an honest yoga story by Marco Martens
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Experiences
Natasha Thompson from Move Along Studio invited me to take some yoga classes based on my Ritalin Reports. You guessed it: I ran into it myself. (But how well she does that!)
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Lesson 1: the toes
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Shortly before class, I write a draft message to unsubscribe. I don't send it: every argument I can think of for not going (the to-do list, the restlessness in my head, the physical condition of my body) is a stronger argument for going. I see no other way out than to suffer my fate and report to the mat. Fortunately, Yin Yoga is the friendly variant, I read on the website.
Natasha predicted that after a few hours I would feel it. So afterwards I went to the office just a little too alert. A major revelation does not come, but I notice that, in a positive sense, I can no longer get anything out of my fingers. My body has thrown itself into the relaxed position it needed. The exercises helped me get out of my head. It is that other side that I sometimes saw, but never reached. I sometimes hear my body calling to dare to cross the road, but I don't feel comfortable listening to my body. I know, secretly; yet I fail to see the physical domain as mine.
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We lie on our backs on our mats and from that position should bring our legs above our face, the knees above the nose. I've come a long way, but I'm forcing a few arm muscles; I think I hear something snap. I roll back onto my back. In any case, I had succeeded. Natasha saw it: "The tension you use to get into this pose, try to let it go." When pronouncing the word "tension," her face and her fists contract. It's not about how far I could stretch my body, but purely about the way in which.
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I met Natasha by writing about my Ritalin experiences. We took a walk and talked about our experiences: she from her role as mother, me from my busy head. She showed me her new yoga studio, due for completion later this year. She asked if I didn't even want to participate and then write about my experiences. I swallowed. Everything in my body screamed: No! But I already told you that I don't understand my body well. So before I had really considered the choice, I agreed.
I sometimes forget that a state of relaxation brings more than my desire for control. And I'm afraid my head isn't the only thing that goes a little too often with intended results. Again I raise my legs in the air. My toes don't come as far as they did on my first attempt. "If so!" says Natasha. The pressure on my shoulders distributed over the mat to keep my body in balance. I look at my feet, the high ceiling, and resolve to step on my toes a little less.
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Marco Martens
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part 2
After my second and final yoga class, Natasha asked if she would see me again on the mat. I answered no, but promised to write something beautiful based on the insight gained. She didn't even think it was that important, she said: "As long as you remember."
Lesson 2: clown pose
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Before the start, Natasha texts that the class will take place outside. I'm about to collapse: my son's feverish night had cost me mine too. It doesn't help that Ashtanga Yoga is waiting for me: the more intensive form, I understood.
I text Natasha how I feel and hope she will spare me. Instead, she writes, "Cape on and fly." Exhausted, I drag my limbs to the quay.
With a tired body on a worn city bike I turn the corner just too late. Natasha laughs: she knew I wouldn't dare stay at home. Four ladies with hairs up or high tails make their arms a straight line that starts on the mat and points towards the setting sun. I roll out my wife's mat and try to hook it up. Where the ladies follow Natasha's instructions smoothly, I need an extra thinking step. I watch their attitudes in an attempt to copy them. In the meantime, I explicitly try not to give the impression that it is their buttocks that I am looking at.
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I don't have to look far to discover the limits of my body. During gym classes and sports days, I learned a clown pose that cultivates my inability. I manage to avert that mode today. Also when I try to envision the downward facing dog. I try to ignore the belief that I am not made for this.
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The surroundings continue to attract my attention: the boats, the cyclists, the footsteps of walkers in the gravel. Who are they? What do I say to them if they are acquaintances of mine? A middle-aged man walks by in a purple shirt and blue gym shorts. His sleeves tighten around his bloated upper arms. He pulls up on a fitness machine. Natasha sees me looking at him and laughs, "Did you see how he walks? It doesn't help him."
It's the language that tries to be precise. As if the feeling only starts where Natasha mentions it. How turning a hip flows into your arms, Natasha knows my muscles better than I do, there are laws in my body that I didn't learn to read.
I don't really enjoy the exercises, but they at least show the way out of my head.
We stretch out on our mats and stare at the clouds. We are five minutes. Ten? I do not know. I hear the footsteps of Natasha placing cups of tea next to us. The footsteps of passers-by have faded into the background. The tiredness gave way to energy. "That which we avoid," whispers Natasha, "often we need the most."
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Marco Martens
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