Cobra, Camel, Cow, Cat, Dog. Lizard, Eagle, Crow, Pigeon. No, I’m not at an animal menagerie. (Downward facing dog: yoga.about.com)
Boat, wheel, mermaid, dolphin. No, I’m not a sea world show.
Sun salutations, warrior poses—both forceful and peaceful; headstands, shoulder stands, arm balances.
I’m at yoga class. And when the instructor, Laurie, mentioned that the guru leading a recent workshop she attended was ninety-three, I nearly fell over. I couldn’t think of anything else the remaining sixty minutes.
If yoga is the secret elixir to long life, count me in. This ninety-three-year-old is my new hero, replacing the seventy-something teacher, Iris, who teaches at my local YMCA.
I discovered yoga more than twenty-five years ago. I had just moved to a suburb of London with my husband who was relocated as a journalist. Newly married, I free-lanced for several publications.
My friend Gay invited me to yoga with her. I’d never heard of it. The local adult school offered classes during the day and in the evenings, and Gay went three times a week. At the equivalent of about seventy-five cents for two -hour classes, this was a great bargain. I became hooked.
Returning to the US in 1987, I looked for yoga—only one studio near my home in New Jersey, about a twenty-minute drive away. Jump ahead about fifteen years, and yoga proliferated like earthworms after rain—studios on every corner, in every town, offering all sorts of styles: hot, restorative, gentle, energetic flow, and so on.
I’m nomadic in my practice. If I can’t be outside, I’ll look for a class that fits into my schedule. I’ve learned not to become too attached to any particular instructor- there’s high turnover—and yoga is about letting go.
I find yoga helps my core strength, which in turn, makes me a stronger cyclist. I did yoga through three pregnancies and through labor as long as allowed. It has been the only cure for backache, and somewhat of a relief for hot flashes. I find I’m supple enough to sit on the floor with my nearly two-year-old grandson and play. It’s amazing watching how easy it is for him to plop down, touch his toes, and move.
Yoga at ninety-three? I sure hope so.
Nameste!
