It seems everywhere I go these days there are new yoga studios popping up on street corners, in strip malls, and office buildings around my hometown. My friends have shared stories about practicing yoga with goats and alpacas and even yoga classes on floating boards at Olander Park. Since yoga hit the big time, I guess there’s something exotic for everyone. But since I started practicing more than twenty years ago, I’m more content with a secluded corner spot in a quiet studio, preferably my own — sans any animal except for a cat or two.
The word “yoga” simply means to yoke, to connect. So practicing yoga can be as simple as have an intimate conversation with someone or taking a long walk at Wildwood. Hatha yoga is the style most often practiced in our culture. The physical poses and movements have become so popular, even Shoebox cards depict yogis in all shapes and sizes. I saw one this afternoon while perusing the birthday aisle and almost bought one for my friend. But I didn’t think Barb would appreciate the woman on the front saying, “Namaste Bitches” then justifying her hostility on the inside by snarking, “It’s not your age, but your attitude that counts.”
Then again, maybe despite the sarcasm, that card held some good advice.
I’ll be fifty-two in less than a month and since being hospitalized last September with sepsis, I’ve noticed my body has been aging. Maybe it’s because of the recovery process. Maybe it's the fact that I’m stepping into my fifth decade and the length of time gravity has been pulling on my body is becoming all too evident. Maybe it’s just life and no matter how much I exercise, no matter how often I get on my yoga mat or change my diet or use sunscreen, time takes it’s toll. Oh, well…it happens to us all if we’re on this planet long enough.
Lately I’ve come to accept that the state of my mind is often more important than the state of my body. Recognizing my attitude is everything, especially when I’m mired in anger or frustration. I learned a long time ago that everything I do is a choice. Everything I say or think or believe is a choice as well. So when I make a snippy comment about how stinky a studio would be surrounded by a herd of alpacas, it’s my choice to be judgmental. When I lament about how difficult it can be to run a private yoga studio when the market is super-saturated, I’m choosing to lose sight of why I decided to teach yoga in the first place. When I struggle with the realities of aging as a yoga instructor and wonder how many good years I have left, I forget about Ethel Mercer, one of the very first yoga instructors in Toledo who taught until she was well into her eighties.
Actually, I wasn’t supposed to teach yoga this long, rather it was a wonderful way to earn a living while writing books and working my way into the publishing world. Like everyone I suppose, my life didn’t turn out as planned. I’ve had to learn infinite patience while meandering my way through writing, editing, self-publishing, and seeking a new literary agent. There have been years when I wrote book after book after book and there have been years of drought when I could hardly think about reading a book, let alone write one. Through it all, my yoga practice has been a stalwart presence, a constant in an endless ocean of uncertainty that I’m still navigating.
But the destination doesn’t really matter. I’ve learned how to come as I am to the mat, no matter how the day has been. No matter the challenges and changes. No matter the outside noise or inner chaos. No matter if I am with a host of students or by myself, being present with whatever is happening in the moment is the surest way to find peace, even if my life’s circumstances are far from tranquil.
Long before I took my first yoga class, I had a long couch placed in the northwest corner of a place that would eventually become my home studio. Nearly every day I retreated into silence of that dormer to rest, to cry, to draw or sing or journal. That quiet space became a haven, a tiny sanctuary where I could meet myself without judgement, without others judging me. I could simply be myself. Now I teach in that little corner and over the years have welcomed hundreds of students to come as they are, to bring whatever they are experiencing in the moment, to know that for the next hour and a half, they are safe with me.
Like nearly everyone I know, it’s been a struggle this year to walk through the unknown in many areas of my life, so in the midst of the mystery, my yoga practice has been a true constant. I don’t always like the person I am in each moment, but I value the person I am becoming, on my yoga mat and off, for I know I’m doing the very best I can to be honest, to be authentic, to be with life just as I am.
Oddly enough, my favorite yogi was mostly silent and taught by example how to be a peaceful, incomparable soul. Forest, one of my yoga cats, passed away a few weeks ago, and his presence in the studio has been truly missed. Always knowing when a student needed extra love or attention, Forest made a beeline to him/her, gently curling up on their feet or rubbing his leathery nose on their head. Consistently calm, eternally sweet, Forest welcomed everyone and often slept near my mat, completely content with whatever was happening in the moment. He was Zen personified in a cat suit.
So maybe I don’t practice with goats or alpacas, but that’s okay. I’m more comfortable hanging out with my cats who often cuddle during relaxation and purr me to sleep. Perhaps that’s the ultimate form of yoga…being connected to a source of unconditional acceptance and loved simply because we exist.
If you're interested in more information about semi-private yoga classes,
please contact me at ingersoll.katie@gmail.com.
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| Forest and his friend, Doris, connecting at the close of yoga class. |
