little bit yoga

Little bit Squat-ter. This I now understand as Deepen the stretch or Squat a little bit deeper, which I now find tricky, as muscles slipped off the back of my shoulders, and a left shoulder that has stumbled forward and become trapped in front of a rib, prevent me from doing so. All for the joy of cuddling and carrying and nursing a bundle, and not one moment of which I would have done differently. Though perhaps introducing the Controlled Comforting a bit earlier may have served to leave a stray muscle in place on a poor, unfortunate blade.

Summer, Good Pasture. His eyes are on me.

Though it was always felt like summer in Singapore, I hadn’t seen any pastoral land, and what had that got to do with an Asana on the eighteenth floor of our Orchard building anyway?  Suddenly I'm on the inner circle and Summer hits me like a sudden, inspirational yogic revelation as Some More (stretch deeper, that is). Good Posture replaces my image of a farm, and frankly, I can't feel my toes when I stand like this.

Again. Now his breath is on my right ear lobe. No! GOOD Pasture.
Are you kidding me? My hammies are as tight as leg room flying Economy.

Yoga reminds me to breathe. There is a breath called Ojai that can be used when practising that sounds like the class has passed out on their mats post lunch, with a good bottle of red. The light snoring technique that purrs at the back of the throat at each inhalation works to keep your mind focused on the breath, instead of holding it whilst mapping the best route home and attempting Little bit Squatter into Warrior One.

Since my late teens, I’ve been a cardio nut, so to join a yoga studio upon moving to Singapore was a move out of left field. Any time I had an hour to spare, I would head to the gym. Though the further back up memories' steep slope I crawl, the more I admit to hating it. Coming from a strict Sydney girls’ school, I had a plethora of places to hide my bloomers so as to opt out of sports class, and it was me who needed the loo break when captains were picking their teams. Physical challenge just wasn’t in my dna. I used to wonder whether going to the gym was akin to how I felt being asked to go to church on a Sunday morning as a child. Though this was rare. As was the gym for some time. As Sunday approached, the thought would creep up and start to rub like wearing a sand shoe, sock-free, and stepping in a big puddle on your long walk home. Then the morning came and the desperate yearning for a sleep in from beneath a warm, comfy doona knowing that as soon as I convinced mum that I had contracted something undoubtedly contagious, I could whip out the Coco Pops just in time for a Video Hits countdown. The temptation was enough to get the palms sweaty. But as an adult with a paid up gym membership and the ability to calculate my bmi post a few nights out, and post party guilt would take control. Straight out of bed, bound for a lycra tight and a gym shoe.

But yoga is less guilt than the sheer unadulterated need for physical therapy. Bubbies need rocking and that fabulous left arm plank hold that I discovered when his weight was akin to a couple bunches of very big bananas, now leaves me for dead. I could whip him up, wedge his tiny legs between my elbow and the edge of my hip, lay him along the length of my arm and cradle his head confidently in the palm of my left hand. As our bundle grew and the three kilos became ten, the rocking and cradling are taking its toll. Right now, Summer Stretch urgently required. Bad Pasture today but little bit squatter and a few more classes should do it.