Heart Full

Hidden away on the second floor of the ever bustling 14th street is a simple studio that goes by, Yoga Yoga NYC . I discovered it using my New York Yoga Pass Book. I noticed they offered a good number of classes in Ashtanga , an invigorating practice that I wanted to experience more thoroughly. Unlike any other studio I’ve visited, there was no posting on the entrance indicating their branding, and the door was so nondescript I mistook it for a storage room, and continued up the stairs. I probably would’ve continued walking up to the roof, if I hadn’t heard someone open the door, seemingly “looking” for someone. My spidey senses figured it was me.

The layout couldn’t be more basic, a single roomed loft, with partitions for changing rooms. I was thrilled to notice there wasn’t a computer (running Om software) in the make shift reception area, and the woman behind the desk had a genuine smile. I even liked the hand written attendance sheets, and the organic mess of post-it notes. It was personal.

I was nervous about the class. My Ashtanga practice was spotty at best, and Ashtanga classes tend to be fast paced, and sweaty. My first class crushed my ego, which could be why I’ve been shy about repeat visits. But I had nothing to worry about, the intimate setting imparted a kindness, and a no-judgments environment. The instructor was clear, in both her direction and her adjustments. She also customized her modifications specifically for my needs. Making difficult poses seem more approachable.

In this lost city, it’s refreshing to see a yoga studio that doesn’t seem like a business, even if said business is wellness and care. It’s inspiring to see sky when you do your sun salutations. It’s nice to actually write your name, rather than spell it out for their database entry. It’s nice to see literature offered rather than sold. It’s a heart-full experience to tell people your name, and believe they’ll remember it. And they did.

I went back to Jivamukti this week. The venerable yoga studio, who’s price tag I feared would break the bank when I last reviewed them. My wallet did protest rustily as I paid for my class pack, but I’m eager to learn more about the studio that gave us vinyasa, its’ history, and the calm the teachers effortlessly exude.

The focus of the month at Jivamukti was “learning to be a master”, and although today’s class wasn’t the first class I’ve taken centered around this theme, none had resonated so deeply. The teacher asked if anyone was new to Jivamukti, a few hands; any students new to his class, mine along with other hands. He welcomed us with a smile. He asked us to think of a master, picture them in our mind, and consider why we admire them. A few candidates came to mind, my aunt for her compassion, Joshua for his dedication, Kristin for her fortitude, I couldn’t decide on one, so invariably they all whirled through my citta vritti (mind chatter).
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By now all of my friends know I’m hooked on yoga. Having heard me rave for months, they ventured to take a class with me. Feeling adventurous I took them to Yoga to the People , which I’d been wanting to try. Although I hadn’t been there yet, I felt confident the class would be good. The pictures on their site were stunning, and the reviews on yelp were glowing.

My friends were apprehensive, they hadn’t been to many studios, and never to a dedicated yoga studio. Having a yogi in the middle of the room demonstrate every variant of head stand, and poses indistinguishable from contortions didn’t really make them feel at home. The vibe was strangely unwelcoming, maybe it was the still and sweaty air, or the simmering knowledge that there was only one bathroom for the 40+ people in class.

I was eager to begin. But not more than 15 minutes into it, my impatience started to grow, and unfortunately it started to infect the people around me. Our (possibly) novice teacher, was continually confusing left and right, calling the poses (asanas) the wrong name, often just giving up and trying to describe the pose. Under normal circumstances this would be fine, except when you’re standing on one (very) tired leg.

Eventually, as we were held in lengthy and irregular suspense, pockets of students began guessing where she was going and would proactively move into the pose. Too bad for us, we were only right half the time. Worse yet, I started feeling a gnawing guilt. I was angry at her for “ruining” my friends’ first foray into yoga, but I of all people ( a teacher in training at the time myself) I should have been able to produce a modicum of empathy.
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