My first yoga class was one of the most enlightening experiences of my life. I know, I know, I sound all hippy-dippy already. Thats not what I mean.
I wasn’t looking forward to it at all. I had the same feeling I had about everything I agreed to do with another person, no matter how much I liked them or the activity – I regretted it because I just wanted to go home, put my PJ’s on and sulk. Annoyingly routine is something you can maintain even with moderate depression.
But I made a promise, and my friend Merran was right – when you agree to do it with someone else its not just you your letting down, its them too so cancelling is not an option without a valid excuse.
By the end of the class I was positively jubilent! I could do it! I finally found an activity I could do sufficiently enough not to hate every second of it and myself afterwards! And actually, I quite enjoyed it! And I wanted to do it again immediately. I went home, burst through the front door and said to my husband “I’ve done it! I’ve finally found my thing! Yoga is my thing. And I love it.”
The look of relief on his face was incredible. Swiftly followed by the realisation that yoga is all I’m going to talk about until even I can’t stand it any more.
Yoga makes me feel, in that moment, like the only important thing in the universe is my body and my awareness of it. My breath and my movements. Everything else falls away. Merran and I joke that our favourite part of the class is the relaxation for the last 15 minutes, where we lay in corpse pose and our yoga teacher gently guides us through a body scan, because “where else is it acceptable to just lay on the floor and do nothing but relax?” Even at home we’re disturbed by family, neighbourhood noises, phone alerts etc., but here we just lay. And its beautiful.