From Pew to Pose
INMAN PARK — In the dusty, orange of early morning sunlight my brain has trouble distinguishing between now and then. I felt around the bed for the tent shape of a dog with an Elizabethan collar. I listened to the breathing of everyone in the room. There are three of us. Until two months ago, there were four.
She was on her way to the vet when my phone rang. I thought he’d forgotten something the vet would need.
“She didn’t make it. Baby Girl didn’t make it.”
That sentence still causes my chin to tremble, and tears to spill down my cheeks. I told him I had to get to class. It was finals week. I didn’t go to class that day, we went to the crematorium instead. I thought it was tacky that they had framed stories about themselves in the grieving rooms, but there was nowhere else to take her. Before they took her out of the room, I tried to remember every part of her. I cried more in that room, than I did at my grandmother’s funeral. Which was nine weeks before then.
We sat in the noise of a Chick-fil-A at lunchtime. Workers grabbing a quick lunch converged with the screams of children in the play area. While trying to stab a piece of lettuce with my fork, a thought entered my mind: nothing will ever hurt as bad as this loss. Followed by: except if something happens to the person sitting across from you. Though macabre, my brain wasn’t inventing worst case scenarios. Three and a half months before a trip to a walk-in clinic became a trip to the emergency room. Which resulted in me leaving the hospital at 1 a.m., alone. It was the worst birthday of my life. He stayed in the hospital for five days, while I did everything else. I went to work and school, because it was the beginning of the year and the quarter and there aren’t enough allowed absences in either place. I cared for our dogs, and would go to the hospital every day. His face would light up when I came in, and glaze in the glow of the TV when I left. He was alone 23 hours of each day.
I laid in bed the day after she died. I would like to say that I watched British comedy and cooking shows, but I studied for the Italian Renaissance final I had that night. My phone rang and beeped with calls and texts from work, because they didn’t know how to open a Word document. Flowers were delivered, the delivery person told me they hoped I enjoyed the bouquet. They didn’t know what they were for.
Last Sunday, my brain woke me in panic. 2019 has been the year for loss, and sleep is on the list too. I refused to get up at 7a.m. I set an alarm for 10 and planned to do something I haven’t done in two years: go to a church.
I also decided to go to my first ever yoga class, for good measure. My mom has suggested yoga in her stress management classes, and so does the Mayo Clinic. Also, the practitioners just look so peaceful. I wanted to be one of them.
I grew up attending church. Worse even, I grew up as the daughter of the pastor. When I attend now, I fly under the radar. Jeans, t-shirts, and a high, messy bun are my chosen “Sunday best”. I do not blend in with the country club attendee look. One woman pulled up when I did: tank top, jeans, sandals, unencumbered curly hair.
I thought, “Oh good some diversity!”
She walked right past the doors, with a look of suspicion on her face.
The thick stone blocks, and exclusively stained glass windows of Inman Park United Methodist create a feeling of relief from outside’s heat. It’s not until I’m seated that I overhear, “So I guess the fans mean the AC is still down.”
I don’t do hot. At all. I consider leaving until the fan fluttered my hair and I decide maybe I can wait. At 11, the sound of church bells signals the beginning. The familiar red United Methodist Hymnal, and red guest log, is nestled between me and the heavy arms of the pew. Everyone rises without prompt, but no one sings the new song.
“Hi. I’m Helen Cunningham. Are you visiting?”
I take the proffered hand, and nod.
“Are you local? Do you live around here?”
I nod.
“Please come back.”
On “back”, Helen squeezes my arm, locks eyes, and smiles. Her tan skin, spiky salt and pepper hair, and linen dress remind me of the women I grew up around.
The sermon was a frustrating mix of poor writing, and unrealized allegories. The low point was when the person delivering it decided to explain the soul of the Blues to a room of affluence, as a pudgy, middle-aged, white guy. During this time of not having to pay compete attention, the largest stained glass window caught my focus. It was a memorial, with the inscription “She hath done what she could.”
As I browsed the bulletin, I see “doxology” typed in blocky text, and I sing one in my head as the gold plate is passed around the congregation. During the chorus of the last hymn, I recognize how the music and lyrics interacted with each other. From deep in my brain I know to stretch the word “you” into two syllables. I haven’t sung from a hymnal in decades.
It’s important to know that when Googling “Inman Park Yoga Studios” many options appear. One place had something called Vinyasa. I thought that might be the kind of yoga that is done with dogs or goats. Of course, I called them.
“90–95*.” Latoya Cunningham of Dancing Dogs Yoga informed me. “It’s not like outside. We’re in Georgia, outside is humid. Here we have panels in the ceiling that heat the studio. Through heat we can relax the muscles, allow for deeper stretches, softens the joints. We don’t play music. We want you to get out of your head, and into your body. Just focus on your body. You will sweat, a lot. It’s not for everyone.”
I gasped, and thanked her for her time. I don’t understand the appeal of hot yoga in a hot place. Cold yoga I could understand. But the only reference I found doesn’t include a class list. I spent two hours reviewing studio sites before choosing something called Gentle Flow-Yin.
Yoga classes having a schedule makes logistical sense, but it does nothing for my ability to arrive somewhere with an air of calm. To be sure I was on time, I drove faster than normal, and took that one road through Cabbagetown that always backs up, people don’t know how to navigate, and is full of parked bikes. Which I nudged because why do pickups think they can fit on that road? No one was hurt and there was no property damaged. But it was not a great headspace. It did take my mind off being in public in clothes I never wear out, with a yoga mat that hasn’t been unrolled in a year. I was praying that I would not have to say the Liz Lemon line “There’s a spider’s nest in my yoga mat!”, when I summoned the courage to leave the car. I stood in the heat, listening to rainforest frogs before the instructor got there, sweating. When the instructor opened the door, I noticed that the inside temperature was approximately outside’s temperature, but slightly less humid. The hum of a window unit promised a relief that would never arrive. And everything smelled like patchouli.
“It’s just structured stretching”, I thought. I was, obviously, an idiot.
My body rebelled: my muscles shook, I was slicked in sweat, my hands slipped against the mat, and I do not possess the ability to curl my feet properly. I didn’t know this was an issue until 30 minutes into the class. After 80 very long minutes, I laid on my mat, staring at the tin-panel ceiling, and tried not to vomit.
“I was like that my first class. It gets better. Your muscles learn what to do.”
This was the first time anyone broke the silence of the studio. Except for me, who did not realize my pants’ material made a shush-shu-shu noise every time I walked around the open loft space. He was kind to be supportive. He said nothing about my lack of knowledge, ability, or pose.
On the way to the car I told myself I probably would not become the yogi I had been sure was in my future. Halfway home, I realized that some of the poses allowed me to breathe more deeply than I had in months. And my lower back wasn’t tight, like it had been for the last 15 months.
My shoulder, and leg muscles felt like fire every time I try to compact them. I’m now aware of how often I physically shrink myself. I told my friend, Mike, about my class and his reaction is “90 minutes? You should start with 30 minutes and go from there. It should take about 6 months for you to build to that. I’m not sure I could do that right now.” He was right, technically. I did what I could.
