Maha utthita dhanurasana

Today I am kicking myself for not having gone to the “special” class at my yoga studio a month or two ago in which a fellow student painted on a huge canvas during class. Here it is, my first ever blog, about something I love so much and is such a huge part of my life (Vinyasa flow power yoga), for something that I love so much and has been a part of my life for over four years now (working at 303 Magazine). How appropriate would it have been for me to write about this unique experience, how the music and wave of sweaty bodies inspired the painter, the brush strokes, the colors, the subject of the painting, the yoga instructor, feelings within me, thoughts, emotions, my heart, my breath, my spirituality and my recent embracing of it, whatever. But no, I didn’t go to that class. I wanted to go to that class, I wanted to see the end result of that class; I really wanted to know what all that sweat and heat and movement and dancing bodies would look like at the end of class in the form of paint splashed on a stretched canvas. But, I can only guess because of my six-days-a-week yoga addiction, this free-style painting class must have gone down on a Saturday afternoon, which is the one day of the week that I feel less inspired to roll out the mat.

Maybe it worked out for the best, this not being able to talk about yoga and art and music. I need to tell you who I am. I’m Aubrey. I’ve been practicing yoga for about three years now and it’s my church. That word really freaks the shit out of me, but I think it pretty accurately describes what I feel. For about two years, my favorite class of the week was a Sunday, noon, advanced-level class, even when I was probably technically a beginner (though, I did practice yoga in college for gym credits, a class that feels like lifetimes ago now), in which the most beautiful human being of an instructor spoke of her personal experiences often, always related them to the bigger picture, asked us to think about our own lives and encounters and our place in the world and finished it all off by singing in the most mystical, siren voice, always a song fully sung in Sanskrit, songs that I can only guess were of the devotional kind, but, honestly, I don’t care, and always with a large meditation singing bowl that produced the most deep, soulful hums and whirls, that is until it cracked and was no more. Yes, it is my church.

It’s interesting to look back at not only what my practice was three years ago, but the person I was three years ago. Fundamentally, admittedly, neither is all that different. I still get into the pose with my hips in the same crooked way in all the warriors as I did when I became a student of Vinyasa flow. I still struggle to lengthen and adjust the curve out of my lower back in downdog. I still approach the world with positivity and openness and curiosity about possibility. What is different though is how far I have come living yoga off the mat, embracing spirituality and recognizing the difference it has from faith or religion for me personally. And then there is the good old difference in my Bakasana or headstand. Or hurdle or Utkatasana. Or dancer or Chaturanga Dandasana. Or a hundred other poses. Man, crow really can be the scariest pose sometimes, can’t it? The threat of a face plant, even though you’d only take a bite out of the floor from a couple inches off the ground, is enough to rattle the brain waves and give you that falling-in-sleep feeling on occasion. I’ll admit, though, I never go into a pose thinking, “Oh, I’ll never get that.” Not even when I was just getting my yoga legs. The first time I did crow I barely lifted my toes of the ground and my arms shook like I was supporting my body weight on them (…err) but, of course, over the first few months of my practice my core strengthened, my confidence and belief in myself grew and I just started getting better at it. Now, I surely don’t achieve perfect grace every time, but I shoot my legs back into Chaturanga from crow, sometimes holding my breath so it’s a painful transition, but others times it’s like I’m floating in the air. Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration.