When I walk into Yoga House, a yoga studio and boutique on a quiet corner in residential Pasadena, Calif., the soft, musty scent of incense and aromatherapy wafts under my nose, and my eyes need a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. To the clerk manning the counter, I find myself speaking in a low, whisper-like voice, feeling as if I have entered some sort of sanctuary.
I’m a little early for my class — one-and-a-half-hours of yin-style yoga taught by Carry Kim, a fashion designer turned video installation artist turned yoga instructor. Yin yoga, unlike the more rhythmic and aerobic forms of yoga that are popular today (ashtanga, Madonna’s yoga of choice, for instance), is designed as a quiet practice consisting of various poses that are held for long periods of time. It isn’t exactly my first attempt at the exercise/lifestyle trend made famous by paparazzi photos of the chiseled Material Girl making her way to the Kabbalah center toting a rolled-up yoga mat. Two years ago I was pregnant, and my mother, who does yoga and pilates, convinced me to take a couple of prenatal yoga classes. But instead of the peaceful, relaxing hour I was expecting, I left the class hot, annoyed and very unrelaxed after attempting to contort my body into uncomfortable poses.
Yes, yoga was slow and the deep breathing might have been relaxing, but the poses required strength, endurance and a predilection for something I sorely lacked in my heavily pregnant state: patience.
Still, I hadn’t exercised regularly since my teens when I practiced taekwondo and was part of my high school’s jazz and hip-hop dance team. A year and a half after my son was born, I am more or less happy with my body. I’ve always been relatively thin and breastfeeding helped me to lose most of the baby weight. But fit? I most certainly am not. Walking up stairs makes me winded. I am sore for days after playing Wii. I find myself listless and have trouble sleeping.
Yoga, perhaps, could be a gateway to better health. After all, if I hadn’t been lugging 20 extra pounds around my middle during my first attempt, maybe it would have been a rewarding experience. It’s possible yoga could be something akin to dance — less aerobic, but still graceful and cathartic.
***
I’ve just made myself comfortable in the window bench at the front of the store when I see Kim on her way into the studio. At 42, she is petite and youthful-looking, dressed in layers of flowing linen — long, loose white pants and a knee-length, khaki-hued dress that I later learn she made herself.
After introducing herself and reminding me to take off my shoes, she beckons me into the yoga studio. I open the door to the sprawling room to find a handful of men and women already set up, a mat, rolled-up rug, foam block, long cotton strap, and Twinkie-shaped bolster pillow assembled beside each one. I haven’t even walked through the door, and I’m already scrambling to catch up.
