Sunday Stiffies

It's weird to me now. Besides a workshop at last year's Yoga Crib, today was only the second time I've been to one of Kira's classes. I'm realizing that in this case the cart kinda came before the horse. After ten wonderful days of yoga submersion, and learning from my Den Mother, it's different to experience the everyday-ness of a Lulu class. Actually, this whole morning was a new experience in a seemingly familiar setting.

My boyfriend agreed to go to Stiff White Guys with me. Whew, getting him there felt like such a victory. We have very different relationships with our bodies, he and I. While we were sitting in the car just before going into class, he let me know how surprisingly fearful he was. His last experience with yoga left him pretty traumatized and oh' so aware of his limitations. While he easily lives in both his head and his heart, over the years his body has endured a lot of violence and is very locked-up. I was acutely reminded that the body has its own, undeniable language. I so wanted to be able to speak to it. Especially his. All I could offer were my eyes and hands to his, and a tiny reassurance that, "If it gets to be too much, we'll leave." Fuckin' props to him because he agreed to go, which required so much courage. Of course, Immediately after class I asked him how it was for him. "Great," he said, "I needed that."

Later we talked again about his experience: "I was thankful that the space was provided for people to be exactly where they are. I was glad to connect with my body and grateful for the opportunity to connect physically and spiritually. I felt like it was a beginning to healing."

This evening, he thanked me for taking him to yoga. Despite bringing tears to my egocentric eyes, his words speak volumes. He didn't say, "Thank you for taking me to yoga class." He said, "Thank you for taking me to yoga." At that point, it's so outside of me. It's all about his experience. It's all about pure being, and the teacher that yoga is.