Writing, Yoga, and Aliens

It's that time of year. Back to school. Back to blogging. And back to...yoga? That wasn't necessarily in my plan, but there's something in the air.

One of my good writer friends told our writing group about her doga (yoga with dogs) portfolio on Facebook. My sister-in-law wrote about yoga in her recent blog (http://fitnessmashup.wordpress.com/2011/09/11/of-chants-and-sitting-cross-legged). And my husband, who thinks cobras are snakes and eagles are birds, decided he wanted to take up yoga. I got the message the universe was throwing at me. I needed to go back to yoga.

But I dreaded the thought. Why is it that going back to something you like is so hard? Fear of failure? Lack of motivation? I always feel good after yoga, just as I usually feel good after writing. So why did I have a long list of excuses on why I couldn't go? Even yesterday morning, I stood in my closet and tried on all my yoga clothes. Nothing looked good. I absolutely couldn't go to class, I told myself, until I bought new clothes.

And to complicate things further, it had turned out that John wanted to go to the same class I'd been going to, and I said "uh-uh, no way" to that. I'm selfish about my yoga. We live in a major urban area; I figured there had to be another good yoga teacher somewhere. So we explored other options and I gave him my opinion of what he needed and what I look for in a teacher, and the more we thought about it the more I realized that Teresa would be great for him. So we negotiated a solution. He could go to my old class and I'd move up to the next class. I mean, how hard could it be?

Hahahahahahahahahhaowhahahahahahaowowhahahahowowowowowhahaowowowowow. Ow.

Yes, I went despite my pathetic wardrobe, and it wasn't just that I didn't look like a hot little yogini (which I'm not). It wasn't just that I am out of shape (which I am). And it wasn't just that there were a few poses I'd never learned (which there were). The problem with Teresa's 2/3 class is that THERE IS NO WAY HUMAN BEINGS CAN POSSIBLY DO THOSE THINGS. I stood there watching every other student weave her arm around her leg with her elbow bent weirdly, then clasp her hands behind her back, then straighten her legs and lift off the ground balancing on like a thumb or whatever. Sorry, uh-uh. No way. No can do. It was not possible even though I was seeing it with my own eyes, seeing everyone else doing it. Then it dawned on me. I was not just in Yoga 2/3. I was in Yoga 2/3 for Aliens.

Which is sometimes how I feel about writing classes. But more on that another time.

The good news about this class is that, after having to modify most of the poses to fit my human capabilities, I did feel pretty good walking home. No one had laughed at me (at least not out loud) and I'd located a few muscles I'd forgotten I own. In fact, I felt damned good on my way home, which is also kind of like writing, like when you sit down and your fingers are flying across the keyboard and your mind's on a roll and when you finish you know you've written the most brilliant scene+narrative+epiphany ever. Ever.

Until morning comes.

Today, I couldn't move when the alarm went off. Even reaching for the alarm was a major acrobatic feat. The "gee-I'm-so-great-for-having-gone-to-that-class" feeling was gone, replaced by a sense of melancholy for what once was, for the body that used to be able to move. When my dogs eagerly pranced to their leashes for a walk, I felt like saying "yeah, right. Uh-uh, no way." And as any writer knows, that's exactly how you feel the morning after a brilliant round of writing. In fact, some times I sit down and reread what I've written, anxious to be regaled with my own genius, only to wonder who exactly wrote that trash on the page. It certainly couldn't have been me; it must have been an alien. One of those alien yoginis, most likely.

So why do I avoid doing the things I love? Because sometimes those things, like Love itself, are hard work. They're painful. They reveal-no they highlight-my flaws. Sometimes it seems better to live in fat-dumb-happy bliss. But then I'm not really living, at least not the way I want to live.

So I try to convince myself all that good yoga yesterday and all that good writing last evening weren't just a bunch of !@#$%bologna. Which makes me think I need to call my mom, who used to pack me bologna sandwiches a few centuries ago. Which makes me think about how hungry I am, which makes me think about making myself a sandwich (albeit a healthier one) after I call Mom. And then just maybe I'll sit down to write. Or maybe I'll try a little more yoga after all. Surely I can convince myself to do at least one little pose.

At least I can practice my shavasana.