Let It Go

Since March, I have been attending Bikram yoga classes, which are hot, humid, and downright hard. The room is 105 degrees with 40% humidity, and as a beginner, you’re goal is to simply stay in the room for the full 90 minutes, even if you do nothing but lie on your back and breathe.

Bikram yoga is like eating blood sausage—you either love it or hate it. And you may never find out which side you’re on, because just the description can keep you from ever trying it.

I was lucky enough to have a friend who loved blood sausa...er...Bikram yoga. He talked it up for a year before I finally found myself at the studio, actually looking forward to the experience, albeit with trepidation. I knew to expect the heat. But expecting heat versus actually pulling a door open and stepping out of Seattle and into the tropics are two different things.

WHAM! I walked into a wall of heat and water and every fiber of my being screamed, “Whoa!” I stopped in my tracks and my instinct said, “Turn around, walk out the door, and go grab a cold beer.” But my mind stayed rational and thought casually, “Wow, so this is what he meant by hot.” I kept walking into the room to stake out a spot.

I rolled out my purple yoga mat, spread out a beach towel on top of it, and joined a couple dozen other people who were lying on their backs adjusting to the heat. I could barely breathe. It felt as if I was sipping air through a straw and I thought that there was no way I could be in this heat for 90 minutes, let alone exercise in it.

When the teacher arrived, she told us to stand up in the middle of our mats and towels and face the front of the room. Then she took a moment to show me and two other Bikram rookies how to do the first breathing exercise, which turned out to be the only thing that she demonstrated. After the brief introduction, she said to simply follow along as best we could and watch other people for examples of how to do the poses. Ninety minutes later, hot and wet, I felt a huge sense of accomplishment, because I had stayed in the room. I was hooked!

The yoga studio is a large rectangular room with mirrors on the front and side walls and windows at the back. The carpet is all dark blue except for three 10-inch wide black stripes that reach from one side wall to the other. Ideally, students lay their mats down across one of the black lines. This creates three rows and makes it easier for students to find a position that is both a comfortable distance from their neighbors and allows a good view into the front mirror.

There are few objects in the room. Props, like yoga straps and small meditation benches, are available on the window sills at the back of the room for people who need them. On the back wall in the far corner, the only wall space without windows or mirrors, are three framed posters of famous yogis, all sitting cross-legged with arms outstretched and hands lying palms-up on their knees. I recognize one as Paramahansa Yogananda, and the other two have an air of calm greatness that clearly warrants a spot on the wall. Lastly, a pedestal is centered against the front mirrors that is one-foot high and just a big enough square for the teacher to sit or stand on as she verbally guides the class step-by-step through each posture.

About 15 minutes into class, we do our first forward bend. You start by standing with your feet together and both arms over your head with all fingers interlaced except your index fingers, which are pointing up. Then you stretch up, make yourself as tall as you can, and then reach out and forward and down until your hands touch the ground (bending your knees is allowed). After a few moments of stretching in this position, the teacher tells us to reach around and grab our heels from behind. Ideally, your forearms wrap around the back of your shins and you grab your heels such that your pinky fingers are touching each other side-by-side. Your belly is supposed to stay glued to the fronts of your thighs, and I assume a few advanced people can actually touch their head to their shins, as well, because the teacher tells us that this is the ultimate goal. Who knows, maybe doing this posture correctly is what earned the yogis their spots on the back wall.

As for me, it’s hard enough to touch the floor, let alone contort myself in the manner described, so I settle for putting my hands under by heels from the sides instead of the back. Once there, I pull, pull, pull to get a stretch, stretch, stretch. Eyes stay open. And what always strikes me is the sweat on my shins. We’re only 15 minutes into class and already each pore has it’s own small pool of water. I watch as some droplets let go and trickle down my leg, gaining speed and volume as they roll into others, like raindrops on a car windshield. Again, I can barely breathe, but this time it’s not the heat, and instead is caused by me trying to squish everything—breasts, fat, internal organs—onto the fronts of my thighs. It’s just not natural.

I used to think of yoga as an easy, calm, stretching kind of activity, but at Bikram it’s a struggle every time. Sometimes I get so hot, I feel like I have a raging fever. A flush comes over my face and head and I lay down and breathe and there’s a moment when I think I won’t be okay. But then after a minute or two I am okay again, and I stand up and rejoin the class.

The sweat takes on a life of its own. It first drips like a slow leaky faucet, just a drop here or there from the tip of whatever appendage is currently being held up or out or backwards. As time passes, the drip turns into a steady stream and I see people who look as if a glass of water is being slowly poured down their arm or leg. One guy who often takes the spot next to me gets so ultra drippy that when he does “rabbit pose,” which requires sitting on your shins and rolling forward into a ball, his body gurgles like a sopping wet towel being rung out.

I started going to Bikram yoga regularly back in March and for the first three months went as often as I could, usually four to six times per week. No matter how good or bad I feel on a particular day and no matter if I do every single posture or lay down through half of the class, afterwards I always feel great. It’s a real accomplishment each and every time. Nevertheless, during the past month I found myself skipping yoga to take a pilates class or ride my bike. I love both activities, but down deep, I was really just avoiding that intense Bikram heat. It’s hard to be in the room. It takes two hours when you factor in getting there early and recovering afterward. I have to do a load of laundry after every class so my yoga clothes and towel don’t mold. The bottom line is that I’m tired of the heat and the effort associated with Bikram; pilates and bicycling are just more fun.

Now, believe it or not, the point of today’s column is not about the heat and sweat in a Bikram yoga class, at least not directly. But you need to have a feel for the Bikram experience to understand the following story.

Yesterday’s instructor was BJ, one of about ten teachers that rotate through the schedule. Bikram yoga is very regimented—always the same 26 postures and 2 breathing exercises, and the teachers stick to the same script. However, yesterday BJ broke from the script during a rest period and told us this story.

She and her husband went fly fishing last weekend. She said, “I’m great at fishing.” And I believed her! She said it with the confidence of a woman who started fishing as a kid with her Dad, spends more time at bait & tackle shops than the grocery store, and wades into pristine mountain rivers every weekend to catch dinner.

But then she said, “I’m just not great at catching them.” So much for dinner.

She went on to tell us that after four days of seeing fish everywhere but on her hook, she was frustrated and complained about it to her husband. He responded, “BJ, you gotta think of it like the heat in the yoga room—you just have to let it go. Your challenge at yoga is to let go of the heat and your challenge here is to enjoy the river and sky and water, even if you never catch a single fish.”

Maybe a picture of BJ’s husband belongs beside those three yogi’s on the back wall, because that is wisdom to live by.

So as I was lying on my mat feeling like a french fry under one of those hot orange lights, I let go of the heat. Instead of counting in my head how many more postures until we would be done or strategizing in advance which ones to sit out, I just sank into the moment and felt a drip make its way from my right temple down the back of my neck. It itched, but I didn’t scratch it. I breathed the heat and moisture, and it was uncomfortable, and I let it go.

Whether baking in a hot yoga room, not catching fish in a river or experiencing whatever else is different than the way I want it to be, I’m going to try and remember the words, “Let it go.” Maybe it’s simply another way of saying “live in the moment” or “be happy with what the way things are,” but there’s something about the phrase being so short and to the point that works for me. When I think, “Let it go,” I feel as if I just took in a big breath of fresh air...even if that air is 105 degrees with 40% humidity. I’m calmer and happier. Try it yourself, and see if you agree.


If you would like to be notified by e-mail when I post to this blog, please write me at anniescolumn@gmail.com and I will add you to the notification distribution list.