I got hooked on tennis when I was 8 and always imagined I'd play the game my whole life. I joined tennis teams, played in local parks, entered tournaments. Nothing made me happier than the feel of my racket smacking the ball for a winner.
But after nearly 40 years of ground strokes and volleys, a rebellious heart muscle forced me to lay down my racket. My passion is now a series of bittersweet memories. When I drive by the courts, I can't help but recall the way my legs bounced in eager anticipation of each serve. 'Great backhand,' opponents would admit, as I pummeled the ball down the line. I'd toss my ponytail and revel in the compliments. I miss not only the game but my own intense desire, to play, to win and, most of all, to do it again the very next day.
My current stamina allows for about 30 minutes of brisk daily walking. The last time I attempted some tennis, I didn't last long. Seeing my exhaustion after just 10 minutes, my partner gave me a sympathetic hug, and we left the court.
Why not try yoga? my doctor, my mother and a host of well meaning acquaintances suggested. 'Well, maybe,' I said, again and again. I've never been known for flexibility.
About a year ago, I finally heeded everyone's advice. Could I even do yoga? I wondered as I entered the well lit studio. Being there brought none of the excitement I'd always felt on the court. The wood floor gleamed, and the mirror reflected my classmates, twisted like peaceful pretzels on their mats. Two rows of lithe, strong bodies. Certainly no one with a compromised heart muscle. I eyed the door longingly as class began.
The warm up was manageable (barely), but we were just 14 minutes into the hour. 'Starting on your stomach, move from cobra to plank,' our instructor told us. Her tone suggested this should be no harder than counting to three. By the time I'd devised a way to get onto my stomach without severe back pain, the class had easily completed the full sequence. Twice. I was left in the yoga dust.
'Go 'restorative,'' a friend urged, after hearing my tale of yoga humiliation. In my new, gentle yoga class, the demands are reasonable. 'Circle your feet slowly,' Edie tells us. She has short blond hair, a generous smile and a pronounced limp. 'And don't forget to breathe.'
Today I walk into class, and a man wearing thick glasses says hello. I've noticed that his triangle pose, like mine, resembles something more like an irregular trapezoid. As I've attempted this pose, Edie's monologues have spurred me on. 'Put your hand near your knee or reach farther down,' she's said many times. 'You get where you get, and that's where you belong.'
I'm early, so I take in the action as I gather my yoga props, a blanket, a bolster and a long strap. The door opens and a student walks in with his Seeing Eye dog. Edie greets them enthusiastically. 'Will you show us the Downward Dog today?' she croons, as the caramel colored pooch sprawls onto the floor.
For many classes, I watched this upside down maneuver known as downward-facing dog. But every time I attempted a tiny push upward, my arms felt weak. I wondered if I'd get dizzy. Women 10 years older than I am were doing the dog. Surely I could get there. One day, I pushed a bit harder, and up I went.
Class begins with gentle stretching. 'Bend slightly forward,' Edie tells us. 'You don't have to go far; wherever you get is the right place for you.'
But this isn't the right place. My jaw aches with frustration. The right place is on the tennis court, running all out and hitting with boundless energy.
Could I possibly discover a new passion in yoga? I study the room, seeking inspiration. I don't find it. But as I observe my classmates, I do notice how familiar they seem. I realize that for about a year now, I've showed up twice each week for this early morning class.
'Stretch your left arm over your head,' Edie continues. 'Lean gently to the left, like a palm tree.'
I can do this. I take a deep breath, slowly raise my arm, and get where I get.
By Rachel Trachten
THE LATEST TENNIS AND YOGA NEWS, FROM IT IS YOGA
No comments:
Post a Comment