YOGA FOR KNUCKLEHEADS #7: "ommmmmiinnnggg..."
Samantha had us rolling up our blankets cylindrically and placed under our spines as we lay on our back, heads resting gently against another rolled up blanket. This is how we started out. I was not pleased, because I am not good at rolling things up compared to all the women and two experienced men in this class of around 20, where we are all literally on top of each other. Some of these peers of mine have more accouterments than me and it is not easy to keep from brushing up against or knocking them over when we stretch out our arms in legs in certain poses.
Samantha, as always, is by far our most spiritual instructor, and all instructors here are fairly spiritual in following the ritual of a sort of vocally poetic interpretation of poses that lead to serenity and relaxation. Samantha, as we lay on our blankets doing absolutely nothing but listening to our breathing, talks in slow lulling cadences and mentions the “resonances filtering down into our bodies.” Then, in even softer tones, like a kindly hypnotist, lulling us to sleep: “Find your safe place inside yourself…a safe container to crawl into…”
I lay there knowing without a doubt I am incapable of inserting myself into something as small and claustrophobic as a “safe container” and am also unwilling to do so. “It’s grey out today, and chilly,” Samantha continues. “Foggy and grey, but every day can’t be a perfect sunny day, and if your day is grey, you don’t feel quite right, think about the good days, the sunny days, and how beautiful it is here.” And as always, she manages to wedge love in there.
( I actually like cool grey foggy mornings that last into the afternoon).
I grow impatient as I lay on my back, my face itching, my throat already dry, I’m restless to loosen up my stiff painful right hip and lower back and dispense with this version of yoga, though I realize it is undoubtedly doing me good because I trust in Samantha and the yoga gods to have a plan with ALL their moves, and I must admit I am becoming more and more hooked on yoga and look forward to attending morning classes with much more enthusiasm every day and not the dread of riding the exercise bike in the gym that ousted me for 40 hard minutes, though since then my tennis stamina is not as good even if my hip and lower back are much freer and looser and pain free.
One can’t have everything and I must confide that after yoga I am in no mood to ruin my sense of ebullient well being by getting on the stationary bike or rowing machine on my deck and keep them covered so as not to demoralize myself.
I close my mind off and begin day dreaming about how nice it would be if I could still play basketball and hit game winners from 22 feet, until suddenly my peers are sitting with one leg tucked in and the other spread out, and I scramble into this position, which will do me much good. To my left is a woman perhaps older than me, maybe 75, even 80, because yoga helps with aging, and her hips are so low and flat and her leg so straight I am envious as my knees rise a few inches and hurt if I straighten them any further. As I peer around, like I’m not supposed to, everybody has their legs and hips lower than mine, and especially the 80 year old woman, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I remember this woman well because she was right beside me a few classes back and displayed the most resonant ommmm chant I’ve heard yet. Samantha takes particular pride and relish in ommmming and has powerful long-lasting lungs in her ommmms. Some of the instructors, whose ommmms are resonant but not as resonant as Samantha’s, give us an option to ommmm, ask if we’d care to join in, or INVITE us to take part, and I always opt out, but feel with Samantha’s great reverence for the yoga gods it is mandatory I cease weaseling out of ommmming and faking it by barely opening my mouth and allowing nothing out because it frankly participating in ommmming leaves me feeling squeamish, as if I am some sort of gowned and head-shaven Hari Krishna, or one of those desperate souls at Esalon led in their sudden spiritual appreciation for nature and life by some new age charlatan.
Today is especially hard but I muddle through, realizing the harder it is, the better the results, and the more it hurts, the looser I will feel, as long as I do not go “beyond,” as warned by Samantha and all instructors.
When we finally finish the main courses of poses and rest and finally are instructed to squat and cup our hands in prayer before our heads for our ommmming ending, I sit upright, back arched, trying to blend in and be reverent and not appear as the stooge in class unable to cease the tug of non conformity but at the same time feeling good about my relenting to the yoga gods, my hands cupped before my head, and Samantha, seemingly delirious with joy, asks for a big ommmm, and starts in, and right off the lady to my left unleashes a resounding ommmm, as all others blend in, the huge class filling and nearly vibrating the room.
My ommmm, this time a serious attempt, 100% all in after collecting as much breath as I can in my lungs, begins to peter out within seconds into what I can only describe as a feeble groan as ommmms cascade in full flower all around me. It is like a church choir of ommmms. There is a joyous quality to these ommmms. Then they start tapering off, one by one, with only the strong prevailing. Though I have long ago quit, I still lower my head with my cupped hands before my forehead, my eyes open as I admire the 80ish woman’s ommmm carrying on a clarion call unparalleled, as if she has six lungs, and before long it’s as if only she and Samantha are left.
But eventually they both run out of gas at the same time, and Samantha thanks us all and delivers the Indian word that officially ends our class, a class where I, an ex athlete capable of playing a full game of basketball up until a few months ago and holding my own because my lungs were so strong, finished dead last in my ommmming, which makes me wonder just what I must do to catch up with even the pipsqueaks in this class.
Samantha, as always, is by far our most spiritual instructor, and all instructors here are fairly spiritual in following the ritual of a sort of vocally poetic interpretation of poses that lead to serenity and relaxation. Samantha, as we lay on our blankets doing absolutely nothing but listening to our breathing, talks in slow lulling cadences and mentions the “resonances filtering down into our bodies.” Then, in even softer tones, like a kindly hypnotist, lulling us to sleep: “Find your safe place inside yourself…a safe container to crawl into…”
I lay there knowing without a doubt I am incapable of inserting myself into something as small and claustrophobic as a “safe container” and am also unwilling to do so. “It’s grey out today, and chilly,” Samantha continues. “Foggy and grey, but every day can’t be a perfect sunny day, and if your day is grey, you don’t feel quite right, think about the good days, the sunny days, and how beautiful it is here.” And as always, she manages to wedge love in there.
( I actually like cool grey foggy mornings that last into the afternoon).
I grow impatient as I lay on my back, my face itching, my throat already dry, I’m restless to loosen up my stiff painful right hip and lower back and dispense with this version of yoga, though I realize it is undoubtedly doing me good because I trust in Samantha and the yoga gods to have a plan with ALL their moves, and I must admit I am becoming more and more hooked on yoga and look forward to attending morning classes with much more enthusiasm every day and not the dread of riding the exercise bike in the gym that ousted me for 40 hard minutes, though since then my tennis stamina is not as good even if my hip and lower back are much freer and looser and pain free.
One can’t have everything and I must confide that after yoga I am in no mood to ruin my sense of ebullient well being by getting on the stationary bike or rowing machine on my deck and keep them covered so as not to demoralize myself.
I close my mind off and begin day dreaming about how nice it would be if I could still play basketball and hit game winners from 22 feet, until suddenly my peers are sitting with one leg tucked in and the other spread out, and I scramble into this position, which will do me much good. To my left is a woman perhaps older than me, maybe 75, even 80, because yoga helps with aging, and her hips are so low and flat and her leg so straight I am envious as my knees rise a few inches and hurt if I straighten them any further. As I peer around, like I’m not supposed to, everybody has their legs and hips lower than mine, and especially the 80 year old woman, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I remember this woman well because she was right beside me a few classes back and displayed the most resonant ommmm chant I’ve heard yet. Samantha takes particular pride and relish in ommmming and has powerful long-lasting lungs in her ommmms. Some of the instructors, whose ommmms are resonant but not as resonant as Samantha’s, give us an option to ommmm, ask if we’d care to join in, or INVITE us to take part, and I always opt out, but feel with Samantha’s great reverence for the yoga gods it is mandatory I cease weaseling out of ommmming and faking it by barely opening my mouth and allowing nothing out because it frankly participating in ommmming leaves me feeling squeamish, as if I am some sort of gowned and head-shaven Hari Krishna, or one of those desperate souls at Esalon led in their sudden spiritual appreciation for nature and life by some new age charlatan.
Today is especially hard but I muddle through, realizing the harder it is, the better the results, and the more it hurts, the looser I will feel, as long as I do not go “beyond,” as warned by Samantha and all instructors.
When we finally finish the main courses of poses and rest and finally are instructed to squat and cup our hands in prayer before our heads for our ommmming ending, I sit upright, back arched, trying to blend in and be reverent and not appear as the stooge in class unable to cease the tug of non conformity but at the same time feeling good about my relenting to the yoga gods, my hands cupped before my head, and Samantha, seemingly delirious with joy, asks for a big ommmm, and starts in, and right off the lady to my left unleashes a resounding ommmm, as all others blend in, the huge class filling and nearly vibrating the room.
My ommmm, this time a serious attempt, 100% all in after collecting as much breath as I can in my lungs, begins to peter out within seconds into what I can only describe as a feeble groan as ommmms cascade in full flower all around me. It is like a church choir of ommmms. There is a joyous quality to these ommmms. Then they start tapering off, one by one, with only the strong prevailing. Though I have long ago quit, I still lower my head with my cupped hands before my forehead, my eyes open as I admire the 80ish woman’s ommmm carrying on a clarion call unparalleled, as if she has six lungs, and before long it’s as if only she and Samantha are left.
But eventually they both run out of gas at the same time, and Samantha thanks us all and delivers the Indian word that officially ends our class, a class where I, an ex athlete capable of playing a full game of basketball up until a few months ago and holding my own because my lungs were so strong, finished dead last in my ommmming, which makes me wonder just what I must do to catch up with even the pipsqueaks in this class.
