Humbled
I fancy myself a reasonably adept student of yoga.
I’ve been doing Sri K. Pattabhi Jois’ Ashtanga style for over ten years now and can get myself into a variety of pretzely-poses. By no means am I an expert, but from time to time, I feel like I can be just a little proud of my flexibility and strength, especially for a 51 year-old guy who never was much of an athlete—except maybe at skiing, but only when I was like 15.
So yesterday, which was the full moon day, on which—along with the new moon day—we don’t do Ashtanga, I decided, upon the recommendation of my friend, Dr. Bob, (with whom I am staying here in NYC), to get my yoga fix by attending the Master Class at the studio of Dharma Mittra, a beloved and longtime guru, famous for, among other things, his Master Chart of 908 yoga poses.
Basically, I got my ass kicked.
Among the twenty or so other students in the class, I was easily one of the two or three least skilled practitioners there, and maybe the only one who couldn’t get both his legs behind his ears in yoganidrasana, the yogi sleep pose.
Plus, in attempting a handstand, I fell over feet first, and crashed into this guy who then knocked over this other guy hard enough that that last guy had to sit there rubbing his noggin for a while, scowling at me as he did so.
I felt sort of like the uninvited guest at the reception who spills his drink all over the carpet, but it was even worse, since, this being a serious and sober yoga class, I was all serious and sober myself.
Nevertheless, it was an excellent class and one that reminded me that I’m far from all that, which strikes me as a good lesson and one pretty consistent with the overall message that yoga may be trying to impart to me.
I’ve been doing Sri K. Pattabhi Jois’ Ashtanga style for over ten years now and can get myself into a variety of pretzely-poses. By no means am I an expert, but from time to time, I feel like I can be just a little proud of my flexibility and strength, especially for a 51 year-old guy who never was much of an athlete—except maybe at skiing, but only when I was like 15.
So yesterday, which was the full moon day, on which—along with the new moon day—we don’t do Ashtanga, I decided, upon the recommendation of my friend, Dr. Bob, (with whom I am staying here in NYC), to get my yoga fix by attending the Master Class at the studio of Dharma Mittra, a beloved and longtime guru, famous for, among other things, his Master Chart of 908 yoga poses.
Basically, I got my ass kicked.
Among the twenty or so other students in the class, I was easily one of the two or three least skilled practitioners there, and maybe the only one who couldn’t get both his legs behind his ears in yoganidrasana, the yogi sleep pose.
Plus, in attempting a handstand, I fell over feet first, and crashed into this guy who then knocked over this other guy hard enough that that last guy had to sit there rubbing his noggin for a while, scowling at me as he did so.
I felt sort of like the uninvited guest at the reception who spills his drink all over the carpet, but it was even worse, since, this being a serious and sober yoga class, I was all serious and sober myself.
Nevertheless, it was an excellent class and one that reminded me that I’m far from all that, which strikes me as a good lesson and one pretty consistent with the overall message that yoga may be trying to impart to me.
posted by Professor Dave at 8:07 AM
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