Flat out on the yoga mat, my body tells me again: enough. I'm sore from yesterday's class, and it feels hotter today, pushing 110 degrees. Sweat pours from me like a waterfall, preventing combustion. My muscles feel strong and I complete a few of yesterday's elusive poses, but after each one my heart thumps and my breath is hard to catch. Above me is a fan, set to low, in the center is a reflection of my limp lying form. Beside me, just outside of center, is rara, dripping but still working.
The fan swirls.
Sweat rolls unrelentingly. I try to get up. My heart pins me down. I acquiesce. Back inside the fan, back to purgatory. Ceramic space heaters blow with prejudice, cook fuckers, cook. I focus on a single blade. My eyes spin in their sockets.
The fan churns.
I remain still, staring. Yoga is completely different from what I know. It follows the body's kinetic chain, strengthens connections, and stimulates, encouraging peace. It is lack of peace that pins me to the mat. My heart, aerobically trained, feels out of sync with my body. Connections are cordoned off, impassable, forcing me to recall another time, when I fancied myself a bodybuilder. But in reality, my body flowed with the fuel of insecurity. I force fed myself to pack on size, to survive the unpredictability of an alcoholic and a sadist.
The fan agitates.
I wish I gave myself a break then, as I do now. I wish I never pushed against gravity, the weight of my depression, weights too heavy for my joints to bear. I am paying the price, taking that break too late, the damage is done...maybe...
3 comments:
Where is this yoga class? I have wanted to take a yoga class but haven't found a place that I like.
Its the yoga place in Harvard Square, Bikram I think, right nest to the garage. Who are you?
Oh, it's Lisa. I used to go to Gold's gym and sometimes take your class. If you still can't remember, I had two sisters that would take your class with me.
Post a Comment