As part of my renewed commitment to getting fit again, I went to yoga last night, dragging the other half along with me. We'd been once before to this particular class, over a year ago, and remembered it being a bit on the hippy dippy side, but had forgotten quite how annoying the teacher was. I have always pursued yoga for its physical benefits rather than to achieve spiritual enlightenment, which is not to say that there is no spiritual side to my experience of it. But I prefer not to have the finger cymbal stuff rammed down my throat, like being told I might as well not be there if I'm not reaching some kind of cosmic nirvana whilst in the frankly somewhat humiliating process of holding my leg behind my head. It also helps to have some practical individual feedback whilst attempting such poses, rather than being scolded from afar, which is what I felt last night. This guy had apparently achieved such bendiness that he'd accidentally disappeared up his own backside.I'll admit, I have been spoiled in the past, which makes me a harsher critic. When I first started doing yoga, about 6 years ago, I was blessed with two wonderful teachers - Sam Toft and David Ronchetti, both of whom were attentive and interactive, never patronising or prescriptive. It helped that they also had a sense of humour. As far as I know, neither of them are teaching these days - Sam was also an artist and went on to great success with her now iconic Mustard paintings (of which I have one on my living room wall). I still see David out and about in Brighton from time to time, and he plays with a couple of local bands, including The Gin Club - check them out. Since Sam's and David's departure from the teaching game, I've yet to find another yoga teacher on my wavelength, and after yesterday's experience, my quest continues...
Photo by j/f photos on Flickr
