YOGA FOR KNUCKLEHEADS #10: "HATHA WITH SINGING BOWLS"
My sister Susie, who joined me at a class while visiting from down south (she’s far superior to me on the mat as well as at other things), suggested I take a step up and try “Hatha,” a more advanced yoga. Just the word HATHA startled me with its intimation of an Indian guru with long gray hair and beads squatting in an ashram dispensing overwhelming spiritualistic ommming to fawning solemn acolytes seeking deep solace.
“It’s not that tough,” Susie said. “You’ll like it, and you’re always wanting a better workout.”
So I asked Samantha if I should come to her earlier 9 o’clock Hatha class. She flashed me a pleasant if doubtful look. “I don’t think so, Dell.”
I could see she wanted to help me, as always, and was acutely aware of my ruined knee and shoulder, but then she smiled and said, “You should try Reggie’s class of Hatha with singing bowls.”
Singing bowls? I noticed “Hatha with Singing Bowls” at 9 on the monthly schedule, but singing bowls led me to believe I would be in an echoing chamber of chanting soul seekers choreographed by some ashram guru’s disciple.
“Singing bowls?” I asked Samantha. “How do bowls sing?”
She chuckled. “You’ll see. You’ll like it. And you’ll like Reggie.”
So far all my instructors have been women. I’m not sure I would be comfortable with a male instructor. My yoga maven friends, Ethan and Contessa, told me of one particular male instructor at their studio who is an intolerant sadist and not nice like these women. Still, I decided to give Reggie a shot, singing bowls and all, whatever they were. I recognized Reggie as the person who occasionally came to Samantha’s class and did the splits. He’s a very kind tolerant person, far as I could tell, and so I introduced myself, and we shook hands, and I explained my numerous infirmities, and it turns out Reggie IS a really kind tolerant person who had indeed, according to Ethan and Contessa, visited India, and we talked sports after I informed him I couldn’t do down dog due to a bad shoulder from football, though I did not dare ask him about the singing bowls. He told me to “do what I can” if it gets too painful, and “modify,” because yoga was not about going to far and “hurting yourself and to know my body.”
So I reported to Reggie’s 9 o’clock class. Some of the people from the easier classes I attended were there, along with a few younger girls in fetching tights. I noticed what appeared to be several heavy steel cinnamon-colored various sized bowls off to the side of Reggie’s mat up front. I was anxious to hear them sing and wondered did they clash with the constant very light drone of Indian music filtering into the room.
Well, right off Reggie had us on our backs, under-going stretches while working on our breathing. He explained that breathing was vital to yoga. So far my breathing in Samantha and Gia’s classes had been sporadic and lacking in concentration as instructed. It seemed during tough poses I held my breath, a no-no. Well, following Reggie’s example, I seriously pursued my breathing exercises, realizing I was in a more serious class and wishing to do right. One of these breathing exercises seemed to be credible and helped me. Reggie told the class that if we breathed correctly we wouldn’t hurt ourselves.
But soon we were into some demanding poses, which involved spreading my legs as far apart as possible and twisting my torso to my right as far as possible, arms extended in that direction. I felt my breath straining and tried to emulate Reggie’s breathing practices to see if it would alleviate the pain I was in, my left knee already throbbing. I realized I had taken a giant step in yoga that was kicking my ass and testing my fortitude. Since I’d let Reggie know I was an athlete, and he had remarked that for a 72 year old I was a “stud,” I felt I had to live up to that appraisal, yet at the same time I did not want to hurt myself attempting to do so.
During “down dog” I had to remain on the ground instead of lifting up and while my peers balanced themselves on one hand and foot and raised the other foot up and around the neck, I remained on the mat balanced on elbows, lifting my leg like a dog pissing as I somehow tried to imitate them, and I had the feeling Reggie was secretly chuckling at me, though not in a mean way, but as humoring an old eccentric struggling in utter befuddlement yet at least trying
I hung tough and we transitioned into “Peaceful Warrior.” Right off, I seemed to be discombobulated and Reggie came out of his pose to turn me in the correct direction and instruct me to extend my warrior hand out front. I was watching everybody else beforehand, trying to copy them, and, compared to what I observed, I was the only one in the class lopsided and turning in the wrong direction.
I managed to get through Warrior #1 and then switched to Warrior #2, which turned us into “triangles” and again put pressure on my poor knee and shoulder, but I practiced my breathing to alleviate the pain and tried to distract myself by fantasizing about going across the street after this class and purchasing a giant chili verde burrito at the Mexican restaurant, and soon it was over and we were into Warrior #3, which turned us into a “tripod” and I was simply incapable of performing. Reggie came over and told me to do it against the back wall, so the wall could keep me from careening around the studio and toppling onto people, and I tried, but it was obvious I was in deep shit and kept bumping into the wall while my right hip (the bad one) screamed.
Afterwards, as we did some lower back stretching poses on the mat, Reggie, who did not talk as much as Samantha, seemed almost ecstatic as he waxed poetic about how good yoga was for us. It occurred to me that in 72 years Reggie is the happiest, most well-adjusted person I have ever come across. He is around 35 and oozes relaxed mellowness and joy but cannot in my opinion be classified a Pollyanna, and for that I am thankful, because in almost all instances I have never trusted Pollyannas and even hated some of them back in high school, especially cheer leaders and nonstop optimists and political activists shocked and turned off by my nonstop cynicism and purposeful negativity.
Toward the end, as I lay on my back during the winding down phase, the music ceased and there came a deep bell-like ringing, then a tinkle similar to a xylophone, and then a hoarse, prolonged squawk as if a muffled horn was blowing, and I peeped up to see Reggie touching these bowls with a sort of wand. These bowls actually do sort of sing. He stood and carried one of these bowls around and leaned down to some of his pupils and touched the bowl that made a sort of shrill, piercing sound that carried and carried, Reggie obviously having gone to school on these bowls in the India ashram. The room filled with the ringing, singing bowls that seemed to vibrate the entire room and actually became pleasant and soothing as they slowly died out, like a magical sunset.
Surprise of surprise: No ommmming! Just Reggie thanking us for coming to his class and wishing us a good day. I considered coming back, yes, but now my work is cut out for me.
“It’s not that tough,” Susie said. “You’ll like it, and you’re always wanting a better workout.”
So I asked Samantha if I should come to her earlier 9 o’clock Hatha class. She flashed me a pleasant if doubtful look. “I don’t think so, Dell.”
I could see she wanted to help me, as always, and was acutely aware of my ruined knee and shoulder, but then she smiled and said, “You should try Reggie’s class of Hatha with singing bowls.”
Singing bowls? I noticed “Hatha with Singing Bowls” at 9 on the monthly schedule, but singing bowls led me to believe I would be in an echoing chamber of chanting soul seekers choreographed by some ashram guru’s disciple.
“Singing bowls?” I asked Samantha. “How do bowls sing?”
She chuckled. “You’ll see. You’ll like it. And you’ll like Reggie.”
So far all my instructors have been women. I’m not sure I would be comfortable with a male instructor. My yoga maven friends, Ethan and Contessa, told me of one particular male instructor at their studio who is an intolerant sadist and not nice like these women. Still, I decided to give Reggie a shot, singing bowls and all, whatever they were. I recognized Reggie as the person who occasionally came to Samantha’s class and did the splits. He’s a very kind tolerant person, far as I could tell, and so I introduced myself, and we shook hands, and I explained my numerous infirmities, and it turns out Reggie IS a really kind tolerant person who had indeed, according to Ethan and Contessa, visited India, and we talked sports after I informed him I couldn’t do down dog due to a bad shoulder from football, though I did not dare ask him about the singing bowls. He told me to “do what I can” if it gets too painful, and “modify,” because yoga was not about going to far and “hurting yourself and to know my body.”
So I reported to Reggie’s 9 o’clock class. Some of the people from the easier classes I attended were there, along with a few younger girls in fetching tights. I noticed what appeared to be several heavy steel cinnamon-colored various sized bowls off to the side of Reggie’s mat up front. I was anxious to hear them sing and wondered did they clash with the constant very light drone of Indian music filtering into the room.
Well, right off Reggie had us on our backs, under-going stretches while working on our breathing. He explained that breathing was vital to yoga. So far my breathing in Samantha and Gia’s classes had been sporadic and lacking in concentration as instructed. It seemed during tough poses I held my breath, a no-no. Well, following Reggie’s example, I seriously pursued my breathing exercises, realizing I was in a more serious class and wishing to do right. One of these breathing exercises seemed to be credible and helped me. Reggie told the class that if we breathed correctly we wouldn’t hurt ourselves.
But soon we were into some demanding poses, which involved spreading my legs as far apart as possible and twisting my torso to my right as far as possible, arms extended in that direction. I felt my breath straining and tried to emulate Reggie’s breathing practices to see if it would alleviate the pain I was in, my left knee already throbbing. I realized I had taken a giant step in yoga that was kicking my ass and testing my fortitude. Since I’d let Reggie know I was an athlete, and he had remarked that for a 72 year old I was a “stud,” I felt I had to live up to that appraisal, yet at the same time I did not want to hurt myself attempting to do so.
During “down dog” I had to remain on the ground instead of lifting up and while my peers balanced themselves on one hand and foot and raised the other foot up and around the neck, I remained on the mat balanced on elbows, lifting my leg like a dog pissing as I somehow tried to imitate them, and I had the feeling Reggie was secretly chuckling at me, though not in a mean way, but as humoring an old eccentric struggling in utter befuddlement yet at least trying
I hung tough and we transitioned into “Peaceful Warrior.” Right off, I seemed to be discombobulated and Reggie came out of his pose to turn me in the correct direction and instruct me to extend my warrior hand out front. I was watching everybody else beforehand, trying to copy them, and, compared to what I observed, I was the only one in the class lopsided and turning in the wrong direction.
I managed to get through Warrior #1 and then switched to Warrior #2, which turned us into “triangles” and again put pressure on my poor knee and shoulder, but I practiced my breathing to alleviate the pain and tried to distract myself by fantasizing about going across the street after this class and purchasing a giant chili verde burrito at the Mexican restaurant, and soon it was over and we were into Warrior #3, which turned us into a “tripod” and I was simply incapable of performing. Reggie came over and told me to do it against the back wall, so the wall could keep me from careening around the studio and toppling onto people, and I tried, but it was obvious I was in deep shit and kept bumping into the wall while my right hip (the bad one) screamed.
Afterwards, as we did some lower back stretching poses on the mat, Reggie, who did not talk as much as Samantha, seemed almost ecstatic as he waxed poetic about how good yoga was for us. It occurred to me that in 72 years Reggie is the happiest, most well-adjusted person I have ever come across. He is around 35 and oozes relaxed mellowness and joy but cannot in my opinion be classified a Pollyanna, and for that I am thankful, because in almost all instances I have never trusted Pollyannas and even hated some of them back in high school, especially cheer leaders and nonstop optimists and political activists shocked and turned off by my nonstop cynicism and purposeful negativity.
Toward the end, as I lay on my back during the winding down phase, the music ceased and there came a deep bell-like ringing, then a tinkle similar to a xylophone, and then a hoarse, prolonged squawk as if a muffled horn was blowing, and I peeped up to see Reggie touching these bowls with a sort of wand. These bowls actually do sort of sing. He stood and carried one of these bowls around and leaned down to some of his pupils and touched the bowl that made a sort of shrill, piercing sound that carried and carried, Reggie obviously having gone to school on these bowls in the India ashram. The room filled with the ringing, singing bowls that seemed to vibrate the entire room and actually became pleasant and soothing as they slowly died out, like a magical sunset.
Surprise of surprise: No ommmming! Just Reggie thanking us for coming to his class and wishing us a good day. I considered coming back, yes, but now my work is cut out for me.
