Regular followers of this blog will recognize the following poem I wrote and first posted in 2009. I remember reading it out loud to the Bikram Class I taught in Corvallis, Oregon on Christmas Day Class.
Clement Clarke Moore (1779 – 1863) wrote the poem Twas the night before Christmas also called “A Visit from St. Nicholas” in 1822, below adapted to suit the holiday celebration of the physical body in “Bikram’s Torture Chamber”.
“Twas 90 minutes on Christmas”
-Alex Newport-Berra
Twas savasana on Christmas, in the hot Bikram room,
not a muscle was twitching, like a corpse in a tomb.
The mats were lined up, on the floor with care,
in hopes that salty sweat, soon would be there.
The students relaxed, all snug in the heat,
while life hurried by, outside on the street.
With the teacher ready, and the students on the mat,
dedicated bodies began moving, this way and that.
When up in my brain there arose such a clatter,
I fell out of the posture, to worsen the matter,
Gazing into the mirror, I saw much more than my knee
Bikram says it’s cosmic, and I’m beginning to see.
The sweat on my chest, dripping to my toes down below,
gave my body the lustre of a rare gem on show.
When then, to my wandering mind should appear,
a big plate of nachos, and a six-pack of beer!
With a mental mirage so clever and quick,
I knew it in a moment, to be a monkey mind trick!
So calmer and deeper my breathing I made,
to ensure that the distractions, quickly, would fade.
Never too poor, never too sick,
never too healthy, or fat, like St. Nick.
To become sweat-proof, bullet-proof, proof of it all,
“Lock your knee! Lock your knee!” I heard the teacher call.
Pranayama exhales make the loud “ha” noise,
the postures’ balance and focus, bring my life poise.
All life is yoga, it’s certainly true,
health and vitality is right here for you.
Sweat came sprinkling, from my neighbor’s raised arm,
after camel I heard groaning, like an old dairy farm.
As I turned back my head, I lost sight of myself
and caught a brief glimpse behind me of a small Santa’s elf!
He was dressed in short-shorts, the rest of him bare,
lacking even a pointy cap to cover his hair.
His back-bending looked strained, most likely due,
to his crafting in the workshop, ’till his knuckles were blue.
The warmth it was clear, made his circulation merry,
his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry.
He had both legs locked out in his standing head to knee,
and his stout little body filled me with glee.
During seperate leg stretching, blood rushed to my head,
flooded my brain with oxygen, turning me red.
It was then I came to realize, that much like the elf
I was creating a gift, of peace, for my Self.
Each posture creating an un-wrapping of sorts,
no, not like that, I kept on my shorts.
Every part of my body I’ve learned to treasure,
like a true gift of love, far beyond measure.
In final savasana I heard not a word.
I felt I was soaring, on a golden winged bird.
My body was at peace, and so was my mind,
releasing my Self from the stressors that bind.
Twenty-six and two breathing, not a cell left untouched,
now the body at peace, and the mind just as much.
And as you drive off today, still dripping with sweat,
Here’s one phrase I hope, you won’t soon forget:
“From the top of your head, to the tips of your toes,
your changing the body by holding the pose!”
Namaste, and Peace on Earth.
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