It’s Thursday! It’s time to share some doors! What did I capture this week? Let’s find out.
I likes learning. Long out of school, I still like to attend classes for fun. Sometimes, I even take writing classes — memoir, poetry, whatever, but mostly to meet other writers, and/or health classes like Tai Chi. Expanding my horizons! Practicing my skills! Obtaining peace and clarity (that’s the hope for the health ones anyway).
It’s funny, though, when I learn something that wasn’t intended when I take a class.
I signed up for a class called Yoga for Writing. No mat was needed, but the idea was to use principles from yoga — meditation and the like — to “open” our souls and minds to write from a deeper place. I’ve not tried that and thought I might meet some odd people like myself, so I signed up.
It was in the oldest building at a community college, the one that used to be the residence of the person who gifted the land and buildings for the school years ago.
This is the front door… (also a lesson from Sesame Street… NEAR!)
This is another view of the front door… (… … FAR!!!!… … )
This little guy didn’t tell me his name, but I took his photo anyway. I can neither confirm nor deny that I petted his concrete head.
I’ve been in this building numerous times and I’m always intrigued by the grandeur of the chandeliers and the thickness of the curtains (velvet, I believe) surrounded by folding tables and chairs from another century. (…One of these things is not like the others… one of these things just doesn’t belong…)
Anyway, class began with introductions. I hate this part. At least the teacher mixed it up a bit.
“Anyone here identify as a writer?”
“I do,” I said — the only one to do so.
“My condolences,” she said.
The teacher, certified in a type of yoga I’m forgetting now, writes, too, so that’s what that exchange was funny and not insulting (in case you were wondering).
My expectations were that we would do some meditation and then write, and we did. But the meditation last 45 minutes of the hour and then we wrote for 15 minutes. The meditation also included chanting — loudly — something I’ve not experienced in the baby yoga classes I’ve taken on and off during the years. I took those because a friend taught them, but I never really felt like yoga was my thing (although I did enjoy the quiet time at the end during which I almost always fell asleep).
After this class, I know it’s not my thing.
I meditate, in the park, looking at trees and contemplating clouds. There’s enough noise in my world, and though I understand the chants call forth help from another world, I feel like I can reach them better in another way, one that speaks more to me. It’s grand if this is your thing and it feels like home, but for me, that just wasn’t the case. And I finally admitted it and learned that lesson once and for all.
The class was to last for four weeks, but I wrote and thanked the teacher after the first class saying it just wasn’t my cup of tea, though I did enjoy her enthusiasm and she is obviously knowledgeable about her subject.
The next day, I took the purple yoga mat I’ve had for years, but still looks pristine because I’ve only used in classes a few times, and threw it in the trash. Learning things you don’t know is great and I hope to remain always curious. But I’m no longer curious if yoga and all its bits are for me — I have finally learned, clearly, that it’s not.
The doggie didn’t offer an opinion on that as I left the first class. He just indicated that he’d welcome me back for another type of class another time.