I haven’t been blogging much lately, at all. Well, I just haven’t had much to say. Last night, I watched Contagion in which Lawrence Fishburne’s character spews, “Blogging is not writing. Blogging is graffiti with punctuation.” Also, one of my heroes, the great writer Jon Franzen, advises his aspiring and wishfully like-minded audience of “writers” to unplug our computers when writing — to disconnect ourselves from the auspices of Google Chrome and Firefox. He even goes so far as to declare a piece of literature aided by Internet research as useless. Seeing how this is (a) a blog and (b) already aided and abetted by the Interwebz in at attempt to correctly spell Lawrence Fishburne’s last name…I am already screwed.

And I vow, to those of you who’ve so graciously messaged me here, on Facebook, and through my very own graffiti site’s email address, to not leave you hanging any longer. I solemnly swear that even if I am authoring glittery words of narcissistic self-importance of such irrelevance as What I Think About Board Games, I will not neglect this mural of my life and rants and woes and whatever any longer.

Onward.

Yoga. I’ve been doing it for years. I first began yoga practice in my living room, in front of my TV, with Rodney Yee. At the time, I was one of those boxed-in hard core Catholics whose close friend informed her that yogic meditation was evil. Being the sheepish creature that I was, I decided that yoga postures in secret were the way to go.

Once I was out of that God-forsaken box, (please, bear in mind, any organized religion that leaves you awake at wee morning hours with a figurative hooded figure sitting on your chest with his ghost hands snaked around your throat is, regardless of how often it is practiced, a Godless religion) I decided to meditate more often.

So what happened, then? Nothing. Nothing happened. I did not feel a divine sense of purpose. In fact, once solidified in my yogic ways, I fucked up my personal life a lot. I continued to meditate and position myself in pretzel-like fashion regularly, and last year I decided to get certified and teach the practice that I still did not understand.

I watched a yoga documentary sometime in Spring of last year and wrote in review. Basically, this chick takes on the yogic journey of Some Random Guy and documents the entire journey. She takes him to India, she forces him into inversions and yoga classes varying in both style, practice, and spirituality. Nothing much happens, except that she becomes increasingly disgruntled that he doesn’t “get it”. That he doesn’t find himself a sudden epiphanous creature of higher intellect and deeper thought process in the midst of a prolonged Down Dog. He, on the other hand, remains true to his apathetic nature regarding The Yoga; he is neither enlightened nor enshrined nor indoctrinated into the ways of the yogi. At the end of the documentary, he goes back to rock climbing and she goes back to head stands and pondering the failures of the universe and of her mission.

Anyway. I’ve been pretty down about yoga lately, because I have a lot of very enlightened yogi friends. Their peace runs deep, their ohms run guttural, their souls — at least outwardly — appear cleansed of All Things Faltering. Their mantras annoy me, too. As does their constant. fucking. ohm’ing.

This has caused me pause. I have begun to feel as if I’m missing out on some fundamentally important attribute of yoga that my congested chakras and reinforced outwardly-ways have disallowed me from grasping. I am still impatient; I still get really distracted by cleaning, or my own failures, or the past, or the future, or my relationships, or my undending need to descend from all that is conformity. What. The. Fuck. Taryn?

And then today, I was sitting here just wheezing and cursing asthma and cursing Advair for making addicted to my twice-daily 500/50 dose, and cursing bad health and cursing anti-biotics and cursing this weather and cursing treadmill running for making me soft and cursing cold Alaskan winter weather for making me too afraid of fucking weather-induced asthma attack to go outside and run in this stupid weather…

When it hit me.

Whoever came up with that Nike slogan was a genius. Who cares what yoga is and is not doing for me? Who cares if I am coming off as The Proper Yogi? Who cares if my aura is black as death or bright as the motherfucking sun? Who cares if I swear too much, for a yoga instructor?

Just as with running, what matters is that I do it. That I practice, that I teach, that I learn. It doesn’t matter if I eat organic fruit or adopt the outward lifestyle of a yogi, how many damn bangles I wear on my arms to class, how often I say “Namaste” or what kind of music I play in class.

There should never be anything pretentious about yoga.

And that, friends, is exactly as divine a lesson as yoga has taught me thus far: That what I do should never, ever define me, because the second that it does, my identity is lost in that one purpose. Just as Catholicism became the hooded figure on my chest, so yoga shall not. Because why? Because even though I have a yoga mat inscribed, “Namaste, bitches”, yoga is actually teaching me a thing or two about myself.

So I guess all that meditation wasn’t all in vain, after all.

PS I have decided that once I’m finished with this certification, my biz name will be The Angry Yogi. Stick that in your hookah pipe and smoke on it.

Since crossing the finish at our half marathon adventure last weekend, I have been experiencing knee issues that’ve sidelined me for the next few days. What have I been doing with all this Bengay-laden couch time? Fueling myself with Maurice’s homemade donuts and watching documentaries, naturally. Well, this isn’t entirely true; I did make a huge pot of chicken soup last night that has acted to balance my otherwise shitty diet of Bisquick fried in Crisco and rolled in powdered sugar.

I also managed to wipe the powdered sugar from my fingers in order to type this entry about yoga. It was inspired by a documentary we watched tonight titled, ‘Enlighten Up! A Skeptic’s Journey Into the World of Yoga”. This documentary, directed by yoga enthusiast Kate Churchill, chronicles the journey of New Yorker layman, journalist, and yogic-virgin Nick Rosen. So we watched between Netflix’s unending “retrieving” messages and Hannah giving herself a near-concussion on the corner of her bed. The handsome Nick takes on the task, as assigned by Kate, of transcending from city-boy journalist with a holistic healer for a mother and a hard-nosed lawyer for a father to….well….city-boy journalist-turned-Coloradoan-rock-climbing-documentary-writer with a holistic healer for a mother and a hard-nosed lawyer for a father whom he appreciates a bit more.

The film frustrated me, and not for conventional reasons. We witness Nick and Kate’s cross-world adventure into the world of yoga. We see that even as Nick is greeted, instructed by, and is allowed interviews with B.K.S. Iyengar, Patthabi Jois, Dharma Mitra, and Gurmukh, he remains almost entirely unmoved by the yogic experience. We witness filmmaker Kate Churchill’s growing frustration with Nick’s apparent lacking in ability for insight and transcendence. She speaks to him in a manner that is condescending, almost demeaning — as if she is disdainful of this sorry excuse for a man, seemingly so incapable of self-reflection that he cannot see what a gift has been bestowed upon him as to be meeting these godfathers of the modern yoga movement.

And that is what frustrates me about this film. It isn’t the seeming douchebaggery that Kate sees in Nick; it is the attitude of so-called yogis like Kate — herself a seven-year veteran of practice — that takes the mystique of yoga and turns it into something completely inane.

Because here is the thing about yoga. It’s not a competition to see who can hold a posture longer, who is more flexible, or who can be so enlightened as to kiss the feet of the gurus and cry in their peaceful presence. While I understand that the director’s intent was to show the transformation of one man through his insightful yoga journey and thus, she had a lot of money and time invested, I have to question her intent.

If your intent is to turn a wide audience on to the spiritual, self-reflective aspect of practice through the vein of turning an ordinary straight white New York male into your own personal Yoga Cinderella Story, then your intent — by all yogic beliefs — is ill-founded.

Here’s the thing about yoga. It is a deeply personal practice. Regardless of your motivations for doing, or which practice you favor, or where you do it, or who instructs you, or what you wear during practice — it is yours. Kate Churchill’s biggest theory regarding this film was that people can be transformed by yoga, regardless of their background. What she didn’t weigh into the equation was just how shallow and meaningless and self-absorbed her intentions are portrayed. Repeatedly, Nick questions what sort of deep and personal transformation he is supposed to experience through acts like putting an ankle behind his neck, or standing on his head, and repeatedly he is answered by his interviewer (Kate) in exasperated open-ended questions. “Do you feel any change at all?” “Why do you feel like you are not open to this?” “I feel like you’re slacking off, Nick.”

Perhaps all the sweating and posturing is all that Nick has to gain from it, but it isn’t up to Kate to act as his guru; for his practice is not hers.

My practice is mine. I do it in my living room, most of the time alone, in ratty sweats and a tank bra; sometimes in my underwear. What do I think about yoga? I think it is beautiful. I think it is aesthetically pleasing. That is why I began to practice.

What have I learned from yoga? That by challenging my body to move in new ways, I can connect to my own inner ability for adaptation to change, to life, and to maneuver my thoughts so that my body does what I tell it to do. I learn to breathe through physical stress so that I can breathe through emotional stress. I have learned that I love Ashtanga because of its fluidity, and because of the purifying sweat it induces.

I know that through the practice of yoga, I am less prone to wonder why the entire world does not want to practice yoga. For me, yoga is the ultimate practice in humanism. Which is why I have such a hard time understanding Kate Churchill’s closing messages about being disappointed that Nick no longer practices. She says something like, “Sometimes the quest for answers just leads us to more questions.” She is in the middle of an unassisted head stand in her living room, and she is pondering the answers to the unending mysteries of yoga…

When all she really needs to do is breathe through her headstand. Perhaps the answers to all her questions can be found in her very own living room.

Oh, and if you haven’t already seen this plastered across my Facebook, here is my rock star move from yesterday.

You see, this was a yoga session that wasn’t brought on by the need for peace or meditation. I wasn’t stretching out after a long run, or trying to strengthen my core and be one with my spinal cord. Nope; this was a, “If you don’t rid yourself of all this crap you’ve been carrying around all week long, you’re surely going to have an even worse week this week” session.

I got sweaty. My elbows bled. I got Petechiae on my cheeks. I got gas. When I was done, though, I had effectively reduced my stress and managed this beauty: a 100% unassisted scorpion pose. This was the kind of yoga session that, after finishing in infant pose, made me want to stand up and say, “Namaste, motherfuckers.”

Everyone knows that yoga is good for you. To summarize; if you are at all interested in increasing your flexibility, defining and elongating smaller muscle groups, slowing down your aging process, and/or ridding yourself of stress and anxiety, say yes to yoga.

Now for the personal stuff.

There is a reason dancers gravitate to yoga. As in dance, yoga takes the “mind over matter” mentality and puts it to the test. What you can achieve with yoga is comparable to what a dancer achieves through his or her art: flexibility, grace, poise, posture, delicate and elongated muslce definition.

Basic bikram yoga feels like barre work; as a former classical ballet dancer, yoga sparks great interest for my muscle memory. In a nutshell, yoga just feels so good. I have begun to incorporate bikram and a few more advanced bridges, stretches, and inverted poses as well as headstands and plows into my regular core work training regimen. Not only because I wake up the next day feeling just as many signs of physical exertion as I would with planks and wall sits, either. Recently, I have discovered the psychological benefits of yoga. Maybe it’s a bit too symbolic for some, but when I am forced to breathe through a posture or a stretch, I can feel the tension leaking away from both my body and my soul. Yoga is not just good for the body; it does an entire being good!

So, onward. Another happenchance benefit of yoga — or any physical activity, for that matter — is that at my university, logged exercise hours count toward a 3-credit physical training elective. So for the last week, I have been logging not only my running and core work hours, but I have also begun to log my yoga hours; an impromptu yoga journal. Thankfully, I have a husband, plus one future paparazzi kid, who are more than happy to volunteer to photograph my posture progress.

Bridge to Somewhere:
When I started yoga, it was basic bikram floor stretching and standing poses. I was a mom to one year-old twins and my life had two modes — work your ass off, and idle. I needed something to keep my flexibility, and my sanity, intact. This past summer while tumbling in the yard with my kids, we decided to risk embarrassment and injury and perform a few bridge poses. Turns out, I’m not too shabby at those. I decided to give more serious postures a second look, and began to research the yoga journals of others. In the meantime, I was still faithfully practicing my bridge poses. I noticed marked increase in my back’s flexibility as well as my hips’ ability to carry a leg to great heights.

The camel pose traditionally looks more like a seated backbend.

This is what I like to refer to as the “extreme camel”.

And this is my version of the extreme camel:

So obviousy I have about eight inches to clear in order to get my hands positioned where they need to be, but it is definitely a work in progress. This stretch, by the way, is miraculous for the quadriceps. I am no expert, but I believe that plenty of modified bridges (with arms in the head stand position) will allow my back to gain the flexibility it needs to be extra bendy…one day.

Doing Funny Things on My Head

The supported head stand is my new best friend. Head stands are quoted by yogis to be good for the brain. Something about the singular isolation of the core in that slow climb, coupled with the internal dialogue necessary to achieve upside-down balance is so…awakening. A few things I know about the head stands: They require a lot of breathing. Beginners should never attempt these without the “safety grip” (hands locked behind the head/neck). ANYONE can do them. They are and excellent builder for the core, the quads, and even the shoulders. If you are a lover of using your own body mass as your lifting calibrator, these head stands are for you. The abdominal muslces act simultaneously as your stabilizer and your breathing aid. This posture is excellent for anyone interested in the circus-act method of obtaining a great core.

There are all kinds of fun things that you can do while standing on your head. In the beginning, the thrill is just getting there without the aid of a wall.

Fail.

Establishing good head suppport is key.

Balance about to go awry.

Finally! Phew.

The next goal with the headstands was to allow my legs to get into stretch positions. Perhaps the best aspect of yoga as strength training is its ability to balance natural tension with natural gravity. Completely organic; completely awesome. Once you are solid in a head stand pose, your legs can experience all sorts of wonderful and gentle stretches, aided by your own body mass…and gravity.

If you don’t consider yoga as serious exercise, take a look at my armpits in this photo.

The above pose has eluded me for weeks. This, to me, epitomizes the entire body working as one. It is balance, endurance, and posture working as one. It is lengthening the spine, strengthening the core, and elongating the legs. I decided to try this pose with toes pointed, as I do with most poses, for no other reasons that aesthetic appeal and added flexibility in the feet. Here is my journey to what I believe is the ultimate head stand:

Wall-assisted first attempt.

Last night’s wall-assisted hundredth attempt. I managed to hold this for about five seconds, so I decided to go for an unassisted try.

Unassisted gajillionth attempt. Allllllmooooost there!

(Marginal) success! I held this posture for 7 seconds. This is the best I have accomplished with this posture, but I have to say I am feeling pretty accomplished, even if the blurry sports shot setting didn’t really capture it well.

So this is it. My first yoga journal entry. Want to see what’s in the works?

And this little number, but not anytime in the near future:

I wonder if the university will give me extra credit if I can accomplish this by the end of term….

Finally, as if this post doesn’t set a record for amount of photographs contained, I thought I’d share this pic. It seems my yoga practice is catching fire with Hannah.