On what must be one of the last truly warm Sundays of the season, I recently was practicing in the middle of the street outside Birchwood Cafe. With my arms linked through those of a long line of sweaty, happy yogis, I found myself standing across from a face I recognized, but could not place. The woman greeted me warmly, asked me to be her partner for the next segment, and followed me to my now gravel-covered mat.
I remembered her, but not until I was holding her arms behind her back and massaging her low back with my bare feet (I know, but you get used to it, and then it feels wonderful). She is a staff member at a place where I've volunteered. It was a rare chance to meet with someone outside the walls of that institution, and I found myself having a strong, honest conversation with her == the kind that's impossible to have while kids are screaming and running around your knees, but which somehow seemed much easier while massaging the back of a virtual stranger with one's feet.
The Gorilla Yogis operate donation-requested events throughout what they call the Urban Jungle, each benefiting a different local charity. When it was my turn to get that back massage, I found myself remembering another one of their sessions that truly moved me from my safe place and into some moments that were deeper, richer, and scarier than any I'd ever experienced on a yoga mat before. I'm reposting that blog here.
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 2013
Sweaty and broken: what I learned on a stranger’s yoga mat
Glowing and gleeful on the stage at Aria, surrounded a cadre of fellow yoga teachers, Nan issued the first instructions of the practice: “Turn to the person on the mat next to yours, introduce yourself, and say what you’re grateful for today.”
Shit.
Introductions and handshakes are the kale of my life – I know they’re good for me, but I endure them, barely. (Also, I’m less than fond of small group discussions that involve writing on flip charts, but I digress.) Still, a Gorilla Yogis event is, by design, a sociable gathering, so I ignored the wall to my right (intentional choice; cuts the chit-chat factor down by fifty percent) and turned to the man on my left, hand out, corners of the mouth turned up.
“Iiiiiiiiiii’m Miiiiiiiiike,” he said, lurching out a hand toward mine. His voice sounded like one of those electronic scramblers the villain uses to call the cops after he’s kidnapped the plucky heroine and is holding her for ransom. He pumped my hand up. Pause. Then down. “I’m grateful to be here today … because a while ago, I was in a car accident. I rolled over three-and-a-half times. And so … I’m glad to be here.”
He let go of my hand, head listing down, eyes looking up. He was waiting for my Oprahtastic-life-is-good declaration. I paused and listened to gratefulness being shared all around me, as the roomful of sleekly groomed yoga muffins shook hands, setting thousands of Tibetan prayer beads and armfuls of Mexican hammered-silver bangles to jangling. Perpetually babygirl voices introduced Kayla-Kerrie-Katelynne to Meghan-Maya-Madyson. And here I was, looking at Mike’s face, which, I now noticed, seemed as if someone had, once upon a time, given the features a slight quarter turn, with not-insignificant force, and had left them there.
I reached over and touched his arm. A moment ago I had not been able to think of one grateful thing, but now I could.
“You, Mike. I’m grateful you’re here.”
He nodded, suddenly shy, and we both looked at our feet.
The practice started. I breathed, closed my eyes, stayed on my own mat. Still, it was hard to ignore Mike. He moaned. He creaked. I heard odd popping sounds from time to time, like his bolts were falling off. He stopped, frequently, to wipe his dripping face. At one point, the class turned to face in another direction, and I realized he was no longer on his mat. I started to worry, to wonder if I should call over a teacher, or go look for him. He’d rolled over three-and-a-half times, he'd said, and suddenly I realized the significance of that “half.” At the end of whatever had happened, Mike was hanging upside down. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, we were directed to stretch out our arms in a “t” and grasp the wrist of our neighbor. A sweaty hand found mine, and there was Mike. I squeezed back in welcome, but not, I hoped, too hard.
We were instructed to stand and find a partner: “Hold on to your partner’s wrists, then lean back,” Nan told us. All around us, shiny heads, sleek with expensive botanicals and argan oil, leaned in toward each other, and hundreds of pedicured toes lined up in perfect symmetry. Over in our dark corner, Mike and I faced each other like Quasimodo and his menopausal gargoyle. A weird, burbling chuckle came out of Mike as he grasped me. “I could break your wrists right now,” he said in that techno-villain voice, and he sounded equally awed and frightened at the thought. Jesus, I thought, just put your hands around my neck and put me out of my misery. Aloud, I said, “I trust you.” He relaxed, visibly, and leaned back. Based on the sounds he was making, I’m not sure if he was enjoying the traction or painfully slipping several vertebrae, but he stayed with it until Nan told us to stand up.
“Now find a place on your partner’s mat,” she instructed, and Mike companionably patted a spot on his towel-covered mat, which shot up a shower of moisture. I remembered the time we’d done yoga at the corner of Lake & Lyndale during a boiling-hot Open Streets festival. We'd all put our arms around each other in a giant Circle of Love. I was feeling the love, oh yeah, until I realized that my right hand was nestled directly in the hairy and gushing armpit of the man next to me.
Guess what, I lived.
I sat in front of Mike, toboggan style, and Nan instructed the person in back to deliver a back-and-neck massage. “Oooooh, I’m not that creepy,” Mike said, in a voice that actually sounded like a textbook definition of "creepy." I said what I’d said before: “I trust you.”
After a few lovely moments, Nan instructed the massagers to put their hands directly behind the hearts of their partners, and she told us receivers to lean back, to lean into those hands that were holding us up. “You are not alone, you are never alone, there is always love and community around you,” she said.
Nan, I thought, this is crazy talk, so please shut your lying mouth. I let my mind play over the alone-making conversations in which I participate every day, most beginning with the ultimate lie-of-concern, “how are you?”
I hear “How are you?” as a prelude to “Next, I will tell you what you're going to do for me,” or as a straight-line-route into “How am I, really, let me talk a little bit more,” or, truly, “I’m sorry, did you say something? I was looking at my iPhone.”
That creepy villain voice brought me back. Mike was leaning into my ear. “You can lean back farther,” Mike was saying. “You won’t hurt me. I can hold you.”
His fingers were sweaty. His body was broken. He was, based on what I'd heard and seen in the last hour, experiencing some serious levels of pain. But he was sure he couldn’t hurt me, no matter how far I leaned into him, and he was willing to hold me up.
Nan, I thought, I take it back, I’m sorry. There’s only this moment, this Sunday morning with the pretty, pretty girls all around me, and this sweaty, broken man who is willing to support me. Since all I have is now, then I am not alone, not in this perfect moment. And you’re right, Nan, you’re so very right.
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