Tammy,
Yesterday I ventured out for park yoga. There was a raised cement platform in a public park where the class would take place. It was a sunny, early morning, about 75 degrees with a slight breeze; glorious yoga weather. I arrived five minutes before the class was scheduled to start. I scanned the area to figure out where to put my mat. In the middle were a bunch of women with purple tops on. My eyes couldn’t move away from that area for a couple of seconds. What’s going on? Did I miss the dress code memo?
The session started and the pace was a little slower than the intermediate, rush-into-as-many-asanas-as-you-can-do-in-an-hour. I was able to keep up without a problem. In the middle we got into pigeon pose. For some reason I was able to follow the instructions and successfully achieve the pose without teacher adjustment. My hips hurt in exactly the right place and this pain made me happy. Previously I thought happiness was supposed to make me feel good; what is yoga doing to my sense of life’s pleasures? After class I saw that a bird painted part of my blue car white. I guess he/she liked my impression of his/her species. With my new yogic fondness for discomfort, am I supposed to like the artwork or should I have done a celebratory sun salutation? Yogic karma evidently was present later on in the day when one of my teeth provided the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Maybe if I do the bridge pose when the dentist does my root canal I’ll enjoy this new sensation.
I may have to practice yoga a long time before I buy into its pain philosophy.
Gary
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