What the hell are you doing here?
On teaching my second yoga class ever to Tenderloin residents
“There is a Delft Blue shape on your pants! I looove Delft Blue.”
One of my yoga students taps on my knee to point out the familiar cobalt colour.
“A Delft Blue nebula, right there.”
I see it too. It’s hidden in the pink green purple potpourri on my leggings, that I wear on a near-daily basis. Like a true San Franciscan, I quickly swapped my former semi-fashionable wardrobe for one that predominantly consists of over the top spandex outfits featuring huge red flowers or, well, Delft Blue nebulas.
I am teaching my second yoga class at the Faithful Fools today. It is also the second yoga class in my life that I teach to somebody who is not my husband. It feels like driving a car for the first time. No automated routines yet. I have to think hard about every detail. Such as the names of my dear students.
“Thanks, ehh…”, I mumble.
“I’m Beth”, she helps.
“Thanks Beth, I used to live in Delft for a couple of years, what a coincidence. But let’s start our practice now, it’s 10.15.”
Ten students take a seat on their mat. Some are young, some are old. Some have an enlightened smile on their face, some look extremely nervous. Some make a serious fashion statement, from head to holiday themed toenails. Some wear an achromatic hodgepodge of clothes.
“Take a deep breath, and let go with a sigh,” I start. “Let’s open this class with the eternal sound of ohm. Breathe in…”
Oh. My. God. Did I just say ‘the eternal sound of ohm’? I don’t even know what that means. “Ooooooohmmmmmm”, my students chant devotedly, as if I didn’t just say something grotesque.
I look around. The yogi’s, aged 25 to 70, are sitting cross-legged in a homely common room in the Tenderloin. Somebody’s push cart is parked in the corner of the room. In another corner stands a decorative push cart filled with fake golden bottles. Shoes, mainly comfortable trainers, are scattered around our yoga mats. Images of homeless people from all over the world are hanging on the walls. There are plants. Books. A sculpture of a giraffe. An enormous paper bear. Candles of all sizes. A skeleton with a guitar. An acrobat puppet hanging from the ceiling. A Buddha statue.
What would doing yoga feel like for a homeless person, I wonder while we are doing a simplified version of downward facing dog. I know the owner of the push cart has pain in his shoulder from pushing the cart around all day. I know the reason that Beth often falls asleep during meditation is because there is so much noise in the shelter that she is chronically sleep deprived.
It’s nearly impossible for me to relate to their situation. I just got back from an introductory meeting with my GP, who was thrilled to learn about my ultra balanced coffeeless, alcoholless, parttime vegetarian diet, my dedication to sleep at least eight hours every night, and my daily yoga practice. I don’t think I’ve ever been so fit and happy in my life.
In the back of the room Pedro moans as he falls out of tree pose. He takes a deep breath, steadies his gaze, lifts his right leg, and falls again. Next to him, Tanet stands perfectly still, breathing steadily, his left foot pressing into his right thigh.
Teaching yoga here makes me understand the practice on a deeper level. It’s really not about doing Instagrammable poses. Doing yoga with this group reveals to me just how intimately mental and physical health are connected. It teaches me the importance of balancing effort and ease — of working towards but not attaching to an outcome. Doing your best is all that matters.
And their best is what my students do. They do their sun salutations (although Beth never fails to snort demonstratively in plank pose). They sit quietly in meditation (although Charlie refuses to close his eyes and shamelessly studies everyone else in the room). They surrender their bodies to the earth in savasana, the final resting pose (while two of them peacefully snore).
We bring our hands in prayer position in front of our hearts, and with a cordial namaste we end the class. All of them look blissful. Their eyes are soft. Except for Beth. She jumps up, as if she has been waiting for this moment all throughout the class.
“Why did you ever leave Delft?”, she asks me. “It’s beautiful there. So organized. And everyone rides a bicycle! Oh and you guys are practically socialists right? Taking care of the poor and the sick. No crazy people carrying around guns. No Trump. And you have seasons! And historical buildings! What are you even doing here? No, seriously, what the hell are you doing here?”
She looks at me with piercing eyes, her chin lifted defiantly. I am at least one foot taller than she is, but I am intimidated.
I blank out. I know I am happy here, I know this is where I want to be now. Thinking about moving back to the Netherlands makes me feel restricted, like a pet bird that is forced back into its cage.
I feel free here, free to explore who I am without a regular job, without my close friends and family as a safety blanket. I feel free, being able to spend so much time in the seemingly boundless Californian nature. I feel free, living amongst the open minded and colourful residents of this city.
I also realize that all the freedom I experience is not Beth’s reality. The things that make me feel free might very well be the things that make her feel restricted.
I summarize my train of thoughts by telling her that it’s good for me to be in a new environment.
She nods and takes her hands off her hips.
“I get that. But you will move back there one day right?”
“Yes, that’s our plan. But first I want to explore a bit more.”
How will I know it’s time to move back? When will the Dutch saying “Just act normal, then you’re acting crazy enough as it is” starts to feel liberating rather than restricting? I have a feeling that it may take longer than the initial two years I thought we would be here.
Some names and identifying details in this story have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.
