The First Inflexible Limb.

My journey into the world of yoga started six months ago. I say it started 6 months ago, but the reality is that I’ve attempted to ‘start’ yoga several times previously; whatever starting yoga might mean. Typically this has taken the form of tentatively signing up to classes at a local gym and convincing myself that under the neon glare of my local Bannatynes I might somehow find the inner meaning I’ve been missing. That somehow the benevolent overarching gaze of Duncan Bannatyne might somehow fill the vacuous hole I sometimes feel gnawing at my center. In hindsight, I can now see that this isn’t Duncan Bannatynes responsibility, and that saving me from myself isn’t entirely within the remit of what his gym memberships offer. Either way, I’ve felt marginally slighted each time by this callous disrespect for the health of my soul, and promptly given up at the first hurdle.

Other times I’ve forayed into the life of a yogi have typically been at the behest of another, or more specifically at the behest of my minds desire to connect with a member of the opposite sex. This isn’t to say I’ve utilized yoga studios as some kind of weird nightclub with peculiarly in-sync dance moves, but more that women I have dated already attributed value to a well formed down-dog. As a consequence I’ve often found myself sweating upside down in a valiant effort at making myself look serene and spiritual in the face of near strangers that may one day have the misfortune of seeing me naked.

One particular class springs to mind set in the lush locale of deepest darkest Wales. I say deepest darkest wales because it makes me sound more mysterious, I actually mean just across the border somewhere near Wrexham.

I’d been dating a girl for the past few weeks who in all honestly I was starting to fall heavily for. Looking back even now, years after her departure, my mind fills with her. I can still see echoes of cascading auburn hair, and catch her scent in my mind—a peculiar mixture of wet grass and wood-smoke. She was an outdoors person see, in my mind a part of an older lost world. One where the value of nature stood above pound signs. Her eyes always seemed to gaze towards adventure, with her hand out stretched to take you with her. A hand, which on this occasion, beckoned me towards a small church in rural wales, where a group of local Yogi’s practiced.

And this I think, is where my Yoga journey really began. Side by side with an adventurous, vibrant soul, I was led into the hollow dank innards of the reclaimed church. The building not knowing its own purpose sagged under the weight of community uses. Its beige walls adorned with black and white photographs of smiling social groups and long ended theatre productions. As we entered these once hallowed grounds, now desecrated by amateur improv groups and metal detecting societies, the familiar smell of archaic stale mildew merged with the sweet aroma of sandalwood.

Laid out in a circle, intimidatingly facing inwards, were ten mats. My mind raced forwards. For a socially-anxious man the prospect of staring into a drunk friends eyes is slightly overwhelming, let alone twenty eyes which have been spiritually awakened. Familiar inadequacies burned through, the feeling of being fraudulently present, of being a fish out of water, of being a frog in a fishbowl. What if they can see how unconvinced I am of the existence of my own soul? Let alone my ability to manipulate chakras.

Encouraged by the free-spirit of my yogi-date I took a mat and awaited nervously the beginnings of my first session, the teacher looking serenely over the circle. As she began to talk, my breathing slowed as the click of a well-used tape player began the murmurings of chants foreign to my ears. I moved my body as best I could, trying to copy those around me, taking desperate glances through my legs, through my armpits, through my toes and through my hands. Any piece of input I could grasp at I would take. Half-snatched descriptions flooding my brain, visceral feelings of body feedback locking my focus.

And just like that; it was over. I was lying down. My first Savasana. My palms faced up, my breathing slowed, but my mind throbbing. The more effort I made, the more my mind wandered. The more I focused on emptiness; the more litter filled it up. I felt stuck in a paradox—concentrating on not concentrating.  That familiar feeling of being a fraud crept back as my eyes flickered open to stare at the age stained ceiling.

Leaving the church though, walking back up the hill towards the girls house a magical thing happened. I felt a lightness in my being. My body felt buoyed, and my mind slightly clarified. A pinpoint of focus through the usual fog of my thoughts. And in this moment, in this second of clarity, I slipped my hand into hers, and together like this, I felt like a real person.

And perhaps this is why, years later I stood outside a local yoga studio, on my own, ready to start what I feel has always needed to be started. Perhaps I feel a need to start to search for myself completely, seeking through the darkest recesses of my mind. Or perhaps I’m just a man who wants to reclaim the magic of a lost relationship, and once more walk hand-in-hand with the feeling that girl gave to me.

Comments