Journey.

Here I am in Melbourne en route to the Gold Coast on my yoga odyssey:

At the moment I feel spookily alone and for me it's a truly weird feeling. It's like I've left my husband and four children at home in Hobart....actually it's true, I have and here's the evidence:

I'm not used to being by myself, let's face it in my day to day usual life (when I'm not gallivanting across Australia on a yoga jaunt)  it's rare I even get to go to the loo by myself.

On the plane I was thinking back to my first ever Bikram Yoga class. It's funny how things show up on your radar. Although maybe not so strange considering. I was pushing Tobes on the swings down at Marieville Esplanade, as I did most days, when another mother started regaling a friend and I about Bikram Yoga. I was horrified by the entire concept - an hour and a half in a very, very hot room, sweating and contorting your body into strenuous yoga postures AND on top of that no water until the teacher says you could have some. As if.

I am not very good in the heat regardless of having spent part of my childhood on an Indonesian island. I vividly recall fainting during choir concerts at school in the stifling Sydney heat and I'm sure Kim would love to tell you about one stop over in Singapore on our way back from London where we ventured outside the airport to sightsee.

Nevertheless, I did my first class almost three years ago. It sounds like a long time, yet I had a year hiatus while I was pregnant and living in France. Not that I could have gone if I'd wanted to as the closest Bikram Yoga studio was in Marseilles almost a two hour drive away. I was gagging to practice during the time we were in Paris at the end of our time in France, after Camelia was born. So on the day that marked six weeks since my caesarian (when you are traditionally allowed to work out at the gym) I went to the studio in the Marais only to be turned away - they maintained that I had to wait three months after the surgery.

Anyway, way back when I braved my first class I was surprised that it wasn't so bad. It wasn't until about six weeks later when we were holidaying in Bali that it all turned bad. Kim and I left the children at the kids club and ventured into Kuta to do a class. The sound of the heatpump droning out hot air while the hot sun beamed through the floor to ceiling windows was enough to put me on the floor for good soon after eagle.

After that I truly questioned whether I would ever head back onto the mat again. How's this as a bizarre coincidence - Amanda the Canadian teacher in Kuta taught the next class I did in Hobart. It's true.

Now I'd better go and catch that plane.