Returned to yoga class this week. Took some time off over the holidays. Time to eat turkey, dressing, a dozen chocolate crinkles. You know, that sort of thing.
So did the rest of my class. How do I know? My instructor felt the need to speak this bit of wisdom to us:
There are legitimate reasons to frown. The inability to do ardha chandrasana is not one of them.
Keep on keeping on. We’ll get there soon.
A cheerful heart is a good medicine, but a downcast spirit dries up the bones. Proverbs 17:22 NRSV
I got to know Amy online through a mutual friend, and this year I had the privilege of meeting her in person at the BlogHer Conference in New York. When she saw me sitting in front of her in a session, she texted me. Repeatedly. Only she was texting the wrong number.
Chalk up accidental cyber stalker to her list of accomplishments. Amy and her winning sense of humor have had a big year.
Boomer explained a concept I must share with you. Something she learned from her yoga instructor. A practice called the Duck Index.
image by cursedthing, creative commons license
Many years ago, Boomer’s instructor gave her this advice: only do what brings you the joy of a three-year-old feeding a duck.
“We all have to do things we don’t like to do,” said Boomer to my class. “We can’t only do the things we enjoy.”
True. We all deal with dirty dishes, smelly laundry, complicated tax returns.
“But imagine the happiness of a three-year-old feeding a duck,” she said. “We can choose to do more things that give us that kind of joy.”
Boomer put the joy of a three-year-old feeding a duck on a scale of one to 10, with 10 being the greatest. She called the scale the Duck Index and began measuring experiences against it. She started saying no to as many things as she could that didn’t rank six or more on the Duck Index.
No to another volunteer opportunity when her volunteer hours were already maxed out. No to lunch with a demeaning colleague. No to a last-minute dinner with friends when what she needed was a night off.
“I could have done those things,” she said, “but someone would have paid for it. Either I would have paid for it in resentment and fatigue. Or those around me would have paid for it because I didn’t really want to be there.”
Sometimes saying no without guilt is difficult. But the more I do it, the easier it gets. The more it makes sense.
Do I want to do this? Do I have to do this?
If I don’t want to and I don’t have to, who will pay if I do it anyway?
Can I say no to this, so someone who wants to do it can say yes?
Can I say no, so I can say yes to what I want to do?
“Shoulders back and down. Don’t wear them like earrings,” said Boomer as our class continued. “Pay attention. You control where your shoulders sit.”
I am not the center of the universe. I am not in control of all the events in my life, but I am not a martyr or a victim either. I can place my shoulders back and down. I can say no without guilt. I can say yes to what brings me joy. So can you.
Pay attention. Your duck is waiting to be fed.
As a prisoner for the Lord, then, I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you have received. Ephesians 4:1 NIV
Our summer schedule doesn’t allow time for the mom to make it to yoga class. I bike and swim with my son, but yoga quest is officially suspended.
I can hear my instructor. “I see some bellies that look like they’re on vacation,” she’d say when we weren’t properly engaging the core in class.
She’d be mortified to see that now my belly really is on vacation. It’s on a Mediterranean cruise, complete with an endless antipasto bar and a Big Gulp Coke. Sip on that, Mayor Bloomberg.
It’s gone to Disneyland where dreams really do come true whether you exercise or not. You’ve never seen Snow White on a StairMaster, have you? All you need is a little Tinkerbell, a pumpkin, and a pair of glass slippers.
My belly unfolds like a beached whale on the sand. It spreads out like a jellyfish washed ashore. I took it to Vermont, home of Ben & Jerry’s for crying out loud. Can you say Vermonster?
Enough! It’s not that bad. It’s not yoga-belly either. My pilates paunch has gone kaput. The core is no more.
Oh, sure, there’s the good stuff. Long, sunny days. Outdoor swimming pools. Vacation plans. Quality time with the kiddo. But if I learned anything in all my years of schooling, it’s that summer is synonymous with the loss of routine.
I was one of those strange children who didn’t like weekends. More at home with the rhythm and clear expectations of the classroom, I skidded toward summer break on a downward spiral. And I know I’m not alone.
We Type As like our routines. Changes in THE PLAN are exciting, but they can be frightening at the same time.
Maybe you’re not Type A. But maybe you’re a parent. Maybe—I’m guessing here, you and your children thrive on some semblance of structure.
Come on, moms and dads. Back me up on this. Doesn’t the thought of filling all those unstructured hours of your child’s summer vacation strike a wee bit o’ fear in even the bravest of super parent hearts?
Ridiculous, I know. Yet the fear of summer lingers. It nabbed me yesterday morning in yoga class. I like my yoga instructors Grace and Boomer. I’m comfortable in this routine, this respite from the stress of relocation, motherhood, and what to cook for dinner. I don’t want to give it up.
But how will I continue to do yoga when my son’s out of school for the summer? What will I do with him during class? Turn him loose to run wild through the YMCA? Sit him in front of the Wii for an hour? What if he wanders out to the pool alone? What if (insert catastrophe)?
runs with shovel
And how will I blog this summer? When will there be time? Who will read it? What about the other projects I want to pursue? What if I miss all the opportunities? What if I wake up in September and they’re ALL GONE? What if the world ends tomorrow? What if (insert catastrophe)?
The only way to roll with the changes is one step at a time. One season at a time. That’s why they usually don’t happen all at once. Thank You, Lord.
I’ll take a cue from yoga. Follow my breath. Put my shoulders back and down. Let myself feel grounded. Take a moment to be thankful for another day.
Then I’ll put on my sunscreen and forward march into summer.
The day is Yours, and Yours also the night;
You established the sun and moon.
It was You who set all the boundaries of the earth;
You made both summer and winter. Psalm 74:16-17 NIV
Dear Routine, Though we’ve got to say good-bye for the summer, darling, I promise you this: I’ll send you all my love every day in a letter Sealed with a Kiss.
A good week finds me at the Y two mornings for yoga and two for pilates.
I have four different instructors affectionately nicknamed to protect their identities: the Boomer, the Ballerina, the Brit, and Grace whom you may remember from Namaste.
buffalo as seen on Manchester
The Boomer is my intelligent, sandwich generation yoga instructor. In true Boomer fashion, she delivers a hefty dose of unsolicited, often humorous, expert advice every week.
Tells us how we should put our handbags in our grocery carts when shopping to preserve our shoulders. How we must strengthen our quads so we don’t end up in nursing homes, unable to take care of our own bathroom duties.
It’s a fun class. Really.
One morning, she said, “There are two kinds of people in the world: Vikings and temple dancers.”
We giggled. “Vikings are the people we hear above us in the weight room grunting and dropping dumbbells on the floor,” she said. “They like the taste of adrenaline. They want to lift, sweat, and pump iron.”
“Then there are those of us who are temple dancers,” she said. “We like to bend, stretch, and feel the gentle flood of endorphins.”
“It would be good for the Vikings to dance and the temple dancers to lift weights,” she said. “But we have our preferences. We start with our strengths.”
what a feeling as seen at Sears
My Y-appointed trainer wants me to go to the Body Blitz class. Add the Muscle Pump hour. Do something called CORE in all caps.
Says it will help me “burn” faster. Speed up my metabolism. Thinks yoga is all cardio and no resistance. I’m avoiding her for the time being.
I pine for chiseled arms like Linda Hamilton’s in Terminator, so I may add weights. Vanity, oh vanity. But my metabolism is fast enough already.
And there’s a lot of resistance in yoga and pilates. It’s nuanced. You push against your own body rather than a free weight or machine.
It’s like a dance with yourself. A temple dance of bending, stretching, and wonderful, glorious endorphins.
You did it: You changed wild lament
into whirling dance;
You ripped off my black mourning band
and decked me with wildflowers.
I’m about to burst with song;
I can’t keep quiet about You.
God, my God,
I can’t thank you enough. Psalm 30:11-12 The Message
Dancing with Myself by Nouvelle Vague. If you’re used to the Billy Idol version of this song, you’re in for a treat with Nouvelle Vague’s cover. Fantastique!
Disclaimer: In case it isn’t blatantly obvious to you, I’m not an authority in health or fitness. I write of my own experiences and impressions. Nothing here should be construed as health, fitness, or medical advice.
Back in the day, I casually practiced yoga. It was easy then.
The asanas, or poses, were akin to warmup stretches I’d done for years cheerleading. My body was young. My muscles were flexible. Life was good.
That was before I carried a child in my womb for nine months, gave birth to him, then proceeded to sacrifice my body in all manner of ways to raise him into the fine, young first grader he is today.
One can only run on the fumes of a good fitness history for so long. Years of stress, changes and parenting begin to show.
Junk in the trunk. Bowl full of jelly. A little waddle here or there.
So when we arrived in Wichita, our family joined the YMCA. The Ys here are impressive and affordable. We needed to get into shape. It was destiny.
bouquet
Went to my first yoga class last Friday.
I sweated. I stumbled. I noticed I how badly I need a pedicure.
I struggled to breathe as the instructor lead our class into the 30th chaturanga dandasana of the hour. Good push-ups gone bad.
When yoga instructors give the command to do some New Age visualization, feel the energy bands, look to the inner flame or whatever, I talk to God instead.
At one point last Friday, I feared I was going to meet Him.
The instructor was trying to kill me. A pencil-thin, pretzel-like assassin intent on carrying out yogini’s revenge. Downward, dog.
When the class was over, an older gentleman who had labored alongside me approached the instructor. “Great class,” he said. “I’m glad I got to see it.”
Then the woman behind me spoke up. “There’s a beginner’s class tomorrow morning,” she said. “We go slow and take it nice and easy. You’ll be with a bunch of other people who are learning.”
coming unrolled
A remedial class?!
Use it or or lose it. Reap what you sow. Law of the land. Ah, but there is another law at work.
The yin and yang? The swinging pendulum? The circle of life? Hardly.
Grace is at work.
Grace spoke Saturday morning in the company of beginners. “Hold this pose if you want and can. Or not if you don’t. This is the Y. We’re not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
Easy does it. One step at a time.
We drop the ball. Wreck the train. Make a chocolate mess. Waddle here or there.
“Pick it up and try again,” says Grace. “I’ll help you.”
Namaste, Grace. Namaste.
Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit who gives life has set you free from the law of sin and death. Romans 8:1-2 NIV
Namaste is a friendly greeting between people when they meet. Derived from Sanskrit, it literally means “bow me to you” translated as “I bow to you”… In other words, when one says “Namaste” to another it means “I salute or recognize your presence or existence in society and the universe.”wikipedia.org
