Vinyasa, I hate you.
I hate how when I dip down into your pose my shoulders feel a ripping pain and my lower back aches. I hate how the instructor says your name with such ease, with such energy and pleasure. “Do your Vinyasa!” she says in her soothing youthful voice, fueled by tofu and ginger root and surely loads of kale. I hate how everyone seems so full of peace and love and I am in pain. My body, like an old dog has stopped responding to my commands. Fibromyalgia is the word on my mind, not the Sanskrit words the young woman speaks like poetry. She speaks with love in her heart for all of her students, even me, the angry woman in the back row.
Of all the poses, the only one I can do with some skill and little pain is the Savasana, or the Corpse Pose. At that I excel. Laying still, flat on my back, arms and legs outstretched is the Corpse Pose. Here I collect my pain like shards of broken glass from the floor. I find it where it is, my neck, my back, my arms and wrists and knees. I sweep it up and put it back where it belongs. I own it like I own my whole self. I recognize it and let it settle after I have disturbed it for a while.
This is my reward. I come here for this moment of collection as I lie on my thin rubber mat that smells like tires in the summer and is, I believe, almost a humorous attempt at cushioning one’s self from the hard wooden floor. I come for the lilting music and for the incense that burns and curls into the air, into the healthy lungs of my friends who lay strewn about this room. We are worn out after doing our Vinyasas and other torturous poses. Yes Vinyasa, I hate you, but I will be back for more.