Somebody's farting. Somebody's falling. Somebody's flexing her hips in preparation for a Valentine's rendezvous. And somebody's worshipping at the altar of a giant number three wearing a cowboy hat and taking too many happy pills.
Initially, yoga scared the hell out of me. It seemed boring. It seemed embarrassingly new age. It seemed feminine. But mostly, it just seemed hard. Really, though, can 20 million yoga followers be wrong? Yoga is a theistic philosophy from South Asia, "teaching the suppression of all activity of body, mind and will in order that the self may realize its distinction from them and attain liberation" -- blah blah blah (thank you, Columbia Encyclopedia).
But seriously. Here before you stands the embarrassing experiences of a fried-cheese-eating, caffeine-addicted, ceaselessly sleepy slug, Yogic virgin, whose previous notions of exercise revolved around the mental wrestling match over whether or not making the three block hike to Wawa for another pack of cigarettes was truly worth it. (Verdict: Only half the time. More if you throw in gummy bears and Coke.) Those seeking a spiritual immunity boost should go to Jamba Juice. Or go read another yoga article.
Downward-Facing Dog is a real bitch. (Sorry, somebody had to take it there.) Imagine having to hold an up-push-up position for what amounts to 40 minutes in a 90-minute session -- only you have to stick your bottom into the air as high as possible. Ah, the ignorant homoerotic symbolism. I am told that the posture stretches the back, opens the chest and builds upper body strength. And depending on what magazine article you read, it stimulates either the brain and nervous system, improving memory, concentration, hearing and eyesight, or the kidneys and adrenal gland, improving (I guess) urination. I also read that the canine nomenclature derives from the stimulation of the lymph system in dogs when their paws are positioned similar to the nominal yogic posture. Maybe it does all of these. It makes me feel impotent.
Never have I been so aware of my helplessness in this formidable world. My legs quiver with spasmodic shakes. My hairless arms alone produce more sweat than I thought possible of my body. The sweat floods down my arms to my already clammy hands, and I am slipping. As I gradually lose my grip, I look to my left and right and realize that no one else seems to be struggling this much. No one else seems to be slipping.
Normally, I am no sweater. But this room is sweltering. Here, at Power Yoga Works -- the studio-store on 3925 Walnut Street offering 40 classes a week at all levels -- they set the heat at 95 degrees. I am sad to learn that they use not sacred hot rocks imported from the farthest reaches of the Himalayas (because I suppose those would be really cold) but rather a basic wall-heating system.
Bikram yoga is hot. While Pottruck Health and Fitness Center offers classes in Hatha (the more relaxed foundation of yoga that focuses on correct postures), Iyengar (a type of Hatha that apparently involves the aid of props, like pillows and straps. Hmm.), Kripalu (spontaneous and flowing yoga with a larger focus on meditation) and Ashtanga (also known as Power Yoga, or Yogaerobics), the opening of Power Yoga Works in October 2002 and its own form of hot yoga (Baptiste Power Vinyasa) epitomizes the Western trend of more athletically minded varieties.
Hot yoga's popularity is surging far ahead of the others. Requiring an excessively heated room of around 100 degrees, it cultivates an environment that relaxes the muscles, facilitates flexibility and arguably heightens concentration. Really, I find the environment just cultivates sweating, which is why hot yoga is so popular. This proves a far greater attraction to the American fitness craze -- and moreover, Penn's skinny sorority binge -- than the more intangible, spiritual elements highlighted in the Eastern teachings.
While the other types also offer some form of strength and endurance building, stretching, pain relief (although after my Power Yoga experience, this seems paradoxical), stress reduction, meditation and breathing exercises, the high intensity and temperature of hot yoga maximizes calorie-burning and detoxification. I could almost feel all of the toxins pouring out of my system. "If you drink a cup of coffee right before you come in," Power Yoga Works' Studio Manager Kelly George tells me, "you'll smell like Starbucks." Nota bene: Avoid the curry.
In power yoga, the yogin proceeds through a routine of 26 asanas -- poses -- each performed twice, working what feels like every muscle group. The practice starts with the Sun Salutations -- a series of 10 postures (including that bitch) executed in a single, free procession that fosters flexibility and develops the breathing method for the rest of the class. Sun Salutations are supposed to be done at dawn but really form the yogic equivalent of batting practice. The course then evolves toward building certain ideal postures -- some standing, some sitting -- of increasing difficulty. Thus, Downward Dog is just the beginning. Imagine my dismay.
"Sun Salutations are to heat your body so you can do the standing postures. Standing postures are to continue the heating and stretching process to allow you to do the seated postures," former Penn Classical Studies professor cum yoga instructor-fitness-guru-extraordinaire Jacqui Sadashige says. "The seated postures are where you confront your blocks. They tend to be a little more twisty, [needing] a little more flexibility. The whole point of this is to be able to sit in lotus position for long periods of time and meditate. The point of meditation is not just to sit there and meditate, but to learn to be present in every single moment."
Before Sun Salutations, my Power Vinyasa practice begins with the class meditatively chanting, "Om" (or Aum). In Hinduism and Buddhism, Om is considered the most sacred syllable chanted in contemplation of ultimate reality. (What's ultimate reality? Is perception a reality? Is reality a reality? I should rent The Matrix.) The hum buzzes about the studio as everyone in class inharmoniously catches on to the group incantation. The Om kind of reverberates like the THX certification logo you experience in movie theaters. We will have chanted Om a few more times before ending class by incanting, "Namaste," which means, "I bow to the divine in you." Yoga classes usually end with this chant, only it is more difficult to play catch up with the Namaste part since it is said only once in a practice. The lights then turn on and everyone gets up to go home while the beginner -- i.e. me -- is still sitting there wondering, "What'd they say?"
For those on the shier side, spiritually speaking (Heathens!), or those who just want to sweat hard for an hour (call me), the Om's can be avoided. While Power Yoga Works balances the spirit with the sport, Sadashige's Ashtanga classes at Pottruck and Sweat -- 200 South 24th Street -- rarely offer chanting. "It weirds people out when you're in a gym," she says. "You have 60 minutes to get a class in and they are going to be pissed off if you waste 15 minutes chanting."
Nevertheless, Sadashige's rather secular approach to yoga commensurably turns its attention to other areas, such as flatulence: "There's this one pose; people call it Dead Bug," she says. "I tell the class this one tends to relieve pressure in your abdomen. So, people kind of chuckle. You might want to be careful about where you do this one if you've had a heavy meal." (Once again, avoid the curry). And more importantly, attention to the groin. She confesses with a sheepish giggle: "For Valentine's Day, I do a lot of hip openers." Tantra, baby!
As I walk into the Power Yoga Works studio to worship the almighty Om, I suddenly remember why I came here in the first place -- girls. I sit up and peruse the room -- 36 people are laid out in this studio. This all-levels crowd offers an even distribution of students, and Philadelphia locals (i.e. grown-ups), regulars and beginners. Six of us are male. All the rest are female. All the rest are rather fit. All the rest are scantily clad and will soon impress me with their flexibility. I should have combed my hair.
I see a multitude of postures, all ostensibly fashioned to bring my fellow classmates toward some heightened state of relaxation -- spiritual preparation for the practice before us. I sit on my sticky mat and ape one girl's position, which I later learn is called Child Pose. It rather resembles the face down position when one prostrates herself to some holy idol. Think Joe Versus the Volcano. Child Pose, and I will soon become very close friends throughout the course of my Power Yoga experience. Whenever the Downward-Facing Dogs prove too much for my frail frame, I scoot back for a swig of water, move to Child Pose until the pain subsides, and eventually return mid-Sun Salutation.
I am always checking out my neighbors, which is largely discouraged in the yoga studio. Self-actualization takes precedence over self-consciousness, community preferred over competition. "Be yourself. Be authentic. Be better than you used to be," declares Bill Raup, the tranquil founder of Power Yoga Works. But I can't. I constantly consider, by comparison, how correctly I am doing the postures. Why do only my hands slip on this mat so much? I glance back to see how feasible it is to reach for my towel and water bottle. My whole body is still shaking, and I am powerless to restrain this quake. Did somebody just fart? My mat is no longer flat, and now the bunched up right-hand corner receives all my attention. I gotta fix it, fix it, fix it. I feel another's hand grasp mine -- it's my instructor Regina Longo's hand stretching mine farther out. Apparently, my form was incorrect.
The feel of another's hand energizes me with a human reminder that is sometimes lost in the spiritual void of this sticky studio with a giant Om painted on one wall. (The exact depiction of the Om varies between looking like a cowboy-hat-wearing number three with a wagging tail and an overly exuberant stick figure jumping around after taking large doses of Wellbutrin. And he has a number three attached to his right foot).
My instructor Regina is a stern but groovy master. She is both consoling Soccer Mom and demanding Little League Dad. Her new-age intonation enraptures the soul with the warmest whisper, while her austere regimen exacts the most punishing pain known in a lifetime. She seems always ready to tell us of our intrinsic goodness before forcing our bodies into the most inhuman contortions.
"May your day begin with love, be filled with love, and end with love," she comforts us with a soothing laya lullaby, then orders us into an impossible Crow Pose -- a horizontal cannonball in which you must bear all your weight on your taut arms. Sadly, my newly enlivened spirit and strengthened sense of self still are not powerful enough to support my body with just my arms. I am just not strong. I'm now certain that my Sri Lankan ancestry will soon revoke my right to be brown.
"The past is history, and the future's a mystery," Regina declares, urging us to "Free your minds," and the rest that follows is... I keep thinking of the En Vogue song -- an appropriate message, but nonetheless a distraction in present circumstances. Undertaking a practice that encourages us to liberate our thoughts from all the everyday anxieties consuming us outside of this studio, I discern my yogic failure: I think, I think, I think, I think -- a big ah-no in yoga. "It's not yoga if it's stressing you out," says George. But it's not all my fault.
When Sadashige was still teaching literature at Penn, she would often walk into the classroom straight from yoga with tights in tow, stretching one leg on a desk while espousing the Modernist gospel. At least, that's how I choose to remember my Sadashige class experiences. She once began an E.M. Forster lecture by quoting Howard's End: "Only connect the prose and the passion and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its heights.... Live in fragments no longer, only connect."
Coincidentally, yoga translates from Sanskrit to the English word "union." Yet, coming to yoga with the intention of writing about it for the newspaper seems to defy the entire practice. Uniting the passion with the prose seems impossible, for I cannot truly exalt my spirit in the ever-present beauty of Frog Pose when I also have to consider how to best describe the excruciating pain the frog brings my knees. Is my form correct? As my mental notes mar mantric meditation, I realize verbal gymnastics and the Vinyasa just do not mix.
I have to stop. This cannot go on any longer. Give up. I have struggled when I should have surrendered. Kelly George tells me, "When you do yoga, you call it practice. You are practicing things on your mat that you are going to take and use outside. For a lot of people, at first, it is just practicing being calm in a stressful situation. When you go into the world, you experience discomfort all around you -- maybe somebody flips you the bird or you're late. So, you see those same circumstances on the mat. You learn to breath, be calm and to be unaffected, and you go out into the world and all of a sudden find that what you've been practicing is what you see in your life." So when you practice bad things, bad things will come. When you practice good... "I was in a class, and the instructor asked, 'Has yoga changed anyone's life?' and everyone raised their hands." Kelly George makes me want to raise my hand.
So I resigned. I resigned myself to the pain with which the Frog Pose scathed my knees. I resigned myself to the inescapable anxieties of washing my dirty yoga laundry for public consumption. (I ripped my boxers.) I surrendered to the inevitability of these sensations, and I was freed. Regina encouraged us "to find comfort in your discomfort." Accept the existence of pain and difficulty; just breathe, and move on. Did someone fart again? Cherish this meditative calm. Refuse to settle. Revel in your fears. Forget the past and ignore the future. Your presence is now. Connect the mind, the spirit, the body and all will be exalted. With a silent sigh, endure the tyrannies of life -- the failures, the anxieties, the inability to hold a Downward-Facing Dog. Purge yourself. And if you fart in the process, that's okay too.
Namaste.
