Liturgies and yoga

Personality tests come in all sort of flavors, but I've never met one that precisely measures a person's attachment to predictable patterns and routines. I imagine I'd score pretty much off the charts, if such a thing existed. Though I consider myself open to the world in its infinite diversity, flexible in general outlook and downright pinko in my political leanings, I have always had a great fondness for the totally expected. Maybe because so much else in life seems continuously up for grabs.

Maybe some of these 'symptoms' are familiar to you? Cause I know I'm not the only one. For example, I never re-arrange my furniture. Ever. Once my classroom is set up, the desks don't move either. I tried. Once. It was horrible. It was wrong. I had to switch it back right away. I could happily (and often do) eat the same thing for breakfast or lunch (or any meal) for months at a time. Throughout childhood, I mourned the slightest alteration of holiday traditions, wailing, "But it's always been this way!" with all the righteousness of a Victorian matron. Routines are my bulwarks, my levees. They help contain and channel all that intensity and emotion. They sink deep very quickly. Uprooting them is never a casual undertaking.

This personality quirk has made me a big fan of liturgy. Many of you are familiar with the word 'liturgy' in the religious sense, meaning a pre-set arrangement for the celebration of communion in church. If you go to, say, a Roman Catholic or Episcopal service, you will hear the pretty much the same words and prayers each time. The theory is that the words remain constant, but the listener changes as the days and years pass. The variety comes from within rather than being imposed (change! eeek!) from the outside. Liturgies also strengthen a sense of community because, like any good bulwark, they stand firm on their own, independent of any one person or situation.

Just as cool as the church-type liturgies are the liturgies that exists in other areas of life. These are more than super-charged routines. Life liturgies engage a variety of senses along with being blessedly predictable. A weekly visit to the farmers market could be a life liturgy, as could the act of tucking a child into bed, a particular hike, reading the New York Times on Sunday mornings. Anything that's done in the same way each time on purpose in part because the repetition itself adds to the value and strengthens the ties that bind us.

My current favorite life liturgy is Bikram yoga. Yes, that's the hot one. But don't confuse it with "hot yoga." Many a studio these days are promoting their brand of yoga done in a hot room, which makes sense, given the amount of muscle-stretching that takes place. But hot yoga is not Bikram unless it specifically says so. Bikram is so much more than the act of spending 90 minutes in a room with a thermostat set to 105 F.

In Bikram yoga, we do the same 26 postures in the same order every time. Even the words the instructors use to guide the class don't vary much. The postures themselves are plenty challenging (I think) but not particularly pretzel-like. There is very little twisting. There is a lot of standing, balancing, breathing and holding firm. Every time. What we do is not at the whim of an instructor with years more experience than the rest of us. It is about the path we are all following at different points, constant and familiar. Some days I'm dehydrated and wobbly. Some days (rarer), I feel I'm actually making progress, not to mention doing wonders for my joints, muscles and general health. And through it all the liturgy remains the same. This inspires a deep sense of calm and gratitude, as liturgies often do.

The next question, of course, is why all this wonderfulness has to happen in an oven-like room. For an hour and a half. Ideally every day. A person's tendency to embrace extremes and rush head-long toward what seems right no matter how much it hurts is perhaps measured by another personality test. A post for another day...