Somewhere in the midst of her prattling on about colons and noticing my eyelids are sweating, (omigosh I didn't know eyelids could sweat) there is stillness.  Yoga, like surfing, is a series of independent actions.  I'm the type of person that wouldn't go running.  It's just not my thing.  I like being in a classroom, or the ocean with people around me, their energy, my energy, pulsating and creating this kind of unstoppable throb to perform, and yet, when it's time to do the thing, it's just you, and it's just the wave, or in Bikram's case, it's just your eyes in the mirror.  This positivity group around you is called Satsang (Sanskrit sat = true, sanga = company) and is an Indian philosophy meaning (1) the company of the "highest truth," (2) the company of a guru, or (3) company with an assembly of persons who listen to, talk about, and assimilate the truth.  All I know is, I love it.

Bikram said, "the purpose of my life is to make people realize the goodness buried in themselves -- that they deserve to be happy, and they can be."  Since a purpose is the eternal condition for success, I'd like to try to be a part of his success.  

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April 1, 2010
Last night I decided to take sunset class at 6:30p.  Now, I'm not sure if it's just because it's pau hana time or because the yoga teacher looks like she belongs in Rio, dancing samba at Carnival, but class is packed.  There's millimeters between my mat and my neighbor's and I hear Johnny's voice in my head saying, "This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine..." Please don't go into mine I think as  New-York-style claustrophobia sets in; at least, I'm early, so I get mirror and door.

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Day 2: Posture 2
Pada-Hasthasana: Hands to Feet aka Quesadilla Pose

After Half-Moon, we do a little yin to the backward bend yang, in what I like to call Quesadilla Pose (thanks Someday Oneday).  Get ready, bend the knees, right left, right left, shake the booty, begin.  Nice and slow I bend forward, my hamstrings wince - not quite warm yet.  I grab behind my feet, elbows behind my calves.  "Pulling is the object of stretching."  Yup, got it.  It hurts behind the knees, what Bikram calls "a beautiful hurt", eye of the beholder, I guess.  I want it, though, so I pull, sandwiching my body,  as quesadilla-like as possible (cheese only, no room for anything else. OK, maybe 2 cheeses) and breathe for a ten count.  

Rest. Second set. (half-moon in between)

This time my body is ready, much looser, I go for it.  I've closed my eyes and didn't notice.  Opps.  EYES OPEN, oh yeah, I'm doin' it!  My nose touches my legs somewhere below my knees, da-da-da-dayum.  Dude, feels so good.  Gravity helps keep me there, taking 10 deep filling breaths.  Release.

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I almost didn't go... it would have been so convenient not to: the bus was 20 minutes late, I had cramps, my thighs were burning after months of hibernation... but if I hadn't it would've been a regret, and 2010 = no regrets (right Kris?).  Samba Samba said her hubby (yes, there was a collective sigh of disappointment at this revelation) decided to start taking Bikram after finding out his big wave riding friend does it.  "They know something's good but they have to see someone else doing it.  Why?  If you know something's good just do it... you don't have to wait for anybody else."  Thankfully, almost doesn't count.

Namaste.



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