The yoga teacher seems to want to touch the American a lot in class tonight. She doesnât correct or realign her, she just lays her hands on lightly, gently, softly: spread-out fingers in down dog, shoulders in Warrior II, the small of the back in childâs pose. She can tell, thinks the American, lowering down to the ground from plank position from her knees this time, having lost a lot of her strength in the couple of weeks she hasnât made it to class. She can see somethingâs wrong.
Wellington heaves and shudders and contracts through this winter that started slow and is ending even slower; the American walks along the streets, eyes front, earbuds in, and doesnât remember how she made it to work or to the store or the bus stop. Her hair a tangled cloud, her face a closed book. She buys vegetables and soap, she sends emails. She builds up the fire and fills her hot water bottles and she vacuums the floor. She reads four novels in two weekends. She listens to music, as much as she can, but she has to be careful: a few songs send her stabbing for the fast-forward button so fast that she stumbles and almost falls to her knees on Courtenay Place in her anxiety to not hear certain combinations of words, certain types of sounds. A little Jarvis Cocker, a little Pixies, those are good. A little Neko (careful!), a little Wilco (caaaaareful!). It rains or it doesnât, the wind blows in from the straits or is still. Wellington rumbles and sighs, stares up at the grey grey sky.
How are you? Are you okay? Every day, from someone, somewhere. Itâs showing, it shows: her eyes are dark circles, her neck cords stand out, her face is pale yellow. Her brow furrow is there even when she smiles. Do youâŚis itâŚare you okay? The American nods, and has short rueful conversations in the corridors at work or at the cafes or via Skype chat to the other side of the world. The nurses at work tell her she looks run down and is she getting enough sleep? The friends check in via text. Yes, Iâm okay, says the American, angry that whatever is wrong is so visible, that all her experience with lying is basically not useful at all here. She doesnât want to lie. She doesnât want to complain. I mean, yeah, itâs a tough time, you know, itâsâŚIâmâŚyeah, Iâm all right. Itâs nothingâI mean, nothingâs happened, itâs all fine— but itâs everything, you know? They nod. They do know, it would seem. Well, they say, over coffee, over the cube wall. Not completely convinced. Let us know if you need anything.
For some of us, says the yoga teacher, simply sitting cross-legged like this will be enough of a hip-opener, and I invite you to join me in sitting this way. For others of us who have more space and to whom it is available, you may want to start to bring your torso towards the floor, stopping when it gets too intense. The American doesnât really listen to this part as sheâs already bent all the way over and put her forehead on the floor. Folding herself in half, a college friend used to call it. She has no upper body strength and is terrified of handstands but sheâs always had open hips and shoulders and doesnât feel any stretch or pull at all. She sits there, folded in half, and waits. Breathes like youâre supposed to, at yoga. She wants to get this right. She wants to do a good job.
Hands in her pockets, scarf snugged up around her throat, she walks along the streets of this city she once felt completely confident in, completely free, thinking about love. Her various friends and family members have shown her so much recently. The American is not stupid, or not all of the time at least, and she knows how lucky she is in this way. She knows she doesnât deserve it, that the kind of care people seem to have for her (but why?) is not about anything sheâs done. She sees it, sheâs grateful. She files it away in a folder hand-labeled âLove People Have Seen Fit To Give Me,â and then sends a thank-you note. Are you okay? they ask.
This is one of the very internal poses, says the teacher, touching the American lightly as she talks. Itâs good to close your eyes for this sort of thing, and itâs a good time to practice kindness towards yourself. I used to find hip-openers very psychologically challenging, she says. I used to want my body to open more, faster. The American smiles a little to herself. But then I began to understand that there is no end goal, that there is no enough, says the teacher, and thatâs when the tears come, or maybe just one tear, singular, not even enough crying to drip onto the cheap pink Warehouse yoga mat. By the time she unfolds herself and comes back to sitting straight, her legs still comfortably crossed, there isnât anything to see, anymore.
They did lots of salutes and forward bends and twists tonight and have only a few minutes left at the end of class for corpse pose. The American arranges herself under the blanket and plops the eyebag on her face, adjusts her neck support. Thinks about writing a blog post about this class but dismisses that as a self-indulgent and boring idea, and who cares if she never updates again anyway. For the next five minutes, says the yoga teacherâshe almost always says this when itâs time for shivasanaâthere is absolutely nothing you have to do. The American just lies there, doing nothing, her hands on her belly. Let go, she thinks, angrily, let go let go let goddamn go.
There is no requirement, says the teacher, to still your mind.
In the locker room she wriggles into her bra, pulls on both pairs of socks, ties her shoes. The yoga teacher, whom the American also knows outside of the studio, slightlyâthey have friends in common and have been to some of the same parties–is getting changed too, because if thereâs one guarantee in Wellington, itâs that whomever you see in their underwear, youâll see on the street. The poor woman is still in her g-string but hugs the American anyway, patting her between the shoulder blades, the way you do to a sleepy baby whoâs all cried out. She kisses her on the cheek. Go have a bath, she tells her. And a cuppa tea! Oh I will, says the American, putting her hat on and buttoning her coat, smiling. I definitely will.
The bus is a couple of minutes late. A friend calls to check in. The American puts in her earbuds and fishes around in her purse for a scrap piece of paper and writes down a couple things she was thinking about during shivasana, thinks about writing something for the blog, even if it’s boring. She stares out at the harbour as the bus climbs the hill, stares out at the bay as her feet climb the steps to the house. Puts on one of the songs she has to be careful withâbecause why not, right?–and looks at the lights, looks at the dark. She sings along.