“We’re gonna have to do a pat down; would you like a private screening room?” This, from the surly TSA agent in Salt Lake City pointing to an image of my body from the scanning machine. I see–
My crotch is glowing bright red.
With a resigned sigh, I say, “Nah, just do it here and get it over with.” Public witnesses seem like a good idea and really I can’t afford to miss my flight to the Ashtanga Yoga Confluence (with a little time to grab an Americano).
As they say: “No Coffee, No Prana.”
Thanks to my husband planning the best birthday surprise ever and my denim zipper, I received an airport pat down on my way to sunny San Diego for the Ashtanga Yoga Confluence without said man, the darling child we share, the crazy dogs, the dishes, the school lunches, the putting on of child shoes and socks song and dance, the cooking or the cold snow, but with almost four days of nothing but connecting with friends, sun, beach, and morning Mysore practice with the heroes of the ashtanga world as I put my leg behind my head like a gazillion times, return to my Catholic beginnings with hushed prayers to Mother Mary that I land Karandavasana, and try, like the Little Engine Who Could, to make some headway on my final posture.
In a word: It’s heaven (the Confluence, not the airport pat down, ok?)
After getting settled, I immediately set off for the hotel to register and crossing the threshold I see–
“Oh My God it’s Tim Feldmann!”
Don’t worry: It was an internal scream. But let me tell you: “internally screaming, star struck tween fan crazy yoga dorky” essentially captions me in this epic weekend with these teachers.
Let me set the scene. Say you study in a mysore room with a teacher who lights you up. Sometimes you go to workshops or practice with a special teacher of the likes of say, Richard Freeman. Perhaps an intensive with Tim Feldmann, or a month with Dena Kingsberg in Australia, you lucky dog you. Well, this mysore room is all of that. At once.
Mysore, Day 1: Friday morning I walk into that Mysore room times 108, an ashtanga-fied every
thing bagel, an ice cream sundae with rainbow sprinkles and big final backbend cherry on top, all the poses you dreamed of under the bodhi Christmas tree: Richard Freeman. Tim Feldmann, Dena Kingsburg (not till Day 2), David Swenson, Manju Jois –ALL TOGETHER– not to mention the assistants (ahem, assistant is the understatement the of the year here): Mary Taylor, Kiran Kennedy, Diana Christinson, Jack Wiseman, Holly Gastil and Jessica Walden.
I walk into that room with some effort, as my body is human pinball machine of nerves smacking around cells, my brain a case study in imposter syndrome (who does she think she is, doing third series, I mean really). I have the crazy texts to friends early that morning to prove my level of jolty excitement…. ok, crazy. I covered an entire page of my morning journal with one word: “Nervous.” On my mat there is nothing to do but practice myself home. I call on David Swenson-style pratyahara to tune out the even crazier-than-me rug, the swell of people, the Richard Freeman eyebrows arching near my mat. That morning, angels help me land the world’s most hanging-by-a-thread karandavasana. As Richard will say later: “Asana is pranayama for restless people.”
I survive.
Survival. Yes, that’s how Dena Kingsburg aptly put the deal on the first day in a Mysore room like this, i.e., on steroids, or I should say, Mysore room on maca matcha ashwaganda superfood powers. By the time I hit my final posture I am blinded by the light. Literally. The sun has come up and through the window it bathes me in a spotlight, adding to the challenge as I try to balance upside down.
Then I hear a giggle and–
I look up to see Kiran Kennedy and Mary Taylor standing at the top of my mat, commiserating about this very Kukku posture, offering their experience and thoughts on how I could work it forward. I’m in awe –It’s like getting music lessons from Prince. How f*cking cool is this? And yet, this whole experience with these wonderful people who don’t stay on the pedestals we stick under them because they can’t help but get right down in the dirt with you, they relate to you, because they have been there– they are you. Richard said as much at one panel (I’m paraphrasing messy notes): “Our practice is to get off pedestals.”
Maybe I’m star struck by Tim Feldmann and this crew but I’m also getting the starlight thrown right back and pulled from me by all of them. So forget the silly schoolgirl nerves I walked in with, the insecurities, the excitement all since smoothed out by this moving, breathing practice. Indeed, forget that I still cannot lift my damn head up and execute this damn pose, because as I see these two women before me –while Richard Freeman, David Swenson and Manju pass between mats, and the memory of Tim Feldman swooping in to lift me lingers — all I can think, as I sit there sweaty, and, let’s face it, failing to launch, is:
This was so worth that airport pat down…
(though the only thing glowing now is my internally screaming star struck yoga dorky heart).
Stay tuned for Day 2!