Fumbling Through Yoga

I used to take a lot of Bikram or hot yoga.

I didn't fancy myself a yogi, but I could endure temperatures of over 100 degrees and do a decent Camel pose.

That was in my 20's, when I had both disposable time and money.

So, on Mother's Day, I thought it would be a cool gift of time for my mom (who is fitter than I am) and me to take a yoga class together.

Really...how hard could it be?  Vinyasa Shimasa.

I walked in, rolled out my mat, and was greeted by the darling, seemingly 22-year old girl who would lovingly guide me through poses that would serve as nourishment for my weary runners body.

So, when she said (in some sort of Canadian/British/Australian accent):

"I want you to root your hands deeply into the earth, find your focal point, concentrate on the breath, and very slowly pull from your belly to move into handstand....no cheating...no thrusting the legs up as to get momentum...this is coming from deep inside...engage...trust the process."

Trust what process?  As I began to try to engage my innards, I had a spiritual aha that felt more like me trying to keep in a fart while I swallowed my pride watching my 59-year old mother pop into a handstand like it was her job...while I couldn't go up to save my life.

Reaching over to me, she said, "I'm going to give you a boost and I want you to simultaneously, pull forth everything you've got."  With a primal grunt and scream, I went up while my arms were shaking and my head was dizzy.

At the end of class, I turned to her and said, "Is it possible to ever retain a strong core (enough to do a fucking handstand from scratch) after having three kids?"  To which she replied, "I have three children... so, yes."

Of course you do...moments of humiliation and love only on Mother's Day...here's to trusting the process.