It’s not that I don’t like Yin, I do. I like it too much. But I feel like a manatee when I do Yin.
I’m an unrepentant flow-hacker and there is no way to get into flow for me during Yin. Yin is like therapy, or a massage.
Yin is for an off day.
I understand that there is a time and place for passivity, but only when the body is broken down from activity. And that’s not where I’m at now. Or yet.
I think once my challengers have a whole week of yang under their belts, then the yin will be welcome.
Today I took my first class at Main St Yoga and I have to tell you, it was pretty damned amazing. You should really try it sometime. I highly recommend sitting in the back so that when you look up (if you look up) you get a view of the skylight. The white painted wood reminded me of a lifeguard chair, and the blue of the sky? The sky at the beach.
I thought I might be uncomfortable being the student in the room where I am usually the teacher, but can I just tell you? It was complete gift, and a relief–especially 5 minutes into the class when I realized that I was in good hands, practiced hands, trustworthy hands, knowledgeable hands. I was being guided into my body by someone who knew what she was doing, and that allowed me to let go, relax, and go deep inside.
Brenna Francis is good.
I don’t know anything about Yin style yoga, so this was all new. It’s restorative, slow, with long holdings in rather easy postures. But it’s very difficult because there are no distractions, so you are constantly confronted with your “monkey mind” –or I should say I was constantly confronted with my monkey mind, as well as my “monkey body.”
Some people wouldn’t care for it, I’m sure. It’s a very meditative, and because of that, it’s a very deep and difficult yoga. (I, frankly, sucked at it.)
But I loved it. Because it’s good to suck at yoga. It’s good to do a yoga that “kicks up dust” for you; a yoga where you go, “Where am I now? and “Why can’t I change this f-upped channel in my brain? I don’t like this show!”
(hah)
There was no music, no theater, just long holding times, and breath cue,s and some meridian info.
It was Easter Sunday. There was hardly any traffic on Main St: no trucks, no loud motorcycles, no procession of gas drilling trucks grinding through their gears, and blessedly, no fire or ambulance sirens.
I took my inhalations up my back, into my crown, and let my exhalations wash down my face.
Yum.
