It's Getting Hot In Here

11:30 am. Strong, steady, 90-minute sweat session led by a favourite of yours and mine, Dave, the subtle powerhouse.

As I position my toes and heels together in the center of my mat and interlace my fingers for pranayama, I smile. Wobbling a little out of first-set awkward pose, I smile. Dave leads us through the always intense, focused second set of standing head to knee, encouraging normal breathing and a "smiling, happy face" -- I feel the tickle of my lips turning upward as I relax into the tremendous effort and hold solid the posture.

Class becomes dreamlike, as I float calmly through every breath, movement and muscle contraction. I want to be nowhere but in the moment, marveling at how dewy I am -- both in physical appearance and bliss between the ears. I allow a thought into the cloud of content fighting gravity to enable such a lightness in me it may threaten levitation. The question that forms in the air upstairs asks, "Have I done it? Have I gotten to the elusive place in my practice of effortless effort?" Either way, it seems all-too familiar, feeling vaguely reminiscent of another activity I enjoy that makes me sweaty and incredibly relaxed. Ah. So this is why I waltzed into class today, hydrated not by water -- like a good yogi -- but a double mocha with whipped cream -- like Allison.

Come to think of it, I arrive to class "unprepared" often and without apology. Of particular intrigue to me is how my practice seems completely unaffected. I get it now. Inside out, bones to the skin, fingertips to the toes (for those not part of the cult-like brand of yoga I teach and take, this is Bikram-speak), when I hit the mat, at least a piece of my gray matter big enough to exert visible influence is in my sex space. If my heart ends up there too, I'll start to get worried -- but the honing of pleasure, relaxation and the abandonment of expectations I've brought into my yoga have served me very well.  I practice as often as possible, with everything that I am and all that I have -- an approach most of us would do well to adopt both in the hot room and in the heated one.

Life Lessons from the Indelible Britney Spears

Last week. I already pine for you and your final days of summer sun. The grueling schedule I kept of yoga and soaking up the sun at Kits Beach, left me little time for writing, but now the skies are ominous, offering nothing but drear and damp, so I'm back at the keyboard.

Heading home (as in the floor of my sister's bedroom, where I currently occupy a space the size of my couture IKEA mattress) in a haze of yoga high from a thick class on Commercial yesterday, I opted for the always ingenious soundtrack of Miss Britney Spears to accompany me home. Sometimes a girl just needs a little old school to remind her, no matter the current weight of life's circumstances and how unnervingly unforeseeable the future, everything will turn out alright in the end. Take our darling Brit: in the not-so-distant past, she was a completely disheveled (on the inside and out), unhinged, downward-spiraling, fury of destruction. Today, buffed and polished to a finish smooth enough to appear a once again competent mother, partner and artist (that's right, I referred to the princess of pop as an "artist" -- deal with it), she has re-emerged, relatively unscathed and back on top, continuing to dazzle and captivate legions of fans. And because so many worthwhile life lessons come from standout role models like Britney, when the going gets tough, but merits a tone none too somber and just scratching the surface of delicate introspection, her lyrics are full of diamonds in the rough.

Borrowing a gem from one of my faves, from the days of Britney's stellar acting debut in Crossroads I too have re-emerged -- a brighter, unobstructed by the expectations of others, independent version of myself.

"Say hello to the girl that I am! You're gonna have to see through my perspective."

"Overprotected" -- the theme song of life in the Sinclair (my maiden moniker -- we even have a darling tartan) clan. Released about 10 years ago -- about the same time, at 19, most of my girlfriends and I felt similarly hampered by our parents' view of the course our lives should take. Good work Mom and Dad -- I really used the four years I spent at UBC effectively. Because you said something along the lines of, "If you don't go to university right away, you will be an epic failure and no longer a member of the family we will choose to acknowledge. Well, we might acquiesce to identifying your body when the police find it under the Granville St. bridge frozen solid, because you won't survive the winters here sleeping in a box outside, which is the only accommodation you'll be able to afford if you elect to forgo higher education." Yep. I'm pretty sure the open-minded, warm and fuzzy advice of only the best intentions with which my parents provided me went something exactly like that.

At one time, I was a relatively obedient daughter, hoping to glean some affection from the confounding creatures who brought me into being by following a path I thought would appeal to their ideologies of what good girls should do. But never being one to blindly follow the pack and conform to a life that doesn't make me happy, I decided within the first semester of my English Literature Degree to do pretty much whatever I wanted. Sure, I read all the books, but only because I enjoyed them; I handed in all of my papers early and always seemed to do well, never being handed back work with less than an "A" of some description scrawled across the top. But I allowed my science requirements and electives that failed to interest me fall by the wayside, giving me a decent amount of recreational time -- which of course I filled with partying.

I managed to work my way through a solid roster of lovers, friends and everything in-between. I thought at least the life experience I gained from experimenting with what I wanted and didn't want in the people I kept close to me would prove useful, but thus far, I am still somewhat clouded with those silly lures that so often accompany short-lived unions -- you know -- a look, a touch, a smell, a certain mystery; something extraordinary that is magnetic but sadly doesn't turn out to have staying power or realness. I did, after all, manage to marry a man I hardly knew at all, but did he ever have a je ne sais quoi -- like none other.

Anyone who has played the game of love, lust and all necessary and unnecessary associated evils knows the couples that last are (much more complex than it sounds, trust me) the ones in which two people genuinely like each other; they have to laugh with each other, listen to and actually appreciate most of what escapes one another's mouths, so much so that just words can turn the wheels in the brain that ignite the fire in the heart -- and other, much lower regions in the body equally important in maintaining a certain level of interest and intensity between successful lovers. However rare, such connections do of course exist. One can choose to need them, want them, or simply settle for whatever comes -- or nothing at all.

I"ll take one of everything please. I'll see whatever comes; if it's not what I need and want, they'll be something just around the corner that is. "I need time, love, joy; I need space; I need me." If I ignore the expectations of others in the process, the only disappointment they truly experience will be their own -- in themselves.

Misunderstood

There's a new bitch in town (I only bring her out to play on special occasions) and she's telling it like it is; apparently, some are not quite ready to hear it.

This may come as a shock to most of you, but -- guess what -- I'm not actually a bitch, or a vapid, superficial narcissist dolling out judgments on my unsuspecting colleagues. I'm a passionate, compassionate instructor of the most demanding yoga around and, because I expect so much of my students and fellow instructors, I expect a lot from myself. I subscribe to Bikram's prescription, "99 percent right = 100 percent wrong" and make a concerted effort to practice what I preach; tonight in Lisa's class, she expressed these sentiments of mine so concisely in her closing remarks, "Namaste -- the highest in me honours the highest in you."

My critical eye can, at times, come across as harsh, but it is merely my opinion that to adequately represent a faction of health and wellness, it is imperative one appear both healthy and well -- not perfect -- not once have I ever mentioned perfection; I'm not even sure what that is; it's certainly not an astute description of me.

Self-deprecating when the occasion calls (too often and it's either really depressing or just fishing for compliments), I fell into a fit of giggles on my way to the bus stop tonight when a passerby asked me if I knew where "Double D's" was. I looked down at my excuse for breasts (thanks Mom), smiled and responded, "Do I really look like I would know?" From what I gather, Double D's is a bar in the eclectic neighbourhood our studio calls home; it's existence and the inquiry made to me of its whereabouts was the light in my darkness tonight for which I am deeply appreciative.

I needed some light to reignite my happiness, suspended since I seem to have unintentionally offended a couple of my colleagues -- I know if you misconstrue my intonation and lightness you probably don't really like me much anyway, but nonetheless -- sorry.

For anyone interested, my point of view comes from a very different place than most instructors in Edmonton. Hailing from Vancouver, when I graduated from Teacher Training, I auditioned for a teaching position. In Edmonton, a keen student can attend Training, come home and waltz directly into a job in any of the studios; this is simply because there are so few studios and teachers here. In Van, if you are fortunate enough to win a placement somewhere, you had better be on top of your game -- all the time. Studio owners take the classes of every one of their instructors on a regular basis and give them constructive criticism; the number of times per week each instructor practices is monitored; dialogue is strictly adhered to and studied consistently; at some studios, an instructor must know a certain number of new names in the room every class -- if you're not meeting and exceeding these expectations, no worries, there's about 50 other jobless, trained instructors waiting to replace you -- and all of them look pretty damn cute in a pair of spanky pants.

So there it is -- a healthy dose of perspective; I got an even better one tonight when I came home after class to see my daughter walk across the room to me -- for the first time! Elated, I cried (she's been wobbling unsteadily, surfing furniture for months) and thought, does all the other shit that kept me up last night wracked with upset and stayed with me while I whimpered on the inside during the spine strengthening series today really matter? My time and attention is decidedly better devoted elsewhere.