Feb 28- Naked Yoga.

One thing I am noticing about blogging:  posts which have sensational titles including concepts such as Attack, Human dung, and Hotties in short shorts get double the reads of yoga/spiritual titles.  I’m going to write about sensational things.  Yeah, no pressure.  Hang on a second while I go on the balcony naked, to taunt that monkey by waving my passport smeared with peanut butter…

We were talking last night (yes, we talk all the time, too much, this happens when women live together in small spaces) about how we are getting older, and after so many trips here, now the practice here just kind of cruises along.  You know that plateau-feeling I’m sure, no matter what your level and where you live.  A couple new things I’m working on: daily deep back bending, a shit ton of asana 1.5 hours before I even get into the finishing room.  But yeah, you know- we’re saying last night- I don’t feel like anything is really happening this year.  When I was in my 20s, I did that stuff every day.

Over-achieve much?

The next morning I go through my rote 2 hour yoga practice with my legs becoming wrapped around sundry body parts while jumping around and breathing with sound all the while.  Savasana was fitful, and when I got to the coconut truck outside the shala, the sound of about 6 people talking was almost shocking- loud, sharp.  Like somebody dropped a metal pan on the tile.  Some sensitive.

Here’s the thing:  when you’ve been at it for over a decade, one would hope the shapes we make, the order we make them in, and the over-all effect of vinyasa would begin to penetrate.

And here’s what is SO COOL ABOUT THE YOGA.  When yoga is penetrating, I generally don’t know what it’s doing.  I’ve had the experience of a shifting vantage point, a subtle change at some level that is just…barely…perceptible, but hazy.  Not enough to make out what in fact the change is.  This knowledge comes much later.  Meantime, there’s no telling how I’ll digest that meal, might break into song at the coconut stand, or see no sleep tonight.  Some sensitive. 

Last year, everyone kept saying my eyes looked different when I came home.  They did.  Another time, I walked into my apartment and it was no longer my home.  A tiniest little square that had nothing to do with me.  My boyfriend was no longer my boyfriend.  My wardrobe was no longer "me."  

I always have trouble dressing myself when I get back.  Look out Boston- here comes the grey Hanes sweatsuit again.

In my defense, and in defense of Ashtanga yoga:  I have stabilized over the years.  I can at least see the reaction now, and I don’t need to completely revamp my outward life-situation all the time.  Oh, old habits die hard though…I am often called to keep an eye on that draw.

My Self.   That’s the rub isn’t it?  This self, this small self that moves in the world and chatters and dresses and makes the rent.  I’m still at the stage where I want to identify with this self.  Who is she?  Who am I?

And there we have it folks, we have made it from last night’s naïve talk in the kitchen back to what the yoga is all about, and the scintillating title of this post. 

Getting naked.  Strippin’ down to the Self.  Naked Yoga, yeaaaaah.

Wrap your leg around your neck, little self, and try to look pulled-together while Sharath yells “Head Up. Kate. Head Up!”  Just try. 

No actually, don’t.  Don’t try this at home.