Aching to try yoga

I've started yoga (again) to try to get my body and mind under control before Mom comes to stay. I would love to have a regular practice for the rest of my life, actually; now that I'm middle-age and facing, shall we say, the end of the road rather than its beginning, it's time to get serious about making the precious time I've got healthy and sane.

So, jumping in with two feet, and trying to get at least one off the floor gracefully, and perhaps both, if I ever conquer my fear and weak upper arms to do a great headstand. The thing is, I'm surprised at how much I can do. I may be short and buxom, with what my Mom has always called our "plow-pushin' legs," inherited from our European peasant ancestors. But I'm flexible. I seem to have good balance. And when there is a small success, even remembering to breathe regularly -- I tend to hold my breath when I'm stressed -- I'm elated.

Then, I try to keep the good vibes flowing by curtaining my road rage, child nagging and political ranting for at least 24 hours. I've adopted some of the yogic lifestyle, too, by not eating meat. That has a selfish background, though; as you know, I've decided after researching that there is some link, with scope as yet undetermined, between eating a lot of meat and poultry and the risk of coming down with dementia. Also a selfish motivation: My muscles are hurting right now in places I'd forgotten existed on my body. Can toning be far behind? One hopes.

I'm also digging the spiritual aspect. I must admit, however, that upon letting out my first squeaky "oooooooommmmmm" I felt awkward; when teacher Kent last week did a wee bit of chanting, the hardened atheist inside my head let out an insolent giggle. I have no idea what he said in the chant, nor do I really want to know just yet; it was comforting, and I'll take it. And I am more than happy to bow to the light within, as teacher Jennifer suggests, at the end of class. The brighter the light, these days, the better.