Yoga

I've always thought that Yoga was some kind of magic.

I took my first class with my mum when I was a teenager.  It was in a primary school hall that smelled of chips, pink custard and sweaty plimsolls. We got our mats from a trolley behind long green curtains decorated with cartoon toadstools and mushrooms in various shades of brown and orange and red. The class was almost exclusively made up of middle aged ladies, farting their way through down-faced dog and child pose.  It might have put other people off but I just loved it.  It was a no-pressure kind of exercise.  The instructor kept encouraging us to wait; not to push anything and we had a little sleep at the end. She guided us through clenching and relaxing muscles from our toes to our heads and I slept really well that night for the first time since I'd got into the habit of reading under the covers with a torch.

In my early working life, yoga classes were the only way I coped with jobs I hated.  My yoga teacher was brilliant.  She was on the National Executive committee of the British Wheel of Yoga and wore classic black leotard and footless tights and had a plait that she could sit on. Her guided relaxations at the end of the lesson were what we all really came for. The fact that after a few months of patient waiting in badhakonasana our knees were nearly touching the ground was just an exciting bonus. One man always snored but swore he heard every word and it changed his life.

When I moved and had children I struggled to find a good class.  Fitness queens had decided that they needed to add yoga to their repertoire, alongside aerobics and weight training.  They pushed and shouted and encouraged the class to 'feel the burn'.  They changed the name to Callenetics or BodyBalance but it was it was just yoga poses without the magic. So I decided to go it alone, starting every day with a few stretches and ending it with a Shavasana pose, guiding my thoughts through my muscles from top to toe and focusing on breathing.

A few years ago I discovered Yoga with Adrienne on YouTube. She's sweet, has over 60 different routines and does the magic thing.  The dog even enjoys it.

He knows that he he's not really allowed to join in. While I'm lying on the floor, he'd love to take his opportunity to lick my ears but he knows the rules and leaves me in peace. Except for the routine I did the other day.  It was day 13 of her Revolution series and was called Practice Opening.  She said it would be perfect for when you needed to gain fresh perspective on things and hit the refresh button.
Lying on the floor in a hip-opening pose I followed her instruction and said, "I am open." The dog took this as an invitation to hit the refresh button and thoroughly washed my face for me.

I should have learnt that the universe is taking me literally at the moment but when an email appeared in my inbox telling me of a new video she had called, "Yoga for loneliness," I thought it would be worth a go. If you've been following my blogs you will know that grief has been in my life, which, let's face it, is the ultimate lonely status.  It was a nice workout and gave me enough energy to get to work. However, I was grumpy with people, snapping at someone who was being nice to me. It really was a Yoga for loneliness workout. If I hadn't been lonely before I certainly would be if I continued with that attitude. It would have suited me. I was more than happy to sit on the sofa and talk to no one.  I realised that I was being odd but seemed unable to do anything about it.  After a couple of days I met a friend in the supermarket.  I walked next to her for a while and then said, "Hello."
She looked at me, as though I was a complete stranger.  "It might have been a context thing," she suggested but I suspect it was the yoga magic, as we've met in the supermarket before.
Today, an invitation to a party arrived in the post.  I opened it up, eagerly. Do you send blank invitations to people you don't want to go to your party?

This yoga magic is too much. Yoga for loneliness works really well. Tomorrow's practice is called light practice.  I'm looking forward to suddenly being able to walk in the dark without a torch.