Column Yoga silences the chattering monkey of
competition
By JEANNETTE BATZ
Ridiculous, to be nervous of a yoga
class. I stand clutching my mat, glad its the fold-up kind and not one of
those cumbersome foam rolls and then worried that its the fold-up
kind, nobody else has that kind. I planned my outfit carefully: Sweats, gray
sweatshirt, pink T-shirt, sort of suburban-mom (I am neither), with black Keds
and pink socks demonstrating meditative attention to detail. Its too
coordinated, I realize now, like a first-time air traveler who wears a wool
suit and brings a blowup pillow and snacks.
I believe the masters call this state of mind chattering
monkey.
Mercifully, the class finally begins. We troop into the gym and
unfurl our mats (me meekly squatting to unfold) while the teacher puts on soft,
Indian music and dims the lights. In a pleasantly neutral way, its
seductive and even more so when he begins to speak, shyly, about his
desire that we all find peace.
By notched degrees, my old phys. ed. anxiety starts to subside. I
am, after all, no longer wearing a one-piece red snap-up gathered at the
thighs, name clumsily embroidered on the back in gold. Nor do I need a note
from my mom, not even to skip the next seven classes.
Yeah, but I have to face my husband, who would mentally tie my
absenteeism to the handlebar of the expensive exercise machine now caddying
mufflers in the basement. Exertion has always been a problem for me.
Ah, the nice, gentle man is talking again, urging us to breathe
our full breath, not try to match anyone elses pace. This I find
especially reassuring: I tend to breathe slowly and once nearly asphyxiated
myself in a romantic attempt to breathe in tandem rhythm.
This is not a competition, the teacher says firmly.
Some of you will want to move on to the full postures. Others may find
the first stretches challenging enough. Listen to your own body and follow it.
If your muscles want to stretch a certain way, do that instead of whatever
Im saying to do.
I roll over on my mat and sit up in amazement. An exercise teacher
devoid of ego? An athletic event in which I need not tear someone elses
eyes out? A chance to listen to my own body and not someone elses
unattainable goals for its rehabilitation?
Settling back against the mat again, I press my shoulder blades
toward the earth and breathe really, really deeply. I feel the same glow I felt
at a blues festival, when after years of knowing, with sour-stomached sureness,
that I couldnt dance, I started swaying unconsciously, broad-hipped and
happy and noticed that my mothers lithe, light-footed Ginger
Rogers body hadnt a clue how to move sinuously. Dancing, I decided then,
is not something you can or cannot do. Its simply a matter of finding
your music.
So maybe exercise is not medieval torture for bookworms but simply
a matter of finding the motions that suit you.
Mr. Z. would hate that. Our P.E. teacher in the primary grades,
Mr. Z. (who had an unpronounceable ethnic last name and relished being called
by the last letter of the alphabet) was a hearty, beer-bellied, whistle-blowing
fascist who loved nothing more than to poke in your tummy, whack your backbone
straight and yell at you to tuck your tail under. Not being a doe, I had no
idea how to execute the maneuver, let alone any of the thousand other tortures
he goaded us to perform at the puff of a whistle.
Competition no doubt comes easy to you athletic types. I had the
luck of being utterly uncoordinated, smaller than the other kids in my class,
an only child untrained in physical combat. Mr. Z. was my idea of Sartres
Other, and I avoided his eyes whenever possible.
Now, from the vantage point of whats supposed to be
maturity, I listen to the gentle yoga teacher and ask myself, Why
couldnt it have been like this always? Why didnt someone whisper to
me, Dont worry, this just isnt your thing, instead of
urging me to heave my chubby body toward that leather horse for the 450th time?
Why do we, year after year, make our children miserable so somebody can
win?
The scorecard follows us for the rest of our lives. Measure your
performance constantly; compare yourself with everyone you meet; squint
anxiously at the electronic board, desperate to see how youre doing.
Even our economy relies on a certain percentage of unemployed
losers to remain solvent. We are so conditioned to this
fight-or-flight, win-or-lose adrenaline that its become a self-fulfilling
prophecy. If you drained away the competitive ambition, people probably would
spend the day idling in a hammock. Nothing else inspires us.
What would happen, I wonder as I humbly bend my head toward my
calf, unbothered by a 7-inch gap only masochism could close what would
happen if all the Fortune 500 CEOs took a yoga class together? What if
the new mission statement emphasized peace, flow, flexibility, sensitivity,
relaxation, creativity and harmony? What if they took deep, full, satisfying
breaths every time they felt like firing somebody?
Most Americans cant even think about the prospect without
hyperventilating. In Going to Pieces Without Falling Apart, Dr. Mark
Epstein, a Zen Buddhist psychoanalyst, calls our problem psychological
materialism. This constant, competitive effort to build up a bigger,
better, more self-sufficient self leads everyone to be afraid of everyone
else, he tells me, because everyone else is still a threat. And a
lot of our unhappiness flows from that.
People in this society are overvigilant, he says.
We are led to believe we have to be mobilized all the time, vigilant,
ready for the next challenge. Poised for the relay baton, ready to run
for our lives.
Instead of gently stretching.
Jeannette Batz is a staff writer at The Riverfront Times
an alternative newspaper in St. Louis.
National Catholic Reporter, March 19,
1999
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