Yoga: A 5,000-year-old practice, beloved by millions the world throughout. Beloved, possibly, by everyone but me. Or so was the case until a few months ago.
My gripe with yoga had nothing to do with the practice itself; my fundamental lack of skill was to blame.
Yogis everywhere are shaking their heads right now. I understand that it's called "practice" for a reason. It's not called "yoga perfect", there are no yoga champions; people don't travel across the US to participate in timed yoga trials. Slap each other on the back after sweating it out through a particularly grueling yoga marathon. Yoga is not a competitive thing.
However, I recognized the purported health benefits and felt that I should give it some time. I tried my hand at Hatha, breathed my way through Vinyasa. I learned to salute the sun, mimic a warrior, pose like a tree, a frog, and a fish. I even experimented with Bikram (hot yoga) before realizing that any athletic activity that requires a mid-afternoon nap isn't sustainable.
But I couldn't get past one issue: I have the natural flexibility of a yardstick, and I just felt so completely incompetent.
So I dropped the practice, gave away my yoga mat, burned my pre-Lululemon bootcut stretch pants. I figured that I'd still have tennis for my later years. Maybe join a bowling league. But yoga wouldn't factor, that I knew.
Fast-track 10 years and I was at the dentist, complaining of some jaw pain. A recent experience with a glazed donut suggested that my mouth would no longer open more than a crack without pain. I expected the worst: root canal, immediate tooth extraction, perhaps some invasive laser head surgery.
The diagnosis surprised me: TMJ.
"Have you been under a lot of stress lately?"
Er, I'm living out my dream of working with food and getting to spend time with my three lovely children...So I suppose that my answer would be no? How stress-derived TMJ was the culprit is still beyond me. But it was there. And it needed attention. Hiring a personal masseuse, however dreamlike, wouldn't fit my budget. And talk about not getting to the root of the problem.
I was reading a biography at the time where the subject - at one time hooked on drugs and married to a dysfunctional Hollywood actor - found her salvation through yoga and meditation. And I realized that my old friend yoga might have the answer for me as well.
This time....things could be different. After all, I'm more mature, with a slew of folding elbow wrinkles to match. Being the least flexible person in the room wouldn't be the worst of my problems.
I searched for yoga studios in my neighborhood that would emphasize the meditative aspect of the practice. I wanted to relax, focus less on strength, channel my energy towards mindfulness and inner peace.
I found everything on my checklist when I signed up for a membership at the Sivananda Center in Chelsea. It's a sanctuary, quiet and undiscovered. Unassuming from the outdoor signage, indoors you'll find a four-story brownstone with a kitchen on the first floor, and light-filled yoga studios on the second and third floors.
What I love most about this style of yoga - Sivananda - is the focus on breathing. At the beginning of each class, the teacher engages you in a series of breathing exercises that forces you to slow down and fill your lungs completely. And here's where things morph into uncensored bliss: during all of this forced deep breathing, you're inhaling the scent of ginger, cardamom, cinnamon and cloves as it trails up from the kitchen below.
I wanted to capture some of those same flavors and smells in my kitchen at home. I could have gone with a traditional Indian curry - I've made plenty, though authenticity might be questioned. But I was drawn to the idea of making something sweet. Something that I could shamelessly call breakfast. Or dessert. Something - perhaps not healthy - but a delight for the soul.
Feel good food to match my feel good practice. Yoga, you've converted me once and for all.