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Essay

Yoga in the balance

By Kit Pancoast Nagamura


瀬戸際にある私のヨガ

13歳のとき、筆者はヨガのとりこになった。当時、ヨガはエクササイズというよりも、内面での旅という側面が強いように思われた。以後、ヨガとは縁が切れていたのだが、最近、友人たちがヨガを通じて体を引き締めているのを見て、再び取り組みことに・・・。

At 13, yoga fascinated me. Its animal poses and meditative breathing didn't seem like "real" exercise, but more an internal spiritual journey. I'd knot myself into a full lotus position while perusing the tattered instruction booklet I'd borrowed from the public library, and practice the most difficult poses while listening to Ravi Shankar's best hits. I thought I was pretty hip, all things considered.

Over the next several decades, I relegated yoga to the "been there, done that" department. Sure, I noticed the proliferation of yoga studios in Tokyo -- Ashtanga and Iyengar practices; yoga for pregnant women, prima donnas and pets etc. -- but it seemed to me like a resuscitated fad. People were calling it a workout, but as far as I could remember, it was mostly just a stretching session.

It was sheer vanity that caused me to revisit the practice. I began to notice some of my friends had buff arms, well-defined and taut. My arms, by comparison, were amorphous and frail. I wanted those heroine arms, with muscles like edamame beans in their pods, minus the green and hairy aspect. Everyone said yoga was the magic path to toned arms. Really? Typing doesn't do it?

I promptly joined a local studio. As we spread out mats, I was cool as a cucumber, but alas, almost as flexible. We started a sun salutation, and I saluted, well, maybe as far as Mars. Propping myself up like a wobbly teepee, in what is unattractively known as the "Downward-Facing Dog" pose, I felt like an 80-year-old looking for a contact lens. On Mars. Plus, the guy next to me kept adjusting himself and grimacing -- painfully or suggestively, it was hard to tell. I struggled through a zoo of subsequent asanas: crow, pigeon, cow and child. No living creature ever bore the slightest resemblance to my trembling, tortured poses.

Undaunted, I moved on to Yoga Lite, taught by a friend of mine who had obviously stolen my 13-year-old physique. Her approach was gentle, soothing, a kind of trance with aromatherapy and singing bowls and toys such as toe strengtheners and eye pillows. Nevertheless, I progressed from falling out of plank pose and bashing my nose, to actually being able to use my arms to soften the landing a bit. From the inside out, this instructor urged us to find space between our joints and release from tension, without wine. Even so, I was often ready for the corpse pose long before anyone else.

Now I've joined a yoga class that includes Pilates (German for "burning abs"), led by a limber teacher who giggles when you groan. It's a disconcerting but effective approach. There's no music, no incense, just gain through pain and perfect alignment. This class never actually makes it to the corpse pose; we go directly to zombie status. Though the days when I could pretzel into most poses are gone, and the much-touted yogasm completely eludes me, I recently have noticed two changes. One is a profound feeling of gratitude towards my yoga teachers. The other? Little beans of new muscles in both arms. Namaste, baby!



Shukan ST: OCTOBER 28, 2011

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