Survival of the Hottest

I’m lying on my back, gazing at a ceiling fan that is apparently on. I see it turning, but I feel nothing of its effects. My heart is pounding in my ears, nearly drowning out the sound of the large industrial heaters that are cranked to 105 degrees. Sweat is pouring across my skin as though someone were standing above me with a fire hose.

I wish they were.

Did I mention it’s hot?

Someone asked me the other day how I liked Bikram Yoga. My response? “Well, other than the struggle to survive without passing out or throwing up, it’s pretty great.”

For an hour and a half we do a set series of postures–twice. I’ve done it a few times now, and it’s changing me. I have some tightness in my middle back and some compression in my lower spine, and if I don’t practice yoga, I’m in constant pain. The crippling kind. Since doing this insane style of yoga, I am better.

I remind myself of that while I’m lying there wondering if the fan is really on or if I’m hallucinating. Somewhere off in the distance, I vaguely hear the teacher crack the window open, and almost instantly feel a cool breeze wash across my body. I gulp it in with gratitude. There’s something about being taken to the edge that makes you weak with relief when something nice happens to you. I suddenly love that teacher.

Except for the occasional “get me the hell out of here” and “help me, God” prayers, my mind stops when I’m in Bikram. That’s the best part. And when I leave, I feel peaceful and contented (especially after a shower and a huge bottle of cold water). It’s like taking a Quaalude, but infinitely better. In the afterglow, I love my life. I love everyone. Everything is okay.

Red Dragon

Bikram San Rafael

Yoga !08

Rusty Morning

Bingeing on Sex in the City the night before a Rusty Wells yoga class is not such a smart yogic thing to do. The monster hangover from gobbling down a disc of six episodes (the siren call of Carrie and her friends keeps me up until 2am) and demands coffee when disturbed from its recuperative slumber at 7am.

Humbly obeying since I want to keep the monster in check so I can handle the 40 minute drive and 15 minute wait in line to get in the door, I drink, oh maybe, 2 or 3 cups of Peet’s coffee (in my defense–small cups)

Black.

Then drive to the San Francisco to take the hardest yoga class EVER with 100 or so other crazy people. But Rusty’s also the nicest guy EVER (and the only one I know who can get away with playing tambourine), so I can’t help but love being there even though I know I am going to be silently screaming for the torture to stop for nearly the entire length of the two-hour class while trying to appear placid and yogically serene to all who might happen to look my way.

By the time I leave the class, there’s so much adrenaline coursing though my body, I feel like the next big earthquake has occurred right inside my chest.

Is all this sweating and striving and spectacle yoga?

Yes, yes, I say. This is yoga. Limits and freedom and surrender and action wringing out the stress and fear knotted and threaded deep inside every bit of flesh I inhabit in a glorious gush of release. I am stronger than I know, softer than I know. I wonder at the me I am now. But more importantly, I wonder at you–your beauty and light and humanity–and I love you.

Amazed at the relief and ease and space flooding my being. Carrying me through my day. Washed clean and pure and kind.

Who needs coffee?

Happy Hour Flow with Janet Stone

What’s more fun than being in a room of a hundred people moving, chanting, laughing, sweating and praying through 2 hours of yoga?

Nothing.

Velvet-voiced alchemist Janet Stone rocks the house every Friday at 6pm at Yoga Flow with a groove that sweeps out a week’s worth of kaleidescopic tension from deadlines, housework, childcare, meals, uh, everything.