Really, JMH?

I don’t fancy myself a cheater (I prefer the term “artful dodger” dreamed up by David Garrigues).

Not me. I’m the girl in pigtails with her hand raised high because I know the F*&ing answer to this silly exercise, first grade teacher! I’m the lawyer who dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s and then triple checked her efforts… in the mysore room I’m the above-boarder: if I lose count of surya namaskar B, I throw in extra, just in case. Because I’m that virtuous. Or pathetically pitta.

None of this changes the fact that I cheat, swindle, dodge, hustle and diddle this practice all the time.

This isn’t controversial is it? The ashtanga system practically begs for cheating. Listen here to Zoe Ward cause she already said it, with more pizazz than I can muster:

But at the end of the day, for us Ashtangis (and I hope I’m not misrepresenting this population) it is possible to cheat. It is easier to cheat. It is tempting to cheat. and the power of our system comes from our willingness to face the fact that sometimes what we are capable of is not good enough. That we have to become more, become better than what we are now. 

Thank God for that!

Correct vinyasa? “Really F*&ing hard.”  (though David Robson makes it look kinda easy). Five rounds of navasana? Come on. One inhale to get into Marichyasana C? Sapta— that’s it? Seriously?

Let me break it down for you.

You get on your mat and you better be f**king ready. What are you going to do? Not a question. You are told exactly what to do. And in what order. Where to start, where to stop. And you better believe you get stopped. A specific, limited number of breaths for practice is provided (indeed, they’ve been counted), and within that, certain breaths for getting into and out of each asana. No more. Those transitions are prescribed too, all those entries and exits–and just to be clear — know that stopping to rearrange your hair, wipe sweat off your brow, pee, utter “f$%k! or mentally prepare your Trader Joe’s grocery list or latest indubitably inspired internet rant are not allotted for. Man I’m screwed! You want to close your eyes and milk the dreaminess of your closing postures? F**k that. It ain’t in there. Because, BTW, you are told where “your eyes should be” (and, no, not on the pants of that girl behind you– are they Under Armour?– or incoming texts).

[As with Zoe, David Robson already explained this — I’m indebted to him for my fun play above — in the video you’ll find here, as adapted into his article, “Meditation in Practice” in the Ashtanga Dispatch Magazine. Go get it.]

So you better f*&king believe I hustle. By “cheat-asana,” I don’t mean earnest jump back attempts where my feet sadly still touch down on the floor. Failing to reach the bar is not necessarily artful dodgery. Nor is when I have trouble landing a really good jump into crow. No, the hustle-ry is when I don’t even try to lift and clear the floor or attempt five proper breaths in navasana (hyperventilating for a millisecond isn’t it, dear). It’s when I indulge in mental hijinks even though I’ve been taught exactly what to focus on (a mental recap of the yoga selfie debate ain’t included), when I’m not fully present, when I don’t even try sticking to what’s asked of me–that is, all I’ve chosen to take on. It’s when I avoid showing up as my best self.

Basically, it’s all the sh*t I suddenly throw overboard when a teacher is standing right in front of me.

Thank you, teacher, for that. Thank you Ashtanga, for setting a bar and laying down rules, taking away options, thank you for making this “tunnel” (thank you again for that word, David Robson) so tight cheat-asana is almost a given. And then asking for, as Zoe puts it, “More.”

Because you give me something to come back to. Practicing this cheat-begging series reminds me of coming back to my breath when thoughts start meandering in meditation. Not just coming back to the vinyasa count and focus, but coming back to earnest jump backs after half-assed ones. This practice, the teacher, a centrifugal force, drawing me back again and again and again after I avoid and dodge again and again and again. When standing before me as I attempt God-this-needs-work-navasanas, it’s like the teacher –indeed the practice itself– is holding up a mirror.

I see who I am and who I can be.