Monday, December 14, 2009


Or rather...thank you for living with my silence.

I was away last week, working towards a 10 year goal to become a trained as a hot yoga instructor.

This has been a lingering dream of mine since my friend Leah showed up when I was pregnant with T, puking my brains out daily. She had recently returned from a Bikram yoga teacher training. I had never practiced yoga and I associated it largely with cross-legged Indian dudes. It never occurred to me to practice it, let alone that it could be something that could provide relief from my nausea. At that point, seven months into my pregnancy and still puking daily, I was willing to try anything. Leah worked my stiff, bloated frame into several poses, and amazingly, I felt better for days after.

I vowed to figure out what this was all about. Soon after T was born, I registered for a class locally. It was slow, boring, glorified stretching. Still, it felt good enough that I kept going. There was little else in town for options and so I eventually quit, choosing a higher intensity workout.

When I moved to Bellingham a few years later, my boyfriend encouraged and encouraged me to go check out the multitude of studios in town. Fear won out for several weeks until finally, after driving past this one several times, I made way up the stairs. After the very first class I was: sweaty, worked, tired, elated and full of endorphins. I was also completely hooked.

When I left Bellingham two years ago, there were many, many things I knew I'd miss, but my biggest concern was, what will I do without my yoga family? My daily classes/detox?

Given that there was no studio within two and a half hours of my home, I acquiesced, signed up for kick boxing. I found myself immediately immersed into a community that I related to, but for very different reasons. Again, I was hooked.

A year later, things changed. I am not sure what changed, exactly, but I lost my fire for the classes, racing season was fast approaching and I dedicated myself solely to saddle time. Still, something was missing. I knew it was my yoga practice, and yet, I was never dedicated enough to do it at home.

Each city I visit with a studio, I'd visit. I have driven the two and a half hours to get my yoga fix.
Finally, I came to the conclusion, that if someone was not going to bring yoga to me, I was going to have to have a part in creating it here.

When I signed up for the Baptiste Teacher Training, it was largely out of logistical necessity. I had never practiced his signature vinyasa flow prior to my arriving at Bootcamp. I showed up any way, perfectly and as I was meant to: open. Ready to practice.

The journey was transformative in nearly every way. I cannot wait to get back on my mat. I have my fire back. More photos insights, stories and anecdotes will follow, but today I dig out, and root my feet back firmly in this frozen tundra I call home.

In the meantime, this was the view from my room/hut/whatever you call it:

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