Finding the Yogic Path

My mother attended yoga classes for years. She geared up in her leotard and tights, walked through the front door and disappeared for a couple of hours. We couldn't imagine what she was doing there. Eventually, she brought home a tape and frequently closed herself off in the living room, breathing audibly while she lay on the floor.

My sister and I would giggle and roll our eyes. Yoga was another planet we'd rather pass by.

Those images of my mother floated through my mind when I signed up for a six week Hatha course. No way was I going to wear a leotard and I sure wasn't going to breathe so the whole block could hear.

When I walked into the cool blue of a shaded room, the instructor sat tall in the centre of it like a lotus in the middle of a pond. She was in her mid-forties. Her arms were sinewy and fit. And she glowed like a body of water, reflecting and gleaming with light. She bent and twisted into asanas (poses), inviting the class to do them too. I can't remember which poses we did, only that I enjoyed them. My body responded with

gratitude.

After that initial introduction, I became a sporadic student. I'd moved to Victoria to attend the university and went infrequently to the yoga classes held at the downtown Y. The teachers there were all trained in Iyengar yoga, a form of Hatha that has been sharpened and refined by yoga master BKS Iyengar. The classes were more demanding than the Hatha class I'd been to. There, I'd flopped easily into the poses, but here I was required to use and develop strength I did not yet have. My arms ached from hanging in the air, my legs shook from the recurrent instruction to “lift my kneecaps”. After the hard work, though, there was repose. Lying in savasana, well-being penetrated deep into my tissues. Invariably, I left feeling better than when I'd arrived.

Still, I was inconsistent. And I forgot about yoga altogether until my son was born and my life was thrown into turmoil. The arrival of this new Being inspired wonder and joy in my life. But unbidden things, like fatigue and isolation lapped at my mind and body. I was trying to keep my world under control, but my emotions smashed recklessly against the shores of my being. The endless demands of new motherhood, a failing relationship with my son's father and the sudden loss of my young adulthood – all dissolved the ground under my feet.

A friend reminded me of yoga at the Y. There were scholarships for women like me, financially bereft and in need of community. I signed up for a level two class, something that fit my schedule, if not my skill. In those classes, I began to feel the wonder of my body again. I worked and stretched out my fatigue. As I learnt to align muscles and joints, the clouds in my mind momentarily parted; I touched into a part of myself I thought I'd lost. It wasn't a nameable thing, nor was it graspable, but submersing into it I was repleted. Nourished by the whole wide universe.

I signed up for a second class at the Y. Then a third. I wanted to cultivate this experience, not just taste it. None of my life made sense to me. But yoga, yoga in its ancient, studied wisdom made sense. It was a path to freedom. Freedom from the busy, theatrical mind. And that, I was sure, was what I wanted.

That was eleven years ago. Over the years, I have dedicated many hours to the practice of yoga. Indeed, I have built a life around it. Some times, I run into resistance. Moments of scepticism, even boredom and irritation. But these are temporary and invariably lead to a deeper learning or understanding of yoga and of life.

Mostly, I am grateful. Grateful to my teachers for inspiring me to follow this path. Grateful to the way Mr. Iyengar has developed the poses, refined them to awaken the cellular consciousness of the body. And to the lineage the that preceded him, to those timeless teachings that sought to open the portal into the realm of Spirit and Self.