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To teach or not to teach…

Posted in Yoga with tags on December 19, 2011 by Karmela

For a long time now, maybe close to two years, I’ve been toying with the idea of entering a yoga teacher training program. Because I’m already a group fitness instructor, plus a practicing yogi, many folks assume it’s but a hop-skip-and-a-jump for me to slide into teaching yoga. But several logistical things have stymied me.

First reason—yoga teacher training programs are EXPENSIVE! As they should be. While it’s a definite barrier to entry, it also shoos away the drifters and keeps it only for those who are serious students. Oh sure, there are people out there who have that kind of loose change and go into teacher training programs purely for fun. That ain’t me. At $2,000 a pop minimum, I would treat any teacher training program as something that requires my utter focus and dedication.

Second barrier—time. Training programs are typically 200 hours long. Though I can likely squeeze this into the schedule with a little wheeling and dealing with hubby, time plus the money situation definitely make the barrier taller.

The third, and perhaps the biggest reason, is the fact that I am an Ashtangi. This is my practice, my love, my passion. Naturally, I am drawn to teaching this form of yoga. Fortunately for me as a student, but unfortunately for me as a wannabe-teacher, the Ashtanga system has a non-traditional path to teaching. The usual method of becoming a yoga teacher in the U.S. is to enroll in a teacher training program where you learn various and sundry things from a book (e.g., anatomy, philosophy, some history of yoga), do some practice teaching, and then BAM. You are, on paper, a qualified yoga teacher. You don’t even have to know/demonstrate any intermediate or advanced asanas yourself.

The primary series' Marichyasana D

Marichyasana D, one of the signature asanas in the Ashtanga primary series, and one of the most challenging. Not many yoga systems perform this posture.

But Ashtanga ain’t like that. Of all the different types of yoga, it’s the one that looks at a person’s practice as a path to teaching. As in, teaching Ashtanga means doing Ashtanga, not sitting in a classroom reading a book. Of course I don’t have a problem with this philosophy. I love it even. But while there are countless schools out there both blessed and not blessed by the Yoga Alliance, there is only one place that has institutionalized and codified the method of teaching Ashtanga, and that’s the K. Patthabi Jois Ashtanga Yoga Institute in Mysore, India.

But because it’s India, the curriculum is, from what I hear, a bit of a flux, not the rigid do-this-and-then-you’ll-get-this system of education like it is here in the States. Some teachers have gone two or three times before they get their authorization; some go for nine.

But wait, you say. There are tons of Ashtanga teachers here in the U.S. who have never been to Mysore! And you’d be right. Many of them just went through a basic Hatha/Vinyasa teacher training program. Maybe some of these programs covered Ashtanga; maybe some didn’t. They simply used the formal hatha training they received and combined it with their own personal knowledge through self-study and their own practice, and voila! An Ashtanga teacher is made!

Could that be my path? I got a very small taste of what it’s like to teach this past weekend. Teacher and good friend Virginia took me with her to an Intro to Ashtanga workshop  this past Saturday. I was to serve as her demonstration person, to demo both the postures that the students were to perform, and to show the ones that were a little too advanced for an intro class to do. Once or twice, I got up from my mat to personally guide a student into a bind and limb placement. I say “guide” because I didn’t “assist,” as in I was hands-off. Didn’t want to cause injury, you know. But it was my own personal practice that taught me a few little tips on how to best get into some of the postures, and by golly, they worked! There was a lady in her 50s who couldn’t bind in Marichyasana A, but then when I scooted over to where she was and showed her a couple of little tricks, she was able to interlace her fingers around her back. Both of us grinned at each in triumph! And I got a little warm fuzzy feeling in the pit of my uddiyana bandha.

I haven’t even mentioned the fact that a favorite teacher and fellow Ashtangi has revealed to me that she will be conducting a teacher training this fall. It’s tentative, no details yet, but it’s as if the stars are slowly but surely aligning into the perfect position to get me to jump in to teach.

Now if I could only win the lottery. ;-) And get over all the psychological reasons why I think I’d be a bad teacher…

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Why mysore-style Ashtanga teachers are the bestest

Posted in Yoga with tags , on December 6, 2011 by Karmela

DISCLAIMER: I’m about to speak in generalizations below, okay? And as with generalizations, there will be exceptions to what I’m generalizing about. Statistically speaking, chances are there’s a shitty mysore teacher out there somewhere just as I know that there are tons of fantastic non-mysore, non-Ashtanga teachers out there too. I know this, you know this, we all know this. Now that we all know this, let’s get on with the show.

While I’m one of those judgmental types when it comes to fashion (Don’t you even get in my line of vision if you’re still wearing bellbottom jeans—it’s 2011 for God’s sake, not 1991), food (We’re not going to that restaurant that serves nothing but pasta drenched in sauce, are we?) and books (What do you mean you’re not reading YogaBitch?), I pretty much let things slide when it comes to yoga. I accept what people will and will not do with their breath and bodies, the choices they make when it comes to meditation/vegetarianism/drinking pee, or the money they spend on Bali yoga retreats/Manduka mats/Lululemon clothing. No, really, I’m usually not that spiritual/observant/caring enough to note what other people are saying or doing when it comes to their own practice. It’s their practice and that’s that.

BUT…

I am a huge judgment whore when it comes to my teachers.

I’ve been practicing yoga long enough and have taken enough of a variety of classes with a platoon of teachers to recognize good yoga teaching v. bad yoga teaching.  I’m also a certified fitness instructor myself and know the general characteristics that make an instructor (a) effective and (b) beloved among students. Plus I’m also a Washington, DC Type-A type that looks at teachers as professionals that I pay good money to instruct me. So armed with this knowledge and attitude, I’ve come to the conclusion that among yoga teachers…

Mysore-style teachers are the very, very bestest. Again, I have a handy-dandy list of reasons why.

1. Because they practice what they preach. As in teachers in the mysore-style (which I will simply call “mysore” starting here, not to be confused with the city of Mysore with a capital “M”), just like their students, get up in the wee hours of the morning and practice whatever series they’re working on that day. There is no “do as I say, not as I do” for these badass yogis. Many of them get their practice in before their students arrive for 6am class, which means they have to get up even extra-early! But more important, this also means they have a practice. They’re not one of those teachers who simply cue and adjust but have no strength to do a chaturanga because they’ve stopped practicing themselves. Can we all say street cred?

2. Because they are STRONG AS SHIT. They have their own Ashtanga practice so they can do everything they’re asking you to do and they know what it feels like to do it. A conversation between me and Tova as I try to go into Supta Kurmasana:

ME: I can’t put my leg behind my head. I have too much belly fat blocking the way!

TOVA: That’s no excuse Karmela, I have more.

After that, when both my legs were finally behind my neck, it took her another few seconds of squeezing my biceps toward each other to get my fingers to bind. It was hard work for her! Believe me when I tell you that a less physically-able teacher would not have been able to do it.

3. Because they are strict yet patient, both in their practice and in their teaching. As Antonella says, “[t]here are no shortcuts in life, and since this practice is such a mirror for life, there are no shortcuts in this practice.” I can’t say it better than her:

“I’ve seen it many times, people want to do a jumpback, jumpthrough, or any other pose, so they’ll go home and practice that action over and over until they accomplish it. But somewhere in attempting to become proficient at this one thing they miss the work of steadily letting the body open and strengthen. They miss the development of the bond between the mind and body that comes with learning things in a gradual, systematic way. And once they ‘get’ this posture they’ve worked so hard for, somewhere down the line that link that they never developed comes back to haunt them.”

4. Because they tailor the practice to you. I’ll never forget the morning Antonella looked at me as I went into Supta Padangusthasana with a suspicious eye and said, “Who gave you that posture?” knowing I didn’t have it the day before. Mysore-style, as a method of teaching, demands that teachers get to know their students physically and mentally, and adapt the practice to them accordingly. I’m not talking about picking and choosing which posture a student should do. Everyone gets to do the sequence as it was designed by Guruji. I’m talking about modifications to the postures, and more importantly, only giving students postures they’re ready for. To do that, mysore teachers have to get to know each of their students’ (a) ability, (b) health and fitness level, and (c) courage and willingness to try a new posture.  But that’s not all. Within the class itself, they also have to keep an eye out for people who are skipping postures and people giving themselves postures. Which, as we all know, is illegal. Okay, that was a joke! Chill.

5. Because they have hands and are not afraid to use them. Over time, mysore teachers get to know their students so well that they will nudge, poke, push, hold and squeeze you into postures that will scare teachers of other yoga styles shitless. What other styles will teachers gingerly (or strongly, whichever technique is called for) guide a student into the challenging Supta Kurmansana? Or gently push a student’s pinky fingers toward the floor in Prasarita C? Lots of teachers are scared to do that, not because of liability (although I’m sure that nagging thought is there), but because they don’t get to know their students’ hearts and bodies the way mysore teachers do.

6. Because they stop and talk. Mysore-style is the only yoga class where the teacher can stop you in the middle of your practice to exchange a few words without disrupting the rhythm of the class. Unlike a traditional led class in any style, mysore-style lends itself to these types of exchanges, which my teachers typically take advantage of. Our conversations are usually short, usually involving minor adjustments, but sometimes Stair takes the time to learn about a new injury and impart advice and tips.

7. Because they get to know you.  More from Antonella:

I take pride in getting to know my students. I don’t just learn about their bodies, I learn their personalities, quirks, the little things that make them special in their own way. I can tell if one of them is feeling off, if something is weighing on their minds, and I adjust what needs to be done accordingly. I try to make sure they do what has to be done to learn their practice correctly and safely, and at a pace that’s appropriate for them. I try to nurture them.

And because they get to know you…

8. They can make you push yourself when they can see that you’re ready. I’ll never forget the day Antonella bound me for the first time in Marichyasana D. If you’ve never tried it, believe me when I tell you that the first dozen times you attempt it on your own, you’ll feel like you are never, ever, ever going to execute this posture in its fullest expression until the day you die. But somehow Antonella knew I could do it, and before you could even say Samastithi, she was sitting on the floor with one thigh over mine, twisting me so, and making my fingers touch each other. Same goes for the morning that Tova put me into Supta K for the first time. BAM! There it was! She could tell I was ready even if I didn’t feel that I was, and we tried it and it freaking WORKED.

Conversely…

9. Because they hold you back if they see that you’re NOT ready. Like when I had an operation on my shoulder for a torn rotator and labrum but still wanted to join mysore practice and was firmly and decisively told, “No, you are not ready to come back yet.”

10. And finally, because they choose to teach mysore-style. Yoga teachers of other persuasions typically stand in front and look out into a sea of practitioners doing the same movement at the same time. Easy to take a quick gander on who in the room is more advanced v. who is struggling. In mysore class, people start the sequence at different times. Some are faster than others. Some are doing primary, a few are doing second. Some don’t know the sequence and have to be cued. Some are injured and need modifications. Some need adjustment while others are waiting to be dipped back.

And these are just the technical rhythms of the class. Sometimes a student also needs to be counseled on something more than asana; maybe his breathing is off, maybe his etiquette leaves something to be desired. And sometimes there’s chitchat in the room that the teacher has to police. And look! There’s a student that hates Bhujapidasana so much she skipped it.

Mysore teachers not only need to have their own practice and technical knowledge, but they also need an eagle eye, great control of a roomful of people doing different things and different times, reservoirs of patience, humor, a true love of Ashtanga (after all, the sequences never change), and not be afraid to use tough love on their students when necessary.

So, did I convince you that mysore style teachers are the bestest in the universe yet? No? Then there’s really only one thing for you to do now, right? Come to class with me.

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Yoga giveth, yoga taketh away

Posted in Yoga with tags , on November 22, 2011 by Karmela

So. Been going to mysore-style class for going on three weeks now, and I cannot tell you the amazing things I’m discovering with my practice. Biggest one is how even though I practice the same thing day in, day out, things are never exactly the same. Some days I can jump back five times without toes touching the ground, some days things are so heavy I can barely lift them. Some days balance is rock-solid, some days things are so wobbly I wonder if I’m (still) hungover from the day before. So while the practice is usually triumphant because hey, look at me! I can finally touch my toes/lift my leg up/twist like a pretzel, it’s never a guarantee that on any given day, I’ll be able to do any or all of those things in my practice.

Take that ever-elusive posture, Urdhva Mukha Paschimottanasana. About a couple of weeks ago, I got it. I really did! Held the dang thing for five breaths, exited cleanly, gave myself a(n) (invisible) fist pump. Yeah! One more posture conquered, right?

Well wouldn’t you know it, a couple days later, it was GONE. Vanished. As if I’d never done such a thing, held such a posture. I was like, what the…? Where did it go? Someone took it away! Waah! Okay, I didn’t really want to cry. But I got a little frustrated, I must admit.

And then there’s that one-two punch of all primary series postures: the impossible Kurmasana-Supta Kurmasana combo. Ever since I’ve been practicing Ashtanga, I’ve coveted those postures. Everything I did, every forward bend I took, every hamstring-lengthening posture I went into, were all for the purpose of achieving the near-improbable task of putting both my legs behind my neck. Theoretically I knew they were possible. I’ve seen pictures! I’ve seen people in class do it! But could I, with my short arms and legs, ever achieve it? Nah, not in one bazillion years.

But then lo! I did it last week! Sure it was with the help of my teacher, and sure she had to practically wrestle me into the posture, but there it was—legs behind the head, fingers bound together behind me. BAM! I almost felt like crying with joy! And the same week, I did the ol’ knees-straight/heels-off-the-ground thingy in Kurmasana. I felt like doing this little piggy and going ‘weeeeeee!’ all the way home!

So it was with some confidence that I stepped on my mat yesterday even though (a) it was a Monday, (b) I was feeling extra-tired from not having woken up at 5 am the last two days (Saturday and Sunday after all), and (c) I was recovering from a cold. None of that mattered, I thought. This time, I was gonna bust out the ENTIRE primary series with every posture finally correct! No modifications!

And of course, things fell apart after that. I won’t bore you with the particulars of my epic failure, but suffice it to say all the things I achieved last week went to the toilet, and even some postures that I’ve been semi-confidently doing for the last few months ran away screaming from my mat.

What happened?

Probably vanity. And ego. And yes, a feeling of some trepidation about “Will I? Can I?” with my new postures.

Just goes to show you that this yoga thing ain’t just physical. It’s mental too. Actually, I’m coming more and more to the realization that it’s MOSTLY mental. And emotional. When your heart is ready and your ego is gone and your mind is humble is when the postures come. I know this, dang it. I do.

But once in awhile, I let outside forces creep into my practice, my mind starts wandering, my attention diverts. Once in awhile, I get impatient or competitive or show-offy. And more than anything that affects me physically, more than the cold or hunger or tiredness, it’s my mental outlook and attitude that will determine whether my practice that day will be joyful and light, or a sludgy mess.

But luckily, I have a teacher that keeps reminding me that all I need is to keep practicing. “Practice and all will come,” she says, quoting from some guy in India. :-)

And really, at the end of the day, that’s all I can do.

See you on the mat tomorrow.

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YogaSlut™ No More!

Posted in Yoga with tags , on November 15, 2011 by Karmela

Bet you didn’t know I was a YogaSlut™, eh? ;-)

I’ve been a YogaSlut™ for going on two years now, flitting between studios and teachers and styles, trying to see which one (or two or three) offered me the most love, the most excitement, the most bang for my buck. I’ve blasted off with Rocketeers, bended my body like Beckham in Bikram, and flowed through various and sundry Vinyasa-style classes to music ranging from Kirtan to Hip Hop (waves to Virginia). I’ve taken classes from Anusara teachers and Iyengar teachers, visited studios in New York and San Francisco and Chicago, and have even taken a class at a YMCA in Franklin County, Va.

All of last year, I kept coming back to Ashtanga yoga and the primary series even though at first glance it would seem that Ashtanga and I would never get along. It has a set sequence, traditionally eschews musical accompaniment, encourages self-practice, etc. etc, basically all the things that can be classified under “Things That Bore Karmela Shitless.”  But lo! It actually had the opposite effect! For all the reasons I’ve enumerated before, I came to the realization that Ashtanga was my One True YogaLove.™

So did that mean that my YogaSlut days were over? Hardly. Last year, even while I was getting deeper into my Ashtanga practice, I still bounced around from one vinyasa/Rocket/Bikram/Ashtanga class to another, having fun all Carrie Bradshaw-style,except instead of dating different guys I was going to different studios, and instead of buying multiple pairs of expensive shoes I was buying multiple expensive mats.

Then a series of unexpected incidents quietly and perhaps permanently transformed my practice.

First, I got injured in the bee-hind. Semi-major injury, long recovery, Then a major injury in the shoulder happened. Wear and tear, arthritis, surgery. Then over the summer, Antonella counseled me on my practice — what might have caused the injuries and how to mindfully practice to prevent more. Then Stair opened LRY North. Beautiful space, the only Ashtanga center in NoVa. Then I went to my first Tova mysore class.

I can’t say that something instantly clicked then. It was more of a gradual realization that THIS is what I should be doing now, that the timing is right, that this is what my body needs, what my soul needs. All of me has somehow realized that at this very instant, at this juncture of my life and at this point in my physical well-being, THIS is what I need to do, where I need to practice, who my teacher should be. No more flittering about different styles and studios and teachers.

Hey what do you know? It feels great to be monogamous! Could it be? Am I a YogaSlut no more?!

For the foreseeable future, I will be getting up at the crack-of-early three mornings a week as prescribed by Dr. Tova to attend her Mysore class at Little River Yoga North. She has presented me with a plan, which although scares me a little (there’s NO WAY I’m going to get that bind in Supta K, but whatever, I’m letting go, ommm…), I’m willing to dive right into it. And in between classes, I shall practice on my own, because, well, I want to! I know, call me crazy, but I actually want to get up at 5 am and practice alone, without music, to a set sequence everyday.

Not to say I won’t cheat and indulge in a few dessert-type classes in the future (Hello, AcroYoga!), but for the most part, I plan to remain faithful to my Perfecta Trifecta: (1) Mysore with (2) Tova at (3) LRY North.

Can’t wait til tomorrow morning.

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My Love Letter to the Primary Series

Posted in Yoga with tags , on November 10, 2011 by Karmela

I woke up this morning earlier than usual and even though it’s a Moon Day and Mysore-style classes all over the world have been cancelled, my body was raring to practice. And so I did, at 5am, in the quiet of my kitchen with only a tiny spider dangling from the ceiling for company and the sound of my breath as accompaniment. No music, no space heater, no incense smells. And that’s when it hit me.

I’m in love with the Primary Series.

Maybe because despite my hating on it before, despite my blaming it for my injuries, despite my abandonment of it in favor of younger, sexier yoga (Yeah, I’m talking to YOU, Rocket!), the primary series took me back with no questions asked, total forgiveness, and even more love than before.

Let me explain.

Practicing the primary series is like dancing with a long-time lover. You are comfortable with him and know his moves, but he still takes your breath away. You can be with him anywhere, pretty much anytime you want. And he was there for you post-surgery, when you were at your weakest, when you (wrongly) blamed him for causing the injury, never abandoning you, there for when you were ready for him.

My injuries and consequent surgery have given me a perspective on my practice—and on the primary series—that I’ve never had before. Pre-surgery, the only thing the primary series represented to me was a way to get to second series. I was impatient for my next postures during mysore class and gave myself postures during self-practice. I couldn’t even bind in Marichyasana D and yet at the same time was clamoring for some Pashasana already.

Before surgery, I was also supplementing my practice with a whole lot of other acrobatics—handstand workshops, rocket yoga, advanced classes, even some Bikram—all so I could learn Astavakrasana and Pincha Mayurasana already so when it came time for second series, I’d be able to rock it out instantly.

So what happened? Double-whammy injuries. First an Ischial Tuberosity (literally “pain in butt”), and then tears in my labrum and rotator cuff that required the drilling of five arthroscopic holes into my right shoulder and continued rehab.

I was devastated to say the last. I had signed up to go to a mysore beach week with fellow Ashtangis and asked the teacher if I could still practice with the class. After careful (and wise) consideration, she declined to take me in and taught me about ahimsa. She counseled me thoughtfully and advised patience and kindness towards MY OWN BODY. I was floored, frankly. And doubtful. I mean, what kind of advice is that? Rest? Take it easy? Those are for non-active people, lazy people, people who are not like me!

But I had no choice. It would’ve been awfully bad form of me to crash the class, and besides, Antonella is strong. I have no doubt she can tackle a linebacker, never mind little ol’ injured me. So even though I went to the beach with the group, I stayed far away from where the asanas and breathing were happening whilst nursing my own disappointment and practicing (what I thought at the time was) my own sad, sorry form of yoga.

But even though I couldn’t practice with the group, they still invited me to the social gatherings which I gratefully attended. I mean, anything to be around fellow yogis! I went to a discussion on Ashtanga and was able to bask in the company of fellow Ashtangis, practitioners who, like me, like to push their minds and bodies to the limit. But best of all, I got to have some one-on-one time with Antonella, who had studied in India with Sharath himself and has been authorized to teach. And you know what else she told me? That perhaps I may have done too much in my practice too soon, performed postures that my body was not ready for. And you know what? Finally, I got it. Her words, all of them, rang so true. It was like someone switched on a light bulb in my head.

So now here we are, almost four-months post-surgery, and I am back to mysore classes with an old and a new teacher. (And no Stair, I did not just call you “old!” You know what I mean.) And you know what’s happening that didn’t happen before, when I first started practicing Ashtanga? I am falling in love with the primary series in it of itself. I am discovering the beauty of the Janu Sirsasanas, really sinking into my Marichyasanas, having fun with my various and sundry Konasanas. I’m even loving Bhujapidasana and have stopped coveting Supta Kurmasana, a posture that was so elusive to me post-surgery I started to really, really hate it. And of course, I continue to rock Garbha Pindasana, perhaps the funnest posture in all of yogadom.

And you know what happened? Last Tuesday, Tova put both my feet behind my neck for Supta K! (Thank you Tova!!!)

I am proud to be doing well in the series considering all the wear and tear. It’s so wonderful to rediscover it, to appreciate it for its intrinsic awesomeness instead of seeing it as a gateway or stepping stone to something else. My plan (which, okay, I need plans because I’m just THAT kind of person) is to totally rock out every posture, revel in them, and not look beyond them.

Because what I’ve ultimately come to realize is that if Stair or Tova never give me a second series posture for the rest of my life, I will be happy right where I am, right where Settu Bandhasana and Urdhva Danurasana intersect.

This post is dedicated to my Rocket teacher, Peg Mulqueen, who made me realize that it doesn’t make me a bad person if I don’t strive for the second series. Thank you, my teacher.

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My Seven Deadly Ashtanga Sins

Posted in Yoga with tags on October 28, 2011 by Karmela

I’ve heard all the reassurances before. “Practice and all will come.” “Do what you can.” “Anyone can practice.” But you know what? I’m one of those poster children for Ashtanga yoga—the driven perfectionist, the Type A personality from a western country, the student that has immersed herself in self-study BEFORE going to a class so as not to be embarrassed when everyone knows what comes after Navasana and she does not. “Practice and all will come?” More like “Practice makes perfect.” I had a Tiger Mother after all.

However, the perfectionist in me is also the same individual that acknowledges the power of rules and traditions, especially when it comes to yoga. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, and with age comes the wisdom to respect the history and culture and customs of something that’s Really Really Old. The bad thing about that is I’m also enough of an autodidact to know the rules and when I’m breaking them. See, I can’t even blame ignorance for flouting the rules! I am knowingly and purposefully breaking them.

So what are these Ashtanga rules I’m breaking? I’m sure I’m committing a ton of these fouls, but here are the biggest of the lot. When I’m self-practicing:

  1. I skip Savasana. This is probably the second deadliest sin I commit. (What’s THE deadliest, you ask? You’ll have to read on to find out.) I really don’t see why I have to lie still on the ground afterwards. Sure it’s relaxing, but truth be told, I prefer to chill out in other ways. Yes, it’s supposed  to be relaxing and calming, good for centering the mind and body and all that. I can admit that it’s probably good for you. But NOT doing it ain’t necessarily BAD for you, right? Since I injured my shoulder last July, when it comes time for Savasana, I get up, attach electrodes to my right shoulder from my TENS unit and put an icepack on. Then I plop on the couch and turn the TV on. Just as relaxing, believe me!
  2. I skip the chant. Because I don’t know the chant. I know, I just really need to learn it. In class, I kind of mumble and fake my way through it, although I’m sure I’m not fooling anyone let alone my eagle-eyed teacher. So when I’m by myself, I don’t even try. I just skip it. Is it bad? Am I offending the yoga gods and inviting bad juju my way? (Wait, I think I just mixed cultures/deities.) Is Stair never going to move me to second series unless I learn the chant?
  3. I don’t do my oms either. Why don’t I? This one I actually like doing. I like the deep moan of the om. Reminds of the sounds I made during labor. (Wait, was that TMI?) I really don’t know why I skip this one. NOTE TO SELF: Say your oms during your next self-practice.
  4. “My name is Karmela and I rush through self practice.” Yes, I do. (***hangs head in shame***) For some reason, I can complete the entire primary series in just an hour, when it takes me at least 75 minutes during Mysore class. I don’t know how. I’m not skipping postures or vinyasas. Actually, scratch that. I know exactly what I’m doing. Or what I’m doing wrong. And it has something to do with my…
  5. Breathing. Specifically, I cheat when I breathe. You’re like, what? How can you cheat at breathing? Only yogis—and Ashtangis in particular—will understand what I’m talking about. I don’t breathe evenly in every posture, meaning some postures get the full five ujayyi breaths (e.g., Dandasana), while some postures get what sound more like the breathing of a panting dog (e.g., Marichyasana D). In a led class or even in Mysore, I dare not do this. But by myself? Well, all (breathing) bets are off.
  6. I play music. I DO! I know that all I’m supposed to need for self-practice is a mat-sized space and a mat, that I’m supposed to look inside myself, to internalize everything, to forget about my surroundings and to just PRACTICE. I tell ya, when I’m with myself by myself, it’s easier said than done. So I get a little musical help. Music lets my mind focus on something else instead But here’s the even greater transgression: I don’t even play kirtan or Indian music or even classical. I play hip hop. I do. Believe me when I tell you that the rhythm of an Eminem song ain’t necessarily incompatible with the flow of an Ashtanga practice. He has hypnotic bass beats, that Em.
  7. And here perhaps is the biggest of the Seven Deadly Ashtanga Sins I’ve committed: On my own, without permission from my teachers, I give myself postures to practice. Did I just hear you gasp in disbelief? I don’t blame you. This one’s a biggie. For non-Ashtangis out there, let me explain. So when you first start practicing the primary series and you decide to go to a Mysore-style class, most students don’t actually get to practice the entire series. A description of what goes in is here. In my case, when I first started attending, my teacher stopped me after Supta Kurmasana, and rightly so. My Supta K to this day is a big hot mess. Concave torso, knees that are nowhere near under my shoulders, hands that are about a foot apart behind my back. I don’t blame her for taking me there and keeping me there. The process is this: when your teacher deems you ready, he/she gives you the next posture in the series you can practice. But you know what? I knew I could rock the postures after Supta K. Baddha Konasana? Doable. Supta Padangusthasana? Cake. And I wanted to learn Chakrasana. So when I began to practice on my own after my schedule no longer allowed me to come to class, I just started adding the postures after Supta K until now I practice the entire series start to finish. Is every posture perfect? Hella no. Is my Supta K still a hot freaking mess? No doubt. But watch me add Pashasana to my practice tomorrow.

I’m hoping my lovely and understanding teachers will read this and tell me all is well, that these transgressions are forgiven, that they still love me and think me cute as a button. Maybe they will—but only when I’m self-practicing. When I’m in the studio, I’m sure they will continue to make me toe the line and obey the rules. I have no problem with that. Because really, when I break the rules, who am I cheating? No one else but me! These shortcuts are to no one’s detriment but my own. (***Hangs head in shame again***) I know that.

Ah, the life of a yogi. Okay, so SECOND NOTE TO SELF: Try not to break any rules tomorrow.

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Top 10 reasons why Ashtanga is the hardest yoga practice

Posted in Yoga with tags on February 25, 2011 by Karmela

I was gonna write a narrative about this very topic, but I decided to create a list instead. More to the point, no? Anyway, for all you Ashtangis out there, see if you agree with me. The top 10 reasons why Ashtanga is the most badass of all the yoga practices out there are:

  1. The tradition of early morning practice. As in 6 am or even earlier. Whose body can stretch and bend at that hour? Ashtangis, that’s who! Except for me, of course. Not only is my mind completely mush at that hour of the day, but my body is as stiff as a pencil. I can barely touch my toes, let alone go into Kurmasana.
  2. Mysore class. Not, not “my sore.” Mysore. As in the practice of individual group-practice. Say what? It’s when you perform an Ashtanga series on your own pace in a group setting. Sounds confusing? Wait til you actually walk into a Mysore class. It’s intimidating as all hell for a first-timer. Everyone seems to know what they’re doing, flowing from one pose to another all on their own without the teacher calling out any sequence. Meanwhile you can even barely remember what comes after downward facing dog in the sun salutes.
  3. Bhujapidasana to Tittibhasana to Bakasana. You’re like, bhujamawatshis?  In the primary series (a.k.a. the “starter” series in Ashtanga) there’s a pose called Bhujapidasana, or the arm-pressure pose. Depending on your own talents, this is one of the hardest poses in the primary series because (a) it’s an arm balance, (b) you’re supposed to jump into the pose, and (c) you’re supposed to exit out of the pose in a very specific way. I know, right?
  4. The length of the series. I’ve never really counted how many poses their are in the primary series but that shit is LONG. Someone actually listed out the whole thing. See how intimidating it is? The first 18 poses are the standing series, and the last 14 is the finishing sequence. Technically only the middle part is the primary series. But you’re supposed to do all three parts during your practice. And no skipping either! One of my favorite teachers said one time that each pose preps you for the next, so you shouldn’t skip.
  5. The repetition. So you’re in a 6 am Mysore class doing the primary series. Again. And again. That’s what your practice is today, which is what it was yesterday and what it will be tomorrow. Could get boring, no?
  6. The tradition of self-practice. Yep, they want you to do this on your own since each series is a set sequence. There’s no reason you can’t really, except for your own laziness, that is.
  7. The freakishly long chant. Uh huh, they expect you to memorize an eight-line chant in another language! I can barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning. But that’s not it. There’s also a CLOSING chant! That one’s only four lines long. But that’s a total of TWELVE LINES in Sanskrit!
  8. The jump-backs and jump throughs. Yeah, you were waiting for this one, weren’t you?  A lot of people hate it. Me, I actually love this aspect of the primary series. Except it ruins my pedicures.
  9. The tradition of daily practice. Yep, I said DAILY. As in they want you to do this everyday. The longest I’ve been able to do is a week. Yeah, you can call me on it, my lack of discipline.
  10. Supta Kurmasana. Yeah, right.

CLARIFICATION: I am not an Ashtanga hater! Far from it, actually. I’ve expressed my love and devotion to the practice right in this here ye blog, you dig? This post is just for all you out there wondering why Ashtanga has that reputation of being the hardest. It’s the practice that gave birth to vinyasa-style and power yoga. Plus, well, it’s just butt-kicking AWESOME.

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Yoga and injuries

Posted in Fitness, Medical, Yoga with tags , , , on January 20, 2011 by Karmela

I’m injured, and yes, yoga caused it. At first I was in denial. Sure I could admit that yoga contributed to the injury, but I thought it was more a combination of the yoga plus the kickboxing plus the grand battements plus a possible lack of proper hydration (dries out the joints).

But no. It’s the yoga. Nothing else I’ve done in my life—not ballet, not kickboxing—has ever caused this much pain. Plus the timeline is unmistakable.

I upped my yoga practice around March of last year. In April, the first twinges of my butt pain started, but nothing I couldn’t handle. It was more twinge than actual pain, right where the cheek ended and my thigh started on the left side. I was convinced it would heal on its own. My chiropractor, who was treating me for an unrelated injury, worked on it some, but it didn’t go away. Then I discovered Ashtanga right around April. The primary series is rife with forward bends and twists. The pain began to steadily intensify after that, but it was so incremental that I could always power through it. By springtime, sitting started to hurt. So I went to a highly-recommended massage therapist and acupuncturist, convinced that a combination of the two alternative therapies would erase the pain for good. They worked on me throughout the summer and early fall, and while I received relief, it was temporary at best and the pain came roaring back, each time more acute than ever.

Meanwhile, I continued practicing yoga. Matter of fact, I was getting better, stronger, more stretchy. I was rockin the headstands and arm balances. While I couldn’t put my forehead all the way down on the left side in the Janu Sirsasanas, I could on the right side. So I wasn’t that worried yet. But the pain was still continuing to worsen, so finally, I decided to go see a proper doctor.

Before you yell at me for not having gone to a doc early on in my injury, I need to disclose my love/hate relationship with the medical establishment. Let’s just say my family has had a long and painful history with all things western medicine-related and let’s leave it at that, but this was why I was wary about seeing an M.D. Luckily a colleague was currently undergoing pain treatments for multiple injuries to her spine and she told me about her docs who believed not only in healing the injury (as opposed to simply making the pain go away with narcotics and drugs), but that they also specialized in non-surgical treatments. Yay! Docs after my own heart.

So I went to go see them. Initial diagnosis: ischial tuberosity, which is a fancy medical term for “pain in butt.” Possible cause: lack of proper hydration, causing the tendons and ligaments to dry up over time. They first gave me two cortisone shots, one on each butt cheek. The pain relief was immediate, but alas, temporary. So they decided to let me undergo something called prolotherapy, which involves shooting me up with a dextrose solution deep into the areas of pain to promote inflammation and letting my body’s natural healing mechanisms heal the new inflammation. Yep, you guessed it—more pain on top of pain. But this treatment method is designed to heal instead of hide the pain.

The bad news: because this treatment is designed to heal, the process is long-term and I will most likely not improve until after multiple treatments that are not covered by insurance months and months from now.

The good news: I finally have a firm diagnosis on the cause: yoga. Okay, this isn’t “good” news, but it’s always a relief to find out what’s causing your body’s malfunction. And no, my doc didn’t actually say “yoga.” What he said was “chronic misalignment of your sacroiliac joint,” meaning my SI joint slips out of place all the time now. Every time he sees me, it’s been out of whack.

I wondered as to what could be causing this chronic misalignment so off to the Interwebs I went. And lo, look what I found! Says right here there are four causes of SI pain: traumatic, biomechanical, hormonal and joint inflammatory disease. And under “biomechanical,” this is what it says:

Pain due to biomechanical injuries will usually come on over a period of time and often with increased activity or a change in occupation/sport etc. The most common biomechanical problems include:

  • Leg length discrepancy
  • Overpronation
  • ‘Twisted pelvis’
  • Muscle imbalances

“Over a period of time?” “With increased activity?” A “change in occupation/sport?”

That could only mean one thing: my yoga practice.

If and when my docs manage to correct/heal my ischial tuberosity and SI pain, I don’t know what this will mean for continuing my practice since I don’t know specifically what ABOUT my practice is causing my SI joint to get misaligned. Is it the twists? The hyper-forward bending? Is it a specific asana?

Or maybe (and I cringe as I’m about to type this), I should quit practicing altogether. (No!)

Hubby went to the doc with me this morning and he learned how to slip my SI joint back in place. So maybe that’s all it will take for a pain-free existence—for someone to knock the joint back in place on a daily basis. Or maybe, on the other extreme, I will need to stop practicing altogether (oh the humanity!).

But hopefully I can find some kind of middle ground that will make yoga still accessible while remaining injury and pain-free. In the meantime, I’m off the prolo and moving on to something called Plasma-rich Platelet (PRP) therapy. Let’s hope it works. But what to do about yoga in the meantime?

On the one hand, the injury has greatly humbled me. I used to think nothing of my ability to fold forward and touch my forehead to my knees. Utthita Hasta Padangusthasana was a breeze. I took my stretchiness for granted, my body for granted.

Now, I struggle through the most basic of poses. Padahasthasana with straight knees has become impossible. Now when I look around the room whenever we’re doing a what-used-to-be-an-easy asana that I’m struggling through, and I see my fellow participants breezing through it, I feel frustration. But I know I can’t force it. THAT would be the worst thing I can do.

It’s a good thing yoga is not a competitive sport. Far from it actually—all my teachers emphasize the breath first, asana a faaaaar second. They all tell me to listen to my body, do only what’s accessible. And most of all, they all tell me to focus on myself and no one else.

Now more than ever, I need to internalize their teachings deep into my being and live it off the mat. Maybe if I’m successful, this—plus the medical treatments—are what will finally get me over the injuries.

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The torture of early morning practice

Posted in Yoga with tags , on January 19, 2011 by Karmela

Ashtanga yoga is my favorite yoga practice bar none. Lots of things to love about it—the sequence of asanas, the length, the variety, the challenge of it all.  I love the comprehensiveness of the practice (forward bends! backbends! binds! leg balances! arm balances! headstands! cardio!) and the community of ashtangis in my area. However, there is one aspect of Ashtanga yoga I find particularly unfortunate: the early morning practice, a.k.a. “crack-of-dawn” practice or COD.

What does COD practice entail and how early are we talking about, you ask? Depends on what you wanna do. If I wanna catch a mysore class, my studio begins at 6:30 am, but there are others in the area that start as early as 5:30 am. If I wanna practice in my living room, I have to begin around 4:45 am or so and stop by 6:00 am so I have time to perform the cook/fix lunches/feed-and-clothe kids/get-them-out-the-door daily waltz, not to mention get myself ready for work.

I know that COD practice is more tradition than hard-and-fast rule. I know I can practice anytime I want, as much or as little as I want. But the older I get, the more I respect traditions. Must have something to do with the aging process, as in traditions are old and should be respected, just like elderly ol’ me. And it isn’t that I have trouble getting out of bed (I don’t) or the fact that my energy levels aren’t where I want them to be during that time of day. If I practice often enough, I know it would be just a matter of time before my circadian rhythms acclimated to COD.

What I don’t like about COD practice is that during that time of day, I have no flexibility at all. None, zero, zilch. My body is so stiff I can barely touch my knees in a forward bend, let alone go into a full uttanasana (which I can do any other time of day). One time I posted this very complaint on my Facebook page, to which one of my teachers replied, “But that time of day is when your body is the most honest.”

Seriously, I appreciate that. I know I should listen to my body, and if it’s telling me, by every pop and twinge and outright pain that I shouldn’t be doing a certain asana, then I listen. But is it telling me to stop because I’m still stiff from having just woken up, or because I have no business doing that particular asana? See, there’s a difference, right? How do you recognize one vs. the other?

One last point: in the wintertime, practicing in the morning becomes doubly hard because of the temps. I can’t heat up my living room to my desired yoga-practice temperature of 85 degrees. Anything lower than that (and my house is usually a cooler-but-still-comfy 67 degrees) risks pulled muscles. One more reason I like practicing at night, after my house has been sufficiently warmed up by kids jumping and running and crashing into furniture.

Tonight, I’m teaching my usual back-to-back 30 minute Core class and 1 hour Kickboxing. You’d think I’d have no energy to do anything else after that but drive home and collapse, right? But right after my Kickboxing class is when I’ve come to love practicing the full primary series. (Shhh…I know it’s a moon day and shouldn’t be practicing, but I have Prolo again tomorrow and will be benched for the next four days yet again.) And I’m really, really looking forward to it. What did another teacher say? Ah yes, the primary series is “meditation in motion.”

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Top 10 Reasons Why I Love Ashtanga

Posted in Yoga with tags on September 22, 2010 by Karmela

A few weeks ago, one of my esteemed yoga teachers remarked on my love of Ashtanga. She knows I’m easily bored (self-diagnosed ADD) and so yeah, it surprised me too that I fell in love with a practice that has a set sequence and doesn’t change from class to class (unless of course you move your practice up to the next series). So what is it about Ashtanga that struck the right chord with me?

  1. The variety. And I don’t mean the fact that Ashtanga has a little bit of everything. It actually has a lot of a lot of things. Meaning it has a lot of standing poses, sitting poses, some backbends, inversions, arm balances, shoulder balances, binds, twists, easy poses, more challenging ones—you name it, the primary series has it. I like it that I can cover all the skills in the course of the series.
  2. The challenge of memorizing the sequence. It’s just like remembering choreography, which greatly appeals to the dancer in me. And just like a dance routine, you can go through the motions of the sequence, or you can put life and feeling into it, perform it with more abandon and awareness.
  3. The progression. The primary series is friendly to every level, from the überbeginner to the twisty pretzel. Variations on each asana abound in David Swenson’s book.
  4. The ease of self-practice. I used to loathe working out on my own. Yoga was no different. Actually, yoga was even tougher for me to practice on my own because of my lack of knowledge on the asanas and sequencing. I didn’t know how to “choreograph” a proper yoga workout. But with Ashtanga, the sequence is set, and so there’s no problem with figuring out what comes next. Now, I don’t even practice with the lights on or with music in the background. No need for any of those accoutrements in Ashtanga. I just practice. I even chant in the beginning.
  5. The length of the sequence. This is a subset of #2. I used to whine that The sequence so long! and I’ll never memorize the whole thing! But you know what? It’s just like anything else. The more you do it, the more you know it. Another surprise for me: because it’s movement, I seem to have an easier time memorizing it. Now I love it that the standing sequence + primary series + finishing sequence is so long, because it contributes to the variety and my lack of boredom. And it makes my brain work.
  6. The jump-back/jump throughs: Ashtanga is a great combination of holding still and flowing movement. The asanas make you hold still and the jump backs/jump throughs let you flow. I think someone told me once that it was derived from British gymnasts practicing their routines next to yogis during Colonial India. Who knows? But this move is awesome. It incorporates balance, strength, core work and cardio all rolled into one (or two). Plus, it gives me an outlet to move in between holding steady.
  7. The binds. The primary series has some awesome binds. This is the area where I’ve really seen a measurable improvement in my practice. Where before I could barely grab my fingertips in Marichyasana C, I can now grab my wrist on both sides. Very rewarding.
  8. The noticeable improvement. Doing the same moves over and over and over again makes you work on the same asanas every time, which means you can get better because you’re practicing the same thing. My current goal: a full bind on the left side for Marichyasana D.
  9. The pace. I love love love it that Ashtanga MOVES. One of my teachers actually plays techno music during class, and it fits. Ashatanga is vigorous and active.
  10. Garba Pindasana. This is perhaps the funnest and funniest move of all of yogadom. You ever try it? First, there’s the impossible task of slipping your arms through your full lotus. If you’re not drenched with sweat by the time this asana comes up, lubing up is required. Then, you rock on your back around your mat, and this never fails to crack up the class. Ashtanga isn’t all serious, see? And then on the last rocking, you have to get yourself up and at ‘em into Kukutasana, a hella awesome arm balance.

There you have it. My ode to Ashtanga. It’s such a popular school of yoga that I’m sure tons of other people have done their own odes, but these are the reasons why I love it so. Shanti, shanti, shanti ommm..

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