30 Day Challenge- Days three and four

Day Three- January 29th

After discovering that my company did not support my proposal to retain my position whilst I attend teacher training from April 18th- June 16th, I was crushed and uncertain how my practice would be affected that evening. Fiscal and career-centric ramifications aside, I think my ego was bruised more than anything by this denial. Are the relationships I've built over the course of the past three and one half years worth that little? Has my loyalty to my job and my co-workers not been substantial enough to warrant a two month leave? Apparently not. So I shed my tears, sought support from Brett and my parents, and then prepared myself for the practice of that which has instigated my departure from the quotidian job. But more on that later....

I walked through the rainy streets with a sense of solace, excited for day three. Attempting to maintain a curiosity about what the next 90 minutes would bring, I prepared myself for the worst and kept my mind on the present. Saiko pleasantly greeted me as I signed in. I languorously slinked toward the front row to place my mat one spot away from the instructor podium before I headed to the changing room to check my phone and change. At that moment, there was no place else I would rather have been.

During class I felt more zen-like than I had in a long time. I was loose, warm, mentally and physically strong. Unfortunately, toward the end of the series my mind did begin to wander. I was suddenly struck with this horrifying reality that yes, I was indeed going to be leaving my job in just over two months to completely devote myself to Bikram and become a certified instructor. I dug in to each posture as I listened Saiko's quiet, firm and lilting instruction. I giggled through my exhaustion when she mentioned this was the juiciest part of our practice.

I skipped my savasana (rest) at the end of class to hop up, shower, and get ready for a night out with Brett.

Day Four- January 30th

As many of you know, hibernating on the weekend is what I do best. Noon is epically early to be physically active on a Saturday, let alone be awake. However, Verdi's Il Travatore was that evening so I had no choice but to attend the noon class. To make things even more challenging, not only would I be attending practice when I should still be sleeping, but this class was going to be taught by Penni. I knew right away I was in for a challenge.

I had to laugh as I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was flat as a pancake and suctioned to the side of my head like it had been painted on. There was a discomforting lack of makeup...without mascara I may as well be a ghost. I was wearing a darling Lulu combination which included a flowy lavender top that looks more like something that should be worn to a nightclub than an article of clothing in which to sweat for an extended period of time. I paired the aforementioned with a pair of calf length leggings that are in a pattern akin to TV fuzz- if the fuzz were purple, pink and turquoise. Needless to say, Brett thinks these are an abomination. I would, however, immediately regret my decision to wear these leggings....

I showed up to class and the warmth felt great. My hair was so clean (and as I mentioned previously, totally limp) that I could not get it to stay in a ponytail to save my life. I used a bobby pin to clip back my bangs and began to bend and stretch in preparation for class. Penni bounded in and her perma-smile had me hopeful. During the warm-up (pranayama deep breathing), I felt ominously weak. My shoulders ached, my left knee totally discombobulated, and a gross wave of nausea washed over me. During the second posture (the half moon), perhaps my signature, I felt as though I had never even experienced a day of yoga in my life. I may as well have had rigor mortis for all the flexibility I was lacking.

This, unfortunately, was to be the theme throughout practice. I finally understood the point of having a first and second set of each posture. Usually, I am ably to physically tolerate and mold myself like clay into a posture regardless of whether or not it's my first or second go at it. Today, I learned to simply accept what my body could do, embrace it, and move on. Though the most difficult class I have had in a long time, I finished nonetheless.

The 30 Day Challenge- Prelude and Catch-up

I have been thinking for a while about endeavoring to complete the illustrious Bikram 30 Day Challenge (in which one practices 30 continuous days of yoga) for a while now. Initially, two of my friends from the Fremont studio were going to go at the challenge with me- but as our “start date” of February 1st approached, they began to waffle and were unsure as to whether or not they wanted to partake.

Needless to say, when they shared with me their uncertainties, I made up my mind to begin the challenge then and there. No need to wait if I’m undertaking this alone, right? It is not my intention to sound indifferent or apathetic to their needs, fears and desires, because that is most definitely not the case. Both girls have beautiful and dedicated practices and I feel that the onus should not be on me to convince people to do something they may not want to do.

As one might imagine, my life will be moving away from one of excess and indulgence and onto a more Spartan path over the course of the next month. I recognize that I have done an unfortunately poor job since the new year of documenting my merry-making; but I have found that between a full time job, a stringent yoga schedule and copious amounts of glorious revelry, one has painfully little time to recount and reflect.

In an effort to maintain what so many of you have come to enjoy reading, I will be documenting my progress daily as I work to achieve the goal I have set….

Day One (Wednesday, January 27th)

Penni the Hun, as I so endearingly call her, gave a shot over the bow as I signed in for class: “It’s going to be a tough one tonight!!” I can always count on (and look forward to) her classes being the most challenging so I wasn’t terribly surprised to hear that.

I walked into the room to put my mat and towel down and was immediately overwhelmed by a thick humidity. Once class actually began, I already had a pool of sweat gathered around my feet. I tried to focus on my postures, but had to lie down and skip half of a posture twice. People all around me were dropping like flies due to the almost oppressive heat.

I tried to ignore the pounding in my chest and focus instead on my breathing. I felt especially guilty falling to my knees to take a few sips of ice cold water because Penni is SO positive and SO encouraging. I evaluated if this was an issue of weakness or necessity and came to the conclusion that it was, in fact, wickedly hot and I should not be too hard on myself. Toward the end of the series, Penni relented and turned on the fans. Finally, my breathing calmed and I convinced myself that I could do it.

By the time the floor series came, I was exhausted (looking and feeling like a piece of overcooked spaghetti) and for the first time in ages my mind started to wander: How am I ever going to do 30 continuous days of this? I feel like I’m going to barf. I’m lying crooked. My pony tail is jabbing the back of my head. Maybe I’m not ready for teacher training at all. What happens if I go and then fail?

Ultimately, I made it. One day down, 29 to go. I dragged myself home, planted myself on the couch and sucked down a Dry Soda, coconut water, a half a glass of wine and picked at my brown rice and grilled tofu which Brett lovingly prepared. I barely had the energy to pick up my fork. I went to bed at 11- sleeping as though I were in a coma.

Day Two (Thursday, January 28th)

I had to wake up earlier than usual since my co-worker Lauren and I were going to a logistics training seminar down in Sumner. My alarm went off at 5am and I bounded right out of bed—full of vim and vigor. In my 29 years, I have come to heavily rely upon sleep. Sleep is my savior, my friend and one of my greatest loves. I always joke to Brett that I need a ridiculous amount of “Beauty Rest” because I am so incredibly beautiful. (Insert canned laughter here….) My point is, I only had six hours of “lights out” but awoke with such bright-eyed bushy-tailedness that it may as well have been for nine hours.

Despite enduring a frighteningly difficult class the night prior, I found myself looking forward to day two…or so I thought. Having arrived home around 3pm from the seminar, I decided to take a nap after doing a bit of reading and move-watching. Brett woke me up at quarter after five much to his chagrin—I was cranky, groggy, and disoriented. My Snuggie enveloped me in a sheath of warmth and I didn’t want to move. Fremont seemed epically far away and all I desired in the world was to relent myself to the siren song of snoozing. I stared resolutely at the clock and reconciled the conflicting emotions in my head.

Just go. It’s only 90 minutes. And really, how many hours of the day am I doing something I’m as passionate about as this anyway? (Sleeping aside….)

I whined and moaned, complaining like a toddler the entire time I was getting ready. But then I was off—my mat and Lulu yoga bag in tow—and I was excited. Lisa was prepping a few new students at the front desk so I quietly signed my name and headed in to class. I would say Lisa is my favorite instructor, but then so are Penni, Saiko, Jenn, Izzy, Melissa and everyone else who teaches me. What I love is that while the postures and dialogue never change, each individual has their own specific brand of teaching. I was looking forward to Lisa’s mellow, pragmatic, and encouraging style.

Class was phenomenal. My body felt lean and strong and I found myself, though exhausted, simply acquiescing to the postures. One thing Lisa always says which I have come to adopt as my new motto is “Don’t buy into the drama.” I simply just allowed myself to experience each posture to the best of my ability, let go, and moved on. Overall I gave it 98.9%. During the very last posture (a spine twist), I started to fade away until I heard Lisa say “that’s it Heidi, keep going!” and then I pushed harder.

Day two- success! Only 28 more to go........

Ode to Bikram

As many of you know, it is my volition to attend Bikram Teacher training. To that end, provided that I am granted a sabbatical at my current position (please everyone send out some positive energy into the universe in hopes that it will be approved!), I have put together the following purpose statement…

I have always sensed that I am one small part of a greater whole, and that belief has been confirmed wholeheartedly through my dedication to Bikram yoga. At the end of my 90 minute practice, I quietly and internally thank the fellow yogis that flank my either side for sharing with me their energy.

For the past 29 years, I have been wandering through my life unsure of my purpose and unable to find my path. When I came into Bikram yoga two years ago, something instantly clicked. I became passionate about my practice and wanted to share the overwhelming sense of joy I experienced with everyone I knew. Above all else, I have always known that I want to make people happy. I love to take care of people, make them laugh and smile, instill in them a sense of lightheartedness. It has always been a gift of mine but I have never quite understood how to translate this skill and infuse it into every waking moment of my life. In teaching Bikram, I would be able to do just that.

Bikram yoga is one of the most challenging things I have ever done, and I do it almost every day. I am almost always immediately reminded once practice begins why I should never go to class with any expectations as to how I am going to perform. Occasionally, my fortitude and aloofness rapidly melt and give way to a feeling of weakness as though my entire body is lined with lead. Sometimes, I feel light, lithe, malleable and strong. The humidity of the room is sometimes oppressive and overwhelming—I can only stare at the reflection of my forehead for the entire 90 minutes focusing on nothing but my breath with an iron clad will. As I always do, no matter the struggle, I make it to the end of practice and wilt onto my mat—feeling tenderized, whisked, beaten, baked and flambéed.

I was an artichoke with layers upon layers of complexity: frustration, excitement, confusion, elation, concern, care, impatience, vanity, desire, indignance, and hyperactivity. Through my practice, those undesirable layers have been peeled back to expose a more centered, peaceful, content, and focused me. I feel more myself than I have ever felt in my entire life and want to share this incredibly important practice with the world so that we may all be more, humbled, contented, happier and more connected people. Bikram practice truly can, in my opinion, make the world a better place.

S'more Shenanigans

I’ve begun to long for the verdant embrace of Spring and am starting to feel the winter torrents wash away my energy. Barren winds scatter each promising ounce of creativity everywhere but on my blog.

Please accept my apologies and this feeble art installation as I attempt to scour off the doldrums and resume my gallivanting.

*note: I have received multiple queries as to the nature of this post. Please understand this is not indicative of any type of sabbatical-- but is rather simply for your amusement, dear reader. The art installation above is something I created out of a forlorn fondue pot left over from the early '80's, a "wood" candle, a useless tool for stainless steel shelving, a toothpick, and a cut out of Ludwig von's head (all found items in my office).

Ninth!!

Fierce emotion coursed through my veins and a wave of passion rushed over me as the iconic first measure of Beethoven’s Ninth issued throughout the auditorium. My face became warm and musical memories I had completely forgotten about flooded forth from the recesses of my mind: rummaging through Classical cassette tapes in the basement of Marshall Fields, rosining my bow in a small church in Dublin, picking out a piece of gum from the candy jar after a successful viola lesson. Music has always been an integral part of my life and whenever I attend the symphony—I am shaken and moved to my very core.

One of my Christmas gifts from Brett this year was a pair of tickets in the prestigious Orchestra section at Benaroya Hall for the December 30th symphony performance of Beethoven’s Ninth. We arrived 45 minutes before the affair was to begin and I was pleased and impressed by the vast number of patrons present. Having no desire to hoof it through the hill and dale of downtown Seattle in the rouge and windy December (in my five inch Marni heels no less!); we forked over $11 to use the parking garage. After waiting an interminable length of time for the elevator to take us to the mezzanine, we finally packed in like cattle and ascended to the main lobby (evocative of an airport food court replete with a Wolfgang Puck breeze-thru.)

Of particular interest to me that evening, having the proclivity for fashion that I do, was the general aesthetic of the audience—which was surprisingly more refined than the crowd I encounter when frequenting the opera. There were nary a pair of Levi’s to be found save for a gentleman who looked more like a member of the Audubon Society than a guest at the symphony. Other than that, the mood was festive and refined with only a small peppering of that distinctly Seattle flair.


We lingered with our cocktails in hand on a sweeping expanse of stairway to observe the pre-symphony hullabaloo. Holiday lights and garland tinkled and the joyous din of revelers echoed warmly throughout the reception area, which was cast in the city glow flowing in from the skylights above. People continued to flow in and head toward their seats so Brett and I did the same. The auditorium was filled to the absolute brim and by my estimation was a completely full house. Lights dimmed and I leaned forward, rapt.

Ninth would not be performed until after the intermission, so the first hour was comprised of Brahms’ Liebeslieder Waltzes which seemed to be a bit of unnecessary filler and the singing was drown beneath the tympani as a result of ill-amplification. I halfheartedly listened to the piece—anxious to get to the meat and potatoes. That being said, it was still a respectable performance. The Waltzes are meant to explore the many facets of love and life and are light, folksy and inherently Viennese.

I found my attention drifting to one of the side balconies for a good portion of time. Shortly after the Waltzes began, I heard a dull thud followed by whispered gasps so I naturally cocked my head heavenward to see what was progressing. To this day, I’m not quite sure what it was, but the entire balcony box slowly evacuated by a familial brood replete with grandparents, teens and toddlers. I can only assume that perhaps one of the young ones suffered from a seizure or fit of some sort. Many people glanced back and forth between the stage and the balcony until everyone had filtered out and there was no one left to see.

As the first part of the performance drew to a close I hopped to my feet and pressed myself and Brett through idlers toward the bar. We perched on a banquette with our libations in hand, and I happened to notice a fire truck and ambulance outside, red lights bleating, indicating that whatever transpired in the balcony held some degree of gravity. Brett popped up to run to the lavatory and handed me his martini to guard whilst he was away. Moments after having been abandoned, a dapper old gentleman approached me and asked the age old question: Do I come here often? I groaned internally, squeezed the glasses I was double fisting and took the bait. He pointed at a gentleman in a kilt and conspiratorially asked whether I thought this “man” was a woman. I gave him a conciliatory smile and quipped that he was obviously either Scottish or eccentric. To my surprise and delight, I had barely finished my sentence before he scurried off as though we never even spoke. Turning my head and following his course, I realized it was because his wife had emerged from the restroom and he likely didn’t want her to see the two of us dallying.

Upon Brett’s return, it was time for good old Ludwig van's iconic Ninth Symphony to begin so we scurried back to our seats in anticipation. Dim lights set the mood perfectly for the conductor- poised anxiously over his podium. The symphony that was about to be performed is considered as one of the best known works of the Western classical repertoire as well as Beethoven's greatest masterpiece. What I find to be particularly mind blowing about this cataclysmically evocative piece is that at the time of its composure, Beethoven was completely deaf. How he even managed this feat is beyond my comprehension.

The Ninth is the longest symphony in existence, running just over one hour whereas a typical symphony is approximately 30 minutes. During this time, there were four movements that ebbed and flowed like manic waves: at once gentle, calm, unsuspecting and quiet and then suddenly thundering powerfully, apocalypitically and angrily against the shore. The fourth movement, almost a symphony in and of itself and perhaps the most popular movement of Beethoven's magnum opus, includes a chorale performance of Schiller's "Ode to Joy."

The hour passed in what felt like mere minutes, the energy of the audience vibrating with excitement and anticipation. Finally, we all erupted in applause and bounded to our feet for a long and gracious ovation to a flawless performance of Beethoven's Ninth.