A Journey Through 30 Days of Bikram Yoga

Because I didn’t have nearly enough on my plate, I decided to devote the month of February to a 30-day yoga challenge, which consists of practicing Bikram’s 90-minute moving meditation each day for 30 days in a row. Although most Bikram challenges last for 60 days, I’d never even completed five days in a row. So, I figured I’d start with 30 and see how well I faired.

This article chronicles those 30 days—the physical changes I noticed, but, more importantly, the mental, emotional and spiritual journey I took throughout this experience.

What is Bikram Yoga?

Bikram yoga consists of 26 postures, completed in a room heated to 105 degrees with roughly 30 percent humidity during the span of 90 minutes. You start with a standing series, which lasts about 50-55 minutes, and then you complete a floor series, which lasts the last 35-40 minutes of class. You complete two breathing exercises and more than 10 sit ups as you move through the floor postures.
By the end of the class, you’ve stretched your spine in six different directions, in forward bends, backward bends, and spine twisting postures. And you’ll finish absolutely drenched in sweat.
Now, let the challenge begin!

“Thinking is suffering…”

Today, my teacher noted how you had to stay present in class, that to stay present meant to listen only to the dialogue, to your breath, to your body, and not let your mind wander, that to stay present meant you kept yourself from thinking, which leads to suffering.

“Thinking is suffering,” he said.  I noticed, in surprise, I was the only one who giggled at the hilarity of this passing comment.

I love little yoga lessons like this.  They’re ridiculously applicable to many elements of my life outside that sweaty studio.  For instance, thinking about my finances and my tight-as-a-corset budget only causes me stress, spikes my blood pressure, and frustrates me.  It is the action, the doing—even if that “doing” is just letting go of the thought and breathing deeper—that frees you from suffering. 

It’s simply the cliché—”actions speak louder than words”—couched differently, yoga-style.
I hope to focus on these kinds of yoga-into-life lessons throughout the next 30 days of my challenge.  After all, I know the poses, I know what I need to do to reach their fullest extension, I know what to expect and how each instructor conducts his/her class. 

And so what I really want to explore is my emotional and spiritual enlightenments, if you will, in and outside of class.  I want to explore how both my body and my perspective changes.  I want to see how both my mind and my limbs, my muscles, my joints, handle the daily pull and stretch of a dedicated practice.

A case of the cold sweats

When I first starting practicing yoga, I always grabbed the coolest spot in the room–right next to the windows.  My mat and towel were almost as long as the big window pane, and when I laid on my back in savasana, I gloried in the thin, cool breaths of air creeping through the old, unsealed frames. 

I depended on those windows more than I depended on the “party time” water break 20 minutes into class, and I became convinced I’d never be able to move to the middle of the room where–gasp–there was no draft, no steady stream of outside air to calm my heated, anxious nerves.

Eventually, one of my favorite teachers bluntly told me I needed to “shake things up” and challenge myself by picking different spots in the room, away from the windows. Although I wanted to impress my teacher and wanted to push myself, I needed time, diligence, and trust–in my ability to breathe past the panic–before I was able to complete an entire class from a spot away from the windows. 

I needed to be gentle with myself.  I needed to learn to breathe. 

And now, a year and a half into my practice, I’ve made it to the middle of the room.  In more ways than one.

Today, it wouldn’t have mattered where I was in the studio–it just wasn’t hot enough. But, so it goes some days, right?  I felt tight and chilled the entire class, but I was proud of myself for not getting frustrated at the lack of heat and for staying focused on my breathing and on my muscles.  Yes, I missed the heat and wanted more sweat, more flush in my cheeks, less ice still frozen together in my Nalgene bottle, but I’ve learned my practice isn’t focused on what I don’t have or what I can’t do. 

No, my practice is built on the incremental accomplishments of each class, of each deep breath and each exhalation, of each attempt to let go.

Negating the nevers.

Yoga, for five straight days in a row. I’ve never done this before. Four days was my max. By day four, every muscle in my body twitches and pinches and tap-tap-taps against my skin, saying, “No more. Please. No more.” And so, in the past, I’d skip a day.  Or two.  Sometimes even three or four.  Once, I went nine days in between classes. Needless to say, that first class back was, in a word, hellacious. But this–five days in a row. This is a first. The first of many firsts, I suppose.

And, to my sheer amazement, I actually felt really great in class.  I got my forehead on the floor in standing separate leg stretching (your legs are spread in a V, you cup your ankles in your palms, and then pull your forehead to the floor), even if it was only for three seconds.  And despite how badly I wanted to come out early, I stayed in both sets of triangle, which is, as they say, the summit of the standing series.  I even forced myself to complete both sets of rabbit pose, trying to breathe past the knots in my stomach after a particularly deep camel pose. 

I left class a little shaky, a little light-headed, but, on the whole, feeling absolutely fantastic.  Who knew—five days isn’t so bad after all.

Afterward, I went out to dinner with my father. When we were walking home, my arm linked through his, we talked about my nephew and how much my father was enjoying his 21-month-old grandson’s exaggerated and raw emotions. My father noted, a little wistfully, how he’d forgotten what it was like seeing such pure, unconditional love—intended solely for him—radiating from the face of a young child.

How often do we see “pure, unconditional” love radiating from anyone?  Especially, from ourself to ourself.  Not that often, in my opinion.  We’re a tough, quick-to-judge culture, and we certainly don’t exclude ourselves from those judgments.  We harden over time, and we lose that fresh, awestruck, honest adoration—for ourselves and one another.

I used to think I had such an unbreakable love for myself, for who I am in and to this world, my friends, and my family.  But, when I began practicing yoga and began staring myself in the eye, night after night, watching myself struggle, strengthen, swallow my pride (no, ego, you cannot do that posture yet), and still stay standing, even when every cell in my body was screaming in revolt, I developed, for the first time, true self love. (Even now, in writing that, I fear judgment for sounding too much like a bad book tagline in the self-help aisle.) 

When this truth hit me last fall, after one particularly poignant class, I laid on my mat until everyone else had left the room, and when I finally stood, I went right up to the mirror, touched my fingers to the glass, to the reflection I’d finally learned to accept, and whispered, “Thank you.” 

Even now, after all these months, every time I leave a yoga class, I still feel the greatest rush of pride, awe, satisfaction and commitment to that woman, that reflection, me.  All that talk, all those years of touting my “strong self-worth” and my “high self-esteem,” was lip service, plain and simple.

Tonight, I forced myself to pause and to capture, for just one moment, my raw, unconditional love for my father, for my good day, for my strong practice, for negating one never, for me.

The Mind Vs. The Body.

I have a bad habit. Ever since I can remember, I’ve forced my body to perform, despite injuries, doctors’ warnings, and extreme pain.

Point is, I’ve never done a good job listening to my body’s alarm bells. Until, of course, I took up yoga.
Now, I feel so keenly aware and in tune with my muscles and bones that I couldn’t silence them if I blasted 10 internal stereos. Instead, we greet each other as comrades, as close, dear friends, saluting the same principles (it’s a journey, not a destination) and embracing each other’s faults and grievances (it’s okay, right knee, if you feel as though you’re going to split in two, I’ll just ease off a little, give you a bit of a break).

I don’t care if Rene Descartes’ has been dubbed “the Father of Modern Philosophy” or is studied in every Philosophy 101 course ’round the country. I would fight his mind vs. body dualism (i.e., the mind and the body are wholly distinct) tooth and nail. Or, maybe I should just concede Descartes was obviously never a yogi. After all, how could the mind and the body be separate in such a practice? In order to actually finish a class, my mind must constantly attend to, encourage, and support my body’s efforts. As thanks, my body functions better, looks better, feels better, moves through life better. My mind notices these changes, but it is my body that has created them. My mind is the coach, my body is the team on the field, and we feed off each other’s strength, patience, and discipline. We wouldn’t be successful without each other. So, I’m sorry, Rene, but really, I just don’t think you knew what ya were talkin’ about with that “wholly distinct” business.

After a year and half of yoga, I now can’t imagine putting my body through the kind of pain I once threw at it day in and out. My mind was a punisher then, a demanding, greedy, too-small-for-its-own-good competitor who only wanted to pummel its partner, my body. The two worked together, yes, but with lackluster results, and I remember begrudging, sometimes even hating, my body’s inability to perform as my mind thought it should. I was unforgiving, relentless.

During those years, I allowed outside influences–coaches, family, peers, friends, societal images and ideals–to dictate my performance and gauge the end product, so it’s no wonder I never felt all that great about my accomplishments, at the gym or as a Division I collegiate athletic. But now. Now, I have a solid team in place. One that allows the hurt, but nurtures the healing.

I once had a yoga teacher tell me that, in order to move to a new place in my practice, I needed to pay heed to whatever was blocking me–a single thought, a single slice of discomfort, a single crack of self-criticsm–before I could overcome it. I thought this was brilliant, a perfect metaphor for so many emotional hurdles in my life, and at the time he told me this, I had many, many hurdles.

And here was the secret to making it over all of them. I simply needed to face the particular demon, stare it eye to eye, unflinching. I needed to acknowledge and honor its small place in my self, and then I needed to say to it, “You are a part of me, but you are not all of me, and so I choose to move past you.”

And once I did that, once I opened myself fully to that demon, however much it hurt me or however much I cried, I could loosen its grip and, finally, let it go. I could be free.

That’s what they said.

After attending enough yoga classes, you begin to memorize what your teachers say to you day after day.

Although I know I won’t capture them all here, I want to jot down just a couple of my most favorites, the ones that have stuck with me these many long months and have stood out lately, as I attend class after class after class.

“FAITH. Finally. Allowing. It. To. Happen.” — Corny, I know, but what a great little phrase, and how true, how easy to remember in times where you feel nothing will ever happen, no matter how hard you try.

“To fall out is human. To get back in is yogi.” — Of course, literally, this refers to falling out of a posture. But, I think it transcends the yoga studio. Falling out or off of anything and pulling yourself back on or back upright requires an extra slice of courage, discipline and self-devotion.

“You are here, right now, in the room, nothing else matters except your breath. Listen to your heart.” — This is one of my favorites. I especially like when my teacher tacks on the last bit about your heart. If we were able to strip things down this cleanly in all areas of life, ohhh, how much easier a journey it would be!

“Release and receive.” — My teachers have many ways of reminding us to let go, and this is one of them.  Such simple words, and yet so many, many meanings, in and out of the studio. The act of letting go—of anything, mental, physical or emotional—is one of my greatest challenges and one of my greatest triumphs since my practice began.

“Shake it like a Polaroid picture.” — Only one of my teachers says this, during a specific posture where you’re supposed to move/shake/shimmy/bounce your hips to loosen up your lower back. I’ve heard him say it dozens of times, but I always giggle anyway, and then I thank him silently for helping me remember to relax and enjoy myself. It’s just yoga, remember?

“You are supposed to feel whatever you are feeling. Send your breath to where it hurts.” — It took me a long time to appreciate and understand this saying fully. What it comes down to is acceptance. Allowing the sensations you feel to be your body’s unique voice and then listening, carefully, respectfully. No judgment. No criticism. No anger. Just acceptance. Now, any time I start to feel overwhelmed or panicked in a posture, I simply remind myself that everything I’m feeling is fine, normal, who cares, and before I know it, I’m already moving into the next pose.

“Look into the mirror and greet the eyes of your greatest teacher—yourself.” — Do I really need to explain this one?

The best, simplest and most profound of all, though, is: “Namaste.”

You don’t get amazing every time.

When I told my mother tonight about how I’d had two rough classes the last two days, she replied quickly, “Well, yes, of course. That’s to be expected. You have one day of amazing, two days of walls, three days of so-so, and on and on. You don’t get amazing every time.”

I’ve finished nine yoga classes in a row. Forget the walls and the weak feeling in my knees and the wooziness in my head—that feat, for me, is amazing in and of itself.

But, I must recognize it’s not wrong to seek amazing all the time. I’ve always been a woman with high standards and high expectations, a woman who’s not afraid to ask for what she wants. As I tell my friends when I’m tweaking a menu order just to my liking: “I just want it the way I want it.” Don’t we all?

Today’s class wasn’t amazing, but maybe today was just a wall or a so-so day, and I should probably gear myself up for another one or two of them. Because if my mother’s right, which, I admit, she oftentimes is, then amazing won’t be visiting me until mid week.

Remind me why, please. Why am I doing this again?

My knees hurt.  My lower back is aching a bit.  My upper back is a minefield of softball-sized knots.  My hips keep cracking.  And my calves—both my freaking calves!—feel overworked, overstretched.  When I press my hand to my face, even my cheekbones seem to burn.

But, it is my mind that most wants to give.

Today in class, I had a horrible time staying focused. I felt negative, irritated, exhausted. I wanted to just lay down on my mat and call it quits. A serious yogi was beside me, and, given my fragile frame of mind, I spent the majority of the class feeding off of her focus, her calmness, her easy flow through a series that suddenly felt impossible for me to finish.  But, finish I did.  And I only skipped one set of one posture.

And I remember now: This is a practice. Not a competition or a one-time gig or a final destination. So I enjoyed a string of great days in the studio and now had one crappy day.

But, the show goes on. Tomorrow’s a new day, a new practice. I can do this.

I’ve never quite known whether to classify myself as a quitter or one who always follows through, always finishes what I’ve begun.  I’ve made many, many, many plans and promises, and broken them. Sometimes, I think I’ve quit and failed at a great many things.

But, everyone probably feels this way, right? Because you can’t continue everything you’ve ever begun. That’s why friendships, relationships, jobs, sports, hobbies, careers, marriages and the most passionate love affairs finally, at some point, end. I want to know: How do we teach ourselves not to look among the rubble for proof of success or failure? How do teach ourselves to just take what we’ve learned, what we need, and leave the rest behind?

I am trying to learn how to let go, to move on, to accept the period at the end of the sentence. I am trying to forgive myself for the moments in my life I’ve labeled as failures. Those are dark corners to revisit, but I want to sweep them clean, for good.

I am trying to remember that, despite the bad class, the bad day, his car outside my building, the strange hollowness in my heart, I must simply pick up what pieces I can salvage, the ones still worth holding onto, and head for higher ground, hopeful.

After all, tomorrow’s a new day, right?

I voted for change.

When I began Bikram yoga a year and a half ago, I was desperately seeking a new form of exercise, a new source of energy and physical/spiritual enlightenment. I was in need of change, inside and out, and unafraid to admit it.

For someone who’s spent the majority of her time exercising either in heavily chlorinated swimming pools or on YMCA treadmills, a hot, sweaty, crowded, quiet yoga studio was, well, different.  It took me awhile to adjust, to appreciate, this new environment and exercise. My body and mind resisted the yoga poses, the miserable heat, the eternity of class, for months.

Until, one day, when I walked through the studio’s front door and caught that first, familiar whiff of hot air and sweat and skin and hours-old sunlight burnt onto the studio floor, I felt surprisingly calm, peaceful, and safe, like I had just arrived home at the end of a long, long day. I was suddenly 100 percent certain of the choice I’d made so many months ago. Just like that, I went from being someone who “does yoga” to being a devoted yogi.

For me, change has always been abrasive, uncomfortable, nearly impossible to bear. In the last two years though, I’ve noticed, thanks to yoga, of course, that I’m starting to follow change ’round the room, instead of the other way around. Change suddenly seems alluring, mysterious, handsome, promising. I kind of can’t stop thinking about it. I find myself clamoring to schedule a date with it. Fitting—I’ve always fallen hard and fast.

And change was promised to me in my classes—come regularly, come often, and you’ll start noticing real differences, that’s what my teachers would say. I was so anxious to see changes in my body after I started practicing, and I did, a little, here and there. But, like change itself, nothing was permanent, nothing was final. What seemed different one day felt exactly the same on another day.

But lately, especially throughout this challenge, I’ve noticed big changes.

Suddenly, I can press my palms flat on the floor with my legs still perfectly straight. I can stretch my arms up and back and up and back until my biceps are completely behind my ears. I can lift my entire body off the ground solely with the strength of my spine. I can bend my body back far enough to see the floor directly behind my feet. These are big bodily changes indeed, my friends.

Change, as learned in my practice, is my body’s final willingness to open, fully, and let go, my limbs giving way to change’s persistent flirtations. My mind has embraced change as a kindred spirit, whose supreme consistency is based solely in its incredible inconsistencies. In other words, I understand and accept that what I feel one day on my mat will be completely different from what I feel tomorrow. My body is recreating itself in each new class. Every day is entirely its own.

That’s change at its best.

And so, being a changed woman, a true yogi, a student dedicated to her practice and dedicated to this newfound kindred spirit of mine, I link arms with change, give it a kiss on the cheek even, and start figuring out when we can schedule our next rendezvous.

Stay here with me…

In class tonight (day 19, for anyone else who’s counting), my instructor said toward the end of the floor series, “Stay with me, people! Come on!” It was her form of encouragement, her way of nudging people past their initial point of resistance and fatigue. For me, it was a reminder to stay with myself, to not break, to not let the heat and the stress and the worry about perfection take over. It’s like the line in Atonement—the incredible book, not the bad Hollywood movie—”Come back. Come back to me.” It’s like the story I have to keep telling myself over and over, the lesson I must keep learning.

I’ve done this my entire life. Relearned the same lessons, retold the same stories.
Just when I think I’ve moved past something, left it among the rubble of yesterday, that something will loom before me the very next morning, teeth bared, laughing, saying, “Yeah, you thought you lost me, didn’t you?”

In yoga, that something is the pain in my calves, which burn intensely these days, or the cramps in my thighs as I try to lock my knees, or the pinch in my lower back as I try to bend deeper. That something is my frustration when I can’t find my balance or when I can’t catch my breath. That something is the knot in the pit of my stomach. That something is my skin’s dryness and redness. That something is my sore neck. That something is my recent insomnia.

And then, just when I think “that something” has overpowered me, thrown me to the floor and begun to raise its arms in victory, I’ll repeat the mantra to help me move past the discomfort, the ache: take a deep breath, acknowledge the hurt, take another deep breath, acknowledge I’m okay and the hurt is okay, send the breathe wherever it’s needed, and I’ll just let it go and move on. And then I do. And then I am fine.

Lesson learned. Until the next pose. I find myself in front of the chalkboard again. I am, it seems, an eternal student.

But, we all are, right? Or, at least, we should all strive to be. What’s the joy and interest in living if we aren’t constantly learning new quirks and surprises about ourselves and others, if we’re not constantly questioning our motives, our beliefs, if we’re not constantly pushing to understand, to know more?

Lessons are thrilling and inspiring each time around. And I’m experiencing another one, as I near the home stretch of this little journey, one I learned no more than two months ago and am, much to my surprise, already revisiting.

I’m seeing I can withstand a stronger, more challenging, more aggressive and exhausting and willful foe than anyone/anything else could present—myself.

It’s the same story I’ve been telling all of you, I know. But, I guess I’m just trying to say, “This is me.”

A pause for observations.

I see some people in my classes who have beautiful bodies—women with thin, sculpted arms and shoulder blades strong enough to push through their skin like wings, men with unbelievably defined backs and teeny, tiny waists to balance big, broad shoulders. I can always tell the women who were ballerinas from the light, silent, breathless way in which they move, like a dance, through their practice. I envy their quiet poise, their bodies’ precise, delicate movements. They have grace.

But, then, most days, those people are the exceptions. Most days, the people in my classes are thick-waisted, a little soft in the thighs and the butt, a little lacking in the washboard-abs department.

I see as many gray-haired heads as I do blonde and black and brown. I see women in their 70s, teen-agers who are tattooed and pierced, ladies who are pregnant, beefy guys who’ve spent hours and hours at the gym (they have the biceps to prove it) but who can’t, despite all those dumbbell curls, touch their fingers to their toes.
I see some people flaunting their bodies—women wearing bikinis, men wearing Speedos—and I see other people hiding behind too-baggy T-shirts and long pants.

Point is this:  We are a salad bowl, my fellow yogis and I, representing all shapes, sizes, weights, colors and ages.
And we are reminded, day after day, to leave our prejudice—for ourselves and our neighbors—at the door, because no one and nothing else in the room matters except you, your breath, your body, standing tall and proud in the middle of your mat, toes and heels together, please, for alignment, for balance, for stability, in a world run amuck outside the steam-lined studio walls.

That is grace.

Namaste.

Our “falling off the bike scars.”

A faithful yoga practice will eventually heal the deepest of physical scars, but it can also tend to those emotional “falling off the bike” scars, too. I’ve discovered yoga, if you allow it, will press its thin, little fingers into those knots, working deftly, almost secretly. You don’t even realize you’re letting go of negative thoughts regarding this or that person or exhaling resentment, sadness, confusion, stress, as you stretch your entire body apart. You can’t see that your heart is actually pushing away small demons with each steadfast beat, that each drop of sweat running down your neck and hamstrings is one more toxin you can leave on that studio floor.

But then, afterwards, when you do realize what’s happening and how much lighter, freer and happier you feel, those relentless, prodding fingers become as important to your practice as the heat, your water bottle, the very feet on which you stand facing yourself in the mirror. The “internal massage” I give myself each class as I compress my limbs and my organs in myriad ways is nothing to me now if I don’t also leave the studio feeling as though I’ve massaged my mind, rubbing away tension, soothing frayed nerves, smoothing out the day’s wrinkles.

I’ve fallen off many bikes in my lifetime, sometimes jumping right to my feet, brushing off the dirt, laughing, thinking how silly and clumsy I am. Other times, I’ve spent years picking the stones out of my kneecaps.

In the studio, it doesn’t matter where you got your scars. We’re each cut up and on the mend in our own individual ways. What matters is that we’re all aiming to heal ourselves, carefully, gently.

And then, of course, looking to climb right back onto the bike seat for another ride.

The still moment.

“You are here, right now, in the room.  Nothing else matters.”
One of my yoga teachers says this at least once, in every class. And each time, I immediately think, “Am I here? Right now, only in this room? Am I staying present?”

I was telling a friend last night that I’ve hit a wall these last few days in my classes. It’s a funny-looking wall, too. Part of it is draped in my exhaustion. Another part is moss-covered with my muscle aches and pains. One corner is painted black with my negative thoughts of “why am I doing this again?!” Another corner is painted red with my prideful ambition.

Funny-looking, yes, but surmountable, because somehow, I keep getting through these classes, and I keep returning to the studio, and I keep trying to stay here, right now, in the room.  And for what?

I don’t know if I’ve ever had a true understanding of the myriad reasons I go to yoga. I used to think it was solely for exercise. Then, I thought it was a form of therapy, especially considering the number of times I came embarrassingly close to bawling while laying on my mat. This fall, I thought my practice was a good, healthy distraction and release from daily worries and pressures.

Lately, I’ve craved the still moments I’ve found in yoga, the stop to the spin that is my life as I try, in vain, to juggle school, work, friends, moving, finances, family, myself. I can’t wait for that feeling of sinking, settling, into the floor, my limbs loose and immobile, my eyes staring straight up at the ceiling, my mind focused solely on the draw and exhale of my breath.

I cannot wait to find that moment in each class, that still moment. How often do we give ourselves that kind of peace?

I see now there is no one reason I am a yogi, no one truth that will make me understand my practice or my life, no wall—however high—that I cannot try to climb over.

Day 22, people.

After tomorrow, I’ll have only seven more days. One week. And then my 30 days will be complete.
Good God, I am proud of myself.

This morning, I took class with Jason Winn, an extremely accomplished Bikram yogi who has trained with Bikram himself for years. He’s holding a two-workshop at my studio, and tomorrow I’ll take his advanced workshop, which I’m a little nervous about, considering I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m “advanced.” But, all of my teachers say I’m ready for it and will learn tremendously from the experience, so I paid the money and signed myself up.
This morning’s class, which Jason taught as part of the two-day workshop, was one of the largest I’ve been in—I would say at least 60 yogis were in the room. And Jason was extraordinary. I’ve never been so inspired, motivated, encouraged, focused, disciplined, and courageous in my practice.

And as a reward, at two different points, Jason signaled me out, complimenting me on my form, complimenting my strength. In standing head to knee pose, he told me I had an “excellent foundation.” Excellent. Wow.
He said so many things that I wanted to file away to memory and write down, but right now, in this moment of euphoria and exhaustion, all I can really remember is this passing moment right before we hit the floor after the standing series:

I don’t know if it was the sweat, the bright lights, or Jason’s words, but when I took one last look at myself in the mirror, I glowed.

And all because we tried…

I am a lady of lists.

All day today, during my advanced workshop with Jason Winn, I kept thinking how I wanted to make a list of the things I was learning from him. An abridged version:

1. Jason is amazing. If any of you are Bikram yogis, ask your studio owner to invite him to come for a workshop. His style of teaching was perfect—direct, stern, teasing, lightly humorous, 110 percent serious, and encouraging.
2. I was in a heated room for 5.5 hours today. That means I was practicing yoga, sweating profusely, and reaching new depths in my poses for 5.5 hours. Needless to say, every single bone, muscle, tendon, nail and tooth is humming right now. I can feel everything. Even the tops of my eyelids are tender. I can’t decide if I think this is awesome or awful.
3. I have a new appreciation for Bikram’s beginning series after taking today’s advanced workshop. I realized I’ve become a little smug at times, thinking I can reach good, deep extensions of the beginning series postures. But, after completing the 84—that’s right, EIGHTY-FOUR!!!!—poses of the advanced series, I now fully understand I have much, much, much further to go in my practice.
4. I kind of want to quit my job and head down to Mexico for the fall teacher training camp.
5. The Bikram yoga community is incredibly small, warm and encouraging.
6. I can’t believe after all this invigorating, inspiring, exciting yoga I’ve experienced in the last two days that I actually have to get up tomorrow and go sit behind a desk. (See #4.)
7. I wonder if I could hold a fundraiser for my teacher training tuition…  Anyone have a few thousand they’d like to donate? It’s for a good cause! I swear!
8. I thought of my older sister a lot today. Many of the postures in Bikram’s advanced series are similar to the yoga she practices, which is Baptiste yoga, and I kept thinking how much she would have loved the workshop. She began practicing yoga several years ago, and when she started reciting quotes her teachers had told her and attending five classes a week, I’ll be honest, I thought she was downright obsessed (and a little nuts). But today, as I laid on my mat grinning and listening to my entire body churn and open, I felt such gratitude for my sister, who was the very person who laid her mat next to mine in my first Bikram yoga class and smiled reassuringly as I made faces like I was dying (I really thought I was). She was a pillar against which I leaned that day—in truth, she is the pillar I’ve pressed my weight and worries against these many years, and yet she remains sturdy, unbroken. My practice is a testament to her unfailing strength and belief in me.
9. This was day 23 of my challenge. I have seven days left to go. One week. By this time next Sunday, I’ll be finished. And, to be honest, I can’t really decide how I feel about that. On one hand, of course, I cannot freaking wait. Oh, to have my life back! And, on the other hand, I keep thinking how once I hit day 30, well, why not try for day 31? And then day 32? Hell, why not try for 40 days. In the end, it’s just days, right? In the same way that it’s just yoga. Why so serious, remember?
10. A body is capable of so much more than we imagine, than we even allow. We are too quick to think we cannot perform, we cannot handle that position, we are too weak to finish what we’ve started. But, all those emotions, judgments and fears are screens, and our vision of the world and ourselves becomes hazy, dirty, when looking through them. Knock those screens out of your mind’s windows. Lift your eyes. Look beyond what you thought you knew to be true. I have learned there is, always, more to see.
11 (just for good measure). I could not believe how I was able to twist and bend my limbs today. I could not believe how my neighbor yogi was able to reach such depth and extension to poses she’d never even seen before.

And all because we tried. Because we were there. We showed up.

And damn it if that isn’t the hardest and best part of this practice. Really, of anything.

Who can take the hurt away?

Word of advice to my fellow yogis: When you take an advanced Bikram yoga class, prepare yourself for an unparalleled day-after soreness.

Honestly, my muscles haven’t ached this acutely in years, since college, actually, when I was doing daily double swimming/water polo practices, lifting, and playing tournaments every weekend. And although I know I hurt then, today my body is tender in a totally different way. Instead of numbing exhaustion, I feel a pleasant ache, each movement eliciting a soft sighhhhhhhh throughout my limbs and fingertips, as though my tendons, bones and muscles were whispering little “hellos” and “thank yous” to my mind.

I can hardly believe it, but I’m kind of enjoying the ache’s company, its constant reminder that I participated in something magnificent yesterday, that my body endured hours and hours of heat and sweat and stretching and discomfort and still came out stronger and happier in the end.

And despite the pain, I somehow dragged my sorry butt to  class tonight.

Within the first five minutes, I seriously questioned whether I should have come—I was light-headed, shaky, wobbly on my feet, and incredibly uncomfortable. Within 10 minutes, I noticed I ached less. By standing bow pulling pose, I could not believe how rock-solid my legs were, how far forward my arm reached, how high up my foot kicked and kicked and kicked. When we hit the floor, I was still shaky and still wobbly, but my head was incredibly clear and focused.

I kept thinking, if I made it through yesterday’s yoga marathon, what’s a 90-minute beginners series class?

Please.

Sometimes, yoga’s nudges forward have the force of freight train.

Friday, I’m in love.

Wednesday, I suffered through my worst class in at least a week. I also got a notice in the mail saying my rent was going up $35 dollars. I hate money.

Thursday, I went to sunrise yoga again, thinking anything had to be better than Wednesday’s hell and Tuesday’s absurdity. Quite the contrary. Thursday was actually the worst class of this entire 30-day challenge. The instructor was completely green—I think we might have been the first class he ever taught—and his dialogue, his timing, his temperature control was all off. The room was so cold that I moved my mat to get closer to the heaters. One woman actually put on a sweatshirt, which is absolutely unheard of in Bikram yoga. The worst part, though, was that he ran over by nearly 20 minutes, which is beyond annoying at 7:45 a.m. when you have to be at work by 8:30 a.m. What were those “let it go” lessons I was touting earlier??

Friday, we are best friends. I adore you. This morning, my sunrise class rocked. I felt strong, supple, focused and relaxed. My instructor had perfect timing, perfect dialogue, perfect encouragement for each of us. I left energized, excited, ready for anything.

On Sunday, I’ll finish this silly, little challenge of mine—30 freaking classes in 30 freaking days. Some might not think this is all that great a feat. Some might wonder why the hell a person would do something like this in the first place. Some just won’t understand.

But, all that doesn’t matter. It’s Friday, and I’m in love.

Self realization.  Or, realizing self. Or, self reality. Or, real self.

Hmm. Which do you prefer to discuss first?

Because, for me, at the long end of these 30 days of Bikram yoga, I have different definitions for each. In truth, I have different definitions for everything.

Let’s start with self realization. My instructor talked about this exact phrase today, saying Bikram talks about “self realization” in his new book and explaining how Bikram believes the self is reborn through yoga. I love this idea. I love to think I am creating and releasing new thoughts, new systems of belief, new corners of my body as I practice postures and practice breathing. I love to think I leave each class with a rejuvenated, resolved self. Most of all, I love that Bikram puts the ownership where it should be—within.

I know I have had moments of realizing self in my classes. By day 8 or 9, I realized true, concentrated pride in what I had already accomplished. My self was proud. By day 15 or 16, I discovered an unshakable, determined discipline. My self was resolute. By day 23, I celebrated my passion, my eagerness, my humility, my efforts. My self was in awe. By day 30, I saw my sweaty, ecstatic, amazed self in the mirror, and I wanted to hug her, I wanted to rub her back, and say, “I knew you were capable of this, and I’m glad you know this now, too.” My self was recognized.

Self realization and realizing self are delightful, friendly. Self reality, on the other hand, can be a hard truth to face. Reality in and of itself is brutal, steel-knuckled and rough to the touch and ready to pounce. And, as we all know, reality is relative, ever-shifting, undefinable even, elusive from one person to the next. In yoga, my self reality is that I am strong, focused, quiet, loving, soothing, forgiving, unhurried, deliberate and kind. That self is cradled, cared for. Outside the studio, my self reality is that I am frustrated at work, tired of living in Washington, D.C., lonesome for friends and family hundreds of miles away, anxious, rushed, stressed, and constantly worried I am not doing enough, giving enough, working hard enough, going out enough, speaking out enough, making myself available enough. This self fears the club of self-criticism daily. In yoga, my self reality is soft, gentle, warm. Outside the studio, my self reality is filled with mirrors, and the face in them is, at times, unrecognizable.
What does one do when realities collide?

And that leads me to real self, which is, potentially, yoga’s greatest offering to me thus far. Imagine: Your. Real. Self. Who is that? What reality is that?

Yoga has asked me those questions, time and time again. Yoga stood before, beside and behind me in class after class, whispering, “Are you strong? Are you diligent? Are you forgiving? Are you ready to release?” And with each “yes” that I whispered back, another curtain lifted, another sliver of my real self joined the ensemble on the stage.

Yoga has revealed parts of my real self that I had forgotten or abandoned, parts I’d under-watered or over-fed, parts that were raw and parts that were fully healed and needed fresh air, fresh light. Yoga convinced me that my real self is ever-evolving—forget my early-twenty-something musings on how well I knew my self. No, no, honey. With each class comes another opportunity to turn the soil, weed the beds, plant new and unfamiliar seeds, and ready the earth for the next day.

I now find I am constantly hungry for these new opportunities.

We are not often afforded second chances. And, being a fairly practical person, that truth has created a cautiousness, a hesitant wondering, within me. I took opportunities, yes, but only after lengthy deliberation and discussion, only after I was given permission, blatantly or subtly, by family and friends. All my life I’ve played it safe, stuck to the well-lit path, and listened to what everyone told me.

I listened to myself only on the pages of my journals and in the stories and poems I wrote. I listened to myself in dreams.

But now, throughout the last year and a half, throughout these last 30 days, I have been listening oh so carefully to my body’s hum and my self’s praise and my teacher’s encouragement. I filtered and drowned out others’ voices. I feasted on the fact that I, and I alone, made this decision, stuck to it, and finished. I took the first step this time. And I have realized if I, and I alone, want something for myself, only I can–and, given enough work and resolve, will—make that “something” happen.

Simple lessons, my friends, I know.

But tonight, these lessons are sirens, are beacons freshly lit, are brightly painted signs directing me toward paths I might have otherwise passed.

Can the journey continue for 30 more days?

It’s hard to know what to do when you’ve finished what you started.

On Sunday, my 30 nonstop days of Bikram yoga were up. I completed my challenge. I did it and was done. Voila.
Now that the feat I wanted and worked toward for 30 days is over, I find myself wondering, what next? Where do I go from here?

For the last 30 days, I had a goal, a single focus and ambition, and although maintaining that tunnel vision was difficult and exhausting, I realize I kind of liked having a defined purpose. Yoga, for all its flexibility and openness, structured my life tightly. And, strangely enough, I liked that. A lot.

I liked that the food I craved and put into my body consisted mainly of fruits, vegetables, chicken, toast, honey, peanut butter, naan, coconut water, juice, and milk. I liked that I made such a concentrated effort to fuel and energize my body in good and healthy ways. I liked that my muscles grew longer, leaner. I can see marked definition in my thighs, my calves, even on my forearms. My back stands stronger, tighter. Even my fingers and wrists feel worked through.

My body has become more wholly my own in the last 30 days than ever before, and I have fallen in love with the lines of myself in a new and powerful way.

Most of all, I have found peace, stillness, and solace—within myself.

And so, I think it’s safe to say the journey will continue. For as long as I have strength to climb.

Thanks to the author and yoga practitioner Marique Newell, a Washington, D.C.-based writer and editor who chronicled her Bikram yoga challenge. Once a life-long swimmer, water polo player and runner, Marique discovered Bikram yoga in September 2006 and now practices at least five days a week. Originally from Pennsylvania, Marique received her bachelor's degree in journalism from the University of Massachusetts and will receive her master's degree in English from George Mason University in May 2008. See her blog at http://hannahjustbreathe.wordpress.com/ or contact her at hannahjustbreathe@gmail.com.

Copyright Marique Newell 2008
All Rights Reserved