Inner Poise, Zen and you gotta be kidding - I can't do that!

If we have such a thing as muscle memory, then I think I must be suffering from muscle amnesia. Last night marked my return to yoga after a gap of several months. At the start of the class, our lovely serene teacher encouraged us to empty our minds and focus on the present moment. It's easier said than done though. My mind was instantly filled with the following thoughts:
1) What shall I have for tea? Tuna pasta?
2) Whatever did happen to that important teacher booklet that has gone AWOL? Who was the last person to use it?
3) How is it possible to balance 90% of your body weight on your elbows?
4) Would it be easier if I was like the skinny size 8 girl next to me?
5)Shall I go for a bike ride or a swim tomorrow?
6) When will I have time to get my oven installed?
7) I like the top the girl is wearing in front of me
8) Oh I can't have tuna pasta - I don't have any sweetcorn in

So not really the profound, earth shattering realisations that are supposed to come to light after meditation and self-reflection. More like a constant barrage of nonsense.
I have to accept that it will take some time to get back to the point I was at a few months back. All the same, it can seem pretty tough when the person infront is demonstrating a perfect 'Table Top' whilst I am wobbling and toppling over just trying to stand on one leg! Inspite of all this, I am determined to keep going. More than anything, I love the language of the yoga. It is enticing to be told that humans are the rainbow between heaven and earth and to touch our hands to our heart space. Our teacher is an inspiration and has the ability to fill us with confidence and a warm feeling inside. She doesn't care whether I can contort my legs into the perfect postures. Instead, she sees our progress and understands that we are all built differently and some are more flexible and supple than others. What could be better, on a Wednesday evening, than to spend an uninterrupted hour, dedicated to yourself, aided by a comforting neck massage?
I endeavour to brave the bumpy roads and make the epic journey across town at least once a week.
Namaste!

I will always be an abolo obruni

I was not allowed to stay in Colombia for longer than two years on grounds that I was not glamorous or beautiful enough. The government issues strict guidelines on these matters and those who fail to meet the rigorous criteria are asked to leave the country. I pleaded that I had tried my very best. Had I not gone for regular manicures and pedicures? Was my hair not always blow dried to perfection? It seemed that this was not enough. Unless I agreed to undergo some cosmetic surgery, be it a boob job, some Botox or a spot of liposuction, I would no longer be welcome in the land of the beautiful. On my return journey whilst in transit in the States I found I did not need to follow any signs for the connecting flight to Manchester. I spotted my people immediately – all a little bit (or a whole lot) fat, with pasty skin and a poor dress sense. Yes, I was going home and I landed back on earth with a bump.
But not for long though. I was heading for Africa. A real place, where it’s seen as a good thing to be a real woman. So what if you’re not a model Size 6? If you’ve got curves, then everything is fine with the world. A little bit more spread, then that’s great too.
Nearly ten years after my first trip to Ghana, a couple of friends and I still fondly refer to each other as the abolo obrunis. That means fat white person. Looking back, probably none of us were actually that fat, but that was what people called from the streets! Actually, we may not have been fat when we landed in Ghana, but after 6 months of munching on street foods from fried plantain to yam chips, we probably were pretty rounded when we left. I have indelible memories of the woman whose house we stayed at (who we had to call mum) and her friend (Aunty) rolling around on the floor stuffing watermelons in their mouths. Here was a woman who was so spoilt and lazy, that rather than get off her fat ass to change the channel, would watch a fuzzy grey screen, whilst shouting her maid ESSIE, ESSIE, ESSIE, ESSIE … and if Essie failed to come, her son NANA K, NANA K, NANA K until somebody would put her out of her misery.
Now in Uganda, most of the people are pretty slim-lined compared to our West African neighbours. But people do like their food, lots of it, and if you gain a few pounds along the way, then good for you. It’s always hard to remember that being told you’re fat is not really an insult around here. It’s either a statement of fact or, at times, a compliment. I nearly took back my charity the day I left out some unwanted clothes for my maid to take, and she told me she would give them to her fat friends! It’s a fair point – she’s pretty tiny herself – around a Size 8 on a fat day! One day a friend and I whizzed past her house whilst out for a healthy bike ride. She waved and called us over, and invited us into her house for a rest and a drink. Moments later, she asked us why we bother to do exercise when we will both always be so very fat. I despaired!
This week, since being ill, I have for once been looking a little skinnier. On Friday, people kept telling me that I looked very weak. I have since translated this as being a little thinner than usual. My favourite line of all though, came from my lovely Teaching Assistant: “Miss Crosbie, you have lost weight, but don’t worry, if you try hard I am sure you can get it back again!” I have never worried about anything less in my life.