Namaskar

My motorbike pulls up to the spaceship-looking building and a guard smiles and waves as if I’m a long lost friend he hasn’t seen in ages.  I enter the large opening in the building and directly opposite is a room full of mirrors and glass with about fifty sweaty bodies.  At first, I look away but I cannot avert my gaze for long.  They are wearing incredibly short spandex shorts and matching sports bras.  This must be a qualification for this room because the fit bodies and…developing…bodies are all wearing it.  The music is blaring and their hips are thrusting and gyrating.  Am I in Da Nang’s finest red light district?  No – I’m watching Zumba.  My roommate can attest to this suggestive workout as she is a bit of a regular.  I don’t realize I’m staring until one of them looks over at me.  My whiplash heel turn was probably pretty obvious.  I locate the dimly-lit room I was looking for and quickly flip my sandals off, spread my towel out on an unattended mat and assume the laying position everyone else is in. 

[Crap!  I’m late!] 

One minute later, the instructor speaks softly in Vietnamese and everyone rises in unison, grabbing their belongings to leave.  I’m not late.  I’m early.  And I just crashed this class’ meditation.  Awesome.

My instructor is gentle, but never smiles.  She’s speaks a lot, but I only understand

“Híííííííít vào”

“Thở ra”

(Breeeeeathe in, breathe out)

My eyes never leave every part of her body.  I’m looking at her fingers, her core, her head and her feet placement.  Sometimes she motions for me to look up, but if I look up, I can’t look at her.  So I obey for two seconds and then I resume my stare.  The best rosy-cheeked moments happen when I’m attempting a multi-step movement.  Suddenly everyone turns front and I’m facing the back.  The woman next to me giggles, and I offer one back.  I’m embarrassed, but this helps and I’m not giving up.  I want to make friends, even if laughter is the only language we share.  

It is quite natural for Vietnamese people to go about everyday activities in a low squat position (with the ball and heel of their feet flat on the ground).  I see my neighbors brushing their teeth and my students playing card games in a squat.  At my favorite rice restaurant, there are several women who wash hundreds of lunch dishes in a squat.  This, in itself, is the garland pose, so I am not surprised that the students around me are rather flexible.  Sometimes, when I have difficulty with a movement or pose, the instructor positions herself next to me, as if this will allow my body to pretzel more effectively.  I’m not awful, but my intensely sore limbs after these classes prove that I have a long way to go.  We finish our 1.5 hour session with a repetitive arm-strengthening dance.  After four classes, I am (thankfully) no longer the sore thumb in the mirror’s movement.  If the goal of yoga is to release the ego, I’m in the right place.