Can Yoga Really Wreck Your Body?

When I initially read the title of the New York Times article, How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body, I was ready to debate, argue and share my point of view. Then I read the article. And sadly, I agreed with most of it.

I started my personal Yoga journey at the age of 26 in 1997. Ashtanga (Power) Yoga was my introduction to a world that was foreign to me.  Nothing during my first year of Yoga remotely related to Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras or the Eight Limbs. And I did what I was taught – push, work, challenge beyond limits. I received a “Yoga certification” the next year at a weekend aerobics conference in Baltimore, Maryland. I still recall the instructor asking me to demonstrate a move for the class because I was flexible – and I thought I was the BOMB! As a Yoga teacher, I taught what had been taught to me. Work, push, challenge. All of it was ego-driven and the complete opposite of the actual principles and spirit of Yoga.

Injuries from years of running and high-impact aerobics made me begin a self-study of naturopathic wellness, orthomolecular nutrition, and alternative medicine. I began monthly treatments of acupuncture, reflexology and massage. I studied and practiced different forms of meditation and started a serious practice of Hatha Yoga and Mat Pilates. My approach to Yoga had completely changed. In fact, what I was practicing in 2007 was so vastly different from what I had started in 1997, it felt wrong to call them both Yoga.

In the NYT article, William Broad details the journey of classically trained Yoga instructor Glenn Black. The main points Mr. Black makes that I agree with are:

• Instead of doing yoga, “they [students] need to be doing a specific range of motions for articulation, for organ condition,” he said, to strengthen weak parts of the body. “Yoga is for people in good physical condition. Or it can be used therapeutically. It’s controversial to say, but it really shouldn’t be used for a general class.”

• A number of factors have converged to heighten the risk of practicing yoga. The biggest is the demographic shift in those who study it. Indian practitioners of yoga typically squatted and sat cross-legged in daily life, and yoga poses were an outgrowth of these postures. Now urbanites who sit in chairs all day walk into a studio a couple of times a week and strain to twist themselves into ever-more-difficult postures despite their lack of flexibility and other physical problems.

• There is now an abundance of studios where many teachers lack the deeper training necessary to recognize when students are headed toward injury. “Today many schools of yoga are just about pushing people,” Black said. “You can’t believe what’s going on — teachers jumping on people, pushing and pulling and saying, ‘You should be able to do this by now.’ It has to do with their egos.”

I disagree with the article in that I don’t believe Yoga will wreck your body – a poor Yoga instructor can wreck your body. Instead of avoiding Yoga, aspiring students should visit studios, observe a class before taking it, and ask the following questions:

• Is the instructor teaching only on the mat or is he or she watching, moving, touching and aware of each student in the class? A teacher that treats the class like his or her personal workout or opportunity to shine will not be able to provide safe correction and alternatives for students in need.

• Is the teacher pushing or pulling on students or gently guiding individuals into natural, safe and comfortable positions?

• Are there props like chairs, blocks, blankets, belts, or pillows available? If so, does the instructor use them or share techniques about their use in assisting poses?

• Does the class leader explain poses and offer alternate moves? A well-educated instructor will be able to discuss a pose from the perspective of anatomy and kinesiology as well as from an internal and organic point of view.

Like snowflakes, no two Yoga instructors are alike. Choose yours as carefully as your choose your physician or hair stylist. A bad perm can ruin your day, but a bad pose can ruin your body.

Gratitude

I was exhausted and ready to sleep on a two-hour flight to visit my mom. But as soon as I settled in my seat, I could tell I was next to a “chatter”.

“I haven’t flown in awhile,” the young guy seated on my right says to my profile.

I turn to him with a cold smile and say, “It won’t be bad. We’ll be there before you know it.” Then I turn to the window and shut my eyes. There’s silence for about 20 minutes, then…

“Is this bothering you?”

I blink a couple of times and turn to him.

“My music. Is it too loud? My girlfriend – well my ex – my ex-girlfriend hated for me to play my music so loud that she could hear it from my headphones.” He motions to the large, sound-canceling headphones wrapped around his neck.

“No, it’s fine. I’m good. Enjoy.” I snuggle even closer to the window, hoping to give him the sign that I want silence.

“Yeah, I have to play it loud because I’m deaf in my right ear.”

Sighing inwardly, I sit up and turn to him in defeat. It’s obvious he wants to talk and I’m chosen to listen. “Yeah?” I say with pretend interest.

“Yeah, when the bomb went off I got shrapnel in my arm and leg and now I’m deaf in my right ear. My best friend saved my life shielding my body.”

“You were in the military?” I ask with a little more interest.

“Yeah – the army. My best friend is – was - a Marine. Three of our friends were killed in the blast and most of us on the truck were injured.”

“Wow…”

“Yeah, even crazier, my best friend came home and was killed last week by a drunk driver. That’s why I’m flying down here… for his funeral.”

I don’t have a response so I simply look into his sad brown eyes and nod.

“We’ve known – we knew – each other since we were six. We grew up together and after we graduated, we both went into the military. He was like my brother. I wasn’t sure I would be able to make it down for the service, but I knew I had to.”

He stops speaking and looks down at his right hand – his fingers are flexing and unflexing. He absently traces a long scar along the inside of his forearm. “I got this scar from the bomb blast. I couldn’t move this arm or walk for months. My rehab took eight months.”

We talk for the remainder of the flight. About his childhood. About his life in Boston and how he ended up working and living in Atlanta. About his love of cars and how he rebuilt the engine of several classics.

“Did you or your friend ever get married and have kids?” I ask, now genuinely interested in the life of this young soldier.

“No,” he says a little reluctantly. “We were so dedicated to our work there just wasn’t a way to do it.” He pauses a beat. “I did have a girlfriend and I asked her to marry me, but she didn’t want to wait. I knew I was going back to Afghanistan and it wouldn’t be fair to ask her to wait for me.” He looks down at his hand and flexes his fingers again.

He tells me about the “brotherhood” of the men he served with. He flexes his hand as he relates the story of a young boy who worked at a vendor booth on base. The boy was feeding information to a cell group just off base, and a suicide bomber from the cell took out five of his “brothers” and injured several more.

“You can’t trust anyone over there. Only your brother. Only your brother.” He rubs his knee and flexes his fingers.

Suddenly he looks up at me, “I’m sorry I’m talking your ear off. When I was in rehab, my doctor told me talking about things would help. The post-traumatic stress is…” he shrugs rather than finishing the statement.

“If you hadn’t been injured, would you have gone back?” I ask.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he says nodding and looking directly in my eyes. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been in the military since I graduated at 17. I wanted to serve and protect my country instead of sitting at home doing… what?” He shrugs again, then mumbles, “I ended up sitting at home anyway, huh?”

I don’t respond. I simply look at him and he looks at me. Other passengers around us, who’ve all been listening to our conversation, sneak glances at us.

We continue talking as the plane lands and passengers begin deplaning. I notice his limp as we walk down the jetway. We walk and talk together like old friends as we make our way to baggage claim. After grabbing our bags, we head outside laughing and joking.

Eventually, my mother’s car crawls up, and I’m actually a little disappointed to end our conversation. He reaches out to shake my hand, but I hug him tightly instead.

I whisper in his good ear. “Thank you for serving our country. I’m sorry to hear about the death of your friend, but I hope you will be a comfort to his family. Enjoy reuniting with your brothers and try to have a little fun while you’re here.”

He puts his hand on his heart and looks at me. “God bless you. Thank you.”

I’m grateful for the sacrifice this man and his brothers have made. I’m grateful for my relatives and friends who have served like him and possibly even with him. I’m grateful for my mother, waiting patiently for me to put my bags in the trunk. Thank you…

Fasting

Before April 2011, I had never fasted. I never saw a reason to do it.

I attend a church that fasts annually. The annual church fast is not only from food, but also from media - telephone, television, social media, radio, etc. A media fast? Now that was something I needed to take a break from. Last year, I completely ignored the food fast and implemented portions of the media fast. Yeah, I said portions. I'm not a cold-turkey kinda chick. I have to do things in stages... see how it feels on me.

Instead of abstaining from all forms of media all day, I chose what and when I'd restrict. Since social media and telephone use are part of my work day, I allowed it during the day for work purposes only, and chose two days when I'd stop using them after hours. I only answered the phone for my kids, husband and mother. I abstained from listening to music and talk radio the entire week. I don't watch television very much anyway, so it wasn't a hardship to not watch for the week. I even took one day and refrained from speaking unless I had to for work. Completely. I didn't talk to my kids or husband all day (I kind of liked that part).

The result was great. Practicing silence in all forms - speaking, listening, writing - allowed my thoughts to flow more naturally and I felt like I could hear myself and other energy sources communicating with me. I loved the experience so much that I reduced how much I listen to the radio, music, and the news on a regular basis. I tape the tv shows I want to watch and designate a day and time to sit and enjoy them - I don't flip channels looking for something to fill empty space and time. Each morning, I purposely practice silence as a part of my daily routine and meditation. I feel much more aware and in tune to myself, the people around me, and the spiritual messages around me.

But this blog is about my recent experience with my first food fast.

April 2012. My sister-friend, Yvonne, had just passed away the previous month and I couldn't bring myself to attend church. Everything reminded me of her and all I did was cry through the service. So I didn't go for a month. When I returned on April 22, they were discussing the annual fast. Each day had a personal focus like repentance or relationships. Each day required no eating until 6:00pm and only fruits and veggies could be consumed after 6:00pm. Only water and fruit juices could be drunk. No media was allowed after 6:00pm.

I felt like I needed to stop and allow me to be first for awhile. I hadn't been first while Yvonne was sick. I hadn't been first when I transported her to hospice and we began planning - writing her will, getting bank accounts in order, deeding her house, planning her funeral. I was nowhere near first as I put her needs first, then my children, then my husband, then my business. I knew I would be okay. I felt strong - stronger than anyone else in her family or mine. I felt like I was the base of the pyramid, holding it all safely together for everyone. And everyone looked to me to be there and be the strength they needed and were lacking.

So when I saw the fast coming on April 29, 2012, I knew at that very moment I wouldn't wait. I would start the next day on April 23. I liked the daily principles set by the church, but my needs were different. I decided each day, I'd wake up, see what my morning meditation told me was my focus principle and that's what it would be. Period.

I could make this blog long and drawn out. I could detail each day with funny anecdotes of how hungry I got around 3:00 each day, which made me irritable and impatient. I could also highlight the good moments when I felt clean and light and aware and strong. All those things happened. Each day was different. Day 2 was the hardest. Day 1 and 4 were the easiest. I was ready to shut it all down by Day 5, so I did. I just stopped fasting and starting eating at about 4:15pm on Friday afternoon.

When I meditated on what I learned during the fast, the most important thing had nothing to do with spirituality, strength or control. It had nothing to do with the principles on which I focused each day, even though they were great and helped me heal after my friend's death. The most valuable lesson I learned from the fast is what foods my body cannot tolerate at this stage in my life.

When I would eat in the evening during the fast, I always started with fruit. Strawberries, grapes, oranges, or a banana. I would follow that with nuts - peanuts or cashews. For dinner, I'd have a salad of carrots, cucumbers and a lettuce mix. Or I sauteed zucchini, squash and onions in garlic powder, pepper and season salt. All of it was delicious and I actually felt full each night.

Cereal and milk. That ended the joy. The bloating, abdominal pain and gas that came with my favorite quick snack were almost unbearable. I haven't used regular milk since 1999 when my son started drinking regular milk after nursing. I always use lactose-free, skim milk with extra calcium. I've been using Lactaid in the purple container with the yellow banner across the top for the last 5 or 6 years. But on Wednesday April 25, Lactaid was not my friend. And I haven't consumed it since that date.

For the last few years, I thought it was raw vegetables that had been causing me gastric distress. I LOVE raw vegetables! I'd been restricting my intake of raw zucchini, squash, carrots and broccoli for years hoping my abdominal discomfort would end. I only eat tiny meals throughout the day to lesson any pain. Now, one of my favorite meals and snack - cereal and milk - has shown itself to the culprit! I'm both happy and sad with the realization.

This month, I scheduled an appointment with a new physician - a medical internist that is also a holistic doctor. The visit was thorough and wonderfully informative. After our discussion about gastric issues and other side affects to bread, pasta and dairy, she recommended a probiotic called Align. I've been taking Align as prescribed for one week and the results have been amazing for the main symptoms. I also switched to soy milk.

My fast revealed a great deal. Things about my spirit, my strength, my tolerance, and my weaknesses. It was a spiritual reawakening, a mental rejuvenation, and a physical revelation. My husband has forbade me from ever doing it again (remember those short-tempered, irritable moments I told you about). I may and I may not. But for now, I'm where I need to be and content with today.