I love yoga. When it's "good," it reminds me of Catholic Mass when I was small. The sidelong attention you pay to the person in the front of the room, the rote comfort of the standing up, the getting down, the incantatory pattern of works from an unfamiliar lost language, the metaphorical application of one thing to another, the uplifting power of music.
I have so many favorite parts of yoga practice but one is when it's really hard: after lots warrior poses, with arms lifted to shoulder level and held extended, the vinyasa that ends in "child's pose," and you get to feel your heart pound in such an exhilarating way while experiencing real relaxation.
This morning, during pigeon pose prep, we did pigeon prep including a spinal twist. (It included a bind for those who could hack it; mine was wholly bindless). During this pose, the yoga teacher said something that seemed directed straight to me:
"this twist is like a tray of ice cream . . . well, whatever your favorite thing is. Maybe this pose is like a tray of butter. This twist is like a tray of butter for your spine."
Yoga is like the anti butter, but it's also like butter for my mood.