Secrets of a Spiritual Guru (Guru 1)

by Tamara Dorris

  I fall asleep fast. Herman is purring next to me. He hated Ron anyway.

  Pulling into the parking lot of this yoga studio that I must have passed by a hundred times, I see several people walking inside. Oh no! They all have yoga mats. What was I thinking? All worried about fashion and completely forgetting the necessities. I also notice they each seem to have a water bottle. I can’t possibly show up, my first time, so unprepared. How would that look? Besides, I might meet future clients in there. You know, enlightened homeowners looking for a fellow yogi to list their home or find them a new one. Yes, this could be a business write-off! Being enlightened has so many perks.

  I pull out of the parking lot and head back to the sports store. I have a jacket over my top, but I am confident my new yoga pants look slimming. Twiggy is not there, and I am glad. How embarrassing is it that I bought yoga clothes and forgot the mat? I choose a soft blue one to match my shirt. Then, on the way home, I notice my tummy growling. Hmmm. Well, I’m for sure starting yoga tomorrow, and then I’ll be doing it forever, so I guess a few tacos wouldn’t be that big of a sin.

  I only have one glass of wine left in last night’s bottle of pinot, so I decide that will be my limit. After all, we yogis have to be well disciplined. I munch my taco and discover that Herman also likes the taco meat, so I share my second one with him as I take a look online. Imagine my surprise when I see an e-mail from Shanza and one from Ron. I immediately wonder if they are on to me.

  First, I open the one from Shanza. After all, she’s kind of my boss now, being that I’m her blogger and all.

  “Dear Nala, I’m delighted to have you with us and will look so forward to meeting you in person. I’m thinking that many of the articles will need to relate to different aspects of yoga: the philosophy, the correlation of various poses with life, and so on. Why don’t we start there? Thank you again. Namaste, Shanza.”

  I smile. No prob, Yoga Barbie. Got me a new outfit and a matching mat. Next, I open Ron’s e-mail. My heartbeat speeds up a bit. Maybe Yoga Barbie has already kicked him out. She might have caught him clipping his nose hairs or sneaking Oreos.

  “Hey, Melissa, hope you are doing OK. I am really sorry and hope you do not hate me forever. I was wondering if you can check in the garage for my hiking boots? I can’t seem to find them. Thanks, Ron.”

  Hiking boots?

  Well, if this is his way of asking me back, he’s going to really have to put a little more effort into it than that. I mean, really, hiking boots? I feel like writing him back and telling him if I find his damn hiking boots, I’ll set them on fire; however, being all spiritual and everything, I write something else.

  “I don’t know where your hiking boots are. But if I see them, I will let them know you are looking for them.”

  I hit the send button, glad that I’d only had one glass of wine before I responded.

  Chapter Eight

  I step into the yoga room and unroll my new mat on the floor. Inside, I’m beaming with pride that I have the prettiest mat here. Of course, there are only two other people at first, and they both have gray ones, but still. It’s empty in here, but for the sound of some strange music and a few dangling crystals in the corners. The wall, at what seems to be the front of the room, is ceiling-to-floor mirrors. I decide I better not get too close to the front. Maybe even staying by the entrance door might be smart, in case a speedy exit is needed.

  The teacher walks in and tells us to relax and set our intention for the class. My intention is just to hurry up and get through it so I can go to the grocery store and buy healthy food, whatever that is. The first part of the class I am laughing inside. What’s the big deal? A little stretching and bending and holding. I do this much when I’m vacuuming every year, or reaching for a secret shopping bag I hid I in the very back of my closet because I do not want Ron to tell me how I don’t need any more clothes.

  Then something happens, and the instructor turns into a meanie. She tells us to put our heads on our shins. Is she crazy? Heads and shins are meant to be separated by a certain amount of space. Apparently she thinks I need her help as she “assists” me by dropping two hundred pounds on my back. Well, maybe it was only her index finger, but it was very heavy. Next, we are to balance ourselves on a toenail while chanting unfamiliar sounds and looking all esoteric. I don’t know why she hates me so much.

  Then it dawns on me. Maybe she and Yoga Barbie are friends! Maybe they are totally on to me and decided to torture and toy with me before turning me in for blogger fraud. I can just see Yoga Barbie sipping her chai tea, looking all spiritual and laughing an evil laugh: “Make her do the splits, bwahaahaha.”

  After one hour and twenty-nine minutes, the mean yoga teacher tells us we can lie on our backs. I am having trouble remembering where my back is. I know I had it when I came in. She tells us to close our eyes and quiet our minds. She says this is the corpse pose and we should pretend we are dead. There is no pretending on my part. Once again, she sounds like the nice teacher she started out being. She says to imagine our mind is like a room full of birds. The birds are our busy thoughts. She tells us to open a window in our mind/bird/room and let all the birds/thoughts fly away. I wake myself and the guy next to me when I snore. Standing up to go, I stumble. Why are my legs betraying me like this? Embarrassed, I grab my pretty blue mat without rolling it up and head for my car.

  This must be what it feels like to be paralyzed. Or overcooked spaghetti. I make a note to tell the yoga instructor that I left my mind/window open, and now the birds are back and have brought some of their friends.

  I’m sure I’ve lost weight. Only one day in yoga and I wake up feeling much thinner. Even the way my sheets fall around my body screams “skinny.” Today I have three challenges. First, to get through lunch with my mother. That is always an experience to treasure. Next, I get to take my new buyer house hunting. I am excited to meet her. Kind of. Then finally, I get to write my first blog post for Yoga Barbie. Suddenly I find I am more concerned about impressing her with my enlightened look at yoga than I am about hating Ron. Or her. This enlightenment stuff seems to strike rather quickly. I am sure my new CDs from Tony Robbins will arrive today. I wear a lovely late summer outfit that complements my hazel eyes and then head off to work.

  In the office, Tac is in the conference room with the door closed. An older couple is sitting in there with him. Sometimes I think he pays people to come pose as clients so Broker Bert will let him keep the big cubicle. They look like paid actors to me.

  “Oh, Mr. Wonderful at it again,” I say, sounding only slightly bitter as I stroll by Becky’s station.

  “New short-sale clients,” she informs me. Clearly she’s done her homework.

  How does he get them to come to the office?

  “Good for him.” I swallow my bitterness.

  “You’ll get something else soon,” Becky reassures.

  “Oh, I know, I’m not even worried about it.”

  I explain to Becky that I have started a yoga practice. She can hardly hide her envy.

  “Really? That’s so cool! I love yoga. Maybe I can come with sometime?” I automatically hate this idea. It’s hard enough to be the only one in the class who cannot touch her toes. The last thing I need is for Becky to come to my yoga studio, acting all flexible.

  “Sure,” I say, as I saunter back to my desk. It’s only 10:00 a.m., so that gives me plenty of time to write my blog post before leaving at 12:30 to meet my mom for lunch. How hard can it be?

  It’s 11:45 and I haven’t gotten one good word down. Oh, wait, I take that back. I wrote the word “yoga,” which sits there on that otherwise blank page, mocking me, Yoga Barbie style.

  “So how’s it going?” Tac asks, organizing a pile of folders. Showing off how many he has, no doubt.

  “Fine. You?” I ask, trying to totally immerse myself in my one-word blog post.

  “Great. Off to show some houses,” he says, standing up, pushing his chair in, and zipping toward the front.
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  “Well, me too. Later,” I call out behind him. Why did I need to tell him that?

  I stare back at my computer screen. Maybe I will wait till after work. I mean, after lunch, and showing houses, at home, it may be easier to write. Who can feel creative in a real estate office anyway? All these phones ringing (not mine) and people around (Stan playing solitaire on his computer) are making it so hard to concentrate. I need food.

  My mother is wearing a fake-velvet jogging suit. My mother has never jogged in her life.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say, kissing her on the cheek she holds out for me.

  “You don’t look so good,” she says, putting her napkin on her lap.

  “I started yoga.”

  “Whatever for dear? It’s not like you’re twenty anymore.”

  Love my mother.

  “Hmmm…so tell me about work. Anything new on that drug dealer?”

  “It’s not like I’ve talked to him, Mom. I’m sure he’s in jail.”

  “With your commission,” she says, shaking her head in disgust.

  I tell my mom how I am doing just fine without Ron, but she is worried and reminds me it’s only been two days. I check my calendar, sure she is mistaken. She said she felt better knowing there was a man there in case anything happened. She has a difficult time explaining “anything.”

  “You mean like if someone breaks in?”

  “Yes, like that.”

  “Hmmm.” I have an alarm system and live in a gated community. I struggle to see my mother’s point. She, sensing this, adds, “And wasn’t he good about taking the garbage out?”

  “With constant nagging.”

  “Well, at least he did it.”

  I shake my head in defeat. My mother orders salad and I weaken under pressure and go for a tuna melt, wondering how occasionally taking the garbage out qualifies Ron as Mr. Right. Did she miss the whole part about Yoga Barbie?

  Broker Bert had us all attend a seminar earlier this year starring some famous real estate motivational guy. I had never heard of him so I did not buy his CDs. Plus, he wasn’t tall and cute like Tony Robbins. Anyway, he said that we tend to attract clients that are the same as we are. Like attracts like, or something like that. As I show my new buyer—who I am just meeting for the first time—the first house on our list, I can’t help but wonder what it is about me that has attracted a carpet sniffer.

  Anna is on her hands and knees smelling the carpet. What exactly am I supposed to be doing or saying? How’s it smell? Anything good down there? I find myself admiring the cabinetry, trying to ignore the fact that my new buyer is sniffing the rug. Maybe she prefers a hardwood floor?

  Anna stands up and brushes off her khaki pants.

  “I’m allergic to smoke,” she says, smiling casually as if carpet sniffing is common in this neck of the woods.

  Fortunately the next house we go to has hardwood floors. That’s the good news. As a short sale, however, the seller is still living there. That’s the bad news. When sellers of short-sale listings still live in the home, they are not always eager about people traipsing through, eager to take advantage of their poor misfortune and buy up their house for much less than the sellers owe on it. The seller in this house greets us with a forced smile. She has white hair and silver hoop earrings.

  “Hi, I’m Melissa Murphy. Thanks for letting us come by.”

  “Sure. Feel free to look around,” she says, and walks into what I am pretty sure is the kitchen. I turn around, and there is Anna, sniffing the curtains. She’s got her face planted right in those drapes as if she’s drying her face with them. Suddenly the white-haired homeowner steps back from the kitchen, maybe to tell us something, but she is struck speechless when she sees Anna smelling her curtains.

  “Are the window coverings included?” I ask, acting like this is standard house hunting procedure.

  “Um, sure, I guess. They were made for that window.”

  Anna pops her face out, and she seems to be happy about her experience there in the drapes.

  Anna tells me she liked both houses, but not enough to write an offer. I tell her that’s fine and that I will go home and see what else is out there with hardwood floors. What I really meant is that I will go home and write an interesting post on the philosophy of yoga for the yoga studio instructor who stole my boyfriend.

  At home, I’m online looking up all sorts of yoga information. I’m hoping to get some ideas. I have to come up with my own article, though, because plagiarism is where I draw the line. I am amazed at all the ways you can hurt yourself in yoga. There are dozens! I wonder if they have all been around as long as yoga has, or if we invent new ones as we go along? I am also surprised to learn that yoga has been around for centuries. And I thought my curling iron was old. That impresses me immensely. I try hard not to make my post sound like a sixth-grade essay about summer camp. “Yoga is fun. It is a very ancient tradition…” “The meaning of life…” “Yoga helps me find my toes…” “Yoga fixed me.” Crap.

  Finally I decide to tell the truth. Well, as much as I can without blowing my cover. Herman is sitting on my desk, but when the big brown UPS truck stops in front of my unit, he scampers under the desk like someone has threatened him with a fire hose. I hear a knock on my door and then see a flash of brown zip back into the big truck and drive off. My CDs! I run to the front door and grab the box holding it close to my chest. All I want to do is hurry and write this damn article so I can fix my life and get ready for yoga class in the morning where I will get even more enlightened.

  “Yoga is a solution to a nagging problem that perhaps you were not even aware you had, days, even moments before. It is that breath of fresh air that fills your soul and breathes new life into your spirit. From beginners to us more seasoned practitioners…”

  I’m on a roll! I don’t even know what I’m talking about, but it sounds OK to me. I wrap it up, check my word count, and read it over twice for grammar. I hit the send button, e-mailing it to Shanza Barbie before I chicken out. I know I am going to Hell for this, so I may as well have vodka now while I can still enjoy it.

  Chapter Nine

  I think I am in love with Tony Robbins. He is so funny and sincere. Who knew he used to be fat and broke? I am already on CD two. There are parts of CD one I can’t remember, but that is because I was listening to it while having a very healthy dinner of salad and screwdrivers. Fresh fruits—there is orange juice in screwdrivers—and vegetables are all part of my new health plan. It’s been at least fourteen hours since I have had any meat or sugar. I feel better already and am taking my second yoga class today, called “Yin Yoga.” I’m so proud of myself I could burst.

  I smell incense or pine cleaner when I walk in the studio.

  “Glad to see you again.” It’s nice/mean yoga teacher from last time.

  “Thanks. You too,” I say, smiling. “By the way, what is yin yoga?”

  “Oh, you’ll love it. It’s all about soft, slow stretches held for long periods of time.”

  She smiles sweetly as I slip my shoes off and step inside the sacred yoga studio.

  Yin yoga is making me cry. Nice yoga teacher has turned into a meanie again, and this time she is telling me I need to let my hips open. I tell her they are closed for business. We are asked to get into frog pose. There is a reason that frogs have the kind of legs they do. I try to explain this to her, but she puts her finger in front of her lips to quiet me. There is no getting through to this woman. Obviously she is only interested in having me assume the shape and posture of seriously strange animals. A crane? A tortoise? What is she smoking? Once again, at the end of one hour and thirty-two minutes, I have been reduced to a limp puddle of human pudding. I am sure I will have to call a cab to take me home.

  Herman is waiting for me at the front door. That is more than I can say for Ron. I limp inside and am torn between wine and suicide. Wine seems more reasonable, and after all, going through that certainly warrants a glass of vino. Heck, wine is made of grapes, right?
And, I do believe Jesus drank it. How much more spiritual can one get? I cheer Jesus and then sink into my office chair, hair stuck to the back of my neck with yoga sweat.

  As I turn on my computer, I ponder the idea that people actually like yoga. While I’m very happy to be turning my life around with Tony, the enlightenment part is proving to be a little tougher. Tony only gives me heart-to-heart pep talks and makes me write out lists. You know, goals and shopping, and things I should take responsibility for. Tony’s good that way; got a problem, make a list, and let’s work through it. Yoga, though, that’s a whole new can of contortions that I’m not so glad I opened. Give in, let go, surrender, open your hips, close your lips, be a mountain, now a cow. I cannot possibly remember all of these things.

  My e-mail pops open, and I see one from Shanza. At this point, I hope she reveals me for the yoga fraud I am, calls my bluff and fires me without compensation. Not that there was any kind of pay to begin with. Maybe I am feeling remorseful about the lies and lousy because I can’t even pull it off. How on earth can I write articles on enlightened living when I am a fast-food addict who drinks too much and lies about being a yogi to her boyfriend’s new girlfriend? I can’t even open my hips for Pete’s sake. I take a slow sip of tonight’s selection: cheap Cab.

  “Dear Nala, Let me just say, WOW! You so eloquently captured the essence of yoga and what it means to those of us who practice. I am truly honored to welcome you to our family. It will be such a pleasure to practice with you in person. Awesome article! I’m hoping that next week you can share your thoughts on gratitude? Thank you so much! Namaste, Shanza.”