MySore Knees

In the traditional Mysore Ashtanga method, teacher gives each student the yoga postures in a specific sequence when the teacher deems the student is ready. This means all levels of yogis can practice together at one time, each doing her/his own practice up to the level of her/his own experience. This is not yoga as typically taught in the U.S. where the teacher stands in the front of the class and calls out postures and gives instruction en masse. Mysore Ashtanga is individualized.

My Ashtanga yoga practice, back in S.F., has been extremely limited by the combination of my tight hips and a battered left knee (the result of a 2007 ski accident in Kashmir, when I wiped out at Gulmarg and nearly slid on bum, both skis fastened to my boots, into Pakistan). Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I haven’t been the most dedicated yogi.

Back in the Bay Area I’ve been stuck at Navasana, a posture that was given to me nearly 2 years ago by certified Ashtanga teacher Noah Williams. Navasana is exactly half-way through the Primary Series.

Being stuck on Navasana has been a source of alternating frustration, contempt and acceptance for me. My body is very flexible in some respects–my back, hamstrings, legs. Lots of fun postures that follow Navassana would allow me to take advantage of my yoga strengths and flexibility. But because I’ve struggled with the postures that precede Navasana, postures that require flexible knees and hips, I’ve never been allowed to get beyond those postures I suck at.

Until now.

In my first class in Mysore, Saraswathi gave me the entire Primary Series. Oh, joy! I get to do a Russian split and plant my face on the floor!  Super fun! Fantastic for my ego. For my left knee, not so much.

My 50-year old knee is screaming at my 13-year old ego: “For the love of God(s), stop before you do something you’ll really regret.” But I can’t stop myself. I can’t. I have figured out, though, how to avoid being adjusted into agony by Saraswathi.

At first I was trying to make myself small, hide in class. That didn’t work at all. She adjusted me 5, 6, 7 times a class, which is to say, a lot. Finally, my shala friend Sarah and I figured out that Saraswathi is like a cat. Hide, ignore her, and she’ll come straight to you. Grasp for her attention, however, and she will totally shun you.

This morning, I tried something new. I strode into the shala, boldly, went right up to her and chirped, “Good Morning, Saraswathi. How are you?” She smiled, nodded and never came near me during class.

My knees are grateful. My ego–not so much.