The Imperative of Being Uncomfortable

I've always ducked into and out of my yoga practice as I've made time for it in my life. It's one of the few things about which I'm not ambitious. I don't do it to get to level three, or to one day stand on my hands with my legs crossed. I do it because it's one of the few things in my life that has grounded me. And when I lose grounding I seek it out.

I've been threatening to go to the yoga place in my new neighborhood, which isn't so new anymore. I'd taken a very practical approach to my fitness and joined a gym, where I could work out when I wanted to, how I wanted to. Since having a baby I'd worked my way back to my regular routine of treadmill and weights. The same one I'd developed for myself nearly 20 years ago.

This weekend, after a week of travel, I simply decided: It's time to take a class. I'd glanced at the schedule for one of the two yoga studios near my house and committed to going to a Hatha Level I class Sunday morning.

The studio seemed nice enough--nice light and plenty of room. I took off my shoes at the door like everyone else and placed my mat next to a man in a T-shirt and shorts who was meditating. I did the same, more to fit in than because I was compelled to meditate. More people arrived and the room started to get warm--really warm. Most of the men in the room had taken off their shirts by now. They looked different then men in other yoga classes I'd taken. Most noticeably, they were ripped. Men and women started taking turns at a chin up bar hanging in the center of the room as a warm-up. I don't recall experiencing this … intensity at the beginning of a Hatha Level 1 class.

I noticed a schedule posted across the room and took a quick peek--shit, I was in the wrong class.  I'd already paid and been acknowledged by the instructor. I reasoned with myself that I couldn't just leave. I'd have to spend the next 105 minutes pretending to belong.

The yoga instructor told jokes that most of the people in the room laughed at. I didn't understand them. I was the odd person out, the one that in another context you would turn to and say, "You just had to be there," to understand.

Class officially started with a chant. I felt like I did the few times I went to Church and had to mumble a psalm I didn't know. It seemed to go on forever. The instructor mumbled the name of an asana, and immediately people in the room responded. I only knew the basic poses and stayed in downward facing dog until I could grasp what I was meant to do. Many of the asanas were far beyond my skill level.

I felt stupid, noticeably inept. And I made a realization: It had been a while since I'd felt this way. And for good reason; I usually avoided situations where I was a newbie. But instead of walking out I stayed and performed the asanas as I could, even blatantly stared at the people in poses next to me, then tried to mimic them.

The instructor was gracious, not correcting me any more or less than anyone else in the class, but occasionally helping to refine my posture so that I could get the most out of the pose.

The final pose--Savasana, or corpse pose--was a welcome one. As I lay there I observed that for years now I've spoken to women who have just started blogging who have demurred at attending our conferences, and I say to them, "You have nothing to worry about." Or encouraging new bloggers and companies to simply embrace new ways of being, saying it from a position of already being "an expert". But I forget how hard it is to put faith into something you are not yet the boss of. How hard it can be to generate momentum at the beginning when the end seems as impossible as standing on your hands with your legs crossed.

My body has been hurting all week. I pushed it in ways it hasn't been pushed in a long time. When I left the yoga class I patted myself on the back for surviving and insisted to myself that I wouldn't put myself in that position again. Next time I would go to a beginner class.

But once you've attempted something harder, it's difficult to go back.