For those of you that have been following my blog for some years now, you'll know that whilst I lived in the US I was a keen yoga student. I would go to practice at the studio a couple of times a week (not much, but enough to develop my practice). Since my arrival in Edinburgh eighteen months ago, I've not managed to do any yoga at all. Primarily because I've not discovered a teacher and studio and primarily because I've managed to find a gazillion other things and excuses as to why I can't.
I did briefly pop along to a session in a church hall but...well, I think the venue may have said it all. It was snooze-time yoga for octogenarians and, fresh from my Vinyasa flow, I was in need of faster things! "More fluidity!" I cried.
Finally I did find a studio, and in my infinite wisdom, signed myself up for a ten week course of led Ashtanga.
I had great visions of a svelte figure, inner peace, finding a flat tummy (it's a never ending quest!) and being able to get back to doing crane pose and head stand, which I'd mastered before I left.
She had me moving through the first five standing poses with grace and flexibility, (on her part - wobbles and shakes on mine) until I really regretted the decision I'd made to eat my tuna sandwich before the class started and began mentally assessing the exits and carpeted areas that needed avoiding, in case I felt the need to share this with her.
By the time we reached Savasana an hour later, I knew I'd arrived at the poor man's version of yoga Nidra without effort. "Try not to think about anything you need to do, relax your mind, allow yourself to feel heavy" she crooned. Who was she kidding? Time to die I think!