On the Road to Dubruvinik

I have started taking advanced classes to prepare for Dubrovnik. What a surprise, this has led to more epic falling! In deference to the fact that this blog is turning into a regular bloopers reel, I will attempt to convey the massive FAIL that was this, most recent, fall. 

I attempted, with the guidance of the oh-so-generous teachers* to stand up from a backbend (with both feet and hands on the floor) by simply** using my core muscles to lift me up. 

I did not get into this backbend to cool way (from standing), rather, I pushed myself up from the ground like you do in grade-school gym class. Once I was in this back-bend arc the instructor asked if I could stand up. I knew I couldn't because I have tried it countless times. However, I have this part of me, which is turning out to be rather helpful, that says, "let's see" whenever a teacher asks me if I can do something. They could pretty much say, "Now levitate!" (which they have) and I will honestly give it my best shot (which I have). Sometimes the results are better than expected, most times not. I have yet to levitate.*** 

It seems to me that the times I fall over are well worth the 1% of the time that I don't. 

With a plethora of helpful hints and a whole ton of cheerleading, I managed to pull off the most awkward, flailing, catapulted reverse of a pose ever. I rocked, rolled, pushed, launched forward, very briefly passed through a standing position, and flopped onto the floor. Once I found myself stationary I proudly looked up from the floor -- exactly opposite my previous position on the floor -- and beamed, "I did it!"

A brief encounter with the goal of standing

A reunion with the floor

The other, much more advanced yogis in the room, did not cringe but only suggested that I try "grounding myself." In other words, sink the heels in, flex the correct muscles and next time manage to end up standing when attempting to stand. I like to call this "finessing" the pose. 

*Seriously, these guys are awesome. I have no idea what I am doing yet nobody seems irked at the extra attention I need. Everyone has been super nice, even joking with me about how great Im doing when I manage to wrangle myself into a pose. Such a great group. <3

**Please note the massive sarcasm.

***Yes, this is a joke, I am not a 'floating yogi' or whatever that sect is called. It seems really odd that I feel the need to clarify that.

Headplant!

In my continuing quest to discover every possible way to fall out of each pose I have, yet again, managed to fall directly on my cranium. I can see a pattern developing. I hope it does not develop into brain damage. 

I have recently received a modification to fixed firm pose. This is, although a great experience, not entirely surprising. My knees, unlike my spine, have the same genetic code as Gumby.

In this slight modification one sits, hips on the floor between your legs, puts their hands on their feet, looks up and traces a line back to the wall, eventually touching your head to the floor. Sounds normal enough, but notice what I left out -- lowering yourself down with one elbow at a time. I now get to attempt to lower myself back with no assistance. It has to be pure core muscle lowering me onto the ground. I don't really have the core muscles trained yet though; they have no idea what to do without my elbows guiding them. 

I start the pose like normal. I can see the ground. Just two more thumb-widths to the ground.

Hello, floor! Fancy seeing you here!

At exactly two inches from the ground my brain begins sudden rapid communication with my body.

Body: I have no idea where to put my hands!
Brain: On your feet, dummy!
Body: Where the heck are those? Ak! Which way is down? Where is the floor!?
Brain: You are LOOKING at it! How have you survived this long?

My hands flail, I lose track of the ground. My tummy muscles give up and release, probably just to prove to my body that the ground is still the direction gravity pulls. 

Oh dear, floor! I am SO confused!

The two inches between my head and the floor become a monumental gap. I hit the floor with the speed indicative of a fall from a dizzying height rather than a pathetic two-inch gap. I lay there laughing. Possibly this is delirium. 

Floor, great to see you. We simply must do this again sometime!

Now the work begins. I have to get myself back up from the ground, again with no elbows. I repeat the process backwards, hands flailing, tummy muscles flexing, giving up, flexing, laughing. 

I am not entirely sure I have been given this posture for the reasons I outlined above. It has occurred to me that the floor series is quite boring for teachers. It seems to me likely they needed a floor show to liven things up. I am happy to oblige. 

Introduction to Princess Sidney, the Perpetually Annoyed

I am owned by an adorable, spoiled rotten princess who's only reason for having not taken over the planet is that she lacks the necessary opposable thumbs. Her name is Sidney. All 7 pounds of her little fuzzy existence is devoted to following me around, ensuring that I am not doing anything that messes up her living space.

Every morning my alarm goes off too early for my liking, although later than most of the rest of the world. I hit snooze. This is Sidney's cue to leave the closet of my home office and join me for the last 15 minutes of cuddle time. She lies down on my back or belly, depending on which is facing up, and purrs so contentedly as to drip a drool puddle onto my comforter. She is the reason I had to purchase a fancy duvet cover, so I could wash the darned thing of cat drool regularly. I know the drool doesn't magically stop at the cover and the down-alternative beneath must be getting soaked too. I try not to think of this. I suggest you do the same.

15 minutes later the alarm sounds again and I slap at it until it silences. Sidney happily jumps off the bed and rushes ahead of me to the bathroom. The Boy and I keep the bathroom door closed so Sidney can't spend all night drooling on the sink waiting for one of us to go to the bathroom and turn on the faucet. She loves drinking from the bathroom sink and will spend all day there patiently waiting if we let her. The Boy gets annoyed at the hair and I can't help but think that, although it makes her happy, sitting on the sink 24 hours a day can not be good for anyone's mental development. As such, this is the first opportunity of the day she gets to be truly happy with her beloved faucet.

Once I am done brushing my teeth, showering and banging my head against the wall (mornings are not my strong suit) I open the door, point and grunt. She gets the idea and hops off the sink and trots out ahead of me. She lingers at my feet as I make a green juice and tea if I am ambitious,  whatever seems easy and tea if I am not. Then, off to the office, a whole 30 feet away. Sidney sits in my lap, which is folded into lotus or criss-cross, ensuring the princess has adequate lap space to unfold herself.

I tell you all of this so you get the general idea that my cat and I are very used to each other. Like an old married couple, we have come to our compromises, roll our eyes at the other's perceived shortcomings and begrudgingly alter our routines to accommodate the other's needs. Everything goes very smoothly until a new interest or hobby is introduced, like yoga poses in the home.

Much to Sidney's displeasure, I have taken to trying headstands, with the eventual goal of Tiger Scorpion. Very eventual. I am pretty sure I've got a shot at the pose if I can just figure out how to lift my head up. While I am aware that lifting your head is not the most challenging part of the posture, I get the definite impression that this tiny movement will take me so long to grasp that by the time my head is lifted, I will have been practicing for 19 years and the rest of the pose will fall into place.* By then, I plan on having such a great backbend I look like one of those Chinese gymnasts cultivated from the womb or something.

At any rate, here I am, fairly regularly, placing my forearms on either side of my head, and slowly lifting my legs up into the air. Once vertical, I visualize my head lifting off the floor. Slowly, I move my eyes in the direction I want to go. Flop. Try again. Flop. Try again. Flop. No worries. Again. Flop.

After a few very discouraging attempts at moving my head I decide to just hold a headstand. Maybe all I need is a really strong headstand. I get up, hold it for less than a second and inevitably my little Lucy Ricardo trots over to see why I am not petting her. The balancing act that I am so carefully honing impresses my little one not at all. In fact, with my hands so close to her level, why in the world aren't they attending to their duties i.e. petting her? She, I kid you not, starts head-butting me. In the head. I have to squint because her fur and whiskers are poking me in the eyes.

Not only does it take extreme concentration to keep the pose up with a cat head-butting you, but she is also circling my arms and head, which is dangerously close to where my body would come down should I fall. I get a tickle in my nose. Probably from one of the stray cat-hairs she has just thrust up there. It is clear I am going down. In a desperate attempt to clear my precious from the crash zone, I blow as hard as I can on her face. She looks annoyed, but not so much as to run away. Well, crud. Here we go. Whump! Down I come, narrowly avoiding her tiny form as it dashes out of harm's way.

You would think this harrowing escape from death would be a learning experience. Not so with my wee idiot savant. The next day she is there again, head-butting me in the face. Bless her. She will make sure I get my balance one of these days.

Believe it or not, this is actually a step in the right direction. I, at one point, did backbends at home instead. She liked to hang out, to lay down in fact, between my feet and hands, making it impossible to come down. I have literally been in backbends staring upside-down at her screaming, "PLEASE move! I can't come out of this with you there! Sidney!... Damn it!...Jeff! Can you come in here and get the cat!?!"

Sidney strives to accurately convey her level of extreme apathy toward my discomfort.

Sigh. As I said, I am owned by one spoiled rotten princess.

*If you are about to tell me that this is not, in fact, how yoga works, I have just stuck my fingers in my ears and am loudly proclaiming, "LALALALA...I'm Not Listening!...LALALALA!"

P.S. If you read this far, I assume you are also a cat fan. So, I feel I can share this with you, compliments of the best cute-cultivator EVAR, Bleu Caldwell, YOGA KITTEH!!! http://happybiscuits.posterous.com/yoga-cat

Enjoy, yogis, enjoy.

RE: Your natural ability to correct yourself.

As you may know, I am training for the Illinois Asana Championships. This involves finding two 'freestyle' poses. These poses can be any pose from the advanced series. A feat complicated by the fact that I have never taken an advanced class. A friend and fellow competitor has had the privilege of being able to yell, "Cock!" on stage for the last several years under the guise that his posture is called that. Being thrilled with the idea of screaming "COCK!" to an audience without being thrown from the stage, I wanted to try my hand at the pose.

A teacher I highly admire was giving me some pointers last week. Showing me how to lean forward into the pose, the teacher encouraged me to lean forward as far as I could onto my palms. "When you feel like you may fall forward tighten your belly and pull up. Don't worry that you will fall forward, you will catch yourself before you do." he said, helpfully.

I pointed out that I had, not one week earlier, tried a transition into crow pose from standing. In this transition, when another teacher said, "Now lean forward and bend your elbows down just a bit." My elbows bent, wiggled a bit and gave way. I collapsed, face-first, into the floor. I heard a little 'pop' when as my nose hit, but there was no blood. Which is good because, out of embarrassment, I quickly threw myself up to standing, hands above head and shouted, "Im okay! Everything's good!" This would have looked even more ridiculous had there been blood streaming from my face.

One week prior:

The teacher was unmoved by my story of peril. In fact, it proved his point. "See," he explained happily, "you stopped yourself with your face!"

I am now absolutely sure that the fact that I am frightened of neither the instructor nor the pose verifies that I am mentally deficient.