Yoga at the Y

I went to yoga again today, and it is so good to be in that place. I’ve been a little more regular lately. Finally, I found a class that works for me. It starts right after the morning school drop-off, so I don’t have time to think about it and come up with reasons not to go. I’m already out. The only modification I have to make to my routine is putting on yoga pants instead of jeans.

As I make my way upstairs to the class, I can usually guess who is on their way to the same place. Some have yoga mats under their arms, some just seem like yoga people. One morning, a woman hurried up behind me, dodged around me up the stairs, and then cut in front of another woman to rush ahead–she must be late for something, I thought. Surely not yoga. As I trailed behind her, I realized she was going to my class. I guessed she had a favorite spot to set up her mat and  she needed to stake it out.

It’s a slightly funky but perfectly relaxed class, a reflection of the community here that I love. All types are here for Yoga 1–teens, young adults, middle-aged and old,  men and women, big and small, sweet and ornery. I’ve run into some friends there, a few that I’ve volunteered with at school and a woman I took a writing class with several yeas ago. We all settle on our mats, content to be here, now.

I feel comfortable here because I’m not the most anything. I’m not the oldest or the youngest, the biggest or the smallest, the best or the worst at the poses. Nobody is, because the biggest isn’t the oldest, the youngest isn’t the most accomplished at downward-facing dog, and we all move aside for the ornery ones.

It’s a big jumble of people just being themselves, so I can be too. No one is looking, no one is judging. If they are, they keep it to themselves, at least.

This class works for me because it starts a half hour after school starts, so I cannot be late. The Y is across the street from the school. There’s plenty of time to drop off my student, park and get to class.

I have a reputation for being relaxed about time; some might say I’m always running a little late. Not to yoga. I hate arriving late to the silent studio, stepping gingerly over mats and people, wedging my mat into a little space, and apologizing every time I bump hands or feet with my annoyed neighbors.

You may be wondering why I must be on time to yoga when I am casual about lateness in other areas of my life. Honestly, I am too. It’s not that I decide that it’s ok to be late to one thing and not another. I set out to keep a schedule, but I get side-tracked along the way.

Is it that it’s so noticeable in a class like that? Is is that I risk being turned away if there is no more space in the studio? Is it that secret ingredient, the one that has proven so elusive: motivation?

I’m motivated to not be embarrassed, to not arrive and be disappointed, to get a good spot on the floor. It’s not much, but it’s something to work with. If motivation can solidify into habit, I may be on to something.

There was an old woman there one day, and I watched her as she got her mat, blocks and blanket set up and went over to chat with the instructor. She was bent over and moving slowly, but she was in good spirits. I wondered how long she had been coming to yoga, if she had been relatively young and spry like me then. I hoped that I would be like her as I age–still going to yoga, still active, still sweet.