loved her class, I loved how soft it was, how it held space but still made me push myself. I loved the fact that when a smart aleck asked why they did a certain posture in the middle of class, she responded by telling him that it was so he could finally blow himself. I loved that she seemed invested in her students. But mostly I loved that she never made us do anything she couldn’t do herself.
There is nothing macho in Courtney’s class, nothing excessive either on a physical side or a spiritual side: it just is a class.
I always knew she was strong, but I thought that was just what happened when you were a teacher who walked the walk and practiced what you taught. I knew she competed, but since she never talked about it, I didn’t pay any attention. Then one day, shortly after she recommended Iconsider competing, Courtney took second place at the New York regional competition. Then four months later, she won the national competition. Then she came in first place in the international competition.
All of a sudden, my favorite yoga teacher was a yoga superwoman. Nothing about Courtney seemed to change, but everything changed around her. People who had been practicing with her for years started complaining her classes were too hard. That she was pushing them in ways they weren’t ready for. Other people started showing up from out of town to take her class. In Advanced Class, I would sit out half the postures just to stare at hers. The studio started displaying her trophy at the front reception like we were a karate dojo, and soon after, she left town to go on an international tour.
Whatever depth I have in my backbends, I attribute to a sort of athletic extension of the concept of anchoring, developed in behavioral economics. In anchoring, our expectations for the price of goods are set by prices we hear prior, even if they are not at all rational or reasonable. Not knowing any better, Courtney was my concept of a pretty good yogi. For a fat stiff man, this was not rational or reasonable. Instead of pretty good, Courtney was amazing. Literally the best in the world. But I didn’t know that, and thus my efforts to be a merely passable yogi were hopelessly skewed. Believe whatever you will about Esak and competition, but for me, Courtney will always be proof that comparing yourself to others is both an inevitable part of community and a positive one: instead of competition, I’d call it learning from others. Meaning we learn from others what is possible and then apply it to our own lives. In the best-case scenario, they, in turn, do same thing with your life. At the very least, it’s the route to a pretty deep backbend.
Belonging
By the end of the week, Backbending has acquired its own rhythm. I wake every morning to someone’s ankles. Usually the ankles belong to someone carrying on a conversation directly above me about the merits of alkalinalized water, or the perfect ratio of cucumbers to celery when making agreen juice. Soon grogginess is replaced by pain. Then I spend my first conscious minutes awkwardly slathering various spicy balms and liniments along my spine.
When I actually make it off the floor, I inevitably discover that I am the last one to rise. By this point, the Backbenders have striated themselves by morning behavior. The most maniacal have long since silently disappeared to the studio to begin their work on postures. I am occasionally woken as their long bony legs stride over me on the way out the door. Then there is a more tortured group, Backbenders who clearly would like to be working out at the studio, but instead pace around the house, nursing injuries, wondering aloud in the guise of conversation what chiropractic adjustment they should be getting or which herbal supplement they should be swallowing. Then there are the Backbenders I can identify with: Fiona from Ireland, hair wet from a shower, nursing a cup of hot tea. Garland, a studio owner from Virginia, hunched at her computer
There is nothing macho in Courtney’s class, nothing excessive either on a physical side or a spiritual side: it just is a class.
I always knew she was strong, but I thought that was just what happened when you were a teacher who walked the walk and practiced what you taught. I knew she competed, but since she never talked about it, I didn’t pay any attention. Then one day, shortly after she recommended Iconsider competing, Courtney took second place at the New York regional competition. Then four months later, she won the national competition. Then she came in first place in the international competition.
All of a sudden, my favorite yoga teacher was a yoga superwoman. Nothing about Courtney seemed to change, but everything changed around her. People who had been practicing with her for years started complaining her classes were too hard. That she was pushing them in ways they weren’t ready for. Other people started showing up from out of town to take her class. In Advanced Class, I would sit out half the postures just to stare at hers. The studio started displaying her trophy at the front reception like we were a karate dojo, and soon after, she left town to go on an international tour.
Whatever depth I have in my backbends, I attribute to a sort of athletic extension of the concept of anchoring, developed in behavioral economics. In anchoring, our expectations for the price of goods are set by prices we hear prior, even if they are not at all rational or reasonable. Not knowing any better, Courtney was my concept of a pretty good yogi. For a fat stiff man, this was not rational or reasonable. Instead of pretty good, Courtney was amazing. Literally the best in the world. But I didn’t know that, and thus my efforts to be a merely passable yogi were hopelessly skewed. Believe whatever you will about Esak and competition, but for me, Courtney will always be proof that comparing yourself to others is both an inevitable part of community and a positive one: instead of competition, I’d call it learning from others. Meaning we learn from others what is possible and then apply it to our own lives. In the best-case scenario, they, in turn, do same thing with your life. At the very least, it’s the route to a pretty deep backbend.
Belonging
By the end of the week, Backbending has acquired its own rhythm. I wake every morning to someone’s ankles. Usually the ankles belong to someone carrying on a conversation directly above me about the merits of alkalinalized water, or the perfect ratio of cucumbers to celery when making agreen juice. Soon grogginess is replaced by pain. Then I spend my first conscious minutes awkwardly slathering various spicy balms and liniments along my spine.
When I actually make it off the floor, I inevitably discover that I am the last one to rise. By this point, the Backbenders have striated themselves by morning behavior. The most maniacal have long since silently disappeared to the studio to begin their work on postures. I am occasionally woken as their long bony legs stride over me on the way out the door. Then there is a more tortured group, Backbenders who clearly would like to be working out at the studio, but instead pace around the house, nursing injuries, wondering aloud in the guise of conversation what chiropractic adjustment they should be getting or which herbal supplement they should be swallowing. Then there are the Backbenders I can identify with: Fiona from Ireland, hair wet from a shower, nursing a cup of hot tea. Garland, a studio owner from Virginia, hunched at her computer
Similar Books
