I am a big believer that yoga is an individual pursuit: no-one else can possibly know what it feels like to be in that particular body, holding that particular pose on that particular day and so deriving any benefit from yoga is entirely up to the individual.
That’s not to say I don’t also agree with the idea that one yogi can benefit from the energy of other yogis in the same room: I love a live, group class as much as the next distinctly average downward-dogger. There is something about the huffs and puffs of others that motivate me and help me to stay focussed on following the instructions rather than on planning what to cook for dinner or, dare I confess, slurping a mouthful of wine in between poses. I was happy to make do with classes via zoom or a subscription to pre-recorded classes in an app, as required, during COVID, the coup and the 6 months I was solely responsible for Jasper; unable to sneak away for an in-person class. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was during the cold, dark, British winter months of solo-parenting that the compatibility of the app and the wine became apparent.
However, now that I have the opportunity (or freedom, if you prefer), I am even happier that I can join live, group classes again. And join I do: twice a week, on Mondays and Wednesdays, in the comfort of my own building (which, since a couple of months ago, now has a set of yoga studios attached to its upper car park) and with somewhere between 3 and 5 other women (except on the days where nobody else shows up and then I am back to huffing and puffing alone – but under the watchful eye of the pacing teacher, so, no wine.)
Jasper has also taken up yoga, at my suggestion, and so on Mondays while I grunt like the graceless goddess I am in one studio, he roars like a lion, stretches tall like a giraffe, leaps like a frog and squawks like a parrot in another one just down the corridor. We are studying under different masters, clearly. There are two reasons I signed Jasper up for yoga: firstly, to help him end up more like me and secondly to help him end up less like me.
I read somewhere (probably instagram) that an active mother tends to inspire active children and, rightly or wrongly, I have taken this very much to heart. Jasper knows that I do yoga and so when another mum suggested arranging a yoga class for some of the littles I thought ‘Why not? He’ll enjoy doing something that he knows I enjoy doing.’ I have tried doing yoga with Jasper but after showing off with a few shape-shifting lizard moves, he gets bored and starts using me as a climbing frame. So, separate classes it is, for now.
On the flip side, where I want Jasper to end up less like me is in the flexibility stakes. I came to yoga late in life, after a long history of competitive sports and even more competitive not-stretching. With over thirty-five years of hip-tightening, sporting activities under my belt, twice-weekly yoga classes are hardly going to undo all that I have achieved. I cannot, and most likely, will not ever be able to fold myself in two. My teacher uses the optimistic phrase ‘now touch your forehead to your toes’ (or to our knees or to the ground) about five times a class and every time he says it, I have a little chuckle to myself. My forehead does not touch my toes, or my knees, or the ground. It can be touched by my hand, but that is just about the only other body part it will ever encounter.
Jasper, by comparison, can fold himself like an envelope, and without humility. On one occasion when we were doing yoga together, the video instructor said ‘with your legs in butterfly position, bend your head towards your toes’. Seated, with his legs bent in a diamond shape and the soles of his feet touching one another, Jasper duly put his head straight down onto his feet. He looked like a little Chinese dumpling: all neatly folded and ready to go into the steamer. With my feet and legs arranged in a similar fashion, I dipped my head an imperceptible millimetre and assumed the same air of success. That is, until Jasper sat back up and said ‘Mummy, you’re not doing it. Put your head on your feet. Like this.’ And back down he went into his dumpling configuration. Long may that last.
Back in my biweekly classes, my classmates and I all exhibit different strengths and weaknesses, not that I am comparing, because, as we know, I consider yoga to be an individual pursuit, impervious to comparison or competition. That said, I have identified some advantages I seem to have over my classmates and none of them have anything to do with how close my forehead gets to my toes. Firstly, I am lucky enough to be able to tell the time. Never before have I taken a yoga class that allows participants to arrive ten minutes late: drifting in, chatting on the phone, dumping their mats and shuffling around to start their own warm up while the teacher has the rest of us (or sometimes just me) halfway through our first sun salutation. That some of my fellow classmates also live in the same building, just a short elevator ride away, and still manage to arrive late is beyond my comprehension. This is a private class: we chose and agreed the time between us all, so I don’t even think there is a scheduling clash.
Secondly, I am fortunate enough to have a ‘silent mode’ on my phone. I actually don’t even know what my ring tone would be if I were to accidentally disable the silent mode, so rarely have I ever done that. But I could tell you which ringtones almost every single one of my classmates uses because they sound repeatedly, every session. I am willing to concede that the cultural reliance on deliveries and the resulting gate-approvals might lead to inopportune timings for approval requests, but that doesn’t explain the volume of the alerts or the chit-chat involved.
Thirdly, I can count. The way our teacher runs his classes, he has us holding each pose for a count of ten. He starts from one and counts slowly upwards through eight other numbers until he reaches ten, at which point he then gives a new instruction which leads us into a new pose. And again, he starts from one and counts up to ten before shifting us again. Sometimes it’s tough to hold a pose for a slow count of ten, but that’s when I huff and puff extra hard in an effort to maximise the benefits I can get from my approximation of the pose. Others, however, never make it to ten. I mean, never. Others give up anywhere between 5 and 8 every time, flopping their arms to their sides, wandering around on their mat and sometimes even picking up their phone, perhaps for fear that in the last several seconds since it sounded an alert, something has gone wrong with it. Others have the attitude of a teenager who has been asked to do something difficult, like tidy their room, rather than of an adult who has chosen to pay for and attend a yoga class twice a week. It is more than a little distracting for those of us who are used to greater collective discipline and effort from a group class.
As I say, yoga is an individual pursuit: every yogi is different and perhaps this counting system doesn’t work for everyone; or perhaps it's the timing, or the fact that yoga doesn't traditionally involve a mobile phone. But I will say that I feel sure that what I lack in flexibility, I am making up for in strength - of mind more than of muscle. And if I really can’t hack the endless disruptions, I can always take myself off down the corridor to roar with the lion cubs.
I am one with my environment.
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