We took class twice a day with very little sleep, packed into a room like sardines in a can, in scorching temperatures and humidity so thick you could see it hanging wet and stagnant for more than our own mental, physical and emotional growth; we raked ourselves over the coals of hell and back so we could understand, as much as possible, the spectrum of what students experience in their practice. Some of us became severely dehydrated and were carried out of the room to be given an IV; a few of us seized up in a paralytic state as a result of electrolyte imbalance; more than a couple of trainees tossed their cookies in and directly outside of the room; most of us (at some point) had to sit or lie down in the middle of a class; almost all of us got called out by Bikram for giving less than we were capable of or even giving too much. In the end, no matter the age, size, shape, background, level of fitness or years of practice, 90 percent of us made it through 11 classes a week for nine weeks.
The worst teachers are the ones who forget what they went through to be given the privilege of teaching this yoga; the ones who take their own practice for granted. To be good at anything requires practice -- and commitment. How am I supposed to take care of students if I'm not intimately acquainted with both their triumphs and challenges?
A couple of days ago (I believe in balance and have come to see the weekend as a time in which rich food and martinis replace sweating it out in the hot box) I decided to practice sick; normally this would not be a big deal at all, apart from the fact that this particular illness was a pretty intense, feverish, snot waterfall, can't-breath- through-my-nose situation. I'd been feeling like death warmed up all week and having only practiced once, I thought I'd better get my butt on the mat; not such a hot idea after all.
I stood in the centre of my towel, with my toes and heels together, interlaced my ten fingers, tried to inhale through my nose and drowned halfway through the first breath. I got stuck halfway. I was stricken with panic, as I sputtered my way through the last three seconds. After calming down, I swallowed a couple of times and made another attempt at inhaling through my nose -- nothing. Visions of looking up at the instructor apologetically and sheepishly making my way out of the room crept into my mind. Eventually, I slowed my breathing down (the tortoise always wins the race right?), pushed past the panic, the room cooled a bit and my breath began to move a little smoother.
What seemed like moments later, lying in final savasana, overcome with relief that I hadn't needed to leave the room (or suffocated, requiring Aimee to hop off the podium and give me CPR), I thought, there's a time to "push, push, push" and a time to "take it easy honey." For the first time, I really understood what it's like for people who say they simply can't breathe in the room (like my husband whom I thought was being lazy when he told me his deviated septum made it impossible for him to enjoy Bikram). I had never experienced panic in the room before, and, unable to nose-breathe, been powerless to dampen it.
Being of the disposition to generally only partake in things that are more pleasure than pain, this particular experience in the "torture chamber" that, for the first time, actually felt like torture was one of learning. If you need a little tlc and you know you have a better chance finding it on the couch watching Pride and Prejudice with a box of kleenex and a cup of tea, no problem; take it easy honey.
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