Life lessons in yoga

Namaste, yoga

On a Saturday afternoon, I went to a level 2 hot yoga class because it was the only one that fit in my schedule. Although I’ve been practicing yoga several years, I often make a conscious choice to take level 1 classes because my attendance is sporadic, making me feel like a consummate beginner. I can usually scrape by in a level 2, provided I stick to basic postures and ignore the more complicated variations, so I figured maybe I’d be okay this one time.

I’m an introverted yogi by nature. I generally go to re-center—to find calm and balance in my life. I go quietly, introspectively, hoping to show up for myself but remain entirely inconspicuous to those around me, so when I laid down my mat among enthusiastic, chatty yogis as they answered rapid-fire questions from our instructor, I felt instant panic.

I hope this isn’t what the class is like, I thought. It felt like being assigned a group project when all you wanted was to read the book, write your own paper, and call it a day.

The teacher continued asking questions as people got settled, and I had the distinct fear he was going to call on me when I wasn’t raising my hand.

This isn’t relaxing, I thought. But it wasn’t grade school either, so I told myself to simmer down. It’s not like I’d get in trouble if I didn’t know the answers.

When it was time for class to start, the instructor said, “Okay, let’s begin in high plank.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. Begin in high plank? Was he out of his mind? Everyone knows you’re supposed to begin in a position that feels like naptime is a half-step away—you know, like, either lying down in passed-out pose or sitting comfortably in story-time pose. I don’t know the technical names, but I know you build up to plank. You don’t begin in a place that makes you wish for death.

Clearly, I had made a catastrophic mistake. This was not a good match, but it was too late to bolt out the door. Just like pre-med biology freshman year of college, for better or worse, I was accidentally stuck in this joint till the class was over.

So, back to the high plank, which was actually worse than high plank because the teacher told us to spin our hands around so our wrists were facing the front of the room and our fingers were pointing toward our feet. Wowzers. He didn’t mess around.

And again, since this was hot yoga, the epic sweating commenced immediately, not only due to physical and emotional duress, but also thermal intensity.

Soon, we embarked on a series of positions requiring far more skill and stamina than I possessed, but I followed as closely as I could, telling myself—every fifteen seconds or so—to simply survive the next fifteen seconds. It was a class seemingly everyone else in the room had attended before, and they had obviously returned on purpose. This meant they were either in pristine, badass shape, or they were certifiably crazy—perhaps a combination of the two.

As we shifted quickly from posture to posture, I constantly, desperately, looked at the people closest to me and tried to recreate whatever shape I observed them making. It felt like a Cirque du Soleil audition—another place I undoubtedly didn’t belong.

I laughed to myself thinking how yoga is all about paying attention to your breath. Thirty minutes in, I realized I couldn’t tell if I was breathing at all, let alone with intention, but I took comfort in the fact that, according to experts, drowning doesn’t look like drowning. Maybe no one else could tell how dire my struggle was simply by glancing in my direction.

In a brief moment of stillness, the teacher “invited” us to do crow pose. Instructors use that word a lot—like we’re headed to a fun dinner party or bachelorette weekend.

I thought to myself, as much as I appreciate the invitation, I’m just gonna do maimed fledgling if that’s cool; it’s really the closest I had come to the aviary posture up till that point.

But I guess a funny thing happens when you reach so uncomfortably beyond your customary confines. Sometimes when you extend yourself past your boundaries, although you may miss your intended mark, which is well past your capabilities, you manage to land on something less lofty but also previously beyond your grasp.

Suddenly there I was doing crow—legitimately—for the first time, in a pool of my own perspiration. How did that happen? Cloaked in a sweaty fog of failure was a small, silver-lining victory.

When we finally made it to the downhill side of class (where postures became slightly less taxing), the instructor began asking questions again. He had been playing ’80s music for the duration of our ninety-minute practice as part of the studio’s thirty-year anniversary celebration.

“Has anyone ever heard this song before?” he asked.

None of us had.

“Can anyone venture a guess as to who is singing?” he added.

Everyone stared at each other.

“It sounds like Madonna,” I said quietly, when no one else commented.

“It is Madonna!” he shouted with excitement. “Who else does it sound like?”

“Prince.” I ventured.

“Good God, it is Prince! What’s your name?” he asked.

“I’m Chandler,” I told him.

“Chandler,” he said, “you’re a musical genius.”

I think he was overshooting a little, but I wasn’t about to argue. It felt good to be recognized as possessing a skill of any sort at the end of that hour and a half.

“I can’t believe you knew that!” he continued. “How did you know it was Prince and Madonna?”

“I’m better at music than I am yoga,” I told him.

“They’re both important,” he said, matter-of-factly.

And just like that, I became one of them: a crazy person who not only survives stressful situations but figures out a way to thrive in them—or at the very least, excavate hopeful glimmers of success buried in the wreckage—all the while shouting out answers to random trivia questions.

I left the class feeling empowered. Had I known ahead of time what that ninety minutes would entail, there’s honestly no chance I would have gone, but not knowing was a gift—an opportunity for growth, a reminder that we will always encounter difficult circumstances in life. Sometimes the best we can do is accept the anxiety, embrace the discomfort, and allow it to slowly transform us into the people we’re meant to become.

The next morning, I went to a restorative class at a different studio. The first words out of the teacher’s mouth were, “Have you ever walked into a yoga class and been disappointed because it was totally not what you expected?”

Um…sixteen hours ago, girlfriend.

“I’ve had that happen before,” she went on. “I’m high energy; I love classes that pump you up, so the first time I accidentally ended up in a class that required me to be still, it was nearly impossible. I really struggled through it.

“I think we have a tendency to be drawn to what we’re good at, right?” she continued. “And there’s nothing wrong with going to classes you’re naturally drawn to, but realize you probably like them because they play on your strengths. When you find yourself in a class that makes you uncomfortable, it’s probably because you’re coming face to face with your weaknesses, and that can be a challenge. But isn’t it just as important (if not more so) to work on our weaknesses?

“When you wind up in a class that isn’t what you expected, ask yourself what it’s trying to teach you. Sometimes you don’t get what you want, but you get what you need instead.”

Preach, sister. Man, this lady was reading my mind—or my diary. Danielle’s always like that, though: dead-on accurate, whispering profound things I need to hear, right when I need to hear them.

The next hour and a half was like the soothing-balm antithesis to my challenging class the day before. It was the extreme opposite in comfort level but, ironically, the exact equivalent in importance. I love when that happens.

Toward the end of class, the instructor read a poem by Brad Aaron Modlin called “What You Missed That Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade,” which I cried through. That’s becoming my thing: crying through yoga. The whole poem resonated with me, but the waterworks began right around the time the teacher handed out “worksheets that covered ways to remember your grandfather’s voice.”

By the time we reached “I am is a complete sentence,” I was toast (bawling toast). The entire poem is truly worth reading if you have a minute to spare.

Sixteen hours, two courses, several lessons. Life is indeed a classroom.

Sometimes the answer is to simply keep going; sometimes it’s to recognize that you’re already there. And once in a while—maybe more often than you’d expect—the answer is definitely Prince.

8 Comments

  1. Jon

    These are great! Keep writing. Prince, above all else. ALWAYS Prince. A great band once sang a similar mantra: ” You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you get what you need.” I don’t need to tell you who. You know. You just know. Namaste!

    • admin

      I was like “Who owns this amazing email address?” Haha I should have known! Love it! And when it comes to music, we agree on far more than what we don’t.

  2. Kristen

    Another awesome post! Keep up the good work. So well written, funny, and REAL. Great stuff!

  3. Donna Block

    So good Chan. Humorous and yet inspiring. Simple and yet deep. Left me feeling empowered. Blessings, Miss Donna

  4. Kris

    I laughed, I cried. Ways to remember your grandfather’s voice. I need to work on that one.

  5. Alice

    Girl. I’m so proud. U are amazing. So smart. And hot. I want to see you in your yoga pants. 😂😂😘😘

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