Church Yoga
Twice weekly I attend Church Yoga. I call it “Church Yoga” because the venue is the house of worship up the block.
Ah, yoga, that tranquil stretching discipline. Ah, discipline. As a yoga student I’m supposed to sit still for an hour, but I get distracted. The gray-haired guru directs us to choose an intention for our practice. My intention is to keep my mouth shut.
While Instructor Barb chats about Prana wisdom and layers of our spiritual psyches, I note the airy room's conversion from sanctuary to all-purpose room. Five, tall, stained- glass windows line the walls of the three-car-length second-floor room. Below the windows are bulletin boards with headlines and photo collages of congregation members with constipated smiles. A few minutes later, Barb clicks on an audiocassette of discordant chanting at a decibel level just below a dog whistle.
Between poses I glance up at church news on the corkboards. Next to snapshots of newcomers at Fellowship Coffee carrying paper plates loaded with white food, I learn that proceeds from Preschool Donut Days benefit the church's Appalachian Effort.
You kids eat these glazed, puffy, trans-fat circles, and your parents will donate to poor people who married their sisters.
On yet another expanse of brown board are large numbers and letters "44 A.D." with crisscross dotted lines that represent–I don't know–Moses on the Desert Ark Casino? I want to rearrange the letters in "Liturgical Worship" to “Turgid Warship” and “Pastors’ Ministeries” to “Pastors’ Miniseries.”
Instructor Barb. I know she’s wise; she has grey hair. Yoga helped her overcome some horrific condition. Midriff bulge maybe?Barb invented yoga poses and gave them goofy names: Outward Bound Dog, Coffee Table Cobra, Pose of a Boat Child.
The whole church-y experience brings me back to first grade at St. Mary's Catholic Church in Racine, Wisconsin. Nancy Putz, Barb Thielen and I have to sit still for the hour-plus High Mass, and keep elbow-free the back of the pew in front of us.
Sure, you kids are six-years-old, but here at Fear, Guilt and Shame Academy, we want you to get used to the fact that life is hard.
While I contemplate the absence of dust-bunnies on the dark pine floor, it hits me: Forty-some years later, I don't have to sit in the back pew with a nun if I blurt out something inappropriate. Or crunch the Red Hots® candy in my mouth. (Nothing makes a boring sermon go down more smoothly than sucking on candy when you're not supposed to or you'll go to hell.)
At the end of class, we middle-aged, stretchy-Capri-pant-wearing women bow our heads. Our chakras are aligned and we’re ready to face our respective days. For the moment, everything seems all right with the world. I feel I may leave class, finda sunlight-dappled field and leapingthrough daisies with assorted small children.
As the group says as one, "Namaste,” I roll my eyes. Seriously. Uttering this word as if we’d be equally comfy on an ashram in Delhi.
In spite of my grumblings and mental self-dialogue, I have come to enjoy church yoga, so much so that I'm a regular. And, I have to admit that afterward, I feel calmer than when I arrived, feeling as tight as my rolled up bright blue mat. Plus my midriff bulge is improving.
Today Instructor Barb's parting words were, "We are all one. So when you run into difficult people today, remember: We are all one."
Yeah, that’s gonna’ happen.
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