Kicking Kapha Ass

So I’ve been losing weight lately. I wish this was a less Twinkies, more treadmill kind of story, but it’s not. Losing weight has always been a bitch-slapping fight for me, a kind of epic battle that I never really managed to win over the last 39 years or so.

In fact, I don’t even remember a time when I was not either on a diet, off a diet, or on a-oh-my-God-I-can’t-believe-I-ate-a-whole-jar-of-Nutella-with-a-soup-spoon diet. Insane? Maybe. But this has been my experience so far with weight control, and unfortunately I have no other basis for normalcy that I can compare it to.

What I do have, however, is plenty of strength. And access to knowledge. And open-mindedness. And I have my Teacher who took one look at me last May, and declared me a grossly out-of-balance Kapha dominant. Great I thought. One more medical system in which I can embarrass myself, this time with millennium-old guidelines.

Looking further into Ayurveda did not provide much comfort either. The three characteristics of a Kapha reducing diet are pungent, astringent and bitter. The only food that came to mind that encompassed all three, was, hum, radishes. Yeah for delicious and satisfying.

Then again, I was desperate. And really, really big. Way too close to 300-pounds-big on a 5 ft. 8 frame. I like to think that I am big-boned, but I know that at this point I was big-EVERYTHING.

So three months ago I started this journey, and so far I have lost a little over 30 pounds. I work on contentment, taking it one day at a time, enjoying the four senses that have been underused while I fed the fifth Oreos and foie gras.

I’m also getting help. While Ayurveda helps me bathe nutritional information in a new light, maintaining my motivation requires a more muscled approach. I stepped up my yoga practice to four times a week and finally cancelled that gym membership that I maintained out of pure denial that I hated going there.

I also breathe, and rest plenty. Turns out my Kapha dosha has to cope with quite a bit of Pitta, and Vatta, and that I am not naturally heavy and depressed, but hyper and restless. While this is not necessarily good news, I will learn to cope with it, just like I will learn to coexist with this new fit and supple body that I’m slowly uncovering.

I was told there’d be cake

That’s the title of a book I bought recently, laughing at the wonderful significance of it. Don’t we all show up expecting cake, and get woefully disappointed in the process?

My 2010 resolution was to look for contentment, not think about what happened yesterday nor worry about what’s going to happen tomorrow. It hasn’t been an easy ride. Life keeps throwing images of Black Forest lusciousness at me, and my taste buds get all watery and excited and then , then, I wake up with the taste of moldy Duncan Hines mix in my mouth.

And then I start wondering. Did I really want Black Forest anyway? Wouldn’t a lighter lemon-poppy poundcake do? What about fluffy Angel Food? What is it with cake anyway? I much prefer cookies. Or puddings for that matter.

Would contentment not be about not expecting cake, but making cake out of anything, oblivious to previous incarnations of what you considered fantastic cake?

Ahimsa indeed

It's Friday night, and I walk into my regular class. Right away I can feel something is wrong. Normally my Teacher welcomes me with a warm embrace, she seems genuinely delighted to see me and I bask in her happiness that I showed up to her class (I know, I know, I'm reading way too much into this).

But tonight her arms are not there for me. She is chatting with a new student in a corner of the classroom. The new student is obviously showing off, working her wheel, peddling her plow, and displaying her dancer.

I hate her on sight. Doesn't she know we don't do postures right away? First it's meditation, then a little chanting, and then pranayama. Then we'll start gentle poses, maybe cat/cow, a few Surya Namaskar, definitely Ardha Chandrasana. We always do Ardha Chandrasana on Friday nights: it's my favourite pose and Teacher knows that.

"Let's get started… we have a few new faces tonight, Joanne, Kathy, and, of course, Barbara." (She points to the newbie, who smiles demurely into her Lululemon hoodie.) "Welcome everyone! I can see that some of you are very experienced like Barbara here, but go at your own pace. This is your journey."

I sit back, close my eyes and wait for the familiar clues, but they don't come. Instead, Teacher and Barbara start chanting, a foreign, whiny Sanskrit poem, which I don't like from the get go. I'm struggling with the unfamiliarity of it all, discomfort is growing and I want to leave. Images of waiting for Barbara in the dark parking lot, of giving her a taste of my superior taebo skills cross my mind. I'm angry.

And then, a startling realization. I may be an evolved woman, an eager student of Yamas and Niyamas and Bandas and all that good stuff, but deep down inside I'm still seven years old. I want my Teacher to nurture and love me. I want what she can not give, and I'm not angry at Barbara (although she IS annoying): I'm angry that my attachment is not reciprocated, that the devotion I have for this yoga and this Teacher is mine and mine alone.

And then, I acknowledge this impure part of my psyche and release it into the great wide universe where it belongs.

One pointed friggin' focus

I know that yoga is an internal journey. I know that I should take advantage of this cross-legged moment to tune in to the gentle heat of pranayama filling my belly, torso and upper chest all the way to my clavicle. I know that I have to rein in my mind puppy, show him that I am the boss of me. I also know that I can cheat and listen to the soothing sound of the Zen water fountain lilting its way into my brain to the great Graal of yogi nirvana, One pointed focus.

But I don't. I have a weird pain in my back, probably from shovelling a metric ton of snow out of my driveway yesterday. I can't breathe super well from my left nostril as Simon has broken my neti pot and I can't be bothered to buy another one and resume injecting hot salted water into my nose once a day. The fountain noise makes me want to pee, oh, and I should also check if my period has started, it's a few days late and I find myself wondering like every month if a vasectomy can reverse itself naturally after three years.

''Pizza'' my teacher says. My ears perk up. ''If you're wondering what to have for dinner tonight, here's an idea: pizza. Now go back to your breathing.'' With a soft chuckle, I firmly pull on the leach and tell my puppy to sit and pay attention.