Yoga

Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes. If it were always a fist or always stretched open, you would be paralysed. Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding, the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated as bird wings.- Rumi

First time here. The classes are held in a martial arts centre and our room is huge with pink, squishy rubber flooring and strange pieces of black padded equipment along the walls. An air conditioner whirrs somewhere behind me. It is needed today; the weather is warm and ominously humid. On my right a young woman lies on her back, relaxing. Further over a grandmotherly type talks to her neighbour. I count heads: two men and fifteen women, all shapes and ages.

Susanna, the teacher, reminds me of an oriental dancer; her tiny frame is curvy and muscular and she exudes grace and competence. I introduce myself, something I seem to be doing a lot these days. We talk about my physical condition. I tell her I'll be fine.

This yoga differs from that of the Sivananda tradition, the one I know best. Here the postures flow into each other, almost like tai-chi. I have to concentrate hard in order to coordinate breath and movement and a couple of times Susanna comes over and gently adjusts an arm or a leg.

Let me tell you, it’s an emotional business when the body reawakens, when rigid muscles are asked to stretch and release. I’m awash with frustration at my own awkwardness and can't shake an illogical sense of having lost something irreplaceable during the months of inactivity. Tears aren't far away. What keeps me here is a belief in the power of the asanas, these tools for expansion and contraction.

It's simple. They return me to the body. To an awareness of living muscle, sinew and breath. And if I'm looking for deepest presence, this is where I start.

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The path home after the class leads past the cathedral. Groups of teenagers sprawl on the grass beneath the lime trees and the sweet yet slightly acrid scent of the blossom hangs in the heavy air.