While trundling along on a tram in Vienna today, on my way to teach a class,
I suddenly recalled very clearly one of the first yoga classes that I ever took.
That was in England, way back when in the 80s, when the word yoga generally evoked an image of an emaciated lungi-clad indian man, sitting in lotus pose somewhere atop the Himalayas.
So a time when yoga was still a little less popular than it is today!
The class took place in a rather dingy and draughty church hall with lino floors and unattractive neon strip lighting overhead.
Remember this was the days before yoga studios with natural (sustainable) wood floors, brightly coloured painted walls and gentle subdued lighting.
The room was empty except for a stack of metal folding tables and chairs in one of the corners. More about those later.
I arrived about ten minutes before the class was due to begin and found a tiny toilet where I changed out of my street clothes and into a baggy t-shirt and a pair of baggy sweatpants. I put my shoes on again, as the floor was none too clean and made my way back to the hall. The teacher and the rest of the class, all five of them, were already assembled and were busy spreading their towels out on the lino floor.
Yes, I did mean towels! Although yoga mats probably did exist at that time, they were by no means considered necessary for doing yoga and even a towel was not required but seemed like a good idea to avoid having to sit and lie down on a dirty floor.
As for yoga blocks and matching blankets and straps – well, I don’t think I saw any of those until about ten years later when I moved to New York City and things in the world of yoga had begun to change quite dramatically.
But back to the distant past and to the church hall, where the class was about to begin. We all lowered ourselves onto our towels and carefully folded our legs into a cross-legged seat. And then for the next one and a half hours we completely forgot our somewhat unpleasant surroundings, as we bent and stretched and curled and arched and with the aid of the aforementioned folding chairs came into several supported inversions.
There was no music to accompany our movements, unless you can consider the roar of the traffic outside the open windows or the occasional clanging of the church bells to be music – and there was no sweet smelling incence burning at an altar adorned with statues of buddhas or hindu deities, nor were there any candles burning.
No, this was yoga in the rough, so to speak. Just the bare essentials: an experienced and inspiring teacher (who went to India once a year to study with B.K.S Iyengar) and a small group of baggily attired people intent on following her instructions and coaxing their tense and tired bodies to a place of greater ease and release of tension.
At the end of the class we sat quietly as our teacher intoned three sounds of om – it never occurred to us to join in – we even found it a bit strange – but strange in a rather pleasant way – the way the sound hovered gently in the air and reverberated deep in our chests.
And then it was over – and feeling taller and more relaxed, we gathered up our towels, folded them neatly and bidding each other a good night – went our separate ways – until we met again the following week.
We didn’t linger, leafing through the latest yoga book or rifling through the latest yoga gear hanging on rails – and we didn’t sip a chai tea or have a healthy snack – because remember, this was the time before yoga studios, before yoga socializing, before yoga props, before yoga gear – in those days we just came to practice yoga together and then we went home.
I suddenly recalled very clearly one of the first yoga classes that I ever took.
That was in England, way back when in the 80s, when the word yoga generally evoked an image of an emaciated lungi-clad indian man, sitting in lotus pose somewhere atop the Himalayas.
So a time when yoga was still a little less popular than it is today!
The class took place in a rather dingy and draughty church hall with lino floors and unattractive neon strip lighting overhead.
Remember this was the days before yoga studios with natural (sustainable) wood floors, brightly coloured painted walls and gentle subdued lighting.
The room was empty except for a stack of metal folding tables and chairs in one of the corners. More about those later.
I arrived about ten minutes before the class was due to begin and found a tiny toilet where I changed out of my street clothes and into a baggy t-shirt and a pair of baggy sweatpants. I put my shoes on again, as the floor was none too clean and made my way back to the hall. The teacher and the rest of the class, all five of them, were already assembled and were busy spreading their towels out on the lino floor.
Yes, I did mean towels! Although yoga mats probably did exist at that time, they were by no means considered necessary for doing yoga and even a towel was not required but seemed like a good idea to avoid having to sit and lie down on a dirty floor.
As for yoga blocks and matching blankets and straps – well, I don’t think I saw any of those until about ten years later when I moved to New York City and things in the world of yoga had begun to change quite dramatically.
But back to the distant past and to the church hall, where the class was about to begin. We all lowered ourselves onto our towels and carefully folded our legs into a cross-legged seat. And then for the next one and a half hours we completely forgot our somewhat unpleasant surroundings, as we bent and stretched and curled and arched and with the aid of the aforementioned folding chairs came into several supported inversions.
There was no music to accompany our movements, unless you can consider the roar of the traffic outside the open windows or the occasional clanging of the church bells to be music – and there was no sweet smelling incence burning at an altar adorned with statues of buddhas or hindu deities, nor were there any candles burning.
No, this was yoga in the rough, so to speak. Just the bare essentials: an experienced and inspiring teacher (who went to India once a year to study with B.K.S Iyengar) and a small group of baggily attired people intent on following her instructions and coaxing their tense and tired bodies to a place of greater ease and release of tension.
At the end of the class we sat quietly as our teacher intoned three sounds of om – it never occurred to us to join in – we even found it a bit strange – but strange in a rather pleasant way – the way the sound hovered gently in the air and reverberated deep in our chests.
And then it was over – and feeling taller and more relaxed, we gathered up our towels, folded them neatly and bidding each other a good night – went our separate ways – until we met again the following week.
We didn’t linger, leafing through the latest yoga book or rifling through the latest yoga gear hanging on rails – and we didn’t sip a chai tea or have a healthy snack – because remember, this was the time before yoga studios, before yoga socializing, before yoga props, before yoga gear – in those days we just came to practice yoga together and then we went home.
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