Eddie the Eagle's got nothing on me.

(PLEASE DO NOT SUE ME, BIKRAM CHOUDHURY. There's nothing to take.)

The Edge Moved, and Then Moved Back Again

I've been absent from the blogosphere, but not the mat. I'm taking a few graduate classes in nonfiction writing, and school started last week. I went into my head and didn't come out. I had an assignment due for the first class, and, despite a solid idea, I could not get myself to sit down and begin. I was afraid. Of what? Beats me. Once I finally sat down it didn't take long to write, and I was proud of it. I have the same experience in my yoga practice. I create a major mindf**k for myself about certain poses (handstand). Like a big blinking neon "I Can't" sign in my frontal lobe. But I can. And when I finally do -- whether it's writing a new essay or attempting a new asana -- I feel spectacular.

The "I Can't" chatter in my head did not appear out of thin air. It was carefully planted and nurtured by various and sundry vampires I have known. I respectfully borrow that term from the Broadway musical [title of show]. There's an anthem in the show called "Die Vampire Die!" which was actually brought to my attention in a Weight Watchers meeting. In a nutshell, it's about all those people who, for one reason or another, want you to play things their way or not at all. Sigh. The most poignant lyric goes like this:

"Why is it that if some dude walked up to me on the subway platform and said these things, I'd think he was a mentally ill asshole, but if the vampire inside my head says it, it's the voice of reason."

If I believe that, I guess that makes me the mentally ill asshole... and also-ran. So too fat, too old, too lazy, too selfish, too uncommercial -- adios, vampiros. Why not me?

A self-pep talk doesn't always silence the vampires, but getting down on the mat works every time.

After struggling through my practice for a few weeks, feeling like a marionette with tangled strings, last Friday my practice leapt forward. On the way to Pure for Sherman's 9:30 class, I realized I felt shockingly good, both inside and out. I decided to pick something specific to work on and settled on strength. Sherman gives several options for most asanas, and I generally take the more advanced road, except in my vinyasa. He asks advanced students to take chaturanga, up dog, another chaturanga, then down dog. I had tried this second push up a time or two toward the end of class when I was sure I could survive to savasana, but didn't dare attempt it earlier. Last June, when I first began studying with Sherman at Yogaworks, I was still putting my knees down in many chaturangas, until he called me out, challenging me to go for it. Eight months later, I'm actually relieved when we get to the pose. I know. I can't believe it, either. It resets my body and my mind, erasing whatever triumph or debacle the previous few asanas turned out to be. Every once in a while, something lets go and dumps me on the mat like a bowlful of jelly, but that means I've been working. So on this particular Friday morning, I decided to attempt the second push up every third vinyasa. That seemed do-able. Until we got going, and I couldn't keep track. I changed the plan, and began to add the push-up every other vinyasa. It felt awesome.

Two days later, in the Sunday morning Yogaworks class, I decided that no matter what else I did, I would add that extra push up all practice. I think I may have moaned out loud a few times, and I'm sure I made the Russian weight lifter face, but I did it. That Sunday, I managed to move my edge. And it was the first time I've come home from that class and not been a useless baggie of protoplasm for the rest of the day.

I was out of the woods! I'd left the pain and struggle behind me! Until my next practice, which was awkward, stiff, and utterly hellacious. I should have known I was in for a rough one when the simple act of rolling out my mat caused me to get a major sweat on. I did manage to hoist both right and left legs in the air during vasistasana (side plank) -- which is something I've been working on for, like, years. But the rest of class was a blur of pain, audible creaks, sweat and frustration. Funnily, I'd decided to dedicate my practice to being present. Jinx. My body was on the mat. My mind was on the space shuttle somewhere. Blech.

When I got home, I sat down to watch some BBC -- Season 2 of MI-5 on Netflix streaming. I pulled out my yarn and started to do some lace knitting (one of those infinity scarves everyone's wearing). To knit lace, you follow a chart filled with cryptic dots, circles and slashes, taking one stitch at a time as the fabric rolls slowly off your needles. The pattern is rarely visible at the beginning. It just looks like a big, confusing, holey mess, and I end up ripping out and reknitting certain sections over and over again -- when my attention has wandered. But if you follow the chart -- trust it -- knit, purl, slip, or yarnover where you're told -- eventually the pattern becomes clear, and you stop needing the diagram, except for the occasional check in. One day soon -- if you stick with it -- or later -- if you get distracted and pick up another project or six -- you have a finished garment you can take pride in, handmade with trust and persistence. The yoga of yarn.

With that in mind, I hit the mat again this morning, feeling strong, if a little sleepy. I connected to my breath and Sherman's voice and blithely started the sun salutations, but quickly bagged the second push up when we got to surya namaskar B (sun salutation B). I was babying my left arm and shoulder. We got to the front of the mat, ready to move on, and Sherman threw us into my least favorite of poses: pasasana. I HATE PASASANA! For the uninitiated, it begins with utkatasana (chair/fierce/pleasure pose), then you twist to the side and hook an arm over your leg... google it. I can't even describe it without getting cranky. I hate utkatasana, too. It makes my quads ache. Perhaps if I sat lower I'd hit the sweet spot and it wouldn't hurt so much, but, frankly, I doubt it. I do feel better directing my weight toward my heels, adding a slight backbend and, as always, tucking my tailbone, but utkatasana and I are on thin ice.

Last week on Twitter, Yoga Girl tweeted the following unattributed quote: "Chair pose is a defiance of spirit, showing how high you can reach, even when you're forced down."

Yeah, all right. I can get with defiance. Truthfully, I have been weaseling out of pasasana, which is derived from chair. Sherman puts us in the stress position -- I mean, asana -- for about 85 breaths, then asks the advanced practitioners to take side crow from there. I am nowhere near getting side crow, but I try every time just so I can bail on pasasana. I fall on my butt within seconds, then sit on it, watching others negotiate the asana. I know what will serve me best is to stay in pasasana for however long Sherman abandons us in that particular hell, to stay there, breathing and working it deeper, but... no. Sometimes I dread this pose for days. And today, it's first up. I looked around for someone to hate. The woman beside me had an open cup of water too close to my mat, so I chose her, but my rage was hollow. I was out of excuses. I knew what I had to do. I bent, tucked, arched, and twisted. And I stayed there -- with the other Level One practitioners -- until the blessed words: "take a forward bend" released me from my torment. Now my butt hurts. That means I did it right. I went there. And now there's no excuse not to go there again.

But first, the Saints. The Super Bowl. And gooey Mexican dip from Alicia Silverstone's Kind Diet. Who dat?! I mean, namaste, chers.

Ouch, But in a Good Way

If only it were as easy as saying "I'm going to yoga class every other day for a year." Things happen. I decide to turn somersaults. Literal somersaults. And chaos ensues.

Last Saturday afternoon, I went to Marco Rojas' Inversion Workshop at Pure. I'd been meaning to try Marco's class, and I've been working on my inversions for a decade, so it seemed like a perfect storm. I arrived forty-five minutes early to make sure I got a good spot -- in a corner where I'd have half as much chance of crushing my neighbor in another of a long series of abortive handstands. I chose my mat, went off to the locker room, came back, changed spots, spent some quality time with Simon Doonan on my Kindle, and changed my spot again. To Pure's credit, they had mats already set up around the room, so there was no jockeying for purse or personal space before the workshop began. Thank you.

Based on Marco's reputation, I expected a classroom full of perfect bodies to whom inversion was as natural as regular version. I assumed I'd be the lumbering ox in the corner. I was scared. So I was pleased when the first few words out of Marco's mouth included "courage." I know that courage is doing something in spite of your fear. So I took a deep breath and committed myself to whatever was to come.

There were eight teacher assistants -- several of them trainees, at least one senior teacher.

We began with a 40 minute practice to connect with muscles we'd be using to go upside down. Tadasana was key. I always try to activate my tadasana in regular classes but with Marco calling out "shoulders down, quads pressing into hamstrings, hamstrings toward quads, inner arches up," etc., I looked like I was standing still but my muscles were dancing Swan Lake. I immediately learned something. When asked to stand against the wall with my heels one inch away from the baseboard -- I need four inches to accommodate my butt. I tried the one inch thing. Determined to be the good student, I stayed upright through sheer force of will, but from the side, I looked like a close parenthesis.

The first thing we did was turn somersaults to "become children again." I wasn't a child during my childhood, but having seen children in movies, I knew what was being asked of me. I knelt, put my hands and head in position -- all I needed to do was tuck and roll, but I was paralyzed with fear. My C7 vertebra was screaming "Quadroplegia!" In my head, I knew it would be fun to flip over, but I could not do it. I held my breath. I very nearly cried with fear. Now I was, indeed, reliving my childhood. Instantly, there were two teachers by my side. Matt looked at me with fun in his eyes. He said something like, "You're there, just do it!" So I did. Woo-hoo! Fun! I'm just kidding. It was not fun. But Matt seemed thrilled at my accomplishment so I faked it. I did another one. A little better. And then we moved on. The purpose of the somersaults was to teach us how to fall out of headstand. Can't wait.

Next, we moved on to my arch-nemesis: handstand. Once I get up into handstand, I can stay there. But when kicking up at the wall, it feels to me like I'm yards from upright. Apparently, this is not the case. In class at Reebok with Joanna Ross, she told me I'm actually a few mere inches from making it, and that I'm doing everything right... good form. She suggested I get uglier and dirtier in my kick -- throw myself at the wall a few times rather than expecting my feet to rise magically into the air with grace and delicacy. She's right. And she gave me confidence. Unfortunately, I haven't had much chance to work at the wall in vinyasa class. And I'm too chicken to do it at home.

On Saturday, however, I got an awesome assist. One of the teaching assistants had me put my kicking up foot on her shoulder, then use it as a lever, pressing down on her shoulder to bring the other foot to the wall. It was a new way of doing it. Not at all useful when I'm by myself, but I feel like the more times I get up, the better. Sherman suggested I kick up both feet at once-- that it's easier. I haven't tried that since he mentioned it, but it's on the list. It's not that I don't think about handstanding. I rehearse it in my mind every day. Then I take a nap. Interestingly, the woman on the mat beside me had all my fears factored to the power of ten. I watched her try to go up. She was absolutely fine, but the look on her face was one of horror. She closed her eyes. Then bugged them out. She turned ashen with fear. Imagine what a feat that is -- considering that all the blood is rushing to your face! And the whole time she was in the pose -- legs up the wall, standing on her hands. It was so obviously all in her head. When she came down, I told her so, but I think she was still so frightened that it didn't register. She told me she'd been a cheerleader back in the day, doing acrobatics, but she'd forgotten how. Seeing someone psych themselves out was edifying.

When we got to headstanding, we teamed up. I vowed to have a breakthrough if it killed me, and I did. I went upside down and my partner, Jen, an advanced practitioner, placed a block horizontally between my shoulder blades and the wall. The goal was to keep the block there, a reminder not to lose your shoulder blades. And, miracle of miracles - I BALANCED AWAY FROM THE WALL FOR THE FIRST TIME! My mind was centered in my upper back, rather than in my feet waving high in the air. Duh -- of course the balance comes from the base! I felt like I could have stayed there all day. I was sad when we had to come down. It was my $50 moment.

When we moved away from the wall to try again, I retained some of the previous feeling, but the somersault falling technique -- gone. Life in an iron lung was foremost in my mind as I got my knees and feet off the ground with Jen cheering me on. I wanted an assist. I wanted someone to stand beside me and give me a touch to remind me where in my body I'd gone unconscious. Unfortunately, the teacher assistant with whom I was working was a novice. I live for personal assists. Don't we all? But a senior teacher zens where your practice is from what they see going on in your body. They're in the moment with their yoga tool bag at the ready.

We all come to the mat with many past teachers' voices in our heads. We make mental technical manuals, drawn from each teacher based on our personal needs, fears, and physical structures. This is not to say that going back to zero in an Iyengar class, for example, isn't valuable. Just the opposite. But there is a difference between a teacher who explores the underlying structure of an asana, and one who has to start from the beginning of something because she doesn't know how to begin at the middle. I know how to measure the space between my elbows and walk my feet in. I needed someone to stand beside me as a security blanket so that I had confidence to lift my knees toward the ceiling. I said so. And if this teacher had been watching my previous attempts, she would have known that. But she only knew one assist, which consisted of sitting on the floor behind me, using her legs to keep my arms in, etc. Then, as I went up -- more afraid with her there than without because, for me, fear of death is trumped by fear of murder and women's prison -- she started squealing "Oh, oh, oh no... Your rear, your rear..." My ass was in her face and advancing. I told her not to sit there.

As I, chagrinned, made apologies and excuses I didn't need to make, she told me she can't balance in headstand either. I would say "not that there's anything wrong with that," but I think, in this case, there is.

I went back and balanced with the block as an emotional palate cleanser.

We took shoulderstand on blankets. I fell on my head and neatly executed an unintentional backwards somersault. (Guruji would have been relieved that I finally attempted chakrasana. In fact, maybe he shoved me.) Shoulderstand, then plough -- or as I call it: breast asphyxiasana. Savasana. Then Peacefood cafe for raw key lime pie. Do it.

Ultimately the workshop was great. I learned tons. And next time I'll ask for the assist I need, rather than just taking it. That may be the most valuable lesson of all.

However, I took home a goody bag full of pain. That spazz out in shoulderstand? It's the gift that keeps on giving. I can't turn my head to the left, and my right lower back is tighter than it's ever been. I figured I'd torqued myself doing something sexy like headstand, until yesterday, when I took shoulderstand at the end of Sherman's class. Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch. My neck and back lit up like they were radioactive.

That's when I learned another valuable lesson. I found myself making an excuse for modifying, which I was doing with high drama-face in the corner. Historically, the better I get to know a teacher, the more easily I make excuses for myself. But I assume I'm not the only person in class who rarely, if ever, feels a hundred percent. If I don't know the teacher, and want to be perfect for him/her, I just keep my condition(s) to myself. And probably surprise myself by rising above whatever migraine, neck tweak, temporary blindness, bunion, bloat or bad mood I've brought into the room with me. I don't want to be that person. Anywhere. So from now on I'm going to use all these physical "messages" as questions to be answered or challenges to be met. After all, the warnings in my head: You need rest! What are you thinking doing that at your age? You can't! -- are not to be trusted. Not even I know what I'm capable of doing. And those who want me to play safe are speaking from their own agenda.

"Always be a little uncomfortable in your practice." Words to live by.

Namaste.

Showing Up

Yesterday was one of those days. I felt strong and lean (it's seriously relative) when I woke up. But when I paired my turquoise yoga top with black and red yoga pants... and rationalized that "it felt right," things began to roll rapidly downhill. Yes, the pants felt right, because that particular pair never decides it would be hysterical to expose my sloppy lower belly mid-chair pose. But the color combo was off, and even though I avoid mirrors... I do occasionally look down at myself, especially in downward dog, when I aim them toward my navel, pretending it's visible beyond my boobs. That's not drishti. It's second sight. The studio was crazy hot, and I had a series of severe and inexplicable head rushes coupled with a general queasy feeling throughout class. I sat down once, regrouped a few other times, sweated like a rainforest, but managed to keep going. I would have been happy to locate my comfort zone in yesterday's practice I think I left it at home. Not that it was any harder than usual. It was just harder for me. Every day is so different.

The disappointing thing was that I felt so lumpy. When I looked in the locker room mirror, all I saw was persistent fat. I battled the temptation to listen to the naysayers in my life and dump this Kind Diet/vegan adventure as a bad idea. I do feel thinner on the inside, but externally I look pale and doughy to myself. Yesterday anyway.

I have enough experience with my own body issues to know that what changes from one day to the next is my gaze, not my thighs. It took a long time to pack this weight on. It won't be easy to take off. But there's no reason I can't do it. I'm still working very hard to adapt to my new lifestyle -- not that I've strayed. I haven't eaten an animal product since January 1. It's only been three weeks. Still, I fear being the world's first obese vegan yogini.

Some days you just need specific measurable results. Like new jeans or the surprise ability to cartwheel up Amsterdam. When all you've got is Be Present pants that refuse to stay tied near your navel, and a clumsy trudge to the Columbus Avenue bus stop with a 20 oz. (vegan) Coke Zero, you have to surrender the day and show up tomorrow. On faith.

Guruji says "practice and all is coming." I would pay extra for express shipping. But since that option is not available, I'm going to have to show up again today just because I said I would -- and, without landmarks, trust that I'm heading in the right direction.

Anybody who thinks that's easy, never really tried.

The Comfort Zone

I love it when my yoga classes reverberate off the mat. One of the things my favorite teacher, Sherman Morris, says in every class is: "Get out of your comfort zone," or "If you don't feel anything, you're wasting your time." Although he says this often, it always cuts through the gathering mists and brings me back to the mat. Not that I'm ever comfortable in yoga class. I'm more comfortable in some asanas than in others, like everyone, but seeing as I'm not comfortable half naked in public -- it's not my nature to flip the cruise control switch and coast into savasana.

For me to step out of my comfort zone, I have to attempt the asanas that both scare and excite me. These are usually the poses that defy gravity, and because I'm a longstanding musical theater geek, I confess that I sing along to "Defying Gravity" from Wicked at least once a day. I associate the song with doing something that's scary joyful, like Pincha Mayurasana (Forearm Stand).

There were years where I couldn't get near Bakasana (crow pose) -- any arm balance was far outside the realm of pose-ability. I almost always tried it, though, picking up pointers from different teachers along the way. Jerry Bianchini gave me the tip that made it all click into place. I can't remember his exact words, just the image -- but he suggested I think of a string attached to my sternum, stretching through my middle back to the ceiling -- I turned myself into a chubby comma and suddenly my feet lifted off the floor. Now Bakasana resides just inside the border of my comfort zone.

Outside the studio, things are no different. I am comfortable as a soap writer. I know what's expected of me, and I know I can more than deliver. But I have spent the past few years working on a book, and this week I met with my awesome agent, Erin, to hand over my completed book proposal. It's now in her hands. She'll soon be sending it to editors. My dream is becoming very real. While we sat at lunch the other day, Erin said, "We're going to get you out of your comfort zone. Are you ready?" Hell, yes! I'm prepared and I'm terrified, but it's curious, anticipatory terror -- the good kind. When Erin echoed Sherman, I took at as a sign that I was in exactly the right place.

When things are right, I get a squirrelly feeling in my solar plexus -- my power chakra. I used to call it "my vulnerability spot." If I'm writing from a dangerous place (emotionally dangerous, not the crow's nest of a schooner in a storm) -- my third chakra lets me know I'm on the right track. It's far from comfortable. In fact, it can get so uncomfortable that I want to run away, shake it off, go eat half a cow on white bread. But these days I write through it, aware that I've hit the good stuff. As a reminder, I had a lotus flower tattooed right over the vulnerability spot. Confucian scholar, Zhou Dunyi, said: "I love the lotus because while growing from mud, it is unstained." That is why I write: to transform the mud into something beautiful.

From writing practice back to yoga practice. I haven't felt terribly well all week. I'm drained and pale. This is my 21st day as a vegan, and I'm probably not eating the optimal variety of foods. Here, again, I am far outside my comfort zone. At the same time, I feel much lighter and clearer. I sleep better -- weird dreams though. In yoga class, my twists feel different. Oh, and my boobs shrunk an entire cup size in three weeks. Why can't weight loss start from the bottom and work upward? I have to put more effort into shopping and preparing things to have around. Not only do I like cooking, it's one of the highest forms of self-care. I don't have the hang of it quite yet, but I am not giving up. It's not like I didn't mess up my diet daily while I was a carnivore. Both my moods and my blood sugar were on a constant seesaw.

In the meanwhile, I've only managed to make restorative practices this week. First there was Jessica Caplan's Sunday night class at Pure. I was shocked to see it so crowded. I was also shocked by the loud screams emanating from my hip joints in the world's longest Happy Baby pose. Yow. Pigeon pose on the right was similarly noisy. The left: no problem. There is obviously a banshee making her home in my right hip joint. Good to know. Class was excellent, but, to be honest, I was yearning for one of those pillowy restorative practices where the teacher stretches your neck and rubs oils into your forehead. Who gives those anymore?

Yesterday, I was feeling too wispy to make it through Sherman's 9:30 vinyasa class, so I went to Jerry Bianchini's 10:30 Restorative across the hall. Jerry is an extraordinary teacher. I've been in his class at various venues for ten years now, and I never leave without something new to think about. We worked on backbending with chairs, and my lungs are grateful. But the class began with sudden onset yoga rage.

To the elderly couple who showed up 13 minutes late to a one-hour practice: What the f**k? (If you think this might be you, it is. If you're in doubt, sir, you wore an Upper West Side t-shirt, so I know where to find you.) Slipping in along the side and unobtrusively joining in is bad enough. Walking to the center of the room and standing there waiting to be serviced -- whining that there's no room -- forcing the instructor to stop teaching and take care of you -- was not freaking restorative! Aaaaarrrrrggggggghhhhhh. Plus, there were no more chairs. So, Pure, perhaps you should limit the size of the class to the number of props you have. But more importantly, I think what separates a true yoga studio from a gym is class discipline. Don't allow students to come in late. I mean, five minutes... and quietly... maybe. Gym yoga often sucks because management won't allow such sensible restrictions. But despite its affiliation with Equinox, Pure is a yoga studio. That's why I joined. (Oh, and it would be so great if you could have cups by the "tea station." And maybe... tea. I'm just saying.)

I know this bitchery is not yogic. So I'll go for it. There's a guy I've been practicing with for at least five years -- he goes to Yogaworks and he owns a cluster of high-end NYC clothing boutiques -- this guy has never once come to class on time. Any class. Any teacher. Any time of day or night. He's always ten minutes late, but comes unabashedly to the front of the room, slaps down his mat -- and usually drinks coffee throughout his practice. I think his biggest yoga challenge would be to show up on time.

Yes, I am the queen-size Nellie Olesen of yoga class. I should try to subsume my bratty tendencies. Is there a pose for that?

If you don't remember Nellie, for your viewing pleasure:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XkQh5VzPBZA&NR=1

Private Practice

I have had headaches for six or seven years. Terrible headaches that assert themselves. Like a scrim stretched across the proscenium arch of my reality, they erect a film between me and the day I want to have. Some of my headaches were caused by a rare eye condition (narrow-angle glaucoma) diagnosed and surgically treated nearly three years ago. Before that, I would go temporarily blind in my right eye when these headaches occurred -- often while inverting in yoga class. Blindness and excruciating pain in handstand. Hmm. Maybe my fear isn't completely unfounded. But that's been taken care of. The stress factor and endless hours at the computer monitor, not so much. The headaches continued.

Sick and tired of losing half my weeks due to chronic pain, I chose to eat a vegan diet, beginning on 1/1/10. I've been feeling fantastic. And I went a record nine days without a headache. I was so bummed when it happened; I'd thought that maybe I'd solved the mystery and cured myself. Still, three headaches in 16 days is much better than the three per week I'd been having. Yesterday was one of those days, though. A sick headache made my entire body hurt, and I could neither think straight nor hold a coherent conversation. I finally gave up and slept from four pm until eight this morning. Today I feel hung over and draggy. My limbs are heavy and spaghetti-like. And I'm sitting here blogging, rather than taking my first plank position in Sherman's Sunday morning class at YogaWorks, my favorite ninety minutes of the week.

There are so many reasons I miss being there this morning, the foremost being the impending end to my YogaWorks membership. I joined Pure West when they opened last month, and I'm looking forward to broadening my practice, while continuing to study with Sherman. But so far he's only on the schedule two days a week, so I will probably spend money I don't have to continue practicing with him on the weekends. Those classes have become a cornerstone of my life. Despite that, there was no way my fuzzy head and Gumby-post-headache body could have managed ninety minutes of power yoga this morning.

I hate these headaches. But I have faith that the new diet and the rededication to my practice are going to help my body cure itself. Meanwhile, I'm going to Restorative practice at 6 tonight. On a day like today, that counts. And I could use some healing touch.

In the meantime, I had a few interesting practices this week. On Wednesday, I woke up with pain in my shoulder and right lower back. Reflecting on Tuesday's Anusara practice: for whatever reason, I used a lot of force in that class. Odd, because it wasn't incredibly challenging. I particularly recall using the wall to help with Ardha Chandrasana (Half Moon Pose) -- ordinarily one of my favorite asanas. In theory, pressing the raised foot into the wall should have reproduced a feeling of floating, but I found myself shoving one hand into the floor, unable to find the place where the bottom hand is weightless. I was earthbound, most of my weight resting heavily on my bottom wrist and hand. Something was terribly off in my pose, but I couldn't figure out what it was. (My attitude?)

When I got to Sherman's Wednesday morning class, I planned to take my mula bandha experiment further, but within minutes I abandoned the idea. My breathing was quick and heavy, so I switched my focus to cycling the breath in and out for the next ninety minutes. It was such a chore to catch my breath, however, that within fifteen minutes of the start of class, I again switched my intention: this time to survival. The class was as good as always, but as my own teacher - I wasn't all there. Looking back, I could have surrendered to that experience, but I fought it instead.

Perhaps that's why I fell on my butt in Trikonasana (Triangle Pose). That's right. I tipped over backwards in Triangle. Who does that? Sherman says to go the edge. I did. And the edge moved. For the rest of class, the edge played keep away. When I got to Savasana, I could hardly believe I'd made it without a crash helmet.

On Friday, I went back to class with trepidation. When I entered the room and headed for my preferred Pure Studio One spot: front row to the left of the teacher, away from the door, but not hugging the prop cubbies -- it didn't feel right. There was a cozy spot in the back row, tucked into an odd architectural corner, that was calling my name. The words "private practice" came to mind. Ordinarily, I like to stand in front so I'm not distracted by other people, but the idea of a yoga corner to myself, with no one watching, was exactly what I needed on that morning. So I nestled into my space, and began. Every time my mind wandered, I just came back to myself. It was perfect. And perfectly healing.

I've been working on Vasisthasana (Side Plank Pose). For years I hated Side Plank. I tipped forward and backward -- mostly backward -- struggling to find that arch from bottom ankle to bottom shoulder, while occasionally shooting a glance at the ceiling which would inevitably send me crashing to earth, where I'd waste a few breaths, avoiding as much of the asana as possible. But sometime last summer I discovered that I could finally look at the ceiling, send my hips high and balance. Part two, however, grabbing your big toe and reaching your top leg to the ceiling -- Ha. Then one day I surprised myself with the thought: "I'll put my top leg in tree" -- and did. On both sides. Who knew I could do that? Encouraged, a few weeks ago, I decided to see what would happen if I grabbed my big toe and aimed my top leg toward the ceiling. I did it, shocking myself. But I couldn't operate my hips -- they were shoved way back, butt sticking out -- I don't know how I stayed balanced. When I tried to aim my hips forward and underneath, I hit the ground, feeling encouraged. I tried the left side -- no go. Either that leg is far heavier, more susceptible to gravity or possessed. I can't move it to save my life. But Vasisthasana has now become one of my practice benchmarks. An asana I try every practice, knowing that one day it'll work as long as I keep showing up.

I was happy that Friday's class went in the direction of Pigeon Pose and its cousins. I wonder if I'm the only one who sends out (unanswered) psychic signals when I'd like an assist. It's been a while since I've gotten that extra help on seated forward bends, probably because I'm so flexible. But flexible yogis need assists too! Especially when one side of your back feels like it's made of cast iron. I was bent forward in double pigeon, sending breath to my right lower back, which was knotted into a fist, so deep into the asana that I didn't realize Sherman was behind me until his hands were on that exact spot, lifting my torso out of the congested area, freeing up whatever was stuck in there. When I left class, the pain was gone. It occurs to me that that's why I ended up with a headache the next day. It's possible I didn't drink enough water to flush the toxins out of my system. Whatever was making its home in my lower back was evil. Maybe it found its way to my brain.

This week I plan to try a couple of new things. Yogi Charu's 12:15 Monday class at Pure was recommended to me, so I'm going to check it out. And next Saturday I signed up for an inversion workshop. Gulp. At least I know I won't go blind.

Not My Style

Today I took an Anusara class. The Anusara practice was founded in 1997, around the same time I found yoga. Practically speaking, I think of it as Iyengar Lite -- alignment-based and prop-heavy -- although devotees would probably school me harshly for making such a statement. On the official Anusara website (www.anusara.com) it states that "Anusara means "flowing with Grace," "flowing with Nature," "following your heart." Interesting moniker for a practice devoid of flow. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Having inhaled and exhaled my way through countless vinyasa, power and ashtanga classes, as well as six months of Mysore practice, I know how important proper alignment is. Thanks to my dance training, I'm a stickler for good form. I never leave any class, regardless of style, without a nugget of new information. I once took an Iyengar class where the teacher worked on Parivrtta Trikonasana (Revolved Triangle Pose) for 90 straight minutes. Somewhere around minute 75 she exclaimed: "There's a backbend in revolved triangle," and I unlocked the pose for myself. I hear that voice every time I revolve my triangle. Deadly as that class was, I'm glad I was there.

In vinyasa class I understand that perfection in asana is unachievable. (Do not get me started on Bikram's yoga championships.) Because I love going deeper and deeper into the subtleties of the postures, I could practice forever and never get bored. In the Iyengar and Anusara practices, however, my own imperfections are all up in my face. I'm too flexible, which means I'm weak as a deboned kitten. I hyperextend my knees and elbows, which means I will die a slow, agonizing, immobilized death due to misuse of my own limbs. As for my badonka-donk, it's been repeatedly flicked and smacked to remind me to shove -- I mean "draw" -- it underneath. At the Iyengar Institute, the teacher actually pointed at my ass and laughed. But I showed up today, ready to for anything.

At the top of class, a fellow student handed out cd liner-sized cards. I gave it a polite glance, masking my disapproval of self-marketing in yoga class, then stuffed it out of sight under my towel, until the teacher asked us to take out our cards and read along if we were unfamiliar with the opening chant. I read and write all day long. It's the last thing I want to do in yoga, so I made up some Sanskrit-sounding gibberish. We chanted one time through, then handed the cards back. It felt like the end of a pop quiz that I had just failed.

Next, we closed our eyes, focused on our breathing, and were treated to at five minutes about the Silk Road exhibit at the Natural History Museum. What lessons did I take from this story? 1. I am woefully ignorant of Asian history. 2. I know Marco Polo only as a pool game. 3. I'm sick of caterpillar metaphors. And 4. I don't take advantage of New York City's cultural activities. The list goes on, but you get the idea. I'm lazy and I suck.

Only fifteen minutes into class and I was barricaded so tightly inside my own head that Timothy Leary, Ken Kesey, Jerry Garcia and the Beatles together could not have freed my mind.

I'm not saying I didn't find a nugget in today's practice. I was reminded to melt my heart toward the floor in preparation for handstanding. It helped. I got closer to vertical than I ever have on my own. Then I landed on my sore big toe. "Dammit." The teacher gave me the hairy eyeball. There's no cussing in yoga.

By the end, I was mentally exhausted, overwhelmed by the four corners of my knees and the inner and outer spirals. I got the concepts. They're not unique to Anusara. But the way they were communicated kept me in an intellectual space, rather than an energetic one. The whole practice felt herky-jerky. And rather than walking tall as I left, I took new aches and pains home with me.

Was it the teacher or the style?

I visited the Anusara website, looking for enlightenment. (I prefer to find it on the mat, but hey....) The site claims Anusara is "uplifting, epitomized by a 'celebration of the heart' that looks for the good in all people and all things." Not my experience today, but maybe I have a bad attitude. They refer to their community as a "merry band of bohemian artists." Sure, if said artists are bipolar and on the downswing. According to the website, the chant was meant to invoke universal spirit. It just made me feel more alone. On a positive note, I had an excellent savasana. My soul left my body. It had a seventy minute head start.

Anusara isn't the practice for me right now. Certainly not with this teacher, who struck me as inauthentic. But please don't take my word for it. For some, Anusara is exactly the practice they need. Personally, I prefer a style that's older than I am. But I'll try anything six times.

Yoga means "union." I find union when my practice takes me out of my body, when my breath and movement become one, when the energy of the group carries me along like a wave. My ideal practice is a moving meditation that brings total connection.

I wish I felt the class today. I wanted to. I totally felt the chickpea fries I had later at Peacefood Cafe. And their raw key lime pie? That was union.

Good Morning, Mula Bandha

I slipped, and I'm embarrassed about it. In beginning this project, I promised myself that I would not skip more than one day between practices, which I knew would entail some reorganization on my part. I am a scriptwriter for As the World Turns, and I have an 86 page script due every Tuesday or Wednesday morning at ten a.m. Every week for nearly a decade, I've ended up pulling an all-nighter in order to make the deadline, after which I'm whacked out for days. It's not easy to uproot myself from the chair after nearly forty-eight straight hours. Last week, I had two scripts due. It was either skip yoga or blow the deadline -- not an option -- so I sat here typing and feeling bad about myself for not planning better. Again.

My conversation with myself went something like: 'You suck. Why are you surprised? You never finish anything. You're the world's biggest procrastinator. And a fake."

Then I remembered my earlier post: Always we begin again. So Friday morning I squeezed into my yoga clothes and got to Sherman's 9:30 class at Pure. I felt like the Tin Man after he'd been left out in the rain. Everything creaked. I couldn't balance. My breath was short and shallow. I hated the woman on the mat next to me and her stupid, stupid water bottle. Practice was a war. I became a vegan on January 1. Perhaps my joints were calling out for bacon.

When I woke up this morning, it was fifteen degrees. I wanted nothing more than to skip practice due to... winter. I could bang out twenty sun salutations at home and go to Sunday night Restorative. That sounded appealing except for the sun salutations. And the restorative. One thing was clear: I couldn't go to class with my hair looking the way it did. Last night, I showered and fell immediately asleep. The hair on the left side of my head was stuck to my scalp, while that on my right was auditioning for the reverse-gender remake of Eraserhead. I clapped on a knit cap, and Robedeaux and I hit the streets. That's when my attitude shifted.

The sky was crystal clear and blue as a postcard. There was no wind. The morning sun was bright on my face, none of that dishwater Manhattan winter blech. All of a sudden I couldn't wait to get to the mat. Problem: both mats were dirty. There are days when that would stop me, even though a rental mat is only two bucks. Not today. On the way to class, though, I began to dread the twenty five push-ups Sherman throws in at the end. I could already feel myself fall out of Warrior Three. My ankles throbbed at the thought of the Utthita Hasta Padangusthasana series. I was about as out of the moment as one can get.

So I gave myself an assignment. Rather than dedicate my practice to steadiness of mind and effort, I decided to dedicate it to mula bandha -- the root lock. If you practice, you know how frequently you hear "use your bandhas." Often, while in a particularly pretzel-like pose, the teacher will tell someone -- or everyone -- to use their bandhas, but I can't locate mine. The twist in the middle disconnects my upper and lower body. Not good. The point is to get into your body, not disassemble it like the Black Dahlia.

I decided to see what would happen if I concentrated on nothing but mula bandha in every pose. Forget breath, feet, shoulders, tailbone... just me and mula bandha for ninety minutes. It was awesome. That belly fat I move aside with my hands in order to deepen a twist: mula bandha moved it for me! This altered my breathing. I suspect I've been doing too much belly breathing before today, because the breath was totally different -- much more focused. In a forward bend, my thighs pulled up all by themselves as if attached to mula bandha with strings. I even felt a difference while upside down in my tripod headstand -- which, in my case, is more like an upside down frog stuck with a pin to a dissection board. My knees were a few inches higher off the floor in up dog. I could see my navel in down dog. (I thought this was impossible due to the topography.) Who knew?

Is this what I was supposed to figure out when dance teachers told me to "pull up"? I tried, but it was never enough. I worked from the outside in, muscling my fat, superconscious and super-self-conscious. This was another thing entirely, a brand new experience.

On the walk home, I noticed I was thudding heavily on the sidewalk. I activated mula bandha, and it was as if I'd dropped thirty pounds. Rather than smacking into the ground -- each step an end in itself -- I used the resistance of the street to propel me forward. It was a little bit floaty -- in my case, indetectable to the human eye, but I've seen astangis who levitate for an extended moment before landing in chaturanga. I always thought they were using fishing line and pulleys. Perhaps not. I wonder whether yogis like that think about their bandhas, or do they eventually become second nature?

Mula bandha made me feel like my body was pulled into itself -- to the midline -- where there was an empty -- but very alive -- space. I think that's prana.

Simple, but it took me thirty years to get here.