At 7:15 am I left the house to go to a yoga class.
Take a minute to bring into your mind’s eye whatever you think of when you hear the words “yoga class”.
Go ahead, I’ll wait.
Got it? Okay, here’s what I generally expect when I trot off to a yoga session:
- New-agey/pan-flutey/meditative-chantey music of some sort. (Or just silence.)
- A youngish, smallish, bendyish teacher; frequently wearing hemp, or malas, or products purchased from an independent fair-trade small-farm organization; often with tattoos; sometimes with a ‘natural’ body style (i.e., no shaved armpits, legs, deodorant, etc.).
- Dim lights (sometimes candles), perhaps an alter with a small statute or some fresh flowers, maybe a stick of incense burning.
Well, this morning, here’s what I actually experienced:
- Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze.
- The over-60-year-old teacher, looking down at her very expensive Lululemon clothing, acknowledging my presence by looking at me and saying, “Crap, I spilled coffee all over myself leaving Starbucks; and I just hope I didn’t stain my pants. I’m going to go to the bathroom to see if I can blot it out.” She then left me alone in the studio with Jimi.
- The aroma of nag champa filling the air.
Well, two out of three ain’t bad. 😉
I adore this teacher, precisely because she is so unique. She’s a retired getting-older woman who has been teaching yoga for over 25 years, and she knows what she likes, and she is fully herself in every interaction I’ve observed. She doesn’t acquiesce to notions of what yoga teachers “should” be (i.e., organic, vegan, airy-fairy, fill-in-your-preferred-stereotypical-blank), she simply is who she is – and is unapologetic for being exactly who she is.
She’s cool. And she’s incredibly knowledgeable about yoga. (Safe yoga. Correct yoga. Good yoga.) And she’s all about coffee, and shopping, and good music.
She makes me smile. Today got off to a great start.