Poppalina

But I want to do yoga like the grownups...

Posting may be a bit slack, this week.

I have a yoga intensive on for the next 5 days.

And I just put my back out.

Memo to me: never, EVER try paravritta parsvakonasana with a sacroiliac injury. No matter how clever you're feeling. LISTEN to the people who know what they're talking about and who specifically told you not to do it.

The yogis have a word for this kind of stupid behaviour: asmita, or the illusory attachment of ego to something outside of the self. In my case, I fell prey to my attachment to being good at everything I turn my hand to (an old story for me). It shits me that I can't do all the poses in my practice sequence. And it shits me that my physical limitations prevent me from being a Shining Star in the Yoga World (whatever that is). I tell myself that I can do impressive tricky standing poses if I just get over my gimpy attitude, and think like an uninjured person. That my injury is all in my head. Okay then, so let's go.

For the record, guys, this line of thinking can land you in hospital.

It would be fair to say that I'm more than a little disgusted with myself.

That aside, white peaches and yellow nectarines are a lovely combination.

Ain't Nobody Here But Us Chickens

Seeing as how I signed up for WoYoPracMo, promising faithfully to practise everyday during January, I thought it was about time I wrote a post about yoga.

First of all, let me boast loudly that I have practised every day, so far. As a teacher trainee, I'm supposed to practice six days a week anyway, but I'm carrying a back injury, and sometimes I get too sore and too sooky to get on the mat.

The studio is closed for Christmas (as is every other yoga studio in the universe - why? WHY??), but I was given a KEY (which delighted me no end), and so I flit across the river each day to light candles, burn incense and phweet the deities.

Yoga studios aren't necessarily Hindu, of course. Yoga, in it's purest form, is non-denominational, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. You can meditate on Jesus, your mum, Keith Richards or Bill Gates while you practise, if you want to, it's entirely your business. Candles and incense are lovely, regardless.

Ultimately, yoga does become devotional when you get into it seriously. I can't explain here, it would take too long. It's the sort of thing you have to experience. Part of the mystery and wonder that is yoga. I can tell you that it's a wild ride, should you ever choose to take it.

According to Patanjali, if you practise long and hard, eventually your deity will make themselves known to you.

Ganesh came to me, one night, in a dream. He was little and cuddly and fat and bright red and about the coolest dude you could ever hope to meet. And best of all, he was smoking Cosmic Quality Hash. One arm embraced me in greeting as another passed across the pipe, smooth as you like. And so we whiled the night away, smoking chillum after chillum, drinking chai and tripping the light fantastic.

I mean, honestly. A God you can lie back and smoke the weed with. Now that's my idea of a deity. Ever since, he gets extra incense. As it happens, I carry him around my neck - a talisman given to me years ago by someone who wanted me to stay safe - I never take it off. He's also the first thing you see when you enter the front door of Yoga Jivana. That, and Sue's fabulous hot pink walls.

Jivana is on the ground floor of an old historic building in Northcote. The floor above is inhabited by artists who feel the need to pace incessantly across the floorboards in steel-soled boots, to the music of Cecilia Bartoli, which is nice. Or sometimes the footy, which is not so nice. And occaisionally the trots, which is downright tedious. The room creaks and moans and makes mysterious, inexplicable sounds so that you'd swear someone was walking through the studio towards you, right this second, for real this time so you'd better turn your head and look.

I was a bit spooked at first, I'm used to being there as part of a rather noisy tribe. But then I realised I could spread my stuff as far and wide as I liked and not pack it up till the very end and never have to wait to use any of the gadgets and take as long as I bloody well like, and turn the lights off whenever I wanted and tap dance from one end to the other just because I could, and it all got pretty groovy from there on in.

So I've been practising my bum off.

And very gorgeous it has been.

T Minus 5

 

Urdhva Danurasana, originally uploaded by govindakai.

...

Urdhva Danurasana

You think you're dying, at the time.

But afterwards, you may feel like you've been reborn.

...

In other news,

Christmas Fairy of the Year Award goes to Leah

For finding the last Wii in Australia, and delivering it personally

All the way from Lovely Adelaide.

I call that service

You know, it's remotely possible that I might, just, 

Enjoy this Christmas.

Sanctuary Yoga Retreat

Finally. Some photos of Santuary Retreat. Not mine. Akhila's. She's very kindly allowed me to use them.

Why do people go on yoga retreats with Peter Scott?

It's pretty simple, really.

You get to be in a beautiful place, where it never gets cold and every day's a Good Hair Day,

   

In close proximity to the local fauna (a little closer than I was comfortable with, at times. I had a Very Close Encounter Indeed with a cassowary, much closer than this),

Where the ambience is tranquil and conducive to Right Thinking,

Where you work with people who you want to be like when you grow up,

Under the expert guidance of a bloke whose knowledge and understanding of yoga is as extensive as is his collection of endearingly amusing shorts. Or should that be, amusingly endearing?

   

And you eat good food, that you don't have to prepare yourself.

Which is the best part of all. Man. Best muffins and fruit smoothies I've ever had. And a plentiful supply of good quality whisky for the end of the day, so you can louse yourself up again after all that good work.

What's not to love?

So now you know.

Street Yoga

Had to pass this on, via Treehouse Jukebox.

It restores my Faith in Humanity.

I recall that Sacred Heart Mission in St Kilda used to hold yoga classes for the homeless. I wonder if they still do?

Hmmmm. Food for thought for when I get my teaching certificate.

If I'm not in an Old People's Home by then.

Taking Stock

People keep writing to me, asking why I'm not crafting.

I am sorry I'm not crafting. I wish I was crafting. I am SUFFERING from not crafting. Part of me is starting to DIE from not crafting. My gorgeous studio, which took me half my life to acquire, is gathering dust and looking tragic, because I am NOT CRAFTING. I am embarrassed that I have a craft blog that is TOTALLY DEVOID OF CURRENT CRAFT WORK.

It is a Very Unfortunate Situation.

The fact of the matter is that I am studying to be an Iyengar yoga teacher. As things currently stand, this may take me the remainder of my life, I am progressing so slowly. It takes all my available energy, physical and mental. When I am not rising at dawn to cross town and practice, studying bizarre Sanskrit terminology where every word bears a remarkable resemblance to the word before and after it, or standing on my head trying to keep my singlet from falling up and my neck from compressing me into a state of quadraplegia, I am only ever sleeping and eating (and sometimes reading bloglines). Occasionally, I converse with my daughter. There is simply no room in my head for anything else.

Sigh. I never was much of a multi-tasker.

I am confidently reassured by all concerned that this condition is temporary, just a bit of a shock to the system and that, in time, the mind and body will return to some semblance of normality, whatever that is. Hopefully, this will include the ability to remember my own name when talking to the Council's Rubbish Collection Officer, that I will not ask for almonds at the market when I do, in fact, require dried cranberries, and I will not wonder at the dog, who has fallen in a dead faint by the back door after a week without food.

And that, O Happy Day, I will boink out of bed one shiny morning, bright and perky, and discover that I can still do things that don't involve bending backwards, or crying and going straight back to bed.

Until then, you guys get flowers, breakfasts, pictures of dead people, and me in my jarmies looking trashed, but alive, at least.

Here's hoping that normal service will resume sometime within the next yuga.

Shula x

Earth Magic

Being the kind of person who would happily never do anything ever again, Savasana in yoga is, predictably, my favourite part of practice. You bust your arse doing asanas for 2 hours, and then reward yourself by lying flat on your back like a stiff for 15 minutes at the end. Righteous Inertia. It's a Beautiful Thing.

Usually. Lately, I've been having visions during Savasana (anyone notice a theme forming, here?). Nasty, bastard, nightmare visions, straight from Harpyville, that have been frightening the shit out of me. Not very relaxing. Nooooo. Not at all.

So, you all know that I'm weird. I make no secret of it here. If there was an annual Weird Pride March held, I'd be in the vanguard, chanting fatuous slogans, and linking arms with total strangers. Stuff like this is not particularly unusual for me, just a pain in the arse. But I was obliged to confess the extent of my weirdness to the yoga teacher a little earlier than I would have preferred, feeling quite sure that he was going to throw me one of those sideways "Oh Jesus, I think we've got a cracker, here" looks, that I am so familiar with.

It seems, once again, that I have underestimated the yoga fraternity (bring us your tired, your injured, your traumatised and deranged). Peter Scott, who is The Uberdude of Iyengar Yoga in Australia, and who has been teaching for, like, ever, didn't even blink. He just tossed over an armful of sandbags and told me to pile them on top to keep me earthed. It would stop the visions.

Really?

Rightyoh, then.

Well, bugger me. Wrapped up and weighed down, I felt so safe. So comfortable. I relaxed. Demons with sharp, pointy teeth did totally not appear.

Yay!

I highly recommend it. Everyone should try this at least once before they die. Even people unlikely to ever find themselves recruited as a conduit for the Gates of Hell, will find that weighted Savasana is a lovely thing to do.

Trouble was, I didn't have any sandbags at home, and I've been trying to finish my assignment before I allow myself back into the studio to make anything, so the search for interim weight was on.

And then, as I napped on the couch this afternoon, a solution magically presented itself. So quietly and gently, that if it hadn't weighed about 50kg, and accidentally stepped on my stomach on the way up, I might never even have noticed.

Perfectly, irrefutably, irrevokably, earthed. No demons here, mate. Just kilos and kilos of unconditional, flokati love.