Learning to Love Yoga – Part I

When I was 12 years old, my friend Laura asked if I would take a yoga class with her.  We attended public school, but Laura’s mother, Cheryl, worked at the expensive boarding school in town.  This school had a fancy cafeteria, brand new art facilities, and now offered yoga to faculty and staff, so Cheryl asked us to give it a try.

Laura’s mother was very progressive for a small town woman; she was an artist with a house full of books and no microwave in her kitchen.  She lived with her mother and two daughters (Laura was obviously one), three generations all able to walk around in their underwear without a care in the world.  I envied that freedom living with so many boys.  She cooked foods from scratch and had a garden full of fresh vegetables.  Thanks to Cheryl I was introduced not only to yoga, but to unheard of foods like asparagus and couscous.   I think I can credit a piece of my crunchy side to my time spent with her.

My first yoga studio was an empty classroom on the top floor of an old brick building, with hardwood floors and huge windows flooding the room with light.  I borrowed a mat since I had never needed one before, and set up next to Laura, her mother, and the one older man who rounded out our class.  What I remember most from the class was hating all of the holding-still parts, though I did like the parts that involved lying on the floor.  I’m pretty sure I actually fell asleep, and I know the older guy did, because he was snoring, which Laura and I found hilarious.  Overall I liked the idea of yoga, but not enough to practice again until I was in my twenties.  Even if I had really wanted to, finding a yoga studio in the middle of the woods was nearly impossible, and there was not yet internet to use as a guide.   My life as a yogi went on hold until after I graduated college.

Read the rest of my story in Learning to Love Yoga – Part II.