Stretching with Priscilla

(I originally wrote this blog post for an old Tumblr account in fall of 2017, but the moral of the story is still the same. Enjoy.)

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Confession: I was totally that kid in gym class.  The one who flinched at all the dodgeballs and struck herself out on purpose to avoid playing.  The kid who somehow got whacked with every rogue round object known to man, whether it be from ten feet away or clear across the fieldhouse.  Who bruised black and purple attempting to serve volleyballs, and who stood counting literal butterflies in the outfield during a failed foray with little league softball in the third grade.  

That’s not to say I didn’t admire athleticism, though.  I found myself obsessed with gymnasts, figure skaters, synchronized swimmers, and UCA cheerleading competitions on ESPN.  Oh, and Priscilla Patrick’s various Hatha yoga programs that aired every weekday on public broadcasting.

Starting the summer of my half-hearted stint in the outfield, I began to practice yoga in my grandparents’ bedroom.  Just me and Priscilla, a beloved routine that lasted for years.  Looking back, this was the first of many yoga experiences for me, and I can honestly say it was love at first stretch, even back then in all my juvenile glory and squirreliness.

I had a legit dedicated routine going on, guys.  I’d clear the bedspread of my grandfather’s bed, which acted as a makeshift ginormous exercise mat and pop on PBS a few minutes early, sitting through the last ten minutes of some other dated exercise program in anticipation of Priscilla.  I’d practice right there along with her for both 30-minute episodes every day, mimicking each pose to the best of my limited skill.  

This was yoga at its most hilarious and raw.  There I was, a pudgy eight-year-old, ready to rumble in yellow denim shorts and a variety of tie-dyed tee shirts.  Contorting myself into sloppy pretzels all over a shabby California king with reckless abandon, foodbaby gut out and proud.  I even ate the exact same post-yoga lunch each and every day: an apple, a tuna sandwich on buttered toast, chicken noodle soup and three Chips Ahoy cookies with milk for dessert.  This was in the food-pyramid-is-God-90s, where a meal like that felt wholesome and well-rounded.  I was doing my body right, dammit, and I was proud of it!  The whole ritual of yoga and lunch made me feel accomplished, grown-up, and in control.

But the best part?  

Nothing about that yoga was formal.  There was no pressure or expectation level, and practicing never made me feel less-than.  In a stark contrast from the multitude of my past PE embarrassments, it actually provided me with some self-esteem.  Priscilla’s instruction was inclusive and gentle, and I took comfort in her encouragement and soothing ASMR-worthy voice.  Who knows?  Maybe the freedom I found in those early practice sessions created a lasting positive outlook towards yoga, maybe not.  But what I can tell you is that over the years, I’ve fallen away from the practice, jumped back in, fallen away, jumped in, rinse/repeat, rinse/repeat.  Until very recently, I never even took it all that seriously, but no matter what, I found myself returning to yoga time and again.

I’m now a 33-year-old student yogi practicing 3-5 times a week in a combo of studio classes and at home.  This time I’ve re-discovered yoga as a means of self-therapy.  And I’ve never been more serious or consistent with my practice.  It calms my anxiety, helps with depression, and has taught me so much about satisfaction, moderation, organization, and so much more.  Practicing asana is fully-integrated into my lifestyle now more so than ever, and I have ambitions to keep learning more every day, to engage fully into the practice, all 8 limbs or bust!  Like a boss, as they say.  But I started small, and TBH if not for those early PBS TV dates with Priscilla Patrick, I truly doubt I’d have given yoga the chance to save my life like it has.