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A Lesson I Learned in Yoga Class
By
Madeline Rae
There is something domineering about my yoga instructor. Originally from Israel, his salt and pepper hair mops just below his eyebrows and his dark complexion shines with health. He opened the little studio conveniently located seven blocks from my San Francisco apartment.
The studio is warm from the heat of previous classes. Our practice concentrates on breath and movement as the instructor guides us. Ten feet across the room he corrects my pose, reminding me to breathe. He will keep this up for ninety minutes; ninety minutes of reminding a room full of overworked, hyper-stressed San Francisco yuppies to relax. He commands, pushes, understands, and gives praise. Qualities necessary for any good dominant, if you ask me.
I am a submissive, a masochist, the bondage to the discipline in BDSM (bondage & discipline, domination & submission, sadism & masochism). While at yoga class I sometimes grin thinking how much I like to be led. I place trust in both my Dom and my yoga instructor for similar reasons with surprising outcomes.
While breathing through warrior one; feeling the strength and stretch of my inner thigh, the pull of my knee in opposition, sweat beading on my chest, I could just as well be bound; ankles shackled, pulling in opposition to the bar between my legs, sweat beading at my forehead.
The satisfaction gained by the stretch and paddle are equal. Perfectly straight back stretched, hips folded, my nose pushes into the space between my knees. A deep steady breath carries my often-wandering mind through the seemingly insurmountable. The instructor’s soft hands press my back an impossible inch forward. My exhale sustains my body as his voice praises me, “beautiful.”
My dominant lover’s demeanor, although different, is no less effective. She’s quiet and subdued with a sinister Cheshire-cat like smile. Publicly reserved, her intensity is revealed through her control in the bedroom. Her soft expansive tongue escapes her teeth long enough to remind me, “these restraints aren’t padded.” Once my wrists are secured to the wide leather strap around my waist she glances at me from her straddled position, “you’re legs are going to be in my way.” Her motions are that of a controlled dance; securing leather restraints around my ankles, attaching each to the end of a three-foot bar. A triumphant smile overcoming her face, she has full frontal access.
A constant level of teasing and tension resides between us, but this situation has an outcome we are both striving for. I’m hungry. She sees it in my face and wants more. She plays with me for a few minutes; a sexy remark, teasing with a toy, a kiss. She has my attention.
The sound of the leather paddle striking my upper thigh is almost as titillating as the anticipation. My breath carries the release of anxiety and judgment out of my body. When will she strike me next?
I’m stubborn. She makes me speak. She can see that I’m almost there, but she pushes me that impossible inch and demands that I say, “stop”. It makes her happy and that gives me pleasure.
By my own estimates, I spend twenty five percent of yoga class face down on my mat, defeated. I’m a child on new legs. My muscles are weak from my early 20’s drug and alcohol induced binge-o-thon. Each day I progress. I feel more confident in my body and my mind is concerned with my present life not my past. We work with what we have. When I fall I am reminded that we must try in order to learn and we must fall in order to try. In yoga, the movements and breathing work together to quiet the mind and to live in the moment.
I lay silently. Much of my body touches the ground; sinking, resting, releasing. “Enjoy the fruits of your practice”, the words uttered by my instructors as I exhale. The art of practice, and in this case the practice of trust, involves deep personal work. Being taught to release has allowed me to experience freedom. A freedom I could not have understood without trusting another human. To love without censorship. To release, relax and let go. That is a lesson I learned in yoga class.
Copyright © 2007 Madeline Rae
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