Mentor

I'm learning from the other side at yoga.

 

I am relatively new to a nighttime practice, not so close to home.

 
And for this reason, most all of the yogis, save one or two, were strangers when I first arrived.

But the energy in the room seems to tie us together and, at the end of each practice, I often feel a sort of kinship with my classmates, even the ones I still don’t know.

In this class, half the room faces the other half. And now I’ve made some buddies on the other side.

In particular, my dristi, or focal point, seems to land on a young lady three rows ahead, in the first row that faces mine.

She is upside down in handstand for every vinyasa, and I’m hoping to advance my practice simply by osmosis.

One day, on my way out, I couldn’t help but exclaim to this young yogi about her practice. A few days later, on my way in, she returned the compliment.

Here I was admiring her, but there she was admiring me!

We started to chat and moved on to more important topics, like her handstands. I want those vinyasa handstands, away from the wall, and I asked her how it is that she’s not afraid to go upside down, right in the middle of the room.

I’ll help you, she offered. I’ll teach you how to fall.

She spotted me, then, in handstand, mid room with no wall, and encouraged me to turn my hips and step out to stand up. It was almost like rounding-off in gymnastics or like the second half of a cartwheel.

We did this a few times, and she sent me off to practice at home. Not once but twice since then, she has offered to repeat the spot.

Here was someone offering help without my asking, offering only kindness and encouragement and even praise.

Little did she know how much this heartened me.

Outside of yoga, I find myself mostly in mentoring roles. I am a helper, and often an advisor, as a colleague, as a mom, as a sibling, as a friend.

But yoga puts me on the other side, placing me in an unfamiliar role. And it feels kind of strange to be over there.

At yoga, I am the student. I look to others, students and teachers alike, for inspiration and how-to’s.

I am surprised at how much there is to learn from others, and often from those younger than me. In the studio, though, it seems that age is of no matter.

Most important is the fact that this young yogi is teaching me about fearlessness and courage. She is teaching me how to be brave enough to fall, even when I’m scared.

I am learning a life lesson from someone almost half my age!

It’s this unexpected camaraderie that I’m often surprised to find at yoga.

More than once, I’ve looked around and wondered, What if we all never met or, for that matter, what if I never met yoga?

What, then, if I saw these yogis passing by on the street, walking around, all grown up and dressed up and doing the day?

Would it even occur to me that at night we could all be having fun in a room doing headstands and handstands, upside down like children of all ages?

Apparently, how old we are doesn’t appear to matter. Yoga seems to be an equalizer.

This might not be evident when walking by each other on the street, but once we are on the mat, it’s really so easy to see.

The other day, it was time to practice our handstands.

I planned to chicken out and face the wall at the back of my mat for support. I was still afraid to invert at the front of my mat, mid room.

Before I turned around, my young mentor on the other side caught my eye and gave me a nod.

I followed her silent instruction and changed my plan. From her faith, I gathered my courage and gave it a go facing front.

I planted my hands below my shoulders and pulled in my core. I lifted one leg and then slowly lifted the other.

And to my surprise, I hung there, upside down, mid room!

For that day, at least, I was not afraid to fall.

Validation

It's not always easy to tell the truth.

You can’t find the truth anywhere but in yourself.

These were the instructor’s words as we lay in pigeon pose the other night in yoga.

You can’t find it in a book, you can’t find it in your teacher, you can’t find it in anybody else.

I must admit his words brought me up short. If the truth is inside of me, then I want to know where exactly!

Yoga teaches that the body stores emotions and even past traumas. It has taken me a while to buy into this, but I have to admit that the practice does sometimes get emotional. So, maybe there is something to say about the truth literally residing somewhere in there.

But that would mean I’d have to believe there is actual anger in my quads, emotions in my hips and real love in my heart. If that’s so, then what’s in my arms, my belly and my back?

If the truth is inside of me, why can’t I always access it?

I can see other people’s truths so clearly. As far back as I can remember, people have come to me for perspective, clarity and advice.

Most recently, I was reacquainted with a friend who stopped mid-sentence and said, Wait! Are you someone that other people come to and tell things to? That same week, another friend stopped mid-tears to ask if I had some kind of background in psychology (I don’t).

And at work, I have a chair in my office across from my desk that gets a lot of traffic. It’s called the trouble seat and is used by others who come in to unload and ask for advice. I knew you’d have the answer! one such visitor said.

How is it that I can so easily see someone else’s truth but not always my own?

Yoga ties the physical with the emotional by teaching about the Chakras, or energy centers, located along the spine. There are seven, and they spin in a wheel-like fashion if all is going well spiritually, emotionally and physically.

Supposedly, emotions can block the Chakras, and it’s the yoga poses, or asanas, that unblock them and get the energy flowing once more.

The Chakras are lined up like this:

 

·         The first Chakra, the Root Chakra, is located at the base of the spine and is tied to our most innate emotions like survival.

·         The second Chakra is the Sacral Chakra and is located under the belly button. It is tied to our desires for pleasure and well being.

·         The third Chakra is the Solar Plexus Charkra. It is located above the stomach and has to do with self esteem.

·         The fourth one is the Heart Chakra and is, of course, located at the center of the chest and is all about love.

·         The fifth is the Throat Chakra. It’s at the throat and is tied to communication and the truth.

·         The sixth Chakra is the Third Eye, located at the center of the forehead. It has to do with intuition.

·         The seventh Chakra, the Crown Chakra, is located at the top of the head and is connected to our spirituality.

If this is to be believed, then there is certainly a lot more going on in our bodies than just organs working and blood flowing.

But even with knowing all this, I still don’t know how “X” marks the spot when it comes to locating my truth. Mostly, I think I am pretty solid, but I know I can sometimes be thrown for a loop, by others or even myself.

Before yoga, I was so much more of a closed person. I don’t know how the practice opened me up, but somehow it did.

Perhaps the poses really did get my wheels spinning.

And maybe, when I look to others or others look to me, we are really just on a quest for validation of what we already know to be true. Maybe good advice really is just helping each other see inside to the truth that’s already there.

If this is so, then I get it when the instructor says that no one has anyone else’s answers.

The search for mine happens mostly on my mat, and I don’t think it’s ending anytime soon.

Home

There's no place like home, and home can be any place.

I’ve never ventured too far from home.

I grew up down the street from where I now live. I went to the local university, and my biggest move came after college when I left campus for what was then my ultimate destination—a downtown Mary Tyler Moore studio apartment.

To this day, even though I am hardly home, I remain a homebody.

Having a home base has always secured and centered me, even though its location has changed half a dozen times.

At this point in my life, I am surprised to find another home at yet another location, this one being my yoga mat.

No matter the day, no matter the weather, no matter the worry, I unroll my mat and it’s like coming home. I am secure and centered just sitting there.

Although I am no longer married, I remember well the time when I discovered this man would be my husband. We traveled out of town—a very big deal for me as I had never really traveled—and, sitting there with him on the plane, I realized I felt at home, that it did not matter where I was because home was now with him.

Then, I was a single mom, making my home with my children, and we were good at it, too.

I bought a house, settled us in, and there we spent their growing up years, miraculously right across the street from their grandparents.

My son played frequent catch with his grandfather, his Zaide; we’d spend hours sprawled on their couch watching television, and their grandmother, their Bubie, joined us often at the kitchen table for after-school snacks.

Always, just 62 steps away by my son’s count, was another refrigerator with home cooked meals and staples like ice cream, cookies, pickles and olives and more.

Now my children are many more steps away, living out of town and on their own, and my folks have moved not too far away, but away as well. My siblings have been out of town for a long, long time.

And I have found yoga.

Yoga has brought me home in a way that is hard to explain, especially for someone who never realized she was far away in the first place.

How can I come home if I never left?

One of the studios I frequent was previously a townhome. There is a narrow staircase that leads to the first level, and the front desk even has a dishwasher. They serve tea and cookies, there’s a sitting room, and each practice room has a fireplace and windows with curtains.

I am fairly new there.

The other night, the instructor called for our starting position, Samasthiti, or Mountain Pose. We stood at the tops of our mats, one half of the room facing the other. This is the time to set our intention before the flow, and I looked around even though I was supposed to have my eyes closed.

It struck me that night as I scanned the now familiar faces that I finally felt at home there. I got that same secure home base feeling as I rooted down through my feet and reached up to start the practice.

And that practice proved to be one of my strongest to date. I think it was because that secure feeling fostered a sense of confidence, and this confidence radiated in my body.

I lifted in and out of seated straddle with an arm balance on both sides, my handstands were working well, and I was able to keep my legs up and straight in several boat poses.

Mostly, I felt a core strength that literally lifted me through the practice.

Usually, I carry a sense of home regardless of where I am, and I think my children do, too. I believe the security and confidence it fosters is what provides them with a launching pad of sorts.

But, still, there is a deeper sense of home, one that seems age old. It’s inside of me, and I think I lost touch with it for a while. This is the part that is hard to explain. This is the part that I found again in yoga.

There is something about the flow and the movement and the mat. It’s the actual physical endeavor that seems to fortify my very core, the home base inside of me that is me.

This same studio had a meditation workshop where we all sat in a circle. It was led by a rabbi who provided instruction on brief, four-minute meditations.

On the first go, we closed our eyes. After a minute or two, mine sort of welled up and, like in Samasthiti, I quickly looked around even though I was supposed to have my eyes closed.

Thankfully, the rest of the room was doing a better job than I, and so my tears stayed private. Afterward, each person was asked to explain the experience. Everyone had lots to say, but when it came my turn, all I could do was ask a simple question.

"Why did it make me cry?"

The rabbi didn’t skip a beat. He responded with a simple but meaningful answer before moving to the next person.

"In Hebrew," he said, "there is something called Teshuvah. It means Coming Home."

Fear

I'm hoping the third time's a charm.

 

I hit my head at yoga. Then, I did it again and, shortly thereafter, once more. 

These three hits happened accidentally on purpose as part of my efforts to drop into a backbend from standing. 

It’s scary, but I am not ready to stop. I console myself with the thought that hitting one’s head is supposed to happen in three’s so, hopefully, I’ve also hit my quota. 

I’m not sure why I feel so compelled to get into a backbend this way when I can get there in other ways. I can’t really identify my incentive, but I feel like it’s a barrier that I have to break through.  

I also must confess that this might partly be a mission by the high achiever that resides inside this sometimes fearful girl. 

What I do know is that it’s not really so yogic to push as if going into some kind of battle that I am impatient to win. I know I’m not supposed to fight to get a pose, but that hasn’t stopped me from setting a deadline for myself on this. 

My best guess is that backbends are supposed to be about opening the heart and the dipping back is supposed to be about facing fears. So,maybe, on some level, I am trying to do both. 

It’s a surrendering. 

And I think that’s my barrier. It’s risky to surrender. 

I do take the instructor’s words to heart when he says to crack open your chest when we bend back in any fashion. This imagery really works for me, helping me to lean further and further back, to lift my heart up and back, to lift my arms and stretch out of my lower back and to get a good look at the back wall. 

My heart has been closed for business for a long time.  

Maybe that’s my barrier, too. 

Several times a week, at the end of class, the instructor dips me back three or four times. That’s when I hit my head for the first time, even though I landed my hands. 

We’ve been doing this for a few months, and now he says he is spotting me less and less. I have a much better feel now for how I need to ground myself more in my feet, tighten more in my core and straighten more in my arms in order to make a safe and strong landing. 

The other day, I arrived home after a good practice, thinking the time has got to come when I risk dipping back on my own. 

And I decided that time could be now. I could surrender now. 

So, I laid out my mat, put a chair cushion in the middle as a safety net and set myself up to dip back, on my own, all by myself.

Ever so slowly, I reached up and bent back, back, back, until I passed the point of no return and landed my hands with a bounce. 

A big day! I could even do it again and again! 

I took that confidence to class the next day, only to have it buoy me for one but not another, when I landed my hands but then bounced on my head. Hit number two. 

The instructor made me do it again for the very reason I hit my head. 

Another day later, another class, another try. And that’s when I reached my quota, hitting my head for the third time.

And now I feel like I’ve hit some sort of wall, even though it’s really just the mat. 

I'm scared to try again. 

 

This has turned into a bit of an emotional endeavor without too much rational thought, the existence of which may be moot anyway should I keep hitting my head.

But what I do know is that I need to keep trying.

I want to get to the other side of that barrier and see what's there.

Energy

Source: Uploaded by user via Câro on Pinterest

 

We were born before the wind … ~ Van Morrison, Into the Mystic

It’s taken me a long time to figure out what yoga’s all about, and I still don’t think I am totally there yet.

Really, at the beginning, I just dipped in for some exercise.

I had no way of knowing that it would connect me, especially since I didn’t even know I was disconnected.

Some people refer to yoga as a moving meditation, and I sort of discovered this without even realizing it was happening. I would just reach the end of the practice with some new kind of energy.

All the while, I was not aware that I even stored any kind of energy, much less that the practice could shift it.

At the end of each practice, we sit with our hands in prayer.

Sometimes, an instructor takes us from the bottoms of our seats to the tops of our heads, talking about energy, talking about breathing into energy centers, talking about inhaling and exhaling and downloading positive energy.

In the past, I would just follow along, supposedly using my breath to move some energy through my body and not giving it too much deep thought.

But that was then and this is now.

Now I am awake; whereas, before, I think I was sort of asleep.

Somehow, moving on my mat has been like an alarm clock, jolting me from one state of consciousness to another.

This might sound like I’ve dipped in for some Kool-aid along with the yoga, but practicing has introduced me to more of who I am, to my own energy and to that of others, as well.

Before, my perspective was more of I am here, you are there and sometimes we are here together.

Now I see now that none of us is separate, even if we wish to be, because we are all made up of the same energy, the different levels of which impact our days, our moods and ultimately, one another.

I am never over here while you are over there. We are always in the same place.

How else to explain the instant connections we feel with certain people, the automatic aversions we might feel toward others, the light lift of our spirits when we see or think of someone we love?

It’s the ebb and flow of energy that marks our experiences. Sometimes, I can’t put my finger on why it’s a good day or a bad day, or why there might be a shift in my feelings or in that of another’s.

This is energy at play, and it’s more telling than any words I myself or someone else might say.

Meditation is supposed to help us tap into our energy, and the moving meditation of yoga seems to do this for me. The practice creates a shift inside, and I move from a singular space to one that’s intertwined with others.

I am still a beginner at meditation, and I’ve even attended a few workshops with a rabbi who has opened a mindfulness center. He has identified a tie to yoga, meditation and the ancient teachings of Judaism as a way to ignite his energy, and he is teaching others how to do the same.

Most recently, we sat in a circle, and the rabbi talked a lot about the breath, a big deal in yoga and in mediation. He said it’s what ties us to God, or to what he calls the Source.

The Energy Source. The Light.

I was surprised to have stumbled upon this same idea by way of yoga. After the workshop, I mentioned an article I had written about a recent realization that the breath ties us to some kind of greatness inside, so we are never really alone, especially if we just breathe.

You knew, this rabbi told me. The Torah is inside you.

Then, he just looked at me as if to say, Right?

And it was like he had blessed me with those words and the look that followed. I felt heartened because he validated a budding knowledge brought on by yoga, a knowledge that I am connected on the inside as well as the outside.

What he was telling me was that the Torah -- or the truth, or the Source, or the Light -- was one and the same as the energy that was me, and the energy that is all of us.

It seems that yoga has brought me back to myself. I think I might have been missing for a while.

But if what this rabbi says is true, and I think it is, then I was never really gone.

My energy was just taking a rest, and yoga woke it up.

Sun Spot

It’s Sunday morning, and I lay out my mat near the window along the back wall of the studio.

It’s a winter day, and the sky is blue and cloudless. It’s cold, but the sun is shining, and I am glad my parking spot is several blocks away. It’s good to walk in the early morning quiet, only a few others out and about on this bright and beautiful day.

The class before ours is crowded, and the room gets heated, so those leaving pry open the windows in their wake. I keep my long sleeves on while setting up, chatting with some of the others and trying to warm up my mat, still cold from the night it spent in the car.

This class is Rocket yoga. It’s challenging and strenuous and one of my favorites. It’s an interesting mix of people, and an interesting mix of flows and inversions and arm balances. I am pushed to my limits each time.

The instructor closes the windows against the sunny, chilled air and starts the music. The demanding sequence is set against a soundtrack that I would call easy listening. It’s definitely Sunday morning music, even if the workout is anything but.

Come to the top of your mats, she says, and all the lounging yogis slowly stand at attention.

It starts.

We reach up and there follows the flow of several Sun As, after which we flow into several Sun Bs.

My eyes follow my arms as they lift to the ceiling, then look down for the fold to the floor. We continue through our Vinyasas, from Chatarunga (low push up) to Urdhva Mukha (upward facing dog) to Adho Mukha (downward facing dog).

The instructor calls out the Sanskrit words, and her voice becomes as easy listening as the music. Our shadows flow across the floor as we flow through the Sun postures.

I realize that the shadow I think is mine is really my neighbor’s to the right, and that mine is really on the mat of the neighbor to my left.

The sun from the window behind me has moved us over one spot each! It shines on my back and my neighbor’s, too, making a great big sun spot that stretches out across the floor, window panes and all.

We move into the part of the practice with the twists, rinsing to one side and then to the other. The music has made its way into my head, and I have to concentrate on breathing and not singing as I place one hand to the mat and the other to the ceiling before binding and twisting to the side.

With each twist to the right, I face the window that’s behind me and my neighbor. We look back over our shoulders as our hips face forward and our torsos turn back.

Each time I do this, I close my eyes in the face of the sun. Its heat matches the heat I’m building on the inside, and I let it wash over me.

My mind immediately moves to our wonderful chocolate lab, Chelsea. She was a special dog, a true member of the family. Sweet, beautiful, kind and gentle, I would swear she understood full sentences.

We chose her from a large litter but it was really as if she had chosen us. She came right over and lay across the top of our shoes.

I carried her home and, each night after work, when I made a salad at the sink, Chelsea would lay on top of my feet.

When she was older, she graduated from our feet to the sun spots. I could tell the time of day by where she lay as she made her way around the house with the sun.

The day began in the foyer’s morning sun spot and progressed to the landing on the stairs to what we then dubbed The Chelsea Carpet, for all the time she spent sunbathing there.

Our dog is no longer with us, but she often comes to mind as she did this day when I was lucky enough to have the Sunday morning sun at yoga.

We enter the final portion of the practice, and I do my best to land in Hanumanasana, the splits. I never quite got these in my teens nor ever imagined I’d be trying again now.

We face the back wall, and I grab two blocks and place them on either side, lowering myself to the mat. I put my face up to the sun and close my eyes, listening to the music, willing my body down between the blocks.

I turn to my neighboring yogi and there she is, no blocks, in full splits, seated comfortably on her mat. Her arms are lifted above her head with her palms pressed together, and her heart is lifted, too, as she bends back and puts her face to the sun.

I lean over, interrupting her pose.

We are taking your picture after class, I said. There, like that, in that spot.

Afterward, we do just that.

It is a beautiful picture, and she looks beautiful in it. She is excited to see her pose captured in the photograph.

But to me, it captures even more.

It captures the sun spot.

It washes over her, and she looks the way I felt – special -- when soaked in the Sunday morning sun at yoga.

 

Seeing Stars

I've been seeing stars at yoga.

As soon as you see the floor, put your hands down!

The instructor is standing in front of me, holding my hips. My hands are in prayer at my heart.

The plan is for me to bend backwards and look for the floor, tilting over and saving myself last minute with my hands.

I think most people can probably identify a time when they’ve had to save themselves last minute. Such challenges can just be part of life, the part where you learn, the part where your head spins and you see stars.

So, now I’ve been living yoga for the better part of two years, and I’ve definitely learned a lot, mostly because I started out knowing nothing.

Basic poses, advanced poses, arm balances and inversions. There are lots of challenges and, no matter how accomplished I might get, there is forever room to learn more. There is something called full expression, which is as far as a pose can go, but even once that’s accomplished, it can always be taken a little deeper.

It seems the poses that challenge me most are the ones I want most to achieve, and I want to face them head on.

I am not sure how yogic that is, to speak of achieving. We are taught about the present moment being where we are supposed to be; that we are enough for now, and that everything is already okay.

But what about challenging ourselves and striving to overcome obstacles?

And what if those obstacles happen to be a handstand in the middle of the room and dropping into a backbend from standing?

I can’t do either, but I want to, and soon! To me, it’s not enough to try, and it’s not okay to wonder whether I’m going to get there.

The floor comes at me fast, and I pop open my hands, landing them on my mat. I think I’ve done okay, but I can’t find my way back up. The instructor pulls me up and forward, doing all the heavy lifting.

Once upright, I get a head rush, and it's an effort to listen to the instructor’s advice on how to better come up. I even see a few stars while letting the rush pass by.

Walk your hands closer to your feet and power up your legs, he says. Put all the weight in your quads and press into your feet to rise up.

Fifty years old, and this is what I have chosen as my next big challenge.

Those around me say I have another challenge. I am single. I have raised two children. I have a job. I write. I paint. And I am learning yoga.

Those around me say all that’s nice, but what about having someone in my life?

On the second try, the instructor puts a strap around my lower back, and we face each other while he holds either end.

Okay, now. Go back.

I’m going back.

Okay, just go back.

Just go back? Just go right back? Okay, I’m going back.

We have this ricochet conversation, and then I tilt back. The floor comes up fast again, and I pop open my hands, landing them once more on the mat. This time felt easier. Maybe it was my imagination, but I didn’t feel like I leaned too much into the strap.

I am still unable to lift myself back up, and the instructor hoists me to vertical again.

A second head rush. More stars.

For me, the thought of having someone in my life is a great big challenge. I have been going it alone for quite some time, but I guess I have been more open about it these days, and maybe that’s why I am getting so much encouragement in this direction, from family, friends and even those I hardly know!

Venturing out there is like tilting back with no one holding my hips. I could crash and burn.

The instructor smiles a lot. He is encouraging. He sets it up so it feels safe to go back.

I tell him I plan to nail this pose by my next birthday, five months away. It’s probably not so yogic to set a deadline, but I want this sooner than later.

For the rest of it, I don’t think I need a deadline in order to face it head on. I think maybe I’ll just set it in my sights until it feels safe enough to try.

 

Muscles

Yoga is like a long car ride, and I feel like the kid in the back seat asking, "When are we gonna get there?"

I’m thinking I need some more muscles.

Not necessarily big ones, just more than I’ve got.

I remember when I started yoga, I stood in a studio with a group of women who had probably been working out most of their days.

It was day one for me.

Needless to say, it was pretty intimidating to keep coming back, but I did and it was a good thing. The practice has redefined me, literally.

Now I’ve got some muscles, and they've appeared in much the same way as with most things in yoga -- they kind of crept up on me. Seemed like suddenly, there they were! One day, the mirror showed me muscles in my arms, my stomach, my legs, my back.

But the more I try to advance, the more I feel my limits. In one class in particular, I spend lots of time thinking if only I was stronger, I would get this.

This being the arm balances, the handstands, the staying on one side with the weight in one leg while doing all sorts of things before moving to the other side.

I mentioned lifting some weights to the instructor after class one day. I’m thinking I’m not strong enough, I said.

You can if you want, she replied, telling me that she did, too. But you are strong!

Then I admitted to feeling scrawny, and she suggested I email her to get rid of the crazies.

But it’s the crazies that make me keep coming back. They are what make me want to go upside down, to lift myself up on my hands with my legs here and there.

I am learning that, as with most things in life, the strength has to come from the core.

The instructor talks about zipping it up and putting the belly button to the spine. She calls to us about our upward flying locks when we lift and balance and hang.

Still, in this class, I feel my edge -- the place where I know I need to add something to what I’m doing, so I can do more.

The other day, we were in Navasana, or Boat pose. Sitting on our tail bones, our bodies are in a V shape with our legs and backs straight and our feet in line with our noses. Our hands reach up.

We hold for a count of five.

Then, we cross, lock and lift – placing our hands down on either side, crossing our legs and lifting ourselves off the mat, swinging our feet underneath us. Ultimately, we are supposed to land in Handstand, swinging ourselves under and through and unfolding into the inversion.

We’re heading to Handstand here, the instructor says. It doesn’t matter if you’re there yet. Some of us will take another day or another month or another 10 years.

Huh?

No one really calls out in this class but, on hearing this, I stood up.

What? I blurted out. Do you know how old I’ll be in 10 years?!?

It doesn’t matter how old you are, the instructor replied. It matters how strong you are.

I have these little purple weights at home. They are eight pounds each. And I have some metal ones that are five pounds each. And some little red three pounders. Surely something can be done with them.

This yoga is called The Rocket. It’s from a branch of yoga called Ashtanga, a style where the student is given a sequence of poses, the progression through which has to be done in order. The student cannot move to the next pose unless the previous one is accomplished.

Rocket yoga came about in the 1980s, and it teaches some of these poses without having to satisfy any prerequisites. Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead dubbed it The Rocket because, in his words, You get there faster.

So, in this class, it often feels like day one again.

I am in there with those who have been there awhile. And like when I first started yoga, it can be quite intimidating but, like before, I keep coming back.

And the progress is slow.

So my plan is to lift those purple weights, even though I think the key to my progression lies more in the strength of my core.

I am being instructed, like with anything else, to look inside to my very center.

Still, I kind of want to rocket through that part, too. I keep waiting to hear some kind of hint about how to better lift up. Surely, I might be missing some kind of clue.

But the only way to fly is to lock and lift. And there’s no shortcut to doing that. The strength in my core has to build in its own time.

So I keep practicing my lock and practicing my patience.

And hopefully, if I’m locked and lucky, I’ll be able to go back and through and upside down before the 10 year mark.