Tag: outdoor yoga

Senior Woman Seen Doing Flips!

An ad for one of the national EV charging networks shows a woman doing tree pose while her car charges. It seemed like a good idea to me, except for standing beside the charger. The charging station at the Dona Ana County Government office center in Las Cruces is right next to a busy street and in full sun. I plugged in my car and found a quiet, shaded place for yoga, a large, recessed area between the county offices and the sheriff’s department. I took off my hat and left it on the paved floor, then did basic standing poses (Warrior One, Warrior Two, and related poses), then some one-legged standing balance poses. I was right side up, which matters later. For seated poses, I moved to a bench, since I didn’t want to sit on the pavement. Then I collected my hat and returned to my car, relaxed and refreshed, but sneezing.

I was sitting with the door open taking a stinging nettle capsule for allergies when suddenly there were people outside my car. Two sheriff’s deputies, a young woman and a very large man.

The woman wanted to know what I was doing. I thought, “Oh my gosh, do they think I’m using drugs?” Alarmed, I said, “I’m taking my allergy medication.” I’d already swallowed it and couldn’t show it was a harmless herb.

“Someone reported that you were doing flips, and they wanted to know that you were all right.”

Flips? I got out of my car. “I was doing yoga. I was stretching. I didn’t flip.”

“This person was worried about you. You left your bag.”

“I didn’t have a bag. I’d put my hat down.”

“We needed to check that you’re okay.”

So, I executed a deep forward bend with straight knees, hands flat on the ground, then repeated the three one-legged balances in sequence, never putting the second foot down as I made the transitions. “I did that. I think that means I’m okay, right?

The female deputy said, “Yeah, I can’t do that.”

“Okay, then?”

They allowed that I was and left.

Yoga with Cats

I had watered the plants before I did my practice in the sun, and the one-eyed tom cat slipped under the fence and lapped at the puddle where I’d dragged the hose across the flagstones to water the pomegranates. Part of his tail was missing as well as one of his eyes. I was surprised to see him stay so long. Strangely, he wasn’t timid like he used to be. While I did my yoga practice, paying close attention to my alignment, to my breath, to my presence in the moment, he came closer, stood nearby, and meowed relentlessly. I realized that he, like other cats I’ve known, wanted to be part of this.

I once taught at a yoga studio that had resident cats. During my personal practice there, the one named Shakti would participate in any pose in which she could place herself with a gentle leap onto my body. Without ever using her claws, she would get on the thigh of my front leg in warrior one or on my back while I was in child’s pose, a warm breathing sandbag. When I was in a pose in which she couldn’t participate, she would meow pitifully until she could make contact with me again. (She inspired the scene in Death Omen where Gasser joins Jamie in yoga.)

Another cat with whom I did yoga belonged to my landlords next door when I rented a little house out in the country in Bertie County, North Carolina. (For people who like trivia about my books, the place I rented is Yolanda’s house in Shadow Family, the old one-room schoolhouse.) Fluffy, a long-haired calico, used to come to the porch for yoga. I think cats are drawn to the positive energy, to a human who is serene and grounded and stretching.

One-eyed Tom kept looking at me with his one eye. I tried not to look at the other, thinking, what happened? Don’t your people take care of you? The neighbors had been feeding him, but had they taken him to the vet, done anything for him? I wanted so much to pet him, but I’d read about a man in England who got some horrible rare disease from petting an unfamiliar cat on the street, and after that I vowed that I would stop petting the friendly, half-feral cats that roam T or C.

One-eyed Tom stared. He mewed and coiled to jump up on the chair that I was using as a prop. But I moved just enough to discourage him. He stuck around, though. When I finished my practice, he settled down in the cat loaf position in the sun and did his savasana while I did mine.

I looked at him more closely when I sat up. His face didn’t have the big tom cat look anymore, and his injured eye was no longer leaking and oozing. It was just gone. I think he’s been to the vet finally, and that his people who feed him tamed him enough to care of him. I owed him an apology. Should he try again, I’ll let him join more fully in my yoga.

 

Indirect Effects: The Beauty of the Partial Eclipse

Seventy-six percent eclipsed, the New Mexico sun was still bright. Of course, I didn’t look at it, but the blue-skied day seemed to have barely dimmed at all. I went as I do every Monday to teach an outdoor yoga class. The garden around the patio where we practice is carpeted with the blooming succulents in pink, red, and orange. Class is ordinarily accompanied by the gentle drone of bees. But the ice plants had closed their flowers tight, and not a single bee lingered. A sudden cold breeze came up.

As the hour-long class progressed, warmth returned. At the end, I guided deep relaxation and then sat in silence, focusing on a single flower to see if I could detect its petals opening. I couldn’t. Yet when I looked away and glanced back few seconds later, the petals’ position had subtly changed.

After class, I watered the fruit trees in the garden. The ice plant flowers were wide open, their yellow centers shining back at the sun, welcoming the bees.

A Mistake—or Was It?

I meant to go shopping in Las Cruces, an hour away. I was waffling about stopping at Caballo Lake State Park, a short way from home on my way south. It was such a beautiful day, I gave in to the urge. At the park’s EV charging station, I looked for my Charge Point card and found … no wallet. I’d left it at home. One of the perils of changing purses too often.

If I’d driven straight to Las Cruces, and not stopped to indulge in outdoor beauty and top off my charge, I’d have wasted my day. I might not have discovered the missing wallet until I had all my items at the checkout. I don’t even want to imagine that scenario. I considered going home for my wallet, but that would be twenty minutes each way. I gave up.

There’s a number on the station to call for starting a charge, so I called it, changed into my running shoes, and enjoyed the winding trails. Then I walked down to the lake. Smooth and blue, it was speckled with white pelicans, gliding along with gentle pumping and pulsing motions of their necks. A few men were fishing on the shore. A restful view.

I strolled back up to the area near the visitors’ center and found a sheltered place for stretching out with yoga, then sat on a bench near my car to relax in the sun.

A park ranger stopped by to chat about electric cars, one of those incredibly nerdy conversations only of interest to current or prospective EV owners, but fascinating to us. Charge completed, I drove home even more carefully than usual because I didn’t have my license with me—and far more refreshed than if I’d gone shopping.

 

 

Whoo!

About once every two years, I encounter another runner on the trail. Mostly there are dog-walkers in the fall and winter, and no other humans in the spring and summer. Last week, the rare runner approached, and he didn’t just say hi and pass, he grinned and whooped.

He wasn’t a kid—there was gray in his beard. I guessed he was visiting from some snowy place. He wore a tank top while I wore long sleeves and gloves. Escaping to the sun and the desert, he had to be in a state of pure delight. We passed again on the next lap of the loop—at almost exactly the same spot, going in opposite directions at equal speed. He whooped again, raising his hand in a high-five. “Good job!” My cheering section. “You too,” I said.

His exuberance got me thinking about joy. About letting go into the moment. Not taking for granted this experience I have four times a week that was such an exhilarating treat for him. And he celebrated our mutual awesomeness as senior runners still at it. As I ran on, I slipped into my inner “whoo!” zone.

I’ve done it since even without his cheers. Yesterday, I spent two laps mentally fussing with my volunteer work’s to-do list and was about to stop early to deal with it. But then my inner whooper turned around and ran for another half hour, dumping the to-dos and choosing freedom. Then I went back to town and dealt with it all. Today after I taught my outdoor yoga class, I watered the plants (that’s how I pay rent for my “studio”) and instead of going home to get on with the endless list, I gave in to the urge to do my own practice before I even rolled up the hose. I’d only had time for a short warm-up before class. This long, spontaneous practice under the brilliant blue sky was bliss. More om than whoo, but a good bit of both.

Space to Breathe

I’ve been teaching yoga outdoors for two years now, renting the patio and back yard of a friend’s Airbnb property on weekdays. Hot yoga in the summer, windy vata yoga in the spring with weights anchoring my mat, blissful perfect-weather yoga in the fall, and slightly chilly yoga in the winter. It’s not bad at midday as long as we’re in the sun. Bees still hum in the ice plants, low-growing succulents that bloom year-round.

I’ve come to appreciate the spaciousness of being under the sky and hearing the sounds of the world around us. Not only the bees, but the birds fluttering in a tree next door and for some reason occasionally whacking into the metal fence. Neighborhood noises such as a passing car or a barking dog. Life surrounding us. I don’t miss being in a studio. Where I teach now, people who see my yoga website or get a referral from someone in town have to ask for directions, and I get to know them on the phone before they come to class. I can check with them privately about health concerns.

Of course, it’s the pandemic that moved my teaching outdoors, and not all my former students have wanted to do an outdoor class. I have to accept that. Will I ever teach indoors again? Will they take my classes again? Perhaps. But I don’t fantasize going back to everything the way it used to be.

I heard an interview with a man who volunteers to help at disaster sites like the recent tornadoes in Kentucky. He said people often tell him, “Nothing will ever be the same.” He doesn’t deny it. But he also says, “That doesn’t mean it will be bad.”