NOmaste

Namaste! Greetings. The God in me greets the God in you. The Spirit, the Spark, in me meets the same Spirit and Spark in you. May your paths be supple and your burdens carried with grace, strength and ease.

For years people (women) have been trying to drag me to Yoga class. I’ve always resisted saying, “No…NOmaste, por favore.” Or in other words, I’ve been a smart ass. In each case the yoga proselytizer gave me a look similar to those who have time and time again tried to coax me in to a church. Yoga has always had the scent of organized religion to me and for that reason alone I’ve resisted. Plus, I don’t speak Sanskrit, I’m not Hindu and I’m not greeting fellow yogsters on the street with Namaste.

Really! I love sushi but I don’t call salmon, sake, or yellowtail, hamachi, when I’m standing in front of the fish dude at Safeway or Whole Foods. I don’t bow, or politely nod out the few words of sushi Japanese I know. That would seem pompous, stuffy and most of all…dumb. I lived with Muslims. To this day I exchange with them a traditional greeting. I know exactly what it means, the significance and the implications. In that Namaste makes its way out into the yoga attendees world reinforces its organized religion status to me. And that’s cool but I’m just not into it. NOmaste!

I get religion and of course the “spirituality” everyone latches onto right after they apologize for not going to church more often. I also get the difference between team or group exercise and individual sports. I’ve always gravitated to the later. Yoga, is essentially stretching, strengthening, and most importantly making the connection between spirit, mind and body within a community of others. Yoga is church with perspiration. Pull out the pews and replace them with mats, add some poses (my Muslim brothers and sisters are half way there already) sprinkle in some perspiration and charge 30 bucks a class and viola, holy yoga!

I applaud this connection. It is in fact the reason I exercise. It is a connection sadly vacant and unarticulated by the behemoths tossing around weights in the weight room. If it were taught and brought front and center in aerobics or step-classes I have little doubt you would find yoga-like evangelist and zealots around too. My spiritual and athletic journey run in tandem and have always been about the journey inside and the spirituality I can find outdoors, in a book, writing…alone. Or, to be clear, in small intimate groups, two’s and three’s and four’s, of those who are my blood or who have gone through the fire with me in some way.

I’ve had times in my life where I’ve said I can see god in everything, everywhere. I haven’t really said that much recently. But I’ve heard it bunch. I’ve heard it from those inclined and not inclined to organized religion. I’ve noticed in myself and in the comments of others that right after this “god everywhere” statement typically follows a big ol “but” followed again, by a long list, or even a condemnation, of the places they don’t see or feel god. When I see this in myself it arrests me and makes me smile too. Those who adhere to organized religion like to claim authority. Those not inclined to organized religion like to claim tolerance up to but not beyond the bounds of the authority of organized religion. Are there really any differences and why do I resist yoga so much?

Yoga Firsts

So all that said, I attended my first Yoga class on Monday. I went again last night. I did something new. I did a group religious thing. I wasn’t talked into it. I went on my own accord after a long run Monday morning. I figured for an hour I could check WigDawg at the door. At the very least I’d get a decent stretch. Anyway…I loved it. It kicked my ass. It kicked the smart ass right out of me. And at the end after the entire struggle when the entire class lay quietly centering ourselves, my cheeks pulled and stretched a big smile across my serene face. It was really fun.

I struggled. In certain poses I was hopeless and in others did really well in others; for a newbie. My body was shaking seven minutes into the class and I seriously wondered how I’d make it fifty three minutes more. The tall graceful woman on the mat next to me went to failure and fell over during one of the deep knee poses. Everyone was struggling at one point or another. The yoga instructor, a firm but patient drill sergeant just kept everyone moving, one… pose, hold, and, breath…to the next. When it was over I rolled my mat, slipped on my shoes and walked out into the weight room adjacent the yoga studio. To my eyes it was bathed in a soft white light as if someone had wrapped the fluorescents in white gym towels.

I understand the spiritual nature of physical activity, of our physical beings. I experience it every time I get on a bike, hike, run, toss a Frisbee around, and do the dishes…whatever. I’m aware of my body and the mind and spirit which allow it to focus, excel, strive, dream, hurt and heal itself. Going solo, going outdoors, communing with only those dearest and closest to me is where I make the connection. It isn’t for everyone. As I sat on the mat surrounded by strangers the other morning and again last night, just as I’ve wiggled in church pews, stood in synagogues, knelt in mosques and temples and within rituals refined and brutal I re-learned that I can find that connection where I’m comfortable and, if I’m open I can find it in places where I’m instinctually uncomfortable. In doing so I learned something new, again.

The yoga studio exits into the weight room. I’m pretty sure some of the buffed dudes clumped together here and there around the machines and the free wieghts chuckled at me as I exited with thirty women. Whatever. Yoga Rocks! So put that in your downward facing dog and Namaste!

All good things,
Wig