The first time I tried yoga, I cried. It wasn’t hard, I didn’t even break a sweat, but when I felt my hips open up in pigeon, tears came from my eyes. I felt this rush of emotion swirl up from somewhere deep inside me and I let out a few tears. I was so embarrassed. I had no idea what was happening, but I knew when I put my head up, that it better be over. When the class finished, I left angry.
I recently tried suspension yoga. I have to admit, I was reluctant. Not because I would be suspended, but because it’s graceful as shit, and I am not graceful at all. All the ladies who do suspension yoga are long and lithe and they can wear a Danskin one piece with spaghetti straps and there isn’t a bulge or wrinkle on them. I’m built like a third-generation Italian construction worker and about as graceful as a hockey player at a pole-dancing class.
Anyone who knows me, knows that I have a hard time staying in the West for too long. After about three months, I start to go stir crazy for the East. This year I was only supposed to be home for three months but things changed, as the often do, and three months was up months ago. So I started taking a course at the Sivananda Centre in Toronto. For those of you who don’t know, Swami Sivananda started a style of Hatha yoga that focuses on relaxation and full…read more