One of the best yoga studios in the world is around the corner from me, and I used to go regularly. Since March, however, I’ve been resisting it. I wanted my mornings for writing, and by the time the afternoon rolled around, I was too weary to go. I did suffer from a flu that had me miss classes I’d especially signed up for, but what is my resistance to going now? I fear I am so far out of touch, but I know that this studio is full of non-judgmental students, students who are very much concerned with their practice. I’m heavier than a few months back, which makes me body-conscious. I know, as we all do, that getting there (to a class, to a studio, even to a restaurant) is the hardest part; once you’re there, you wonder what made you stay away.
Is it that I’m moving so I don’t want to miss this studio and its teachers and its students too much? That I stay away so I can let go? The sadness of loosing something is enormous. I fear the loss, the change. I was lucky enough to find a teacher who directed me to her teacher, a blessing I sometimes forget. When I met my principal teacher, her teacher, I felt aligned immediately. I have only felt that way in some auditoriums, just before I know I am going to see some good film, theatre or listen to a reading. It is a sense of identity, knowing, oh, I’m one of this crowd, I know how to do this, I belong here. It’s a sense of recognizing, I’ve been doing this all my life.
That’s funny sentence to write when I am very much a beginning student who avoids arm balances and headstands, but to sweep up one’s arms in a salutation to the sun seems familiar. Maybe I speak of two different things: yoga and sitting in an auditorium filled with a buzz. Maybe the buzz is the connection, the mutual energy that film-goers and yoga practitioners share, the knowing that one is a participant in something bigger than the individual.
I cannot bear to promise I will go to yoga today. I think I might, though.
Later: I did.