TWO HUNDRED BEING TOO FEW

A few months ago I tore a snippet out of Yoga Journal where the magazine asked prominent teachers in the Western yoga community if the typical 200-hour yoga teacher training is sufficient to make someone an instructor. Before even scanning the responses I exclaimed, “No!” RYT-200 (Registered Yoga Teacher) is my certification level and I’ve never felt like that first rung—the one most widely maintained throughout the yoga teaching community—should be considered enough to let a person call themselves a yoga teacher. When I do (and I try all sorts of semantic backflips to avoid it whenever possible) I feel like a fraud.

I’ve always been a stickler for credentials, and while I’ve got the common credentials—call it the yoga teaching Associates degree—I’ll feel like a hack until I get at least one of two things: the next notable level up, a 500-hour certification, or loads more experience. The 500 takes time, and I’ve got that underway, but I don’t care how much classroom training you’ve got if you don’t have the experience. Unfortunately the only way to accumulate experience teaching is to teach. Teach real people. Sorry students, I’m learning to get good at teaching you by doing it.

There are times when I’m teaching and I think, Why in the world are you people listening to me? I have no idea what I’m talking about. Which isn’t true. I know stuff. I’ve become as meticulous a student as ever hits the mat. I research all the garbage that comes out of my mouth. I’m conscientious about giving safe, supportive instruction. But for the impact 12 years of yoga has had on my body, good and maybe not so good, and the weight it has in my life, I take seriously the job of teaching it, no matter where the class or how many students. I can’t know—usually the practitioner won’t even know—if that class could be the tipping-point. Don’t blow it, Megan. I’ve had teachers who don’t know anatomy enough to understand that what's falling out of their mouths is bullshit and detrimental. I’ve had teachers give me bad verbal and hands-on adjustments that exacerbated injury. I feel like it takes so much more than what I have in order to be qualified to be entrusted with a room of bodies and minds ready for overhaul. But there I am, the little in leggings cueing you into Vira II again.

I’ve struggled with the shift from full-time drug rep and part-time designer to stay-at-home wife, sporadic designer, and yoga teacher. Leaving one set of daily activities for the other was the easiest, most seamless thing I’ve ever done; it’s been the fact of change in income that’s rattled me. Wise or not, our society uses annual spoils as a way to mark one’s level of professional achievement, and because I exceeded the average I bought into it. (If I’m not surpassing a particular standard I discount its relevance and therefore maintain success. Redefine the win, Dear Reader.)

According to the U.S. census I was doing okay for myself. When in 2015 I left my pharmaceutical career of 10 years, graphic design money aside, I was pulling in 175% of the median household income. Not too shabby. I went from a single W-2 that said I made $97,000 to a handful of 1099s that put my annual fiscal contribution closer to $7,000. The math done for you: when I quit my job pedaling insulin to instead teach some yoga I took a $90,000 pay cut. Thus with my estimation of self-worth tied loosely to how much money I was making, I’ve loosely come to think of myself as worthless.

Turns out that pisses Jim off.

On a drive home from dinner last week I started whining about how since my “career” shift I have no value (fiscally speaking; though not suffering specifics I went with all-encompassing) my husband’s response was to a little bit lose his shit.

“Stop saying you don’t add any value. I’m sick of hearing that. I’m proud of you.”

“I teach yoga.”

“Yeah. I’m proud of what you do.”

“I make no money. I’m worthless.”

“When you say that it makes me think you’re unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy. I just have no financial value.”

“So what?”

Let’s just sum up the whole conversation and problem itself by saying that I might have erred in tying up self-worth with income. Doing that now leaves me inconsequential. When I talk to a new student before class I tell them that if a posture hurts during class, Hey, stop doing it and we’ll figure out something else. Maybe obey my own rule?

Jim’s end point landed at if you’re unhappy—I’m actually not—you’re welcome to go back to work if you’d like—oh, I do not—but you oughta know that you have huge value to me—aw—and to your students—aw . . . wait, really?

It goes back to that 200-hour certificate being puny. I’m a new teacher. I’ve been teaching for a year and a half now. How can I possibly provide any instruction worth following and coming back to when my training was so little and my experience not much to speak of?

The only answer that works for me is the 3,500 hours I’ve spent taking yoga classes. That’s what I have to offer—my experience as a student. The 200 hours of teacher training gave me the tools to translate that experience to classes that I hope I hope I hope are useful. I have experience with yoga injury, success in postures, shifts in my practice, catering to my individual anatomy, curbing my ego, stepping back from the practice, new understanding of what my practice means to me, stretch, strength, the task of balancing the two, learning how yoga fits in my life, how it affects my life, how that changes over time, knee problems, sacroiliac issues, shoulder trauma, reshaping my down-dog, and with being a longtime, attentive, often-obsessive yoga student.

Now, at this rate, according to the 10,000 hours-to-mastery rule from Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers, I’ve only got 25 more years of taking yoga classes until I’m an expert student and 45 more years of teaching until I’m a master instructor. So come take my class when I’m 79. It’ll be siiick.

My teaching style isn’t what’s common in a vinyasa class. It’s irreverent. Which maybe isn’t the best idea when it comes to yoga. (Look at me, just bursting with confidence today.) But I see it like this, if a student has a good time in a class they’re more likely to come back, to build a practice over time, to go to more classes and other teachers, and to find value in time on the mat. So while perpetually tugging the class back to breath, I lean toward partnering the physical with the funny.

I believe that you need more than one reason to come to the mat. Maybe it’s meditation. Maybe it’s that you have a good time. That you dig being upside down. That you have new yoga gear or like seeing your yoga friends. I don’t care what brings you to the mat. I care that you come. And relying on one reason alone—well, it’s just what I do on Wednesday afternoons—often isn’t enough for long-term attention. What brought you there becomes irrelevant as the practice seeps in. You get stuff on the mat. Maybe not what you thought you wanted but instead what you needed. For that you have to show up.

My role as the girl in the front of the room is to try to give you as many reasons to keep showing up as I can. So using the assets I come by naturally, I augment with play; we have fun in class—safe fun, really, really safe fun—so that that one class can contribute to creating a personal conviction that yoga is something worth doing.

Whenever I go to the dentist I always apologize for my teeth. Which are straight, white, and cavity-free. This last time I bashfully admitted that while I usually floss at least five days a week, lately it’s only been, like—gasp—two. I’m sorry my mouth is so gross. The hygienist replied, “It’s always the ones that fret and apologize that have nothing to worry about. They’re the ones with good care that don’t realize that their teeth are great. Your hygiene is perfect. It’s the people who don’t care that have problems. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I see.” (Insert some histrionic gagging here. Dentists. Gynecologists. Mouths. Lady Business. The people that choose to deal with that stuff as their bread and butter are more than a few slices shy of a loaf.)

I’d like to think that it works the same way with yoga teaching. It’s the ones that go into it too quickly and with overconfidence that aren’t doing a good job and the ones that agonize and apologize and are sure they’re a disaster that don’t realize that they actually don’t have anything to worry about. Let it be that. Let it be that so that I can let my head move on from certainty that I suck and fear that I’m destroying the practices entrusted to me to working on my goal of swearing less while teaching yoga. Not kicking the cussing altogether, you understand, just ratcheting back that shit.

THE UNINTENTIONAL SHAPESHIFTER

Some days you just wanna sit cross-legged in your office chair knocking back beet juice and puttering around the internet instead of, you know, doing things. By 10:30 this morning I was already done with walking Gus and taking yoga, so I felt justified in lazing about until I was going to go teach at 4:30. In that way—and seriously so many others—Benjamin and I are soulmates. Around the time I got home from taking class he asked me if he could please not go to the pool with his sister and stay home instead. Hell yes, homie. And let’s turn on some Star Wars to keep us company.

But the wheels came off. Come 2PM I was sitting on the steps in the garage clutching a Diet Dr. Pepper and hiding from summer break. Bickering over the TV, a blasting slasher flick, flip flops and damp towels from the pool in the entry way, and pancake batter dishes just chucked in my spotless sink were more than I was interested in dealing with. So I hid until Jim pulled in and saved me.

This morning I told Cameron that I’m enjoying watching my yoga practice change. And that’s really what’s happening. I’m watching it. I’m not propelling the shifts. I’m just kind of riding along, letting the body and psyche have what they want.

For the last three or four years my practice has been about volume— as many classes as I could get done. Like taking 12 yoga classes/week was pretty standard. But I’m feeling this swing toward returning to actually enjoying myself in class and learning rather than focusing on busting out as much practice as I can. My yoga practice is making itself into something more about quality instead of quantity. Which is weird because my leanings in regard to everything else tend toward more! more! more! I was built without a stop button.

The quality I’m seeking is taking classes that are a pleasure and looking to find the flawless geometry of the postures in my body—avoiding sloppy just-gotta-get there yoga and refining my foundation instead.

I find myself reaching for big deal poses less and less. There was a time not all that long ago when I was gaga for the mad impressive, tough asanas. All the fancy, twisty, balance-y, death-defying tricks that make up the bulk of still yoga photos on Instagram. And I can do enough of that. Arm balances come to me pretty naturally. I’m a bendy little thing. But I am not feeling compelled to get more of that into my game. I want to clean up what I’ve already got.

After asking some students why they come to the mat I asked myself too. The answer is simply that it’s on my mat that I most frequently meet my very best self. That’s what I’m looking for in my practice lately—my best me. Not stuff that merits photos. If in my practice I happen on the aesthetically pleasing and impressive, yay, but that’s not my end game. Guys, I don’t have a goal. In yoga that’s such a good thing.

Yet my students are interested in inversions and other flashy shapeshifting, so as a teacher I feel like I need to maintain solid footing—or handing, if you will (yuk yuk yuk)—in the snazzy poses so I can offer them more than just what I want to do. If I taught what I want to practice we would do 45 minutes of sun salutations and then 30 minutes of sleepy hip openers on the floor, and we would never ever ever do Revolved Triangle and Warrior I. Ever.

It’s also interesting to see that I don't require as much Bikram yoga in my practice as I have in the past. For years now it’s been my habit to get in five to seven Bikram classes/week, but lately I’m kinda okay with three to four and about that many vinyasa classes. I’m not interested in getting rid of the Bikram in my practice altogether—the part of me that frequently requires a good old fashioned ass-kicking will never die, and I need to sweat out my demons. But it feels nice not being nuts about it. I might be edging in on “normal.” 

Also the dependability of Bikram yoga is a gift, especially when traveling, which we do kind of a lot. Vinyasa classes can be a crapshoot, and when I'm limited on time I like that with Bikram I know what I'm in for. 

This weekend I’m going to the yoga for trauma people training thing or something like that at Midtown Community, and when telling Jim what I'd registered for I said, “Maybe it will make me a better teacher.” His reply— “Maybe it will make you a better person.”

Also, I'm sure I can safely assume that you too have had to ask your non-smoking significant other what he wants you to do with the 40 lighters you found while cleaning out his closet. Do you store them in the safe with the 10 guns and cash and then relabel the thing Outlaw Kit or do you cram them all in the “lighter drawer” downstairs for when you need to spontaneously set off fireworks? It's lofty stuff, the decisions we have to make 'round here.

EAGLE ONLY MEANS GARUDASANA SOMETIMES

We haven't met before and we're having that getting-to-know-you interaction. When you ask me what I do I sort of stall and then say, “I teach yoga.” When you ask me where I say, “I teach at Juice Box and at Pure. I sub sometimes at Midtown—” then I mumble, “and I teach at aplaceoutinSparks.” I could just omit the last bashful part and pretend that I don’t teach yoga at a gym, but then I’d be failing to mention a place I love to teach. I so did not see that coming.

My name is Megan Romo-Elliker. I am a yoga teacher. A couple times weekly I teach yoga at a gym. 

There. It’s out.

I’d say that—sheesh!—I don’t know why there is this stigma about teaching yoga at a gym, except I do know. It’s gym yoga. It's not Yoga Journal yoga with expensive leggings, Krishna Das' latest album, a big Om symbol painted on the wall, and freshly swept environmentally friendly flooring. It’s yoga where there can be the clang of weights in the background, where students may not know to take off their socks for class, where sometimes—I am not kidding—the new front desk staff will come through the room during class to go out back to empty the trash, where students might show up without their own mat, where people are like, “Eh, what the hell? I’m already here, why not try yoga? It's stretching. How hard could it be?” The stigma surrounding gym yoga exists because since it’s not a yoga studio, that temple of middle class white lady pretension, it's not real yoga. So those of us who deign to teach there get bashful about it. Even though we may love it.

Yoga studio students can get so spoiled and entitled. They pay beaucoup bucks for their yoga and for those dollars they expect that their copious feedback on everything from the water pressure in the showers to the duration teachers have them hold postures will affect instant change. I’m about as fed up with it as I’ve ever been. It makes me appreciate that much more the humility of my Eagle Fitness yoga students.

I admit, the yoga environment at Eagle isn’t ideal. The props are rustled up from whatever students and teachers have brought in, the sound system is unreliable, the room is cold, there’s no good way to control the temperature; that place doesn’t have all the comforts of a for-real yoga studio. But it doesn’t matter. (And I perpetually argue that a shitty, uncontrolled environment provides for real yoga, this stuff that's useful off the mat, the yoga where you have to cope in difficulty and make real use of your breath.) Here's the thing, Eagle students don't need the pampering of a hipster ashram with a juice bar to get in their yoga.

These people arrive on their mats with the best attitudes. If it's cold they wear a sweatshirt. If a lightbulb is burned out, they make good-natured jokes about haunted yoga. If there's no music, they listen to their breath. Because Eagle doesn’t use fancy scheduling software like MindBody Online, students never know for certain who will be teaching their class. And they roll with it. They are grateful for any yoga at all. They are happy for the variation a substitute provides. They are eager to learn and they listen well. They respond to corrections. They enjoy each others' company. They try new things. They employ props. They fall out of arm balances. They respect their teachers. They are yogis.

The mythology about gym yoga students not knowing how to behave in class, e.g. talking while the teacher does, laughing at sanskrit, and fidgeting in savasana, it’s apocryphal at Eagle Fitness. I can’t be certain why we are exempt, but I credit Ella.

Ella is my friend who has been teaching at Eagle for, like, five years or something now and practicing for much longer. I tell everyone who will listen that she is one of the best teachers in town. I know; I've taken from just about everyone. The sincerity and study with which she approaches teaching gives the other Eagle teachers a standard to strive for and has inspired in her students a reverence and respect that results in a dedication to their practice that rivals that of any studio student. She gives them real yoga and they give back earnest devotion to their practice and to her. It bleeds into the other yoga classes offered at Eagle, and as one of their teachers, I am a fortunate beneficiary.

I'm feeling all cuddly about Eagle right now because I just came back from subbing a class there, one that I’ve never even attended before. The teacher needed a sub, I was available, I took the slot, and I then texted her asking what the class was like. They flow some. They work on strength. They are happy for whatever she comes up with. I showed up, introduced myself, heard a couple students say, “Oh, you’re the other Megan!” and then we went to the breath. My class was certainly different compared to what they’re accustomed to, but as expected, their attitudes were great.

At 4:30 I get to go back there and teach my regular Tuesday class, and once I plan the sequence I’m going to teach those fine yogis, I’ll be looking forward to it. Those fools got game. I'm thinking we'll play with Bhujapidasana.

SORTA SUMMED: THIS DAY

Both occupants lying in bed fiddling around on their phones—

Bed Side A: Throw pillows can be so expensive! Guess what a throw pillow costs.

Bed Side B: Uh, $25.

Bed Side A: Did you say $45? 

Bed Side B: No, $25. 

Bed Side A: Well if you’d said $45 you’d be closer. It’s ridiculous. I mean, the pillow I’m looking at right now is $71! For an 18x18 pillow! 

Bed Side B: I sure hope you’re shopping for pillows for this bed. We don’t have enough.

(The bed has six throw pillows, Dear Reader. Bed Side B is employing a vital element of compelling communication: sarcasm.)

Bed Side A: I guess if that is the throw pillow of your dreams $71 wouldn’t seem like a crazy price.

Bed Side B: I’d say if someone’s dreaming about throw pillows they’ve got problems. 

Bed Side A: [Silence.] 

I have absolutely dreamed up my ideal throw pillow and then gone hunting for it. 

House decorating stuff is a predominant hobby these days, and since Jim’s hobby is spoiling me, I’ve got carte blanche in making the house look however I want. Gotta say though that I value Jim’s opinion. We both lean toward a similar aesthetic, and he never had an opportunity before to learn that he’s got nice taste. (Especially in second wives.)

My latest Jim-supported acquisition is a hot pink velvet armchair for the guest room. Sometimes I go and open the door just to look at it. Then I sigh.

On a dog note, Sophie and I are the same person. We both have bad knees. We’re pint-sized. We don’t appreciate being woken up. We struggle some with our figures. We love to eat.

Today when I got home at 4:45PM from class I gave the canine children their second feeding. Sophie starts whining around 4:30AM for breakfast and 4:30PM for dinner. She was therefore starving to total and complete death. I was abusing her. Little bit of food for Gus. Little bit for doll. And whoops! I accidentally spilled some of Gus’ portion into their water bowl. Rather than cleaning it out I left it to see what would happen and went to go make my own dinner—a truly majestic melange of green lentils, pomegranate seeds, feta (always feta), Persian cukes, edamame, purple cabbage, and a splash of pomegranate vinegar.

They ate and then Gus joined me in the kitchen. Sophie did what she always does and stayed in the laundry room to lick Gus’s bowl for crumb ghosts. And then never came to the kitchen to beg for cucumbers as she always does. The laundry room—where their bowls are—looked as I’d expected: floor covered with water, Sophie’s face drenched, every last food morsel in the water bowl gone. Baby’d been bobbing for kibble. 

If a garbage can is too heavy for her, she gets Gus to knock it over. The bottom two shelves in the pantry are all kitchen paraphernalia and no food at all. It wasn't always that way. Coming home to raw potatoes with one or two bites taken out strewn across the living room and bags of almonds emptied and ripped to shreds, we learned the hard way and rather slowly actually. Those two have gotten into chocolate cake, loaves of bread, boxes of cereal, anything really. And I know it’s all her. Gus wasn’t like this before we moved in. He was a good boy. She’s the instigator and she corrupted him to use as her pawn. 

My ultrasonic jewelry cleaner scares the hell out of that little dog. If we turn it on downstairs, she’ll be under the bed upstairs for the next five hours. If we turn it on upstairs, she hide under the deck out back. So I’m considering just keeping it running all the time in the pantry and see if that takes care of her human-food binging. It’d be nice if that worked on me as well. 

Gus on the other hand has a whole-hearted passion for poo. And he doesn’t discriminate. Small. Large. Wet. Old. Coyote. He loves all of it equally and on our walks he must stop to smell every. single. piece of shit. And all the things that might be shit. Thus by then end of our simple mile-and-a-half morning march I hate his guts. (No advice on how to fix it please. This is one of those times where a girl is just bitching and not interested in a solution. Thanks anyhow.)

And now a brief bit on Bro-Ga. I just got home from teaching it at Midtown Community Yoga. Yoga for bros, for dames—for anyone who wants to do yoga a lot or a little. What's raddest about it is that there's a different teacher every week. So the people that come weekly get a sampling of all sorts. To me that's the genius part. Also, they have beer after. Whatever works, yo. I don't care what gets you in the room—just get there.

AT LENGTH: MAKING THE GARAGE SMELL OF THE DEAD

I haven’t practiced Bikram for the last two days. Don’t fall out of your chair—I did a double on Tuesday and I’m doing a double today. The world hasn’t split at the seams. I’m still certifiably bananas.

Since I haven’t done hot for a couple days, I’m sore. (I did do a few vinyasa classes.) Heat is magnificent stuff. It makes me more pliable, and it doesn’t leave me sore. When I practiced just power yoga for the first five years of my yoga life I was sore every single day. And happy about it. When I teach a particularly stretchy class I’ll tell the room, Hey when you get up tomorrow morning and your body hurts, don’t blame me. You did this. It’s your achievement. Be proud of it. And for those first five yoga years I was just that: proud of my soreness because I earned it. I must say though that I don’t miss daily muscular backlash. A Bikram practice has its own ball of inconveniences but daily soreness isn’t one.

Laundry is though. With Bikram yoga in my day-to-day, laundry is a significant part of my practice. Team, I am disgusting. Like, really gross. Many of my hot yoga friends wash their sweaty gear as soon as they get home. Me? I drape the sopping towel and mat and top and shorts over a drying rack in the garage. I let it all pile up for a week or so, then I drag it all off of the rack and wash it. Laundry every day? Yoga is supposed to make my life better not way worse. No matter how small the load, laundry every day is way worse.

But! However! I was totally jazzed to do laundry on Wednesday because I was running out of yoga clothes. Which is not actually the truth, for my yoga wardrobe is like a girl's big butt—it would be impolite to discuss its size in public—but my favorite yoga leggings were dirty so I was basically deprived and had absolutely nothing to wear. See, the washing machine broke. It gave up its greasy ghost. So in an act of sheer grownupness I ordered us new ones. I did comparisons on Consumer Reports, read reviews online, double and triple checked the measurements Jim gave me, prioritized features, and selected a darling set of Whirlpool helpers. Even Jim said yesterday that they’re cute.

The set arrived on Wednesday which means that there were a good two weeks worth of leggings, tanks, sports bras, sweat towels, shower towels, shorts and Bikram tops queued for their close up. Guys when I practice, I practice. There’s no lazing about on my mat. I leave it all on the field. I don't sweat as much as I want to, but I do sweat plenty. Therefore when you've got that much yoga gear waiting to be laundered, you have a seriously malodorous mountain of performance-grade fabric positively ruining the garage. See? Disgusting.

Now everything is clean and smelling friendly and ready to get drenched with drop after drop of straight up effort.

Have I bored you with all this yoga blather? I’ve bored myself. It happens. A few weeks ago I was with Cameron in the yoga room before teaching my class, pretending to help him clean the room after he just taught, and I sprawled across the podium and said, “I hate yoga. It’s the worst.” I think he understood. There has been a class or two where we’ve done our namaste at the end and bowed and under my breath I've said, “I effing hate this shit.” Yoga. Of all things. Not every hit can be a homer, Dear Reader. But that’s only 5% of my yoga life.

The rest of the time I do love it. I often close class by telling students that if they have questions afterward not to hesitate asking, ‘cause yoga is my favortie thing to talk about. (That’s almost true. Jim is actually my favorite thing to talk about, but the world at large is fed up with hearing about how adorable he is and how much he spoils me and how much fun we have together. Ah, the life of a trophy wife . . . ) But sometimes. Sometimes I’m just so sick of yoga.

When I start talking with Jim about my day I feel bad that three-quarters of what I have to offer him has to do with yoga—where I took class, who taught, where I taught class, and how I managed to sorta blow it yet again. As an example, in a class yesterday I called a student a jackass. Yup. It was appropriate given the environment, and I’d do it again exactly the same way, but I would say that as a yoga teacher it's generally frowned up on to call your students names.

It can be dangerous to make your hobby your job. Adding money into the equation will alway suck out some of the fun. It was certainly that way with my art, and check out just how much of it I do now. Near to none. In my situation I had to choose: art or money? Consciously or not, I chose money. I did big print sales; I did logo after logo, but the pressure of working with clients and feeling like I ought to be turning a profit nullified the enjoyment in the activitiy. 

But here I don’t think that I did a dumb thing in making my hobby my hobby “job,” because I really do love it and there is so much to still learn. I’ve always been geared to teach so it’s a reasonable step in the evolution of my personal practice. And more than that, it’s not about the money. If you are in yoga for the money, well, you’re not good at making life choices. Because of Jim I don’t have to think about that element; it’s a thing for which I’m neverendingly grateful.

Did you see that? You see what I did there? I slid in a little Jim-is-perfect factoid and you hardly knew what was happening to you. A splash of ninja boastage. I'd say stay tuned for more if you aren't gagging yet. 'Cause that man's adorable quotient is always on the rise.

TRAVELING YOGI CAMPER

Danielle, this one’s for you. We've never met, but Whit said that according to your reading of my blog the Ellikers are still in Hawaii. Good point. That would be one long-ass vacation. Though Josie was pissed we had to come home at all, I was thrilled to be back in Sparks. I like my real life. I prefer it to vacation. Probably because my real life includes vacation.

While we didn’t end up getting to skydive in Hawaii like we wanted—apparently skydiving companies have ditched the Big Island (something to do with cost)—we did go on a helicopter tour and saw lava. We did go to a black sand beach. We did go swim with dolphins. Well, Jim and the kids did; my leave-the-animals alone self sat in the boat and got knee-weakeningly seasick. We did climb rad trees. We did hike around and see waterfalls. We did strip off our clothes and jump off rocks into a pool of water that very well could have but kindly didn’t gift us leptospirosis. Don’t worry, we didn’t strip off all our clothes; we were in our underwear. Which, yes, yes, itself actually is cause for concern.

Dunno where Ben and Jim were at the time, but Dustin, Josie and I were scrambling around some rocks at Rainbow Falls and saw teenagers jumping off lil’ 20-foot cliffs. Dustin was like, Oh, I’m doing this, which was convenient for him seeing as he was the one of us three wearing a swimsuit. He jumped. He climbed back up. He said it was fun. Josie and I were jealous. Josie and I were not at all sure what to do. Do we jump in our clothes? Do we go in our underwear? Oh dammit, I guess we do. Before stripping down to my stepkid-scaring lacy underthings I looked at them both and said, “As your technical stepmother, I apologize.” 

That same afternoon Josie and I brilliantly decided to trek down what has to be the, like, at least fourth steepest road in America, and when it occurred to us collectively that the further we walked down the further we’d have to walk back up we turned around took the hardest walk of our lives back to the Waikoloa overlook parking lot. We side-stepped with jazz hands. We walked up backwards. We bear-crawled on our hands and feet. At one point Josie started hallucinating fauna. Guys, we almost died basically. 

Since we survived I can say it was a good trip. It wasn’t where this spoiled white lady would have chosen to go, but Jim brought me a fresh-squeezed beet juice every morning from the nearby shop and I got to go to Bikram four times. Homegirl got what she “needed.” She can label the vacation Good.

Shit’s happening, Dear Reader. At this moment I’m writing from the Palms Place in Vegas. Jim had to come see his people down here and I came along so we could make a weekend of it. Sweet Cameron covered my Saturday class. Dunno what we’d do without that lil' nugget of a yogi; he’s also caring for the doggies seeing as—wait for it—Dustin moved out yesterday. Tomorrow, the boy is starting the next leg of his flight schooling in Utah. Yes, spreading wings. Only literally. Therefore better than everyone else.

So yoga. Last week I taught seven classes. Between Bikram and Power I probably took nine, but I don't so much tally that anymore. Teaching seven is the most I’ve done in a week so far. I know I’m a decent teacher. But I’m a new teacher. It’s gonna take forever to just graze good. A bit ago I passed the little 100-class milestone and it still feels like every class is my first.

One night last week when I got home from Bikram—as sexily sweaty as ever—Jim and Ben were watching Star Wars Episode II. I sat and we watched for a while, me answering Ben’s questions here and there because I was raised by a legit Star Wars nerd, and then Dustin got home and went we full out, talking technology, story line, comparing to LOTR. At one point I looked at Jim and said, “Your family is a bunch of geeks.” His lack of pride was confusing. 

Hey, so Jim took me by a camping ground last Saturday. (Had to retrieve a trailer. Don’t confuse yourself thinking I was actually camping.) It was nothing like what I expected. The campground was basically a big parking lot winding through the forest where people sit around all day and tell their kids to go play with sticks. Our neighbors at home aren’t as close as these camp sites were. I thought you went camping to, like, get away from it all or something? Apparently it’s actually just congregating closer with people you don’t know and coming to terms with being filthy. ’Til now my reason for not camping was that it was outdoors. But my relationship with outside has been improving of late. Now my primary reason for not camping is that it looks stupefyingly boring and if I want to get uncomfortably close with other stinky humans I can just go to Bikram. Which I do every day. So it’s as if I camp every day. I’m a camper. 

TEACH TIMES TWO

I used to sleep late on the weekends. Until, like, ten or something. But I was up this Saturday morning by 6:20. I woke up when Jim and the kids were getting ready to head out to Carson City for Josie’s all-day volleyball tournament. The tournaments are most Saturdays, and Ben, not exactly thrilled about it, goes along for the day. It’s one of those things that a youngest child has to deal with that an oldest really doesn’t; you're constantly going along with whatever’s happening and when you have a lot of siblings who are involved in a lot of activities you sorta grow up in the car. This one’s at dance practice. That one soccer. Play practice. Art lessons. That’s how it was for my youngest sister, Lo, and it made her an easy-going, spontaneous lil’ soul. When she was bitsy, she spent more time in her carseat than anywhere else, and since my mom digs tunes and it was the early 90s, she learned the words to Hootie and the Blowfish’s “Only Wanna Be with You” before she learned stuff like “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” Which was fine by us. It way cuter to hear a 3-year-old singing “I only wanna be wif you-ooooo-ooooo" than the pedestrian ABCs.

I'm not at all miffed though about being up so early on this particular Saturday. Today’s the first time I’ve taught two different yoga classes in one day. I’ve taught two classes, yes, but not two different ones back-to-back. I’m subbing a beginning yoga class at 9:30 at one place and then driving out to Juice Box to teach Yoga Motion at noon. The classes will share certain sequences, but most of them will be different. The beginning class is actually a beginning class and in the Yoga Motion class I get to push them more than you would standard beginners.

That’s the truly beautiful thing about teaching a new vinyasa class at a Bikram studio. The students that come are already accustomed to working hard. When I get the room’s temp down to 90 degrees they say it’s chilly. They have cultivated good body awareness. They know how to engage muscles in a static posture. So while it is certainly a Level 1 class for the amount of over-explaining I do for stuff like the new-to-them and very vital chaturanga, we don’t have to move too slow. On this day though, I'm hoping that I at least pull from my muddled mind the right bits and pieces in my brain for what I've planned to teach. The muddle inside sounds like Wait, which class was it that we are holding goddess? Is that both? Both have prasarita? No. Just the first one? Definitely not working on an arm balance in the beginner class. Can’t forget to instruct on using blocks though in the noon class. Loop the straps in one or two. Two? Are we starting standing at noon? Wait. On our backs? . . . 

When you start a new venture there are things that experienced people don’t necessarily spell out. Like how much—just how much—out-of-class time it takes to be a good yoga teacher. It’s not you show up, you say words, you leave. You plan your sequences. You make them logical. You make sure the music isn’t obtrusive. You work on modifications. You try to anticipate confusing parts. You learn more anatomy. You practice adjustments. And all the while you remind yourself that not everyone can make their bodies do what yours can and you try not to take for granted that every one knows the little yoga phrases teachers automatically use. “Roll over your toes,” for example. We all say it. Someone brand new to a vinyasa is like, Huh? Or “direct your tailbone downward” even “tilt your pelvis.” You want me to do what with my pelvis? Students do pick up the jargon quickly—Josie walks around the house saying “open your heart to the sky” and arching her back—but initially you really do need to clarify. It’s work upon work upon work. But like Cameron reminded me last night: I truly do love it. And my students can tell. They tell me so.

Although I've been perpetually engaged in building the classes and refining sequences, I’m not sure I can trust what I’m coming up with these days. I’m tired. Like, sleepy tired. The drug job is kicking my ass more than at any time before in this decade that I’ve been slinging pills. (Burning the candle at both ends is sort of my specialty. Which means that at some point burn out will be too!) To illustrate: my current definition of a successful yoga class is one where I don’t fall asleep in savasana*. Which is none over the last week and a half. You guys. I never do that. I’ve taken thousands of yoga classes, and until last week I could count on one hand how many times I actually passed out in savasana.

And all this busyness has been prohibitive in my getting excited for our trip to Italy next week. I just haven’t had the RAM to be able to give any of my thinking to happy anticipation. Good thing is we’ve got, like, 17 hours on a plane. I’ll use then for getting excited. Surely that will make the getting-there part more bearable. Surely it will.

*Savasana is corpse pose. You lie flat on your back with your eyes closed. It’s the last posture of yoga classes and is also interspersed throughout the Bikram floor series.

NOON ON SATURDAYS AT JUICE BOX

This was a light yoga week:

• Monday: take Bikram
• Tuesday: take Bikram; teach Warm & Mellow
• Wednesday: take Bikram; teach Warm & Mellow
• Thursday: practice the yoga of going to the Cheesecake Factory with Jim and Katelynn rather than taking class 
• Friday: take Bikram
• Saturday: take Beginning Vinyasa; take Bikram (Note: never stop taking beginner classes no matter how long you've practiced. Revisiting foundational stuff is imperative.)
• Sunday: take Bikram

See? Light.

Let’s ramp it the hell up, Dear Reader.

Let’s add teaching a regular vinyasa-style class at noon on Saturdays. Let’s do it at Juice Box Yoga, the place I call my yoga home. While ever a Bikram Method Studio, Juice Box is expanding its offerings and adding a class called Yoga Motion at noon on Saturdays. I’m teaching it. It will be a blast. Totally, like, come. It’s not advanced. It’s foundational with advancement options for people already familiar with the practice. It’s different from Bikram, but it’s vinyasa designed for yogis that practice primarily—or even only until this point—Bikram yoga. It’s complimentary to a Bikram practice rather than conflicting. 

I’ll embarrass myself now and show you this photo of me in Fallen Angel (Devaduuta Panna Asana) if you promise to overlook the show of despair on my mug. Actually, my face states clearly: Take the damn picture already!

On here—and everywhere else aside from at my drug job—I talk about yoga constantly. But do you know my yoga history? I shall inform you. Below: my Juice Box bio. My tiny yoga tale—

I took my first power yoga class in July of 2004, and in no time my yoga practice became a significant part of my identity. I’m a yoga junkie. I subscribe to the yoga pubs, write yoga articles, go to yoga workshops, and it takes a significant schedule conflict for me to turn down a new yoga experience, whether that be a festival, a different type of class, or a new studio. But it was four years into my power practice before I tried Bikram yoga.

In January of 2009, my yoga practice had plateaued and I was desperate for a dose of whatever would return me to growth on my mat. So I gave hot a shot. It wasn’t long before I was a goner. I developed an affinity for sweat, my yoga clothes got tinier, and the Reno Bikram yoga community became My People.

While I’ve come to call myself a Bikram yogini, I didn't lose touch with my yoga roots in vinyasa yoga. I enjoy practicing both styles because the differences in method require a greater awareness in each class. I love the disciplined, type-A style of Bikram, and I love the variability and playfulness of vinyasa yoga. Doing one enriches the other and both together help me be me a well-rounded yogi. Thus, in 2014 when I again found myself in a place where I needed to spur progress in my practice, I enrolled in a training program to teach vinyasa-style yoga. I did my training through the Satya Flow: asana + Authenticity training program in Reno, Nevada, and have my Yoga Alliance-RYT 200 certification (200-Hour Registered Yoga Teacher).

My mat is where I feel at home. It’s where I accept vulnerability and where I feel the most successful and protected. It’s where I have learned to respect and appreciate my body. As a yoga teacher I want to help cultivate that in my students.

I am honored to have the privilege of teaching Yoga Motion and Warm & Mellow at Juice Box. Yoga is my favorite thing to talk about and I’m excited to take what I’ve learned over my time on the mat and offer this wonderful, juicy community another way to broaden our perspective on yoga and enhance our practices. 

I mean it. I'm excited. I love yoga. I love what it's given me. I love that I have the chance to share that. So come to my new class. We will have fun, I promise. That's a priority.

Other non-yoga-related updates:

• The drug job is a little bit kicking my ass right now. Super busy. Stressing me out.

• Jim pulled a classic and surprised me with a dozen red roses for V-day. Since I'm a space case these days I forget I have them and relive the surprise every time I walk into our bathroom. Red! Gorgeous! Awww. And while they're lovely, my favorite part of of the gift is that he wrote the note on a 3x5 index card. I wouldn't change a shred of this man for anything.

• My hair color is the very definition of bitchin'. (Hannah, you doll of a stylist, thank you for being way above average.) My length, however, leaves length to be desired. Shoulder length is just awkward. Grow, little abused hairs, grow!

• The other morning from the stove where I was cooking something in an iron skillet (maybe an egg? dunno), I said to doing-dishes-Jim, "Did you know that cooking in an iron skillet imparts a certain amount of iron into your food?" He replied, "Did you know that sounds stupid?" Me: "Did you know that I know more food science than you?" And from his place on the couch in the family room where he was engrossed in Minecrafting, Ben piped in, "Did you know that 15 minutes could save you 15% or more on car insurance?"

And now: off to further destroy my body by eating more cheddar cheese and cheap Hersey's chocolate. Tanya says that Chocolate Season is over on the 17th, so I'd best eat up. Good news (Cameron and Maroon): Cheese season never ends. 

BUTTERED UP

Dustin is a pilot. A freaking pilot. He has a license to fly planes. In the for-real sky.

Last week while he was taking his practical exam I was in Vegas on my way to the airport. In the cab and in line at Southwest I checked my phone every three seconds to see if Jim had yet texted me the results. I was fretful that I’d get on the plane without knowing! Phew!—I got the “He passed.” text before we were airborne.

When I got back to Reno I went straight from the airport to yoga and then as soon as I got into my car to drive home Jim and Josie called me. Jim said, “Can you come to the mall?” then there was a rustle and Josie was on the phone, “Please come and help me choose glasses. These guys are worthless. They say every pair is cute. They’re wrong.” I made for the mall, we got some glasses selected, and, you guys, Josie-girl rocks those specs like she was born in ‘em. (Bonus: now she can clearly see the board in math class.)

While Jim and Katelynn waited to pick up the stylish spectacles, I drove Ben and Jo home. When I pulled into the garage and saw Dustin’s motorcycle I said, “Our pilot is home!” Josie said, “We have a pilot!” When I saw Dustin I told him, “The best part is that you were this person when you passed you’re exam,” I pointed at his mismatched purple and orange-striped Toy Machine socks, “You were wearing those.”

That boy was completely himself when he took the test. He was wearing a beanie to tame his impressive spray of bleached-over-the-summer-and-growing-out hair. He has ridiculous tattoos. He wore skate shoes. And he’s the reason my black nail polish is missing. The kid is 20 and is consistently the same person no matter where he is. He got his dad’s stellar work ethic, and he studied like hell to reach this milestone.

I too reached a milestone of sorts last week. Dear Reader, I graduated from yoga school. I know that should have a whole lot of wahoo to it, but when you’re already teaching, the huzzah is a little less enthusiastic. At that point, the diploma is more like a box checked than a ticket through the door. Don’t misread me, I am really proud of the accomplishment—it was hard and worth the effort—but the culmination is somewhat tarnished when you don’t need the certificate to get the job. I done already gotted it and now I’m just doin’ my damnedest to deserve it.

Also there’s the part about the 200-hour RYT training being just the beginning of so much more necessary education. I need a long ass workshop on anatomy. I need one on adjustments. I gotta learn more about prenatal modifications. As ever, the more I learn the less I know.

I’m loving it, by the way. I am loving teaching. I have students that I already adore and miss when they aren’t there. I’m giving it my all. I read an article a few months ago about what yoga students want from their teachers and one of the top items was “Learn my name and use it.” As a student myself I agree. There’s something about your teacher making clear that they know you’re in the room.

On Monday I took Bikram before teaching my Warm & Mellow class. Between classes Jim and I texted. He said he was tied up with the new alarm system at work and he wouldn’t be able to make it to my class. Because every husband spends all his time dying to know what his wife is eating, I texted back, “Dammit. I thought I brought chocolate almond butter. Instead: pepper chickpeas. A terrible snack trade off.”

When I finished teaching class and came out to the lobby I discovered my husband sitting on the bench by the window. Despite the late hour, he came to the studio instead of going straight home after work! He took a bag of bagels, a jar of almond butter, and a jar of chocolate spread out of a grocery sack. “It’s not chocolate almond butter,” he said, “but it’s the best I could do.” He had two plastic butter knives in his shirt pocket, and he asked if he could make me a bagel.

When he read my food text he went to the grocery store. And then, from the butter aisle, he called my sister, Whitney. “What the hell is almond butter?” He said, “I can’t find it.” She explained that it’s like peanut butter and would be on the same aisle. My Jim went looking for almond butter with the dairy butter. Whenever I think he must have reached the cuteness threshold he does something like this.

That man is the strudel on my cake. He’s the cherry on my sundae, the Saturday in my week, the breeze in my evening. He's the wag in my tail. All the good things, James makes them even better. (Don’t worry, I’m making me gag too.)

YES, YOU SHOULD CONGRATULATE ME

Breakfast is the first thing I do in the morning. I get out of bed, I find my glasses, I pull on leggings and a sweatshirt, and immediately I go downstairs to eat. I wake for food. But when I went downstairs this morning and turned on the kitchen light I heard a moan and discovered a boy on the floor and a boy on the couch. Dustin and his homies watched LOTR until late last night and so we had some—rather uncomfortable, I’d say—overnight guests. I turned off the lights, whispered an apology, grabbed my diet soda, and retreated back upstairs. If they don’t have to get up yet, why wake them? So instead of toasting an English muffin downstairs, I’m in my office, little heater humming at my feet, blogging about this week.

This week just feels so full. It is full, actually. It’s my out of town week for work, so today I’m driving to Fallon, Yerington, and Hawthorne. I’ve got a meeting in Vegas next week that I’ve got to prep for. My final written exam for yoga school is due this weekend. On Sunday we teach a full vinyasa class for our “final” exam on teaching skills. (And then graduate!) On top of that I’m driving to SF tomorrow night, ‘cause on Friday I’m attending Yoga Journal Live! 

The YJ event lasts all weekend, but because of yoga school/yoga school graduation I could only attend on Friday. It will, nevertheless, rock. I’m signed up to take an all-day intensive with Kathryn Budig. File me under Thrilled. If you’re a vinyasa-ing yogi and know anything about anything you know who she is: a badass yogini goddess without the standard suffocating ego.

I was supposed to be in Chicago for work this week, but when I found out about the meeting I emailed my boss and told her that I already had a nonrefundable reservation for a yoga conference. She and said that instead I could attend the meeting in Vegas the following week and, Wait a minute, a yoga conference? That's a thing? Do you, like, wear yoga clothes and do poses? (I forget sometimes that not everyone does what I do.) Why yes of course. It’s a blast. The last time I went to a Yoga Journal event was eight years ago. I’m overdue for more.

I never expected yoga to be such an enormous part of my life. (But I don’t do things in a small way, so I should have seen this coming.) It sort of just happened. And it wouldn’t have worked without an incredibly supportive husband. Jim has always loved that I do yoga and now he loves that I teach. He wasn’t able to make it to my class on Monday and, quite honestly, ended up fretting some about what he missed. In the lobby before class he likes to tell new students, “This teacher is my favorite in the whole world.” They nod and smile. He continues, “That’s why I married her.” Uh-dorable. Duh.

He gets more ‘dorable every day. Last night Cameron was over so we could do yoga shit and Jim just kept feeding him. Here, try this cheese. Have a bowl of edamame. Drink this smoothie. “I keep telling you he’s perfect,” I said.

Jim and I have lots of I-may-have-marrried-you-fors. “I may have married you for your legs,” I’ll tell him. “I may have married you for your fried rice.” For your perfectly-shaped head. For your awesome mom. For your delight in constantly surprising me. For your love of pie that almost equals my own. One of Jim’s I-may-have-marrried-you-fors for me is that I don’t have kids.

It was a foregone conclusion that Jim would remarry. He wanted to be with someone. And he expected to end up with a perfectly passable lady in his age range who liked Jim because he’s hilarious and generous and most especially because he is financially solvent and could support her and her kids. After all, what other options on the market were there? (Turns out: Me! Surprise!) The family blending with a whole other set of children could be dramatic and painful. Maybe even a nightmare. It is a complication we’re grateful not to have to deal with and a thing he thanks me for often.

As soon as we even started thinking about thinking about dating Jim told me that he wasn’t down for more kids. Four is plenty, you know. “Good news,” I told him, “We couldn’t possibly be more on the same page there. I don’t want to get pregnant. Ever.” After we got married Jim's friends who obviously don’t know me all that well started betting on how long until I got pregnant. (She is 32, you know, and time's a-wastin'.) Nuh-no. Four is plenty. And those four are completely great. I couldn't ask for better.

The other day, however, one of my dear yogi friends asked me after class if she should wish me congratulations. Baffled, I asked why. “Well, I saw you were modifying postures in class, and I know you recently got married . . . ” Oh my stars, she was asking if I’m pregnant.

See, in Bikram yoga we practice the beginner series every day. The same 26 postures again and again. Some of those poses aren’t right for those with child, so there are specific modifications that you switch to just as soon as you know you’re pregnant. Actually, it's usually how we find out that one of our yoginis is expecting. My right knee is so completely effed up right now that I can’t do Rabbit pose without shooting pain that I’ll pay for later. So my teacher showed me how to modify the pose, and that modification happens to be part of the pregnancy series.

“Oh, no, no!” I told my sweet yogi pal, “I’m injured, so I’m modifying so I don't have to sit out the pose!” She was, as you’d expect, mortified. Because I know I don’t look pregnant even a little bit I wasn’t offended at all, and I told her, “Actually your congratulations is appropriate. You’re congratulating me that what I’m dealing with is an injury and not a pregnancy. That’s not in our plans.”

It’s a whole new way to look at my awful knees. Pain over pregnancy, please. 

BLOGASANA

• I have decided that I can’t teach the Juice Box Warm & Mellow yoga class without Jim there. As usual, he’s spoiled me. While I’m out in the lobby talking to students before class he makes sure there are enough props for everyone and works on the room’s temperature. Afterwards he stays to clean up. Last night after I finished talking to students I went into the yoga room to do post-class tidying and it was all done. My sweet-as-pie someone took care of everything. He only gets to come to my classes on the weeks that we don’t have the kids. When we do I’m on my own. Without him I’ll have to, like, work.  

• At Juice Box Yoga—a Bikram method stuido, my friends—the last Friday class of each month is a music class. Bikram yoga is traditionally done without music. The only music you hear during the really unpleasant 90 minutes is the nonstop melodic commands of your yogi bootcamp instructor. This last month’s music class was the purview of Cameron, my yogi co-conspirator, and he made it all 90s music. Team, those are my jams. I sang along to NSYNC and Backstreet Boys and Smash Mouth and Britney Spears and I bounced to the beat in awkward pose and tree and, well, all the postures, and then when I came out of class I told our famously friendly front desk staffer, “I just spent 90 minutes back in high school. I was, like, in the back seats of cars making out with guys and skipping class and everything.” While I’m sure all the students enjoyed the class, I’m as sure as I can be that no one enjoyed it more than me. It was my era. I knew all the words. After class my Jim said, “Thanks for being so hot,”—Well, um, thanks and you’re welcome—“and young!” If knowing all the words to 90s tunes means I’m young, I’ll take it. There are some definite benefits of marrying a man a few years outside my generation.

• It’s so cute how my Maps app thinks that I know what way is south. Start out going south on 4th street. Is this 4th street? Which way is south? Do you mean left? Right? I’m asking for your help, dammit!

• Josie and I are going to be acrobats. Also we want a pigmy penguin. In theory. We don’t want to have to care for it.

• The other night Jim, Dustin, and I were in the kitchen talking and Jim mentioned someone and Dustin said, “Wait, do we hate them?” It’s a team mentality in the Elliker house.

• I've been bending and such on the mat for the last decade but today is my five-year Bikram yoga anniversary. I’m a thing made of choices that led me to what I am. I’ve made those choices consciously. While I may not be happy with how I look or how a particular project is going, and I know I’m a work in progress, I always like the actual person I’ve chosen to be. I’m this me on purpose, and Bikram Yoga has been one of the very most important elements of making this right-now person. Yoga overall has given me much—some patience, confidence, acceptance of vulnerability, and respect for limitations, etc.—but Bikram yoga has given me the most. Perhaps that’s because I’ve given most of my time to my Bikram practice. Bikram yoga gave me a pile of people that I can confidently call my yoga family. It’s given me opportunities for growth. It’s made my body into something I can live with (and something my husband loves). It’s smashed my inhibitions. Because of Bikram yoga I love to sweat and live to try again. 

• Work’s been rocky this week. It’s the start of a new quarter, my partner and I have a new list of doctors to call on, and the office addresses in our database are all effed up. We know where to find most of the docs on our lists and we fix the addresses as we go, but I just got assigned doctors up at the lake and those addresses are a mess. I was talking with my partner yesterday about what a joke this week has been, trying to get our jobs done and failing ‘cause we can’t find everyone we’re supposed to see, and I told her that for some of the doctors I’ve resorted to googling them and hoping the most common address in the search results is the lucky one. “It’s so primitive,” I told her, “but what else have we got?” I like how I’m calling the entire world in the palm of my hand by way of my phone primitive. 

• Last night I came out of the yoga room after teaching the Warm & Mellow class and said to Kaitlin, the front desk maven, “I just made that class my bitch.” And I really did. For my last few classes I’ve been feeling like I just suck at teaching. Like, what the hell am I doing? But last night was awesome. It felt good in the room, like cues were making sense. I made the students laugh while enduring some really uncomfortable postures. At least half the class—we had 22 people I think—were new to this class. A fair few were new to yoga altogether. After class students told me that that hour was exactly what they needed. One sweetie hugged me. And when they left they said, “See you next time.”

• Wait, do you want to come to my class? Do! Come stretch and such in my smells-like-effort home away from home. It’s a bargain ($10 drop-in) and you can check out the Juice Box schedule by clicking here.

I AM NOT GOING TO YOGA TODAY

• I live in a fireworks household. If you root around enough you can always find some something that spews colored flames and sparks. But last night I decided that I hate them. Around 11PM some neighbor set off a green-hued mega bomb whatchamacallit and scared the eff out of our dogs. Soph buried herself under the comforter, smooshed her body against my back and shook for 10 minutes. Gus dove under the bed and whined. I think he slept there all night. Stop scaring my beasties with your pyrotechnic tomfoolery, you hoodlums. 

• On NYE Jim and I went to my friends Dana and Norma—Dorma’s—last class in their 365-day Bikram yoga challenge. I am a sucker for unique yoga goals and experiences. Glow yoga. Music-themed classes. Weirdo poses. Workshops. Challenges. It takes a significant schedule conflict for me to bail on some singular yoga event. There were 48 people in class, and only half of us were around for the post-class photo (and one of us—Jim—had already put on his shoes and didn't want to take them off to go back into the yoga room), but here you go—some of my people. (In the purple shirt standing next to me is Marilynne. We are yoga twins.)

(Nice capture, Kaitlin.)

• Carpet and upholstery cleaning and protecting: costly. I’m a fantastic mark. When the cleaning techs note my wide-eyed fervency for spotlessness they see dollar signs. Upsell! Upsell! And because I don’t know a damn thing I’m like, “Uh, okay, here’s my debit card. Do as you will.” They see on my account that my last bill was huge. They think, “Great, she’s used to giving us all the money.” And then because I can’t do math I overtip them.

• Yesterday when I was in the hot yoga room waiting for my 6:30 class to start I thought, Wait a minute—when this day is done I will have spent about four and a half hours doing some kind of yoga something. That was not my plan. While I felt bamboozled I've never been accused of moderation. I took a power class in the morning. I was then at Juice Box to take a Bikram class. And then after the hot one I would teach the Warm & Mellow class. It's getting absurd. I decided then that I would take off Friday. No yoga class for me today. Cameron and I have to review some stuff for training tomorrow, but I’m not going to class. I’m not. I mean it. 

• It’s the samples Sephora sends that sell me. Oh, I need something I can get at Ulta while I’m out and about. Ah, but they won’t send me samples of shit I don’t need. And I want those samples. I’ll say this though, when there is something I need or want, samples do the trick. There are so many products I like in my in my medicine cabinet that came by way of me trying a sample, digging it, and buying the potion.

• When Jim was cutting holes in the sheetrock above the sinks in our bathroom he discovered that because of some pipes he wasn’t going to be able to install the medicine cabinets as low as we wanted. (His wife is short.) I told him not worry. I am accustomed to having to stand on my toes or scramble onto the counters reach stuff. That is the life of a below-average[-height] human.

• I am never more popular with the dogs than when I have a bag of Skinny Pop popcorn.

• My brain is just yoga mush. Mostly Sanksrit mush. Parivrtta Surya Yantrasana. Ardha Chandrasana Chopasana. Svarga Dvidasana. Baddha Utthita Parsvakonasana. Marichyasana. Apanasana. Ganda Bherundasana. Devaduuta Panna Asana. Deviasana. Mandukasana. Please tell me you stopped reading by this point.

• I showed Josie Eka Pada Galavasana. She’s her sights on it. The girl’ll have her own flying pigeon before you know it. What I love is that she cares about form. When we play with the posture she pays attention to alignment direction. It gets my safety-oriented heart singing.

• For Christmas Jim got me some more of those Kermit’s key lime pies from Florida. Three actually. (Three!? What am I going to do with three pies?) Good thing they freeze for later. And my parents got me a Godiva chocolate of the month club membership. The people who love me well and know me best know what has my heart. Sugar. 

REGULAR RIGMAROLE

• Last night I fell asleep watching Star Trek VI: Undiscovered Country. I was on movie six because I had played two through five throughout the day while I worked on a design project. Via my friend, Caryn, the McQueen Orchestra hired me to do a typography print that they’ll sell to raise money for a trip. The concept for the print is sweet and distinctive. And while I can never say that everyone will love the style of what I’ve designed—aesthetic preference is a personal thing—design-wise, it’s tight and solid.

• Five more classes until I’m done with my current 30-day Bikram challenge. It’s not a secret that Bikram yoga attracts two specific personality types: addictive and Type A. I’m both and after my 4:30 class on Wednesday I’ll have done 295 Bikram classes this year. Not too shabby considering that I also started teacher training and do other yoga besides. (Riddle me this, how do I not have a completely incredible body due to all this vigorous yoga? Oh yeah . . . treats.) I just need one more double to be caught up. Vacation and the holiday meant that this go ‘round I had to do a fair few of doubles to meet the 30 classes in 30 days. As I was packing my yoga bag the other day with the multitude of crap I bring when I’m doubling up, Jim said, “Remember when you used to say you’d never do a double?” Oh my. I did. I said that.

When I know I’m doing a back-to-back I don’t put my mat in an extra hot spot for my first class. There are times that’s exactly what I want for myself, but when I know I’ll be spending 3 hours in the hot room, I try to be reasonable. I have a rule that if I want to do two classes I can’t skip any poses in my first class. If I do, I don’t get to stay for a second class. (I made an exception last week when a nosebleed put me down for the whole standing separate leg series. With my teacher’s go-ahead, I stayed for a second class, and I don’t mind saying that I totally tore that one up.) Immediately after the first class I knock back 24oz of water. My habit is to not bring water into class with me, but I do take water into my second class to keep me upright and sort of sane. Sort of. No one who regularly does doubles is even in the remote vicinity of totally sane. 

• I’m on my own today. Jim took Ben and Jo to the 49ers game in San Francisco. Ben’s talked about wanting to go to a game. Jim said why the hell not, bought tickets, put the kiddos in the car, and they went on an adventure. I was back and forth as to whether or not I’d go as well but decided to stay home so I could start on the fundraiser print. (This girl cannot do reading or computer things in a moving vehicle. She will vomit.) This is the time I set aside to work on it, and if I don’t follow my schedule I’ll be rushing to get the thing done at the last minute and my work will suck.

• The house is really loud right now. I’m happy about it. Both the upstairs and the downstairs Neato vacuums are doing their job which means I don’t have to think about vacuuming ever. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I know where the upright vacuums are.

• I spent last evening with an ice pack on my knee. There’s one on there right now. I made the grave error of, you know, kneeling, and the right knee revolted. Dammit to hell. But this is the life I’ve got. One or more of my knees always hurts. It’s not from injury or overwork. It’s genetic. My grandma’s knees sucked. My mom’s knees suck. My knees suck. They have for my whole life. 

When my yogi pals see me backing out of a pose or avoiding it altogether they ask after class if I’m injured. Because I can’t figure out how to make them understand that I have knees that just can’t take what theirs can, I say yes. They say how. And I try to come up with an explanation for why my knees are messed up. My knee cap slipped one too many times during high school cheerleading. I had a lateral patellar realignment surgery on my left knee that I will regret for the rest of my life. I was a weightlifter. No single explanation works. I just have garbage joints. My ligaments are basically bubblegum which means that for tasks like, say, walking, my joints don’t have support enough for stability. The cartilage wears down. That translates to pain. I’m only 32 years old and there is osteoarthritis in one knee. I’m defective.

MY [RATHER UN-YOGI-LIKE] DOT DIATRIBE

I think most of us call them “the dots.” They’re shaped more like teardrops though. They’re designed to represent sweat drops.

The recycled tire floor in the yoga room at Reno’s Bikram studio—Juice Box Yoga—is stamped with carefully-spaced teardrop shapes. There are four rows of the drops, and I’d say they’re about about six inches wider than mat width apart. They’re easy to overlook if you don’t know they’re there. But unless you’re on your first fifteen or so classes at that studio, you know they’re there. You have been told. If you’re a long-time student at Juice Box you’ve heard the teachers tell the class hundreds of times to please use the drops. 

The drops are there to make space. I live my life generally convinced that I’m taking up too much space in the world and using the dots is one way to make sure that’s not happening. This is my space. That is yours. If every student places the left corner of their mat on a drop, 70+ students can fit in the room. I’ve seen it.

But, alas, people are assholes. Even yogis. They don’t use the damn drops. They know they’re supposed to. They know that using the drops means that everyone can fit and see at least a sliver of themselves in the mirror. But too many of them think only of themselves and just don’t give a shit. 

Obviously I care about this. It makes me effing crazy.

I like rules. I’ve always liked rules. Admittedly I like them because I’m one who can be successful when operating within the rules. But whether or not we like the rules doesn’t matter. In the case of the yoga drops, we need to follow the rules because it’s courteous and no one of us yogis is more important than the other.

A couple days ago I got to class about fifteen minutes early, set up my mat, and then went to go change. When I came back into the room a few minutes before class, all tramped up in my skanky yoga gear, I discovered that a dude had set up in front of me. Fine, of course. If you put yourself in a middle row you should expect that someone is going to set up in front of you. It’s why the dots are staggered as they are; if we use them like we’re supposed to, no one mat will be directly in front of another and no one of us can get miffed that someone set up in front of us. But this dude didn’t just set up in front of me, he also ignored the dots and moved my mat toward the back of the room to make more space for himself.

I could still see myself in the mirror, but the guy behind me couldn’t. (To those unfamiliar with Bikram, know that in this yoga mirrors are a tool we use constantly throughout class. Being able to see yourself in the mirror matters.) The behind-me guy got to class early, set up in the back, used a dot, and was therefore gonna be fine no matter who set up in front of him. Then I came in, used a dot, and therefore didn’t block him. Then in-front-of-me guy came in, ignored the dots, and therefore blocked the guy who who did what he was supposed to.

(This whole dot-ignoring-mat-moving incident left me with an excellent opportunity to practice some of the more difficult principles within yoga, non attachment and clean thoughts most specifically.)

Why the hell can’t we respect other people’s desire to practice yoga like we ourselves like to practice? Why do so many of us think that other students should work around us? Don’t give me bullshit about being too tall or too claustrophobic to use the dots. Even if you’re in a hurry the speed limits apply to you. There isn’t a good reason not to use the dots. Whatever you’ve decided your special circumstances are aren’t actually special enough to exempt you from respecting our collective space.

On that, a great way to respect your fellow students is to quit drinking. Or please drink a hell of a lot less. I can smell it. We sweat a lot in the yoga room and I can smell last night’s or this afternoon’s booze seeping from your pores. It literally literally literally makes me gag. When we sweat together I can smell what you’ve smoked. I can smell the garlic you ate. I can smell what you drank. It’s disgusting. I know my nose is more sensitive than most, and perhaps I’m even more sensitive to that stuff because I don’t smoke, like garlic, or drink, but even then, I’m not the only one who can smell last night’s good time oozing out of your body. (What’s even a little worse is that I know which ones of you drink, like, a lot. Some of you are legitimately in need of intervention.) And when you walk in the room I kick myself for having set up my mat early. Why oh why didn’t I wait out in the lobby until the last minute so I could avoid practicing near you?

At the end of every yoga class the teacher closes things off by saying, “Namaste.” The students repeat it and then you’re done. Within that salutation there’s a message of respect, unity, and equality. And while I am not the best yogi out there or even necessarily one of the good ones, that word and what it signifies means a lot to me. Wanna see me get weepy? Ask me to explain to you what namaste means to me.

Too many of us hot yoga practitioners don’t give a damn about respecting other people. We don’t care about unity. We just want to sweat, get rid of stress, be skinny and get on with our day. It means that too many of us repeat that namaste out of habit; we don’t think about what we’re saying and we barely give its meaning lip service.

For my part, I really am looking for the divine in you, but when you’re the only person you’re aware of, it’s pretty hard to find any bright sparks at all.

HIGHLIGHTS

Last blog post: November 6, 2014
Today: December 22, 2014
Time between posts: Roughly a month and a half.
Reasons: Many. See below. 

I am occupied. Busy. My now-life doesn’t look much like my then-life. It doesn’t look much like the holiday season of last year. It looks one-hundred-percent nothing like the holiday season of 2012.

I spent this year’s Thanksgiving at the 49ers game. That is football. It was my first NFL game. We didn’t have the littles this year. Katelynn and Nathaniel were with Jim last year so they went to Nathaniel's parents’ this year. Jim’s mom and sisters have 49ers season tickets. It’s where they were going for the holiday. So Jim, Dustin, and I made a weekend of it.

At 5:45AM on Thanksgiving day Jim and I got in our holiday Bikram yoga class. At 9:30AM I got in my holiday power yoga class. Then we packed the car with brown butter pumpkin cupcakes, lemon bars, and cauliflower tabouli. We grabbed sodas for the road and landed in Palo Alto just in time to swath ourselves in red and join the mass of soon-to-be-disappointed San Francisco fans on their way into the Field of Jeans. 2014's Thanksgiving dinner was a vegan dog—that Jim and I have been craving since (I’ve either contributed to significant improvements in that man or destroyed him altogether)—and diet soda.

Jim planned our hotel to be within a 2-minute walking distance to a Bikram studio so that the day after Thanksgiving I could go take class while the boys went on a long motorcycle ride through the redwoods—or through Endor as Dustin described it. (Dustin rode his motorycle over to SF and Jim rented one there; don’t go thinking those boys were riding nuts to butts. (I learn much descriptive language from Dustin.)) After my sweatfest I spent the afternoon working on yoga class sequencing.

Yoga class sequencing. That’s right, Dear Reader, little Romo is teaching yoga. I’m taking one or two classes a day and teaching a couple a week. While my teacher training won’t be complete until the end of January, for a reason I can’t so much identify, Tanya's seen promise in me, and I get to teach some of the Warm & Mellow classes at Juice Box.

I walk out of some of the classes feeling like a damn fine teacher. And some make me feel like I should personally refund each students’ fee. The sequence I taught on Saturday night was pretty damn bitchin’, so at this moment right now I’m feeling good about the whole deal. Also: I love doing it. So we’ve got that going for us.

I was telling my amazing Ella-yoga-teacher-friend the other day that much like getting a graduate degree in writing destroyed my ability to enjoy reading (it becomes all about learning something from the read and not just relishing the experience), becoming a yoga teacher kinda ruins yoga classes as a student. You aren’t just practicing in class anymore, you’re also trying to learn teaching stuff from the instructor. Oh, that was a good cue . . . Yes! What a perfect transition . . . And so on. I think that’s the beauty of maintaining my Bikram practice while training to teach vinyasa. Since Bikram classes are all the same and I’ve done a thousand-some-odd classes, I’m able to actually take the classes instead of spend the 90 minutes trying to make mental notes on killer cues and sequences.

It makes me extra grateful that I was able to just be in my power class yesterday and not focus on learning to teach from the teacher. I had the terrific opportunity to take Kim Arnott’s 108 sun salutation solstice celebration class at Pure Yoga yesterday. Yes, ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT sun salutations. I was completely scared to do it. I thought my shoulders would revolt and fall off with the 108 chaturangas (tricep pushups for the uninitiated), but it felt fantastic. And my shoulders are fine. My hamstrings on the other hand are tender to the touch. 108 chaturangas: okey dokey. 108 forward folds: ahem, not so much.

If you are local, take a class from Kim. While she is a badass yogi herself and a damned hard teacher, she is also one of the most generous instructors from whom I’ve had the pleasure to take class. Her preparation for class is unparalleled, and I feel truly privileged to get to be her student.

I’m fortunate that way. I do a helluva lot of yoga—I’m on another 30-day Bikram challenge right now, because, you know, I just wasn’t doing enough yoga before—and I don’t have a teacher that sucks. The people that teach me yoga work to know their shit and are available to their students. I have so much good in my life and more than much of that good has to do with yoga and the people that come with it.

Also happening lately: Christmas.

Guys, I put up a Christmas tree. That is not something I generally do. Or ever do. But I was happy as happy can be to do it, because, well, this:

At present I’m the most awesome person I know. Jim’s the second most awesome because he didn’t pitch a fit about my putting up a pink tree. In fact, he likes it. I married a man who likes my pink flocked Christmas tree. I couldn’t be luckier.

Part of that good luck is the immediate family I married into. Remember how I said that my life now looks nothing like it did before? Dear Reader, I went to Disneyland. With kids. Some people think that Disneyland is for young children, but they are wrong. Disneyland is for Jim’s 23-year-old daughter Katelynn. You want to see something spectacular? Go to Cars Land with Katelynn. She’s a treat on top of a treat on top of a treat.

While short for me because I had to leave early get back to Reno for teacher training, the vacation was better than I expected. You know me a little. You can guess that Disneyland ain’t my thing. But what with the proximity of our hotel, Katelynn’s infectious enthusiasm, Dustin’s teaching me what makes a good ass on a girl, Josie’s insistence that I pound beignets with her, Benjamin’s love of Star Tours, and the VIP tour guide Jim arranged (read: human Fast Pass for all the rides—dude, he took us in through the back of Pirates of the Caribbean in order to skip the line), the trip was good enough to do again.  I can't believe I just wrote that.

When my mom was in town last week we didn’t have the littles, but Dustin was here and we had Katelynn over for dinner (Nathaniel was at work, good boy that he is), and we laughed too many times for me to remember what we laughed about. I told Katelynn that up until about two weeks ago I was basically terrified of her dry sense of humor, but I’m not scared anymore. That’s progress. Progress she found awfully funny. There’s so much funny when Katelynn’s around.

We have all our young people for Christmas this year. Seeing as we plan to spend Christmas Eve evening eating pizza and go-karting, it shall be a pretty super holiday. Traditionally untraditional. My specialty.

Highlights: complete.
Long-ass update: done for now.
The way things are going: see you in a month and a half. 

TRAINING TO TEACH

Of late, this is the question I hear more than any other: “Megan, how is yoga school?” Or rather, “How is teacher training?” but Jim and I call it yoga school, so I’m going with that.

I’ll say this, more and more I learn that most things are harder from the inside, and this isn’t an exception. I try not to criticize my yoga teachers, which isn't hard since I don’t take class from anyone I don’t respect, therefore my yoga world is populated with terrific instructors, but now I extra try not to be critical of their classes.

Because, Dear Reader, teaching yoga is effing hard.

There is so much to keep track of—the environmental controls, the students’ safety, the pace of the class, the difficulty of the class in comparison to the experience level of the students who showed up, the volume of the music, and all that doesn’t even include the actual yoga postures. I said before I started the training that whether or not I end up teaching, at least I will have acquired a new skill set after this training is done, and if I put in effort to match the work, I certainly will have, because, dude, this so is not a skill set I’ve got already.

It’s been quite a while since I’ve felt this busy. Work is busy. Yoga takes up all my other time. I’m trying to keep some design commitments (failing). But really all I want is to be with Jim. It’s mushy and sappy yet true. When I decided to do the yoga school thing it was on a whim and I didn’t take into consideration the amount of time it would take—read: a lot—what with the actual training days, home practice, my regular daily Bikram classes, additional vinyasa classes, teaching practice, required readings, homework assignments, and my inability to be all right with doing things halfway. When I’m not at work or at my desk doing work stuff, I’m doing something to do with yoga, eating to fuel my yoga life and apparently to ensure that I don’t earn a hot body even with all the additional yoga, and/or icing my shoulder.

Lest you overlooked the second sentence in the paragraph above: forget not, this yoga school ain’t my only gig. I’ve also got that drug career thing. You know, the full-time job that sends me all over northern Nevada, which as it happens, is very helpful, as I use the drive time as a chance to practice teaching over music, perhaps the hardest thing ever. While teaching yoga is so much more difficult than you think—I say this as one with a decade of experience in yoga, a strongish practice, and a sponge mind constantly leaning about more yoga stuff, which is to say, I say this as one with a reasonably solid yoga foundation which could lead you to believe that I’m well prepared for this teaching endeavor—successfully teaching yoga over music is almost impossible. I’m easily distracted. So I’m grateful that my job is one with a lot of time in the car. I need all the practice I can get.

I’m constantly apologizing to my husband for how much time this yoga whatnot is taking away from us getting to be together, and I’m thisclose to making an advent-type calendar countdown for when I’ll graduate. Don’t get me wrong, Jim is totally supportive—the man proposed to me in yoga class, for heaven’s sake; he gets what this means to me—and my doing this training is making him even prouder of me, a thing which could previously have been said wasn’t possible. I just know that when I’m missing him, he misses me back. Aside from a couple days in SF with Amber and Jess, yesterday was the first day in, like, a month that I didn’t go to a yoga class. I did church and stayed at home and worked on my presentation on Dharana, the sixth anga of yoga as per Patanjali’s yoga sutras. Not class but still yoga.

However, please don’t take this update as whining.

Yes, I’m fatigued and sleep like the freaking dead at night. Yes, my body hurts and I have legitimate yoga bruises. Yes, I am not shy about saying that I’d rather spend the extra yoga time with my husband (we haven’t even been married six months yet, so give me some leeway for sap, if you please). But this training was a good idea. And I do mean this training. I’m doing my work through Pure Yoga, a darling lil’ studio in midtown Reno, and somehow luck was on my side when I picked it. I’m thrilled with how we’re learning methodology. I think the asana/theory/history balance is ideal. Our teachers know their shit. I’m confident that I’m getting great guidance and instruction.

Also, it’s fun. Getting to do this training with Cameron is a gift. He’s capable, sweet, hilarious, a terrific fella to learn with, and lives seven minutes away, so despite my full schedule we manage to get together to practice. Or at least to make sure his costume for the black light yoga class glows. I don’t want to imagine what this experience would be like without him.

It brings fun home too. Josie likes to have me show her postures and direct her into postures. She even pays attention to my safety harangues and blather about alignment. When I tell her the sanskrit names of postures she’s collapses laughing. “What’s this pose?” “Salamba Sarvangasana.” “Whaaat!?Salami and sardines!?”

Jim likes to say some aggravatingly true aphorism about how if it’s not hard it’s not worth it. This is hard. It’s adding value. So. Success.

“Megan, how is yoga school?”

See above.

Also, yesterday Josie made irresistible mini spice cupcakes with vanilla frosting, so I curse her every time I walk into the kitchen and am very glad that mine is a job that takes me from the house, ‘cause if I was staying at home, it’d take all of one day for me to balloon to the size of a beefy manatee.

PERFORMING A PRACTICE

I follow—and then unfollow and then follow again and unfollow—a bunch of yoga people on Instagram. KinoYoga, CarsonClayCalhoun, Casa_Colibri, CoffeeAndRainbows, etc. They are all fancy asana all the time. In photo descriptions they’ll sometimes blab about peace and meditation and all that other metaphysical mumbo jumbo that bolsters and blooms from an asana practice, but 85% of the postures they post are super elaborate shit. And while I understand that it’s the advanced poses that draw in subscribers and sponsors and are pretty to see and that high-level flow videos are galvanizing, I’m getting a bit fed up with the lip service and mislabeling. 

I think these Instagram yoga posters are giving people the wrong picture of what yoga is. They’re giving the picture that yoga is about the picture. It’s about the aesthetics. It’s a thing I’ve battled since stepping on the mat for the first time.

I’ve battled the idea that anything aside from the postures matters. I’ve battled the idea that reaching for postures is the right approach to a practice. And right now I’m battling the pervading idea that just doing a handstand is doing yoga.

Is this because I’m bitter that I can’t do a decent handstand? Very probably. That and the forearm balances like Pincha Mayurasana are my holy grail. I can’t seem to get there. You would think after so much vigorous time on my mat I’d be more capable upside down. It’s just not that way. I’m a bundle of fear when it comes to the world of inversions; I’m afraid to further damage my shoulders. Also, I’ve got, like, the weakest core ever. Yeah, I do strength training on that bit of me here and there, but my inversion progress is nil. So I’m trying to stop caring, and in my trying to stop giving a damn I’m reconsidering my approach to the practice and getting to a place where I feel like all the fancy postures internet yoga celebs post aren’t yoga-like at all.

Where I’m at now is a belief that we shouldn’t reach for postures we aren’t ready for. Yeah, we should work hard, and I do, but I think we should approach the practice as that, a practice, and not a performance. 

And this sounds like total hypocrisy coming from me. Some of the aesthetics of yoga come easily for me. I bend well. Most arm balances aren’t outside my abilities. So it would be easy to believe that that’s why I do yoga. But I really asked myself that a few months ago—Why do I come to the mat? What do I get with the sweat? I get patience, which is foreign to me. I get humility, which, if I’m leveling with you, despite my hateful self-talk, doesn’t actually come easily for me. I’ve got awesome flooding my veins. I’ve got talent to spare and a knack for expression; it turns me into this beast of reckless confidence and ego. I tell Jim that no one has more confidence in me than me and no one has less confidence in me than me. I like how my yoga practice brings me down a couple notches. Revolved triangle may look easy, but it’s perhaps the worst posture of all time. I still can’t kick out in standing-head-to-knee. Gomukhasana used to be cake, but then I beat the shit out of my shoulders and I have to vary my arm positions in order to avoid exacerbation. During my competitive weightlifting days I learned how to care for and strengthen the small muscles in my shoulders. How I wish I’d followed through with what I learned.

Don’t get me wrong, I do give in to the tricks a lot. I learned an inverted compass variation a few weeks ago, and I can’t stop doing it. It looks stunning, and I like that it is so much harder on my left side than my right. I like having a place to reach for. I like to make my body do things that look weird and miraculous. But I am settling in this place where I look for the postures and flows that will make me strong and calm yet not necessarily make me look like a yoga rockstar. I have been backing out of postures I can do to their full expression in order to revisit the form. I have come to believe so strongly that form must must precede depth if you want a longterm practice free of pain.

Too many new practitioners bust into the yoga scene and blow past the basics looking only for the postures that will make them online sensations. But guys, yoga isn’t about the pose. It’s about the progress. And I don’t even mean the progress into a pose. Yoga’s about the progress you can’t see. Maybe it’s confidence. Maybe it’s healing. Maybe it’s respect. Most of the time it’s none of my business. Much of a practice is personal.  

I don’t have an issue with taking and sharing photos of favorite poses to show visual proof of progress in postures. Now and then. I don’t have a problem with it if it’s a here-and-there thing. If you worked for something, it’s satisfying to share it with the people who care about you. But not every damn day. I did that photo session with Ashley Thalman a few years ago and I’d like to do another. My practice has changed. So has my body. Occasionally documenting the shifts of something that I do every day is valuable.

A favorite from Ash's shoot.
The negative space speaks of possibility, doesn't it?

It thrills me when the people I practice with, most specifically my Juice Box Yoga family, reach one of those asana milestones, and when you’re part of a healthy yoga community sharing that experience whether it be with words or with a demonstration or pictures is a blast and it can be helpful for others. I’m a total monkey-see-monkey-do practitioner. Watching a pose go down is more valuable for me than just being instructed with words. But if your practice is only about sharing the photos and the videos I think you’re missing the point.

People come to the practice of yoga in their own way. Some start with meditation, find pranayama (breath) and then progress to asana (postures). Some start with asana and use pranayama as a tool to discover meditation.

Once we’ve settled in a practice of our own, I believe that it’s our responsibility to care for the new people. A vinyasa practice generally isn't satisfying for me if there isn’t an arm balance in there somewhere, so I take one in order to get what I came to the mat for. But I try to only do that if I’ve determined that it’s not disrespectful to my fellow yogis in the room. (If you want to do whatever you want, do a home practice. Practicing in a class is a different discipline.) If we introduce beginning yogis to a practice that’s all flash and no substance, we’re doing them a disservice. And that’s why I’m bummed out about all the fancy Instagram yoga folk. What they demonstrate multiple times every day is just a practice in acrobatics. Maybe they should hashtag it that way—

#doingthisforlikes #shouldjustjoinacircus #whatdoyoumeanyogaismorethanadhomukhavrksasana #waitwhatisadhomukhavrksasana #doyoumeanhandstand