She’s fresh from a four-month adventure in India. I’m pregnant with inertia. She offers me a one on one yoga class and we bend and stretch to the soothing current of her voice in my backyard, mosquitoes slapped against necks and arms between breaths.
“This is why my guru tells us to practice indoors.”
An hour in we gather an audience, neighbors perched on roofs and peering out of windows in the apartment building across the fence.
She drapes her body against mine in an effort to bring my pose deeper. She corrects and comments on my flexibility. I watch her brush a blonde curl out of her eye.
I feel off-balance. Out of tune. My legs shake with the effort to stretch, reach, ground into the earth. I build my body from the feet up, limbs stacked, muscles tensed, arms reaching, pulling myself in separate directions.
I concentrate on my breathing. Everything inside me is crumbling, I am fractured in a way I can’t begin to understand or address, but this, this deep breathing? This I can do.
Exhale, go deeper.
I come out of it dazed. Feet filthy.
A smile smeared into the corners of my eyes.
Something, at least.
Kings of Convenience – Power of Not Knowing