About four months ago, after maybe four years of neglect, I found myself drawn to yoga again. Suddenly the fit and healthy yoga-fiend of yesteryear was confronted with the cruel toll of those inert years.
All the years of Iyengar training and my body-memory of the poses fortunately meant that I didn’t have to recommence at zero, but physically there were just remnants of that former self.
By chance, I found myself in an ashtanga primary series class. I had dabbled many years prior in the world of ashtanga but had decided that as a method it didn’t suit me – all repetition and no intellect. Ironically it was just that that attracted me this time around. I had spent so much time thinking about the poses that now I just wanted to do and find time to breathe rather than engage in my inner monologue.
I had no choice but to approach the practice with humility – everything was difficult, everything hurt and none of the ease or fluidity that I once had remained. What’s more, I realised that the primary series was full of poses I had avoided over the years (could this be why I rejected it?) All my “lotus” muscles of the upper leg were just appalling.
But the humility felt good. Pulling back felt good. Just being back doing yoga felt good.
This body isn’t what it used to be but fortunately on this leg of the journey, different elements of the practice attracted me: the sense of rediscovery, the time with my breath, the time spent with other human beings on the same journey. And of course my nemeses – all those poses with variations of the lotus.
Four months on I still struggle – it still hurts and none of that ease has really returned. But I really feel that the journey has begun and that from me sore to Mysore it’s going to be a beautiful ride.
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