Three yoga classes to address. One: Hot Power Fusion! and two: Hot Yoga with Amber and three: Hot yoga with Laura K.
Mid morning on Thursday, cold, clear, blue. There is a lot I want to say. Friendships shifting, flings becoming far flung, fabric unfolding. Baffled by pleasure, how little it counts. Not admitting I am changing is cheapening, saps me of words. Laura led a strong, beautiful class yesterday, and told me as much about my practice. She said several times during the standing series, Sarah, you're there. I remember what I'm capable of. Trikonasana finally came together, by way of pulling the muscles of my straight leg tight against the bone, strengthening, supporting. What am I capable of? In the fusion class I moved my limbs the way I do in water, attempting to push the stagnant away. I removed my shirt; underneath, I wore another. In Amber's class I focused on stillness. Do not touch my hair, do not wipe sweat. Just eyed my reflection in the mirror, lithe and glossy. In a few posts, I've talked about crying, or wanting to cry, in yoga class. The triggers of moving my body in such a way to bring about profound stillness. Can I say I've been a little lonely? I am. In Laura's class I cried, uncontrollably, unexpectedly. Ashley and I talked about it later. After tree pose we lied down for savasana. The sweat trickled a path down the nape of my neck, the same sensation as a hand, or a finger. And then I just started crying, lying there. The great part was I did cobra, locust, bow pulling(maybe boat? i can't remember). In Laura's one hour class, she lets you choose the last back bend. Instead I retreated to child's pose, but that was worse. There my sniffles became sobs, breath shredded across the tiny space between my head on the mat and my heart above it. Ashley and I talked about this, bizarre that the pose we thought would provide safety was overwhelming. Had I just kept going with the poses, kept moving into stillness instead of just stopping, I don't think I would have cried like that. This is pretty common in my practice. Retreat. Losing the form, giving my muscles a place to confess instead letting it become a conscience. Does this make sense? Maybe none of this does. Dear diary...
Some are saying snow. Since I started writing this the sky has grown grey, I can see the Flatirons from my bed, blueish and weary. I hope to get up there tomorrow, feel the sun on my face.
Loweball, the Erich Schiffmann reference is for you, YAY!