Adho Mukha Svanasana, Savasana, Balasana: this is my cue to bend over like a dog, lie down like a corpse, or pull my knees under my chest like a child, respectively. For the last few months I’ve been practicing yoga at my local fitness studio, spending twice-weekly 90-minute sessions stretching, folding, balancing, sweating, and panting. Everyone says yoga is unexpectedly strenuous; everyone is right. As someone who gets a generally high volume of aerobic exercise, I walked into my first yoga hour confident the poses would come naturally; I left sore and sweaty. First lesson learned: I have a lot to learn.

So here I am, humble novice of poses, diligently mimicking my instructor and hoping I get something right. What keeps me coming back? While yoga promises stronger abs, better posture, and lithe, limber yoga-guru limbs - hurrah! - what has really gotten me addicted is the sense of groundedness and awakeness that I gain in each session. I come away with an intense awareness of body, soul, and mind - often with surprising results. Tonight, for example, I went to yoga at 7 p.m., after a long and stressful day at work. I started in Savasana - corpse pose - and as I concentrated on becoming present, I noticed that my forehead was furrowed in strain, there was a wall of pressure behind my eyes, and my entire chest cavity was constricted so tightly that my breaths came only as shallow whispers. I’d spent an entire day cramped and constricted, clenching muscles and holding my breath without even noticing.

As we moved into our first poses, my knee told me it was still sore from my morning jog - I really need to get that checked - and my back muscles systematically informed me that they have zero - 0 - really, no (!) - flexibility, and no, they do not intend to bend in that manner. My makeup apparently makes my face sweat strangely, and I really shouldn’t have eaten that banana before practice, because it’s now sitting in some upper stomach cavity and refusing all attempts at digestion.

Yoga makes me realize that my body is always trying to tell me something, whether through persistent whispers or sharp cries of pain and irritation. (This is a great question to ask yourself on occasion, by the way: body, what are you trying to tell me right now, in this moment?) My almost exclusively external, practical, “let’s get this done and off my desk” mindset during the workday muffles and gags these communications, resulting in stress, strain, headaches, and other vague, nonspecific complaints. As I settle into myself on my yoga mat, though, I reconnect: I really feel my tendons stretch, I hear my heart beat, hear the air rushing in and out of my lungs, feel my fingers dig deeper into the mat, feel my hips flex and open, creating literally more space in my body, more room to breathe.

As physical awareness invariably brings emotional self-knowledge, so, in turn, comes a growing sense of spirituality and Spirit. Faced with an unexpected tide of anger, frustration, or joy, my posture and motions become a way release these things to God. I become a small ball of a child again and let myself be soothed; I return to standing with new strength. With my heart open and my chest exposed in a backbend, there is literally no way for me to hold on to the clenching anger around my heart. The poses become a prayer I do with my person, an invitation to be stretched, opened, released, and finally soothed. Sometimes I find simple words coming to mind, or prayers; usually the heightened sense of who and where I am in the moment - and Who is within and around me - seems prayer enough. But sometimes a yoga session almost begs me to derive a more concrete spiritual meaning. Tonight as our session came to a close, we lay on our mats in corpse pose and my yoga teacher (whom I secretly suspect of being a Christian) put on a song with the simple, repetitive refrain, “by your grace.... by your grace... by your grace.” By his grace I breathe, and move, and live, and have my being. Amen.