Somehow the refrain from John Cougar Mellencamp’s classic rock song kept playing in my mind as I lay fully unfurled on my back recovering from some so-called light stretch.

Hurts so good. Hmmm.

The first week of January saw me shoveling unspeakably high piles of snow from my alley into my backyard before the predicted deep freeze. (Where else could I offload the white stuff if I had any hope of getting my car out of the garage?)

For days, I was feeling pretty good about not being doubled over from the effort.  I thought I must be pretty resilient — until my first yoga class.  A wonderful yoga studio in my neighborhood had an introductory special; unlimited classes for new students for $50 for their first month.

I took regular hatha yoga classes several years ago.  I was never comfortable with routines that turned me upside down or with executing balance poses (please don’t ask me to close my eyes for anything except kissing), but I was pretty comfortable with downward dog, cow and cat stretches and most of the common poses.

Still, some intuitive and protective impulse must have come over me when I selected the best class level for me as GENTLE.

As I was saying, I didn’t think the shoveling had affected me until I really stretched out my arms and legs, my fingers and toes. It seemed every part of my body hurt. Not unbearably, but I was aware of a general discomfort throughout my body.

During my first class, the instructor’s voice was soothing. It faded in and out of my awareness as I closed then opened my eyes. I placed, then removed, blocks and bolsters and blankets to make accommodations for my body’s resistance to different positions.

While trying to visualize my belly button seeking out my spine or imagine that my undisciplined muscles could somehow hug the bones they surrounded with a feeling akin to affection, the instructor would walk by my mat and give me gentle nudges until I achieved the intended alignment.  Once, while my stomach coated the ground and my back was arched and I tried to grab my left ankle with my left hand, she looped the end of a cotton strap around my ankle and placed the ends in my hand so I could feel what the stretch would have felt like IF I was able to grip my ankle with my hand directly (No way).

By the time my first class finished with shavasana (corpse pose), my neck and shoulders and hips hurt. I think I hurt all over. Certainly I was slightly sore in parts of my body that I had forgotten about.

And I was smiling. I was so happy.  I felt so grateful.

Of course, I was proud of myself -– that after recognizing the benefits of yoga, I actually showed up for a class. I actually brought my own mat and made efforts to introduce myself to the instructor and make small talk with other students. I bookmarked the studio’s schedule page on my computer. I was committed to show up again.

But I was happy for every body ache I was aware of. It’s easy for me, under stress, to stop breathing. Sometimes, I don’t allow myself to breathe until I have figured out my next comment or action. But when something in my body hurts, my attention is immediately drawn to the hurt or discomfort. I find myself in the present moment. I find myself slowing down…and I’ll breathe…consciously…and the hurt will go away.

It hurts so good when I realize I need to stretch myself and know I CAN go beyond my past limitations.  Even when my body says, “Whoa, you can’t go there,” I can remind myself that I can go further than I thought. When arranging my limbs or torso in a new way and I feel a little uncomfortable, I can use it as a signal that I have found a limit -– for now.  I can recognize the discomfort as a signal that I have more work to do and that I can work up to a place of increased openness and flexibility where the position can be held without any twinges or tightness.

When you can experience comfort within a hurt and are reminded that you’re stretching your limits of what’s possible, it’s no small thing.