I spend most of my day trying to disappear, trying to squash Body. “Chase away that tension with your breath.” “Relax your shoulders, your neck, your back,” Howard says. “Close your eyes,” Howard says, “and release all your worries.” The darkness is a comfort. His voice leads us into our relaxed states. Howard turns off the lights and we get into relaxed positions-lying supine, legs raised on a chair-and concentrate on breathing. He ceases to matter.Īt the yoga studio, my favorite time is the darkness at the end. Which means you are powerless against your own self, which means you can’t stop what is sure to happen-who can? The darkness is a comfort. You can’t seem to figure out this puzzle of hunger and you feel this endeavor is pointless, like feeding goldfish pieces of goldfish-no-like a food critic at McDonald’s- no-like a milkshake without the shake or the milk, and these moments have become the saddest recognition of your life because it means you are powerless against what hurts you most. Still, you can’t help but feel there are places in you that are empty and starving and you can’t seem to feed them the right food. The surprising thing is you find more room, because there is always more to choke a heart to choke the veins to choke the arteries. “Give it time.”īeing large and diabetic, time is something I may have little of.īody as language: You are a fat run-on sentence that feeds like high schoolers on riblet day- no-hyenas at the feast-no-the famished, and you are never sated never happy because you have long since forgotten what happiness feels like- real happiness-not the quick illusion of it you experience every time you sit and eat because that happiness is temporary and what follows is a loathing that makes you want to pluck the hairs off your legs one at a time-no-scream until your throat bleeds-no-tear hunks of your meaty flesh and fling them off because when you eat you have forgotten the sensation of satisfaction, the meaning of the words enough or plenty or sufficient or full, because full suggests there is no more space no more room to justify one more bite of something that will cut your life by another year. But this exercise of walking- fucking walking-has depleted hope that this will ever happen. I have lost control, and I started yoga to get it back. I have disconnected from Body, allowed him to do what he wants, when he wants. Body and I are not one, have never been one. It is the look Santa might give when he’s deciphering whether you’ve been naughty or nice. He tilts his head and puts a hand to his bearded chin. I don’t tell him how much I hate that I can’t walk correctly. I don’t tell him how much I hate myself, how much I hate Body. The others are like stealthy ninjas, gliding over the surface of the floor, absent of thought, just doing. I’m conscious of my loud walking, of my audible breaths, thick and hot. Let that sensation spread from the bottom of your body to the top.” “This is how we are meant to walk,” Howard says. I am painfully aware of how clumsy Body is, and when that happens I turn on myself. My feet slap the floor, startling my glassy-eyed neighbor, who flinches at the sound. I fixate on the word “connected.” I try to merge my mind and Body. I am painfully aware of Body, and when that happens I turn on myself. I like his patience with me and Body, like his words of encouragement when I do positions that Body is unaccustomed to. But I let Howard’s words sink in because I like Howard. Such sayings strike me as melodramatic and unnecessarily deep, like bad fortune- cookie slogans. I usually bristle at anything touchy-feely. Our instructor, Howard, tells us to feel the floor. We go from one end of the studio to the other, twelve of us in varying speeds and strides. Played over speakers is the sound of bells, like the ones that tinkle at temples in Thailand. Incense permeates the space, candles flicker on windowsill ledges, and Buddha presides at the front of the rectangular room. Peace pervades this yoga studio in Oswego, New York. Yet, right now I and 375-pound Body occupy this space that is free of judgment, free of ridicule, free of self-loathing. And I know that every warm muscle I have worked hard to stretch will shrink and tighten as soon as I step outside. I know I will have to scrape and rescrape the snow and ice and slush off my car. I know after this session I will have to put on my heavy boots and double-thick coat and enter the storm. I swear I feel the sway of this place, feel the cold invading the fissures of the structure. The wind is a guttural animal against this old upstate building. Our own physical body possesses a wisdom which we who inhabit the body lack. Ira Sukrungruang bares his soul about their complicated relationship. Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window)īody was 390 pounds.Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window).Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window).Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window).
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