Archive for the 'yoga' Category

Yoga Music

A month ago, I took a series of four yoga classes at Ojai Yoga Shala on Matilija Street just across of Java and Joe.

Before leaping into it, I read the material on the Shala website where I became cautious when I saw the names of the various classes. Earth Chakra Workshop, Soulful Sunday, Vinyasa and, my favorite, Sweet Vinyasa. Most seemed too challenging. And then I found Gentle Flow and was hooked. It was designed for guys like me. Old, a little creaky and with a C-minus in flexibility.

I threw caution to the wind and, despite a won’t-go-away shoulder problem, I put myself into the hands of the Shala’s Alana Mitnick. She deftly guided me through the basics and left me feeling like I had almost mastered the first one percent of the mysteries of Yoga. The most difficult part of the evening involved exiting Shala’s dimly lit building without embarrassing myself by falling down those pesky steps that are designed to further shorten a senior’s active career.

My aging eyes are no match for moonless nights. They can be a recipe for disaster when coupled with Ojai’s insistence on the obliteration of outside lighting that might ruin the delights of viewing the evening skies. Enhancing one’s viewing pleasure also runs counter to Ojai’s other predilections of sharing the road with bicycle riders, and the leap-before-you-look mindset adopted by the I-challenge-you pedestrians who death defyingly enter the street within or without a crosswalk. Dueling with a two-ton mass of metal is a favorite hobby for many locals.

Last week, furthering my yoga career and taking full advantage of my house which hasn’t seen a prospective home buyer since the Armistice, Jackie planned and delivered a two-hour yoga retreat that attracted twenty-three yogis. The attendees included a number of what appeared to be pre-teens, as well as buffed out young men and lithe, charming young women. I had the over-fifty category all to myself.

The yoga part of the evening was led by Tiffany, a young lass with a soft voice and a matching demeanor. Since it was my home that Jackie had donated to the event, I was invited to participate in the session. I asked Tiffany, “Is this going to be a gentle flow session or do I need to ask my mother if I’m allowed to join in?” She smiled and said, “Not to worry, I will be kind and you won’t suffer.” She should have appended the word “much.”

I found a cloistered spot next to Jackie and unrolled my yoga mat. I have always wondered if there is a correct side to the mat. However, given my beginner status, it probably doesn’t matter. My tush firmly grounded, the games began. It was no surprise to discover that I could barely hear the posing instructions emanating from sweet Tiffany’s mouth. My declining ability to hear the high-end of the sound spectrum matches my inability to see well in dark surroundings.

If I had been an accomplished yogi, I probably could have figured out Tiffany’s commands. It was not to be and I resorted to watching those around me for clues. This only succeeded in over stretching my neck and produced an annoying ache that fit in nicely with my aging eyes and diminished hearing.

Being a nanosecond behind the young, lithe bodies surrounding me only added to my discomfort. By the time I figured out what Tiffany was saying, the group had already moved to the next yoga pose. I’m quite sure my poses bore little resemblance to the real thing but I probably shouldn’t have worried since I was unable to perform most of the poses anyway. I merely grunted and moped while others twisted their bodies in ways that surely must delight chiropractors.

The Down Dog pose is pretty much just a push-up. Something that I gave up in my first year of college. However, looking for some degree of accomplishment, I did what seemed to be several dozen Down Dogs. And I further injured my left shoulder in doing so. After what seemed like a fortnight of yoga, blessed relief arrived in the form of laying flat on my mat, not stretching anything, and just being inert as I mentally inventoried my body parts.

And then it began. Cello music. Tiffany had invited a friend to end the two-hour session with his cello. An accomplished musician, Jeremy had spent many years in the pit at New York’s Metropolitan. He moved to Ojai a week before last year’s Thomas Fire and was now a composer. His choice of music for our yoga retreat was perfect. Robust but calming, it enriched us all.

Lying on my back, staring at the dim ceiling lights, with only the cello making itself known, added a bit of mystery to the night. Confirmed by Jeremy, the acoustics were wonderful. I had never heard them before in this great room. It was as though a new chapter had been added to my life with this house. The music ended, people arose and smiled. Not just a dutiful smile, it was spontaneous and heartfelt.

I asked Jeremy if we could do this again, maybe without the Down Dogs.

Am I unique?

It’s Tuesday. Up at 5:30, I left the house at 6:15am in the dark. When will the daylight return to guide me down the path to my garage? My declining night vision tends to make the voyage even more of an adventure. Add a couple of steps plus depth-of-field challenging bifocals, and one realizes why there are so many old folks who fall and break into irreparable pieces.

At the athletic club the usual assortment of fitness seekers populated the treadmills, ellipticals, stationary bikes and other means of self-improvement. About equally divided between males and females, all strove to achieve nirvana, or maybe just lose a few pounds.

I admit to enjoying an added benefit of club membership that is conspicuously absent from club brochures. Politely gazing upon lovely women brightens my morning. Looking without leering is an art that requires practice, patience and sensitivity. After seven decades I’m still practicing.

I finished my workout and Robert taped my shoulder hoping to relieve a mild ache. I showered, shaved and went to my next stop, Java and Joe. The coffee shop offers good coffee and mediocre pastries, many of which appear to have been left in the sun too long. I ordered my usual dark roast coffee in a medium cup, put some Splenda and cream in it, and took my usual seat outside the cafe.

It was a bright morning, sharply edged and a bit chilly. One of the outdoor tables housed a half-dozen regulars and their dogs. Five coffee drinkers are attentive listeners while one, as is his custom, occupies the speaker’s rostrum and pontificates loudly and at length. Knowledgeable, he speaks on a wide variety of subjects citing facts and figures to bolster his arguments. I admit to finding it tiresome. Or perhaps, feeling left out, I demean the speaker to assuage my feelings and wonder, do others commit the same sin?

I sit removed from the coffee klatch, checking my email, reading the news and watching passersby. Occasionally someone I know will arrive and we do the usual hello, how are you, and have a nice day. All too infrequently, someone sits with me and we share more than pleasantries. At those times, I am happy and impervious to the emanations of the adjacent table for six.

My next stop was the Livingston bereavement group held at the Help of Ojai west campus. I began attending these sessions shortly after Ila died, more than a year ago. Originally held twice a month, they are now offered every week. It’s a chance to share feelings with others who have lost a loved one. Some participants are regulars. Some start but drop out. Others attend intermittently. I have mixed reactions to the meetings. Some produce glorious highs while others leave me low. All the sessions, both high and low, teach me something.

This week eight participants gathered around the conference room table. Seven women and me. I felt surrounded. Why so many women and so few of me? Perhaps it’s because husbands usually die before their spouses. Or perhaps men are too reluctant to share their feelings. In either event, I felt unique.

The afternoon progressed into evening without incident. Tuesday is yoga night. I’m enrolled in five sessions focused on people like me who have little, if any, exposure to the mysteries of yoga. Originating in Northern India over five thousand years ago, yoga is a secular, multi-billion-dollar industry in the United States.

Thirty-seven million people practice yoga in the U.S., nearly double that of seven years ago. Eighty percent of them are women; why so? Excuses include, yoga isn’t a decent workout; it’s too touchy-feely; you have to be flexible to do it; men’s bodies just aren’t built for pretzel-like poses. This evening, at Ojai Yoga Shala, I was the only man in the company of seven women.

My Tuesday nearly over, I was beginning to feel unique. The last man on earth, surrounded by an Amazon race of women that only needed one man to satisfy its basic need to maintain the species. A herculean task indeed, one which I was prepared to assume…for the good of mankind, of course.


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