First Practice

The dream came true today as I practiced for the first time at the Ashtanga Yoga Research Institute shala in Mysore, India.

It was a “led” class, conducted by Guruji’s daughter, Saraswathi; she counted out the movements and breaths in all the poses in the primary series while probably about a hundred students followed along. As is always the case for me when a teacher sets the pace, I became painfully aware how lazy I am in my own personal practice and how quickly I tend to rush through the parts I’m not very good at—thus, ensuring, of course, that I’ll never get better at any of them.

“Yoga is the restriction of the fluctuations of consciousness” is how Georg Feurstein translates the second of Yoga Sutras of the ancient sage Patanjali, but as I sweated and bended all during hour and half, my mind was racing, my ego alternately beating me up and making comparisons to other students I noted out of the corners of my eyes when I should have been gazing at the tip of my nose.

I found myself in the future a lot of the time; first, I’d be wishing that the pose would be over, then I’d be fancifully imagining myself two months hence being able to hold, say, headstand, for the entire count instead of having to bury my head on my mat in pain and embarrassment before Saraswathi came over and pulled me back upright for a few breaths more.

At least, though, the class reminded me what I’m doing here; I’ve been having moments of “what the fuck?” as I look around my little apartment and occasionally get the feeling that it’s a minimum security prison that I’ve consigned myself to for the next sixty days or so.

Feurstein says that yoga must be understood in context of Indian philosophical/soteriological thinking. “Soteriology” (my new favorite word) means the body of teachings concerned with liberation. I felt a little liberated today; first, as my dream became real and second, when the practice was finally over.