I mentioned the other day that I can recognize a graveyard spiral when I see one, and the temple of flesh that inhabit was starting to pitch-over, nose and port wing in stall. Which is to say, the damaged leg is still damaged, all extremities arthritic, and my neck has been stiff since Mom and Dad died.

I felt pretty good during the swimming season- there is something zen-like in the strokes and kicks, but the last decent swim was months ago, and frankly, it just hurts to walk. So, the less vigorous activity the more things started to rust. My pal T encouraged me to think about yoga, and I began to consider the matter seriously.

Around Arlington, you frequently see earnest people- mostly female- purposefully striding along with their yoga mats rolled up tight like a cow-poke’s bedroll. I admire their energy- and finally decided to do something about it based on a recommendation from my pal.

There is an important disclaimer here: I do not claim to know anything about yoga, yogis (except the cartoon bear) or anything else. I do not subscribe to anything beyond a certain relationship to spirituality associated with being at peace with your body.

I mentioned to a pal that I was looking for something gentle and low impact, and got the word that while “low impact” and “gentle” could characterize the discipline, yoga done properly, kicks your ass.

Which is where I was yesterday morning, getting my butt pummeled by a graceful yogi named Jess at a fitness center out in Fairfax.

It had not been an optimal start to the Way of Enlightenment. The internet was slow at the farm, cleaning up always takes more time than I thought, and traffic coming back up north was more intense than I thought. Getting to the farm always means the madness of Washington starts to drop off with each increasingly less trafficked stoplight. Coming back it is the exact reverse- country road to suburban sprawl, then the hurtling wildness of the interstate as one approaches the Imperial City itself.

Accordingly, I was running a bit late and was starting to stress from the road and the trepidation about what I was getting myself into.

I was clad in colorful yoga pants….oh, wait. Old sweats and a raged t-shirt have to do, rather than the sleek spandex outfit in which my instructor was attired. I looked exactly like what I was in the full-length mirror: an old and harried white guy looking completely out of his element.

Jess was very cool. I explained that over the years, I had broken or damaged everything, so we started with me on a chair. That is how pathetic the start was. No downward pointing dog on the first go- this actually was very cool. I tried to mimic the motions of the routine Jess was trying to get me to understand, which lent a certain disjointed atmosphere to pushing, pulling, aligning, reaching, and attempting to master the intricacy of the asanas.


If that is what they are. I have no idea what the things are called- I know they have names, and I did not have time to feel ridiculous, though clearly I was. I had been apprehensive about the length of the lesson- a full hour and fifteen minutes, but frankly the time flew by as I contorted, compressed and expanded in the chair and then on the mat.

There was a lot that the routine reminded me of; back in football days there was a standard loosening-up ritual we would do in formation, and many of the moves- arm twirls, ground stretching of the legs and that stuff- that was directly applicable. The things I was instructed to do were more elegant, less kinetic, and directly connected to breathing.

I was way too tense, but felt that start to ease as the hour went by. The idea of relaxation started to become attractive. I am equally confident that the motions all have names, and like I mentioned, I have no idea what I am doing, since everything is still unconnected.

Jess said I was going to feel sore, and I was going to sleep soundly that night. That was a completely accurate assessment. I found I could actually turn my head for the first time in years- before it froze up again.

I don’t know if Buffalo Night at Willow that followed also had anything to do with that. I will just chalk it up to a certain new serenity.

Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303