Sasee Magazine

I am a yogini.

Given that the word first conjured for me images of a goofy cartoon bear and a language-mangling baseball player, it will come as no surprise that I am not the coolest yogini on the mat.

But I know that I am one, because Karin, my younger and uber-cool sister of the spirit, says so, deeming me not only a yogini, but a beautiful one as well.

I so readily defer to the wisdom of youth.

Simply put, a yogini is the female counterpart of the male yogi; both are practitioners of yoga. But, embodied in these concepts is so much more than the ability to strike and hold interesting poses. Yoginis are seekers of transcendence and enlightenment, independent women with steadfast minds, capable of being both devotional and demure and fiercely passionate. They are vibrant to the point of fiery exuberance, yet also gracefully outspoken. As they become more insightful and spiritually powerful, some yoginis are able to transcend the normal aging process.

No one arrives at all that overnight, and truly, I have only just begun. The path that brought me here, however, reaches back years, perhaps decades, to all those times I thought that I ought to do yoga, that it would be good for my mind and my body, that it would bring centering serenity into my oft-chaotic existence. Many of us know all too well what becomes of thoughts that include “ought” and “good for me.” Yes, my dear, they do indeed become pavestones on the highways to Hell.

Yet some of those intentions enjoy a longer shelf-life than others, and that was the case with yoga. When I began researching mindfulness for my master’s thesis, yoga climbed quietly up from “vague idea” status to “actual entry on to-do list.” Guilt helped move this process along. Yoga and mindfulness are not the same thing, but yoga can be one path to mindfulness. If I meant to academically advocate the myriad benefits available through embracing mindfulness, wouldn’t it follow that I might also embrace some of the practices that could help me get there?

This feeling bore great similarity to the twisting unease I felt some years ago, when, as I wrote about politics for a large newspaper, I realized that if my readers discovered I had never registered to vote, my credibility might be somewhat undermined. The day I finally signed my card, I bribed the voter registration clerk with brownies to never tell my dirty secret. Yes, I know “bribery” perhaps reeks worse than “unregistered,” but this was years ago, there are statutes of limitation, and confession is good for the soul.

Vague intention plus guilt plus an actual number created the formula that eventually added up to yoga. The numerical data point came from the evil device that lurks on my bathroom floor – the S-C-A-L-E – a four-letter word if I ever saw one. In truth, the number there has crept up over the years; those dozens of extra pounds did not appear overnight. (Although I do maintain that some of them showed up in pairs and trios between midnight and dawn, courtesy of the Menopause Fairy, that She-Devil who comes in the night with her trowel, like that used by bricklayers for mortar application, slapping globs of fat around the middles of women of a certain age. Much like the mortar, these Gifts from the Nasty Night Nymph are equally hard to budge. But I digress.)

I have enjoyed a delusional relationship with my scale for some years now. As well, I have enjoyed a delusional relationship with the concept of “a few” – as in “a few pounds.” It is true that, for example, the difference between 142 and 145 is “a few,” and it follows that the difference between 145 and 148 is “a few.” But if you add up “a few” and “a few” and a few more “fews” every year, pretty soon what you have is “a truckload of lard.” Or, somewhat more graphically, what once was a six-pack has not only become a case but is now progressing nicely toward keg. The unadulterated truth is this: today’s number is obscene to the point that should it increase by “a few” many more times, I can get a job in the circus. As Dumbo’s girlfriend.

The final fact that completed my transformation into a yogini was the realization that my friends are all, if not outright liars, much too diplomatic for my own good. When in recent years I have lamented my weight gain, they have uttered such replies as “You don’t look to me like you have a weight problem,” and “Well, you don’t look any different to me than you did last time” – which, I am willing to admit, could also mean “You looked fat last time I saw you, and you still do.” Another favorite, of which I myself have been guilty, is to have my stated wish to get into shape met by the response, “Round IS a shape.”

So. About a month ago, I visited my first yoga class, here at our town recreation center. They make it so easy. You don’t have to make a commitment, you can drop in, it’s cheap, you can pay by the class or by the month. Linda, the instructor, is welcoming and low-key and encourages you to do what you can, to rest when you feel the need, to listen to your body, to congratulate yourself on whatever good it is you are able to do for yourself.

Along with a dozen or so other women, and a couple of men, I do every single one of those things now, two nights a week. I am so proud of myself that I don’t know what to do. (Well, I suppose I do; I’m writing about it, aren’t I?)

My new yogini status has paid some other dividends. Just down the hall from the yoga room are the weight training and fitness rooms. After my second yoga class, with trepidation the size of the elephant I was on my way to becoming, I poked my head in. The people didn’t look so threatening, so I brought the rest of me along. I read the instructions on some of the machines and tried them out. It felt good. Translation: Muscles that had not been heard from in years screamed in protest, but the yogini in me calmly and serenely reminded them that this was good for us and that it would hurt less later.

I think inner yoginis sometimes may lie to get what they want, but regardless, she won that round. I have been back every single day since then, except Sunday when the rec center is closed. The first day I went to the weight room, I chuckled to myself at the very idea of the bench press. Not for me, I thought, I will never ever be able to lie down and push a bar bell up and down over my chest. Last week, my proud and growing-stronger yogini decided we needed to ditch ideas like “never able,” so she swallowed my pride and made me try it – with just the bar, no weight. It nearly broke my arms, but I did it. And I kept doing it. And then I added the teeniest tiniest weights they have, and I did it some more. Last night, I bench pressed with 20 pounds on that bar. Yeah, my inner yogini and I hear you laughing, and we don’t care. Go right ahead. We know 20 pounds is not much, but it is more than nothing at all, and we know we are so able to work up to more, and we will do it. Empowerment feels as good as those new abdominal muscles I’m growing.

I am liking the yogini in me, and I am liking her a whole lot. She may still be a baby yogini, but she is growing into all that the concept of yogini embraces. If I have my way – and truly, in such matters, I usually do – she will never stop growing.

Oh, yes, yogini me. Indeed.