Heart Full

Having finally made the decision to not pursue a 300hr certification, I’ve set about this year to take more workshops and expand my education on a more buffet style basis. I’ve long considered taking classes at New York’s Open Center, once in awhile I even scope out a catalog and highlighted some interesting classes, that I never managed to make. Not so this year. I pro-actively marked in my calendar all of the workshops and certifications I was interested in pursuing. The first one was “Introduction to Swedish Massage”, a real winner for me since I am the worlds most avid connoisseur.

I couldn’t wait to start. I registered early, and had all of my materials packed and ready. I arrived a couple minutes late to class – and so was forced to do the scooby-doo entrance. I found a seat, and began to take notes, in that breathless, and bothered having run there kind of way. The teacher was demoing the basic strokes. I noticed how she had a remarkably soothing voice, and how well she described the motions, it reminded a lot of yoga. And then she uttered the most unexpectedly dreaded words, “find yourself a partner”. The floor fell, and I panicked. So that was why we were instructed to bring a bed sheet, massage oil, and a towel. OF COURSE ! How did I not connect the dots?
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Om Yoga Center one of the great studios of New York City. It’s celebrity is perhaps only surpassed by its’ founder, the yoga guru / mogul, Cyndi Lee. At a sprawling 11,500+ sq feet, over 5,000 student base, retreats, 200hr and 500hr teacher training program, it is an epic yoga school and brand. I’d been itching to try this yoga studio. Not only because its’ so well known, but because it’d been reputed to seamlessly combine Buddhism and yoga.

For the first class, my friend Carolyn and I took the 60-minute “Sweaty Express” open class. The studio was small, but the pillars about the room gave it character, and the fanciful Buddhist insights painted along the walls gave it warmth. The teacher seemed experienced and soothing. Given the name, Carolyn and I were ready to sweat. But I noticed that each time she or I tried to take it further, the teacher reigned us in. Which truth be told, I liked, yoga in my mind shouldn’t be “sweaty”, nonetheless I did want to move.
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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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