arm were being held down by heavy weights. The harder he tried to move, the greater fatigue and the greater effort required. This inner sense of exerting a mental force against a feeling of inner resistance was later described … “as a kind of mental force, a power of will. … As if there was a resistance which could be overcome … some kind of mental energy.”
Esak notices it in class the next day before I can tell him. I am sure this has less to do with his exceptional perception, more to do with the fact that my postures look deranged. When we talk afterwards, he is firm. First, I must stop doing wall-walks if I want my arm to return. I nod and silently note that he poses this as a question. Second, he tells me this is totally and completely normal. It means I am doing things right. He tells me it happened to him early in his training and his shoulder came back completely within a month. I nod again, silent at the prospect of a month without my shoulder.
Over the next few days, I become obsessed with regaining the range of motion, staring at myself helpless in the mirror as I make stunted gestures. I also become obsessed with whether other Backbenders believe me. The work we are doing is so hard and so exhausting that my shoulder seems like a convenient excuse. Like a psychological manifestation designed to save my body from this torture. But instead of wariness, the other Backbenders embrace my condition. David is especially warm. The same thing happened to him in a previous Backbending to both shoulders simultaneously. He tells me I’m holding up well and that he was terrified. And for the first time I start to belong.
What is amazing is that at no time do I ever get really get angry. Notwith Esak, not with myself. I have this extremely worrisome, strokelike phenomenon that has debilitated my ability to function and that has a very clear and indisputable cause (i.e., doing wall-walks correctly). And instead of anger or doubt, I feel pretty calm about the whole situation. I have this weird sensation that my body is simply adjusting. That this is just part of the process. The only time I actually get scared is when I conduct a thought experiment: If this doesn’t make me quit—what type of injury would?
When we line up to take Beginners Class—the basic series of twenty-six postures that makes up the Bikram regime—I end up next to Esak so much that it’s a joke among the people in my car. I know why too, I’m always rushing in late, and nobody else wants to step into the spot. Everyone wants to take it easy during class, save their energy for the nightly routines. But nobody wants to let Esak down. That, of course, makes me perfect for my role. Compared to everyone else here, I already know I’m going to let him down.
During class, I notice Esak squirm a lot. I notice him grimace and pop out of postures a few seconds early. At first I think my presence annoys him. That he wants to bend next to someone who can inspire him. Then I think that he is lowering himself to my presence: the master teacher incrementally altering his instruction for each student. And while I’m not ruling out either possibility, I think there is another reason. The basic series of Bikram Yoga is just really, really hard. Even if you are the best in the world. That is what it is. Hardness as definition. Meaning, if it’s not hard, you’re not doing it right.
One of the few days I’m not lined up directly next to Esak, he is teaching the Beginners class. It’s a 10 A.M. on a weekend. Members of the general public—non-Backbenders—are taking class with us, and the room is packed.
The density of bodies and Esak’s intensity make the class feel hotter than normal. A big linebacker-sized fellow toward the back of the room is gasping. I can hear him huffing. Then stomping. Then there is silence as he goes down in a crumple. Esak keeps teaching the class without even a pause of acknowledgment. Eventually the linebacker gets up
Esak notices it in class the next day before I can tell him. I am sure this has less to do with his exceptional perception, more to do with the fact that my postures look deranged. When we talk afterwards, he is firm. First, I must stop doing wall-walks if I want my arm to return. I nod and silently note that he poses this as a question. Second, he tells me this is totally and completely normal. It means I am doing things right. He tells me it happened to him early in his training and his shoulder came back completely within a month. I nod again, silent at the prospect of a month without my shoulder.
Over the next few days, I become obsessed with regaining the range of motion, staring at myself helpless in the mirror as I make stunted gestures. I also become obsessed with whether other Backbenders believe me. The work we are doing is so hard and so exhausting that my shoulder seems like a convenient excuse. Like a psychological manifestation designed to save my body from this torture. But instead of wariness, the other Backbenders embrace my condition. David is especially warm. The same thing happened to him in a previous Backbending to both shoulders simultaneously. He tells me I’m holding up well and that he was terrified. And for the first time I start to belong.
What is amazing is that at no time do I ever get really get angry. Notwith Esak, not with myself. I have this extremely worrisome, strokelike phenomenon that has debilitated my ability to function and that has a very clear and indisputable cause (i.e., doing wall-walks correctly). And instead of anger or doubt, I feel pretty calm about the whole situation. I have this weird sensation that my body is simply adjusting. That this is just part of the process. The only time I actually get scared is when I conduct a thought experiment: If this doesn’t make me quit—what type of injury would?
When we line up to take Beginners Class—the basic series of twenty-six postures that makes up the Bikram regime—I end up next to Esak so much that it’s a joke among the people in my car. I know why too, I’m always rushing in late, and nobody else wants to step into the spot. Everyone wants to take it easy during class, save their energy for the nightly routines. But nobody wants to let Esak down. That, of course, makes me perfect for my role. Compared to everyone else here, I already know I’m going to let him down.
During class, I notice Esak squirm a lot. I notice him grimace and pop out of postures a few seconds early. At first I think my presence annoys him. That he wants to bend next to someone who can inspire him. Then I think that he is lowering himself to my presence: the master teacher incrementally altering his instruction for each student. And while I’m not ruling out either possibility, I think there is another reason. The basic series of Bikram Yoga is just really, really hard. Even if you are the best in the world. That is what it is. Hardness as definition. Meaning, if it’s not hard, you’re not doing it right.
One of the few days I’m not lined up directly next to Esak, he is teaching the Beginners class. It’s a 10 A.M. on a weekend. Members of the general public—non-Backbenders—are taking class with us, and the room is packed.
The density of bodies and Esak’s intensity make the class feel hotter than normal. A big linebacker-sized fellow toward the back of the room is gasping. I can hear him huffing. Then stomping. Then there is silence as he goes down in a crumple. Esak keeps teaching the class without even a pause of acknowledgment. Eventually the linebacker gets up
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