It occurred to me that sometime after the birth of my third child, I started falling apart. Literally.

Or perhaps I should rephrase and say that parts of my body have somehow been misplaced. I don’t recall my left hip askew 2 years ago. My size 7 feet have walked off somewhere, leaving lanky 8’s in their place. And I distinctly remember that thigh in a size 4 pair of jeans. Yet these things are gone, and I’m not exactly sure where they went. Perhaps I should look for something familiar--a birthmark or dental records--to let me know that I didn’t take the wrong mother home from the hospital.

It was in this frantic mania that I decided to put out an APB for my pre-third child body, or even to merely reacquaint myself with the one that claims to be mine. I thought I would begin the search at the gym. I would return to my beloved yoga class of two years ago. I held it fondly in my memory, as a quiet place filled with rejuvenating asanas (poses) and good health both for the body and the spirit.

It seems that class was MIA along with my old self.

In its place, was a different kind of yoga. "Kundalini" yoga. For those of you not schooled as I certainly wasn’t in this not-so subtle difference between the mild mannered Hatha and Kundalini; let’s just say that Hatha is Chardonnay, while the latter is Junkie on Crystal Meth yoga.

Sure, there was soothing chanting music and instructions on meditation--but that is where the similarities ended. They cranked up the heat so that I felt like my aura was melting, and then began sets of rigorous contortions that made me wish for the Corpse pose after 10 minutes for sweet release.

I had recalled soothing terms like, "cleansing breaths." This one had a horrible torture known as "Breath of Fire." We weren’t doing Heron pose or stretching cat--we were doing a "Warrior Series." (Like ancients were fighting wars with guitar solos and Chai lattes?) Instead of the peaceful greeting, "Namaste," I’m pretty certain I heard the Sanskrit for, "You will soon weep like the mightiest willow."

This can’t be good, I thought, my joints crackling like a pan of Jiffy-Pop on a hot stove. The instructor, who was at least physically reminiscent of Buddha himself, pushed me into correct position during my Downward Dog. I felt my Achilles tendon snap like a piano wire (and sounded like it, too) which my teacher then retrieved and started whipping me with; shocking my chakras into submission. I grimaced as my fingers begrudgingly met up with my long-lost toes again.

It was like an anatomical family reunion. Hello again pectoral and abdominal muscles. Thanks for stopping by. I see you’ve already met my triceps; they are the ones smoking in the corner. Oh, and my femur? It seems to be introducing itself to my ear while my gluteus maximus is doing the limbo with my spine.

So I suppose I did take a journey of self-rediscovery of sorts last night on that Yoga mat, finding those lost and neglected parts.

They are right there next to the Advil and heating pad.

©2005 Tracey Henry

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