The greenroom is sectioned off in a clever way with low screens and soft cushions scattered over the floor. There’s a woman in an immaculately white leotard meditating in lotus in one corner and on the other side of the screen behind her, two men are talking about the fact that there were eight hundred applicants for an open position in their West Hollywood location. Lee is dumbfounded by the number. How can she feel anything other than grateful and flattered that she was actually sought out by YogaHappens and has been given this incredible offer? The corporate ambience is a little off-putting—many of the details scream “focus group”—but it’s all about what happens between her and the students.
Alan was supposed to come today, but he called her at the last minute to say that he was closing in on some final arrangements of a song they’re about to send off to their agent. Lee’s pretty sure he could have come, but in some ways, it’s a relief he’s not here. When she thought about him being in the class, she was excited that he’d see her at her best, teaching a group of new students. But then it occurred to her that that might make him feel competitive with her. She wonders how many times and in what ways she’s held back in the past, just so she wouldn’t make Alan unhappy. And it’s possible she would have held back today if she’d known he was in the room.
A young woman with bright eyes comes over to her and asks if she’d like anything before class—water, coffee, a chair massage? There’s only so much pampering she can take and the chair massage idea, appealing as it is, definitely crosses the line.
“I’m fine. But thanks.”
“Okay. My name’s Diandra and if there’s anything you need, ask for me.”
“Do you teach here?”
“No, I wish. I get one hour of class time free for every three hours of service I donate. Zhannette and Frank are so generous with everyone, it’s really beautiful.”
“Have you met them?”
Diandra’s eyes pop open. “No! My God, I would love to, but there are only a few people who’ve met them. They’re very reclusive.”
Fifteen minutes later, Diandra returns and tells Lee it’s time to start class. How ridiculous that after all these years and hundreds of classes, Lee feels a new nervousness about standing in front of students. The most logical interpretation is that she must really want to impress the studio, that she must really want the job.
Diandra leads her to the back of the greenroom and then through a narrow door that opens directly into the studio where she’s teaching. They certainly thought of everything. The room is full, maybe a hundred people, but the mats are laid out in such a tidy arrangement that there are aisles between them for her to walk through as she teaches and plenty of space in front to demonstrate.
Having spent several days thinking about ways in which she can make the class a little more elaborate, perhaps more suited to the upscale demands of this studio, she spots Katherine and Stephanie and has a realization, just before she starts speaking, that she can’t change anything without throwing off the balance of what she does and why she loves to teach in the first place.
“Let’s start seated,” she says, “eyes closed. This class has been described as a journey. But before we embark, how about doing a little unpacking? Your expectations, your desire to do ten sun salutations, your plans for later in the day, the argument you had this morning, your safety net. Leave them all behind. Start off feeling light and liberated, no fears, no assumptions, nothing to knock you off balance or distract you. Just you and me and a beautiful empty slate to play with. Once you see it and feel it, open your eyes, and we’ll begin.”
As Imani is driving home, she calls Becky and leaves a message. “I can’t believe you missed the class today at YogaHappens. Of all the ones we’ve taken, I have to say, it was the best. The teacher has a studio up in Silver Lake. Turns out I already took a class with her. I never mentioned it because I was afraid you wouldn’t love her and then I’d feel like an ass. But she’s amazing. Anyway, that’s not why I’m calling. I’m going to take your advice and call my agent and let her know I’m ready to start reading scripts. So thank you. Call me later. Let’s figure out a time to go to Silver Lake together.”
It isn’t until after Imani has clicked off her phone that she takes account of what she’s just said. She’s ready to move ahead, ready to get on with her life. Maybe she unpacked her bags of all her fears and expectations at the start of that class. And now she’s free. But as soon as she absorbs that image, really allows herself to believe it, she feels an ache inside her. Getting on with it means letting go of something, of the past. Of the baby she carried for four and a half months but wasn’t able to carry to term. Her daughter. Ellie. Don’t name the baby until the third trimester, a friend back in Texas had told her. But Imani was never superstitious. And sometime in the beginning of the fourth month, she started feeling as if she knew the baby, her moods and her personality. It was impossible to describe, even to Glenn. Just a powerful understanding and connection that she’d never experienced before. Maybe it was all crazy, hormonal projection. How could she say for sure? She talked to her when she was alone—to Ellie—except, when she was pregnant, she never felt she was alone. She felt her soft heaviness in her arms, such a real, true feeling, it was eerie.
In all the months since losing her, she still feels that weight in her arms sometimes. It’s been a comfort in some ways. She knew she shouldn’t dwell on it or (and this is probably the true part) indulge in it, but letting go of the feeling just so she could “move on” always struck her as cruel abandonment. Leaving behind her baby. Who would care for her? Who would love her? How could she do that?
As she’s about to turn onto Los Feliz Boulevard, she starts crying, crying so hard she almost can’t see the road. She makes a quick detour into Griffith Park and parks the car and shuts down the engine and falls against the steering wheel.
When she looks up, she sees that the sky is a rare bright blue above the green of the park. It’s surprisingly quiet. A woman is reading on a bench right near her, and on the grass, a little girl in a yellow dress is chasing after a dog, laughing and shrieking.
It all starts to go blurry through Imani’s renewed tears.
“I’m sorry,” she says, barely able to get the words out. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The little girl is farther away now, chasing the dog, laughing hysterically. And she knows this is the moment, this is how it has to be. I just have to, baby. I just have to let you be. You have to forgive me, Ellie. I tried so hard. I did my best, baby girl. You have to believe me. I wanted you with my whole heart and soul. I wanted to be with you and take care of you and love you. It just wasn’t meant to be. So I have to let you go now.
I just have to let you go.
All right, she thinks, and she starts to calm down. This is the moment and the way it’s going to happen. She starts up the engine and mops her tears. No more crying. No more. She slowly backs out of the parking space and then drives onto the road and into the flow of traffic, ready to begin.
PART THREE
A mid compliments from Diandra and a few other studio employees in the greenroom, Lee acknowledges that she had a wonderful time teaching. There is something exhilarating about the energy created in a room with so many people, many more than the studio in Silver Lake could ever hope to hold, all doing the same things, more or less in unison. From her perspective, the class looked at times like a wonderful dance that she was choreographing as it went along. Everyone moving and breathing together, so that at times it felt as if the collective spirit really could effect change in the world. She often has this feeling in front of her classes, but today, the bigger group just made it feel that much more powerful.
As she’s gathering up her things to leave, her two old friends—Sinewy Dave and Fireplug Chuck—come in through another mysterious door, all smiles and good cheer. This is the first time she’s seen them in the studio, and they’re dressed in the orange T-shirts everyone who works here is apparently obliged t
o wear. They’re both amazingly fit, albeit in entirely different ways, tall and lean and short and pumped, like a pair put together for the ways their bodies complement each other and contrast.
“You were awesome!” Dave says.
“Totally amazing,” Chuck tells her. “And more to the point . . .”
“. . . exactly what we were hoping for.”
Fireplug: Exactly the kind of creative class we need to round out our offerings.
Sinew: And the feedback from students has been incredible. They are ecstatic.
Fireplug: As are . . .
Sinew: . . . Zhannette and Frank!
All Lee can do is tell them sincerely that she appreciates hearing that and that she herself had a great time.
The men bob their heads in unison and simultaneously lower the clipboards they have pressed to their chests.
“A few notes we made as we observed,” Sinew says.
“I didn’t see you in the room,” Lee tells them. She had been expecting them to attend, and for some reason she was relieved when she saw they weren’t there. They laugh together at her comment.
Sinew: We have our ways. . . .
Fireplug: Video cameras. Very discreetly placed. They help maintain quality control.
Sinew: Which is becoming a surprisingly big problem . . .
Sinew: . . . in our industry.
Fireplug: Most of what we’ve got here is just stuff to be addressed at a later date.
Sinew: And not anything we expected you to realize first time out.
Fireplug: We noticed that there were about six people who got in with their own water bottles.
Sinew: I have eight, Chuck, but same ballpark. Ordinarily, the welcomer at the door talks to the guests about this as they’re coming in, but because it was so crowded today, he obviously missed a few.
Fireplug: No big deal. In the future, you go over and remove the bottles and put them outside the door. All very discreet and supportive.
Sinew: You very softly say: “Don’t let that happen again.”
Fireplug: We prefer you use those words. All teachers do.
Sinew: Reinforces the same message.
Fireplug: Very effective.
This issue strikes Lee as so petty and inconsequential she’s embarrassed even to respond to it, one way or the other. Diandra had mentioned the water bottles to her before the class, but it was the kind of thing she couldn’t take seriously. Apparently, it’s an obsession with everyone who works here. The guys tell her there are just a few other small items: she didn’t start off the class making sure everyone had signed a waiver, she didn’t promote the upcoming studio events, and she didn’t suggest that students replenish with fresh juice or a blender drink at the Karma Lounge. Oh, and one other thing, it would be great if she’d put in one or two advanced poses that she advises the students not to try but that she demonstrates anyway. Maybe a pose that involves her foot behind her head or a complicated arm balance.
“The students feel more comfortable and safe,” Sinewy Dave says, “if they’re reminded that the teacher can do things they can’t.”
“And you might tell them,” Chuck puts in, “that if they want to do the more complicated and sexy poses . . .”
“We prefer you use that word. Very effective.”
“. . . that they should think about private lessons. One hundred and twenty an hour.”
Sinew: Other than that . . .
Fireplug: . . . it was brilliant. Beyond even . . .
Sinew: . . . our expectations. We’d love to celebrate by having you join us for lunch in the Karma Lounge.
Fireplug: It encourages students to hang out there if they see the teachers going in.
“I’m not terribly hungry,” Lee says.
“A small beverage would suffice.”
“Absolutely. It’s in the staff handbook.”
Katherine’s massage client has booked a ninety-minute appointment and explains to Katherine when she comes in that she would like a detoxifying massage.
“I’ve just come out of a two-week rehab where I was treated for addiction, and I’m still feeling a little fragile. I need special attention paid to my kidneys and adrenals.”
“I understand completely,” Katherine says.
Naturally, she does, but the client, Cecily, is a tall, slim woman who has been coming to Edendale for massage and yoga classes for over a year now. She is fit and agile, has perfect balance in classes, and follows a strict diet of raw foods. With all the work Katherine has done on Cecily’s body she has never noticed any signs of the marks, scarring, and sensitivity that she’s used to seeing with drug abusers and drinkers. She might have believed some esoteric form of disordered eating, but this revelation comes as a shock.
Cecily is lying facedown on Katherine’s table, and as Katherine is about to press her hands into her perfect back, she lifts her head up and says, “What kind of oil are you using on me?”
“It’s organic almond oil.”
“Anything in it?”
“I was going to use one with a light scent of lavender, which a lot of people find to be purifying. But if you’d rather . . .”
“Oh, my God,” she says. “I’m so glad I asked. Nothing with floral or herbal extracts or oils. It’s completely off-limits for me.”
“I have unscented. Or a plain lotion, if that’s better.”
“Unscented oil is fine. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be demanding, but I can’t let anything throw me off.”
Katherine was never one to talk about her addictions and drug issues to people. She was always humiliated by what she saw as her own weaknesses and has found that in general, she deals with her problems best when she keeps her head down and focuses on them in privacy. It’s one of the reasons she’s never gotten into twelve-step programs. But she’s noticed over the years that this is not the norm, and that most people can’t stop talking about their dependencies and addictions once they step or are pushed out of denial. She’s tempted to ask Cecily what she was using, but she knows that all she has to do is keep quiet long enough, and that will be revealed.
And sure enough, after half an hour, Cecily says, “I think for me, the hardest things to give up were the tinctures. And naturally I used the nonalcoholic varieties.”
“Tinctures?”
“It started off with echinacea and goldenseal, for immune system support. It turns out they’re gateway extracts for a lot of people. You feel a cold coming on and you go buy some echinacea tincture, and you feel a little bit better. It’s totally acceptable and unregulated. We’re surrounded by advertisements for them in every yoga magazine and health food store. The next time you’re in Whole Foods, you happen to notice that there’s an entire aisle of tinctures. So you think you’ll try Saint-John’s-wort for your mood, and then valerian to help you sleep. And then yerba extract to help you wake up. And that’s not even scratching the surface. Something for your eyesight, something for your joints, something for your hair.” Katherine can feel Cecily’s body shudder a little beneath her hands. “And then there are the capsules and the mineral extracts and the homeopathic cures and the Bach flower remedies.”
It’s clear that Cecily is crying now with the addict’s combination of regret and self-pity. Katherine puts a piece of tissue into her limp hand, and she brings it up under her face rest and blows her nose. “I was spending a few hundred a week on remedies. I’d sometimes chew a whole vial of homeopathic medicine as if it were candy. I’d shop at different stores so the clerks wouldn’t be able to tell how much I was buying. I was isolating more and more. It’s not social the way drinking or heroin is.”
“I guess not.”
“One Saturday morning, I found myself at a GNC in the mall surrounded by a lot of bloated guys buying protein powder in plastic drums. That was my bottom. That’s when I knew I had to confront the fact that I had a problem.”
“Were you doing . . . vitamins?” Katherine asks.
Cecily shakes her head, crinklin
g the paper covering the headrest. “I never touched vitamins,” she says proudly.
At the end of their session, Cecily gives Katherine a thirty-dollar tip and asks her for her discretion.
“Of course,” Katherine says. “You just have to believe in yourself and trust that you can get through it.”
“I do. I never want to go back there, believe me. It was a very, very dark place. I’ve started taking Xanax, which really lowers my anxiety when I go food shopping. Which reminds me, I should take half of one now. I pass a Whole Foods on the way home. Actually, there’s a health food store, too. What the heck, I’ll take a whole.”
Katherine walks Cecily out to the sidewalk and stands in the warm air, drinking in the buzz of the street life at this time of day. She loves this about Silver Lake—the way there’s more of a community and small-town feel than in other neighborhoods in L.A. The downside is that you bump into a lot of the same people all the time. Like, let’s say you were trying to hook up with some wonderful guy who works just down the street and then, when you finally do, you freak out because he’s too nice and then, when you decide you maybe won’t sabotage a potentially good thing before it even gets going, you resort to your fucked-up old ways and completely blow it. She can still see the look of hurt and anger on Conor’s face when Phil came up behind her that night. The whole incident was so embarrassing and misguided, she can’t stand to focus on it. The good news is that she kicked Phil out when she did (one point for sanity, anyway) and that instead of spiraling out of control, she just got herself back into a routine with Lee’s classes. So there’s that. One of the guys who works at the station house with Conor told her Conor was going to get rotated to another neighborhood soon. Always that way with new guys.
Tales from the Yoga Studio Page 18
