day 30. arrival.

at the end of the class, the instructor gave a verbal nod to me and congratulated me for arriving at day 30. I didn't expect it; I cried. As I lay in the final savasana, I wanted to cry. I tried, but I suppose that it was too vulnerable a place to go, having given my 100% today and being there, in full anatomical position, as unguarded as it gets. Instead, I cried; just feeling the sweet, hot tears streaming from my eyes without the diaphragmatic and visceral sobbing.
I feel proud of myself. And, Robert was right there next to me, in support and love as I reached the pinnacle.
I didn't really quite think about what I was doing; I was so much in the process of doing it. I was waking up everyday and just getting my ass to yoga. I was following through with a commitment I had made to myself. I was fueled by the fact that getting up in the morning was becoming less and less difficult; pain was subsiding, things were changing, my body was transforming. I felt better. I looked better. I felt strong and more embodied. My life was shifting. I was more clear. I was more emotional, but things were no longer stuck (even though I thought they were, in the harder days of thawing). I was writing again. I was recovering my creativity.
I have to eat my words now.
For many years, I was a strong and righteous voice against Bikram Yoga. I thought, because I practiced it for a full summer in St. Pete Florida nearly two decades ago, that I had a reasonable enough perspective to assert its shortcomings. In that summer, I enjoyed it. It was hot. Florida is hot. Florida in the summer is hot. Bikram in Florida in the summer is about as hot as it gets. I enjoyed the teachers and their kindnesses. I enjoyed the heat. I enjoyed the reward of the after class ritual of jumping in the gulf of Mexico or the swimming pool. But, I found the practice rigid and disconnected. At that time, there wasn't a set dialogue and the rhyme and reason for the series was much more vague. Frankly, it felt random. I realize now how vital and supportive the dialogue is; it provides a trust and a foundation to reach even further. Without it, the edges felt like random precipices chosen simply for the opportunity to strut the ego; how far can you go? As I continued my body studies, back at the dance conservatory with intensive practices in ballet, modern dance, improvisation, laban, pilates, feldenkrais and further into my professional career, I immersed myself in how the body works and moves. Bikram seemed a type A force of will that pushed the body into a submissive stance, disregarding it's voice and striving towards a competitive goal. It just seemed like a really good workout; it lacked the essence of the poetics of art and spirituality that I craved. I threw it out as I discovered ways to inhabit my bones and muscles through more mover-friendly yogas like Astanga (still a great love of mine), Body Mind Centering and a variety of "intelligent" body classes that gleaned their wisdom from deep studies of experiential anatomy, Ideokinesis and poetic inquiries. This was my jazz. After my first real back injury in a modern class in New York, I landed in workshops and classes taught by the late and great Nancy Topf.  I learned about the connection between my tongue and my psoas, how to release the tension patterns in an intractable injury and, by the end of class, by some miracle, I was dancing as if I were made of feathers and wind. From this pivotal experience, I was committed to the investigation of the art of healing the body, moving and honoring my own innate capacities. My professional studies all stand on this important root system.

Bringing this up to date, to now, here I am at the end of a 30 day challenge with Bikram and I stand in an undeniable position. The most recent intractable injury, a disc herniation and torn hamstring, is in a divine state of recovery. I am not completely back to full mobility, but the spiral that has led me downward for over a year has taken a u-turn and there is no mistaking that I am heading upward. I have tried dancing, Pilates, other yoga, physical therapies, massage, Feldenkrais....and, it is Bikram that is making the difference. Perhaps it is the commitment of everyday attendance, hell or highwater, that I made for myself or the series and form itself or the heat. Perhaps it is my older, wiser self that has come around to a broader and more all encompassing perspective. Either way, it is Bikram that has turned me around and for this, I have to swallow my words and be thankful for its position in my life at this point in time.This is a good and true practice for me right now.  In my self, today, and in Bikram, today, I am finding the art and the poetry and the touch of the gods that I had never before been able to see in this form. Each class is a mediation. Each class a story, a painting, a dance or a poem. Perhaps it is me, the recovered artist, that had to show up and discover that wherever I go, here I am. Any practice, any place is a tabula rasa and when I bring myself to it openly and honestly, the art and prayer emerge.There are many roads that lead us home.