Today, as usual, I had to remind Alice Dunkirk to breathe. A fit woman in her sixties, Alice marches to Mass every Wednesday and Sunday, rain or shine, climbing over snowbanks or batting away mosquitoes. Every time I get Alice to relax, Catholic guilt winds her up again like a spring.
I placed a calming hand on Olivia’s jiggling leg. Olivia Chen, fifteen, petite, with anime eyes, looked at me through her Down Dog legs and wiggled the ring in her left eyebrow. This week her long, bluntly cut black hair had blue streaks.
Before class, I had dimmed the lights and raised the temperature. Sweat glistened on Jorn’s arms and dripped from his chin. From the grimace on his face, I could tell his bum shoulder was on fire, and his hip was probably whispering nasty things to him. He’d pushed too hard, again. That’s what he did, and he expected his body to respond, to wear down under his insistence and give him what he wanted. Doctors and physical therapists had sent Jorn to yoga, but I knew the Universe had other plans. In yoga, you learn to wait and let answers unfold on their timetable, not yours.
I instructed my students to drop to their knees, roll to their backs, and stretch out their legs. “Relax from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. Melt into the floor. Sink deeper with each breath. This is Corpse Pose.”
“I’ll say it is,” groaned Merlin Huus, the retired carpenter. “I think I’m dead.”
There was a collective sigh from the group. I watched my students give in to this restorative pose, all except Jorn. I crouched beside him. “Jorn, you’re not relaxing,” I whispered in his ear. Jorn’s eyes shot open.
“Stop sneaking up on me,” he said.
I placed my palm gently on his sore right shoulder and steadily pushed down. He resisted briefly, then sighed. I could feel the shoulder begin to heat under my hand. “Relax. Release. Close your eyes and don’t think, Jorn.”
Normally, I end class with three oms and a namaste. But there is power in numbers, and I had those diary vibes to get rid of, so I suggested a variation of a cleansing ceremony I had attended in New Mexico when I was a child. Every year the people of Whispering Spirit Farm piled into vans and onto motorcycles and made the seventy-mile trek south to feed Zozobra at a fiesta in Santa Fe.
Zozobra, or Old Man Gloom, represented the troubles and demons of the past year. It was a giant frowning doll, with flailing arms and a flapping chin. We put our worries, troubles, or fears on scraps of paper and stuffed them into Gloom Boxes. Zozobra devoured the Gloom Boxes and then was set on fire. As he was consumed in flames, we danced in the light of our renewal.
I gathered the class in a circle around my mat. In the middle of the circle, I’d placed a copper prayer bowl, pens, and paper. I told the class about Old Man Gloom and the tradition we had in our family of not only releasing that which is weighing us down but also inviting the positive to take the place of our troubles and lift us. “So, in our ceremony today, send the prayer that feels right to you,” I said. “Write down the trouble you want to go away or the wish or positive thing you want to draw into your life. Place it in the bowl. And we’ll burn those suckers.”
“I’m not going to get in trouble with the pope for this, am I?” asked Alice.
“It’s an ecumenical prayer bowl,” I assured her.
Merlin, with enough arthritis for two people, a gift from years of crawling over roofs and pounding hammers, eyed the bowl with suspicion. “I just come to yoga for the fitness.”
“Cool,” I said. “There’s no pressure, Merlin.”
Fidgeting Olivia was intrigued. “What happens to the thoughts you put in the bowl? Like where do they go?”
“The spirits will gather them up as smoke and take them where they need to go,” I said.
“Spirits. Ha,” Peter Jorn muttered.
Merlin sighed and began scribbling on a piece of paper. “I promised my daughter I’d give this yoga thing a chance. I suppose you’d rat me out if I didn’t participate.”
“In a heartbeat,” I smiled.
“I’m in,” he said, tossing his paper into the bowl.
Alice wrote something down, folded the paper, then shook her head. She unfolded the paper, scratched out what she had written, and wrote something new. She did this three times before asking, “No one’s ever going to see what we wrote, are they?”
“What kind of deep, dark secret are you putting in there, Alice?” teased Julia Lune in a gauzy, floral Southern accent. Julia loved the deep and the dark. Our local celebrity, a romance writer, Julia often had a pen stuck in her disheveled Gibson girl do and joked that she was an expert on passion—not only was she of fiery Russian descent but she was married to a hot Frenchman.
I reassured Alice, “We’ll burn them right here and now. Your secrets are safe.”
Peter Jorn huffed.
“Well, I think there are mysterious things,” Olivia said, tossing back her hair and revealing a row of piercings along her ear. “Plus I can use all the help I can get.” Olivia’s wealthy parents used yoga as after-school care. Olivia was going through a klepto phase. She carefully placed her paper in the bowl, then palmed my pen and stuck it in her pocket.
Julia let her paper flutter down into the bowl, saying, “Well, I never win anything.”
By the time Alice was finished with hers, it was folded to the size of a postage stamp. As she gave up her paper to the bowl, she mumbled something about “going to confession.”
That left my brother-in-law, David Simpson, and Peter Jorn. We all turned to them.
I knew David was uncomfortable. He’d had to deal with a lot of new thinking since marrying my sister, Heart. Our ways probably seemed foreign to a Minnesota altar boy, high school football star, and the owner of a local landscaping business. Finally, David gave me a look, scribbled something down, and flipped the paper into the bowl. “To keep peace in the family,” he said.
Jorn looked around the class. He might not like it, but he knew the value of fitting in—when you interviewed the president of the United States, you didn’t do it in desert fatigues and smelling of camel; and when you were sitting around a mountain campfire surrounded by gun-toting guerrillas, you didn’t wear a suit and refuse to eat the mystery meat in the cup they shoved in your hand.
“I don’t believe in this stuff,” he said, as he crinkled his paper into a ball and swished it into the bowl.
I lit a bundle of sage. The earthy smell filled the room and immediately soothed me. As I was about to wave the sage over the bowl, Jorn said, “What about you? You didn’t put your paper in. Don’t you believe in your own nonsense?”
I had been sending out so many positive vibes to compensate for Jorn’s negative ones that I had forgotten the original purpose of all this. I quickly dashed off a few words and added my wish to the others.
The ceremony was short. Waving the sage over the bowl of blazing papers, I led the group in a chant. The smoke from the burning notes rose as it mixed with the smoke of the burning sage. Jorn and Alice refused to chant—Alice for religious reasons and Jorn because of contrariness. But that didn’t matter. I felt a shift in the room. Shoulders I hadn’t even realized I’d tensed began to relax. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and could almost imagine I was back bumping along in the backseat, heading home from Santa Fe, secure in the belief that Zozobra had taken all the gloom away. Peace stole over me. Maybe my fear was unwarranted. Maybe Tum’s diary wouldn’t suck me down the rabbit hole.
THAT NIGHT I CALLED my sister and told her about Tum. Heart and I are like dark and light. I’m a brunette, and she’s a blonde. I love to travel, while she is happiest staying at home. I gaze at the stars, opening my soul to magic, while Heart has found all she needs firmly planted on the ground.
“I’m sorry, Maya,” she said. “Tum was weird, but nice.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” I said. “I assumed he’d always be there, if I needed him, you know?”
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“Tum was a big teddy bear. In a nightmarishly tattooed, Hell’s Angel sort of way. You were always his favorite.”
“Heart?” Knowing how my sister hated remembering our unorthodox childhood in the commune, I fumbled with my thoughts.
“What?”
There was nothing to do but just spit it out. “Tum left me the Down Dog Diary.”
There was a pause.
“That son of a bitch,” said my sister who never swears.
Chapter 2
A Tree with Cabin Fever
WE KIDS WERE THE ONES who began calling it the Down Dog Diary. Yoga classes at Whispering Spirit started when we were young, and one of our favorite poses was Downward Facing Dog. The world looked different in Down Dog, hanging upside down, rear in the air. We all believed the diary had great powers, powers to change anything or anyone, to change the world, like Down Dog. Otherwise, why was it such a big secret? Why did Tum keep it locked in a trunk? No one locked anything at Whispering Spirit.
Since the diary had come back into my life, sleep had been elusive. Memories of Whispering Spirit, my old nanny, and the diary tumbled over each other, revving up my rem state. I had not visited the commune in years, and the last time I saw Tum was six months ago. Finally, I’d had enough. It was 3:30 in the morning, a little over a week since we lit the sage and drove out the bad energies. Wrapped in a big alpaca sweater over leggings, I padded across the cold kitchen floor. I went straight to my desk, pulled open the squeaky drawer, and lifted out the diary.
Swaddling the book in one of my favorite paisley scarves, I whispered a prayer for safekeeping. Then I ran down the spiral stairs that connected my second-floor apartment to the studio on the first floor. Without turning on a light, I passed through Breathe’s foyer/office and into the silent yoga studio.
I crossed the large, dark room, the only light coming from the outside lamp by the back door. Buddha smiled from a long, low table against one wall of the studio. Behind him were three loose bricks. I wiggled one brick out and then another, revealing a little cavity in the wall, room enough for something precious. I carefully placed the diary inside, gently tucking the scarf’s blue fringe around the book. Then I replaced the bricks, scooted the table back in its old position, and breathed a sigh of relief. I tickled the Hotei Buddha, a chubby fellow, always smiling and content, even though all his worldly possessions fit in a cloth sack. Rubbing the happy Buddha’s belly was supposed to bring good fortune.
Darkness pressed against the tall arched windows of the fire station. In the lamplight by the back door, snowflakes swirled in the air. I lit some candles, stepped onto my mat, and began to move in Sun Salutation, welcoming the energy of the sun into my life. And soon I was warm. Without even thinking, I transitioned from yoga into tai chi. Tai chi is moving meditation, a martial art practiced by old ladies in the park and fighters in the ring. It can be used for self-defense or for self-help to bring inner calm, energy, and balance. I had used it for both. In the dark of early morning or late night, in times of stress, I instinctively sought to balance my chi or life energy. My mind calmed as I moved slowly through the forms Tum had taught me, gathering the energy into me, feeling it flow between my hands.
THE PHONE RANG AT 8:15 A.m.
“Maya, get over here. Now.”
I knew better than to fool around when my sister used that tone of voice. I tugged on boots and a long down coat, wrapped a purple wool scarf two times around my neck, and scrambled out the door. I forgot my gloves but didn’t dare go back for them.
Gabriel’s Garden, a little less than an hour’s drive northwest of the Twin Cities, straddled prairie and more prairie. It was the kind of place where you chose to raise your children. People moved to Gabriel’s Garden because things didn’t happen here. They were close enough to the action in the Twin Cities—the restaurants, the touring Broadway shows, the concerts and museums. But not too close. Audio books and snow blowers were popular Christmas gifts in our town of commuters.
I’m sure my parents chose Gabriel’s Garden because it sounded like some kind of Eden. They say they feel a sacredness here. And maybe there is. The land was once farmed by the Amish, who worked prayer and a simple life into the dark soil like hands kneading bread dough. My parents taught us that those who traveled before us left their spiritual mark on a place.
The Skye family had certainly left its mark on Gabriel’s Garden. My mom and dad migrated here fifteen years ago, bringing with them the family software business, The Skyes the Limit. They had already made a fortune in video gaming with their hit games: Spirit Snatchers and Peace Hero. My sister, Heart, who is manager of the family business, fell in love with David Simpson, a local landscape designer. I opened the town’s first yoga studio. And then my geeky millionaire dad, Larry, decided to give a computer to every household in this town of 1,329. Gabriel’s Garden went from a sleepy village to “tech town” overnight. The media loved us.
As my Subaru wagon crunched to a halt on the snow-packed road in front of Heart’s house, I saw the problem. There were a dozen people gathered on the sidewalk, crowded against the waist-high hedges framing Heart’s yard. All faces were turned up to the intense blue sky and to the pink blooms bursting from the black cherry tree in the front yard. Pink in a winter landscape of endless white and gray was a Minnesota miracle.
Heart, on the lookout for me at the front door, hurried through a shoveled opening in the bumper-high snowbank and dragged me toward the house.
Inside, sitting around Heart’s weathered kitchen table, were my parents and David, his head clutched in his hands. Heart and David lived in a farmhouse that had been in David’s family for generations. Heart loved this house, its history, its big country kitchen, even the constant repairs that David complained about. This home screamed “family” from the pile of boots drying near the wood stove in the corner to crayon drawings on the fridge and the dishes, books, and plants covering every surface of the kitchen counter. Here was the dichotomy of Heart: she wanted the mess of a wholesome family and the lovely security of order. While our mother, Evie, effortlessly instilled calm in her surroundings, Heart wrestled her world into serene submission. Look in any drawer or cupboard. You’ll find spices organized alphabetically and crisply ironed stacks of bed sheets. Even Heart’s “junk” drawer has seen the business end of my sister’s labeler.
As we entered, all eyes turned in my direction.
“I didn’t do it,” I said.
“My cherry tree is blooming,” David exclaimed, “in March!”
“It’s pretty,” I said.
“It’s unnatural,” said Heart, pointing at the front door with accusation. “It’s supposed to bloom in May. And, it has pink flowers.”
“That’s bad?”
“This tree produces white flowers, Maya.”
“It’s a horticultural miracle?” I offered.
“It’s the diary,” Heart said, hugging her long beige cardigan more tightly around her and crossing her arms. “And you know it.”
David lifted his head. “What do you mean?” He turned to my father. “What does she mean?” My parents exchanged worried glances.
Larry and Evie Skye tried not to overwhelm their son-in-law with the facts of their alternative lifestyle. Even after ten years of marriage to Heart, David was still on a need-to-know status. Tossing his graying ponytail over his shoulder, Larry explained about James Tumblethorne’s passing and the diary he left me. “The diary passes down from shaman to shaman, and each shaman adds his own magic. It has powers.”
“Powers?” David frowned. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Evie, the hub of calm in our family, patted David’s arm. “James seldom discussed the diary, but he often helped people with their problems.”
“Problems?” David’s brow furrowed even further.
“People naturally turned to James when they were worried or afraid o
r didn’t know what to do. Those who do shamanic work are,” Evie paused, “clarifiers. Sometimes, they work with energy; sometimes, they simply ask questions that help you find your own clarity.” I noticed that Evie avoided describing shamans as intermediaries between the natural and supernatural world. As I said, we tried to be gentle with David when it came to information.
Heart’s shoulders were so tense they nearly touched her earlobes. Discussion of our years at the commune had that effect on Heart. According to my parents, they have met and fallen in love in many lifetimes. I don’t know if they’ve ever done the matrimony thing in any of those lives. In their current trip, even though they have taken the same last name to simplify matters for their children, they’ve decided again to forego the legalities. This never bothered me, but it drove my sister crazy.
As a child, Heart desperately wanted a traditional life with married parents, school buses, and dance lessons. She even legally changed her name to Jane when she was sixteen. We tried to think of her as Jane, but somehow the name Heart kept sneaking back. Even David called her Heart now: Heart Skye Simpson.
When we played make-believe as kids, I always wanted to be the masked avenger. Heart wanted to be a checkout girl at the grocery store. She ached for the ordinary, for a family where you called the parental units “Mom” and “Dad.” Growing up in our community, we had many moms and dads; using first names was just more efficient.
“We called it the Down Dog Diary,” Heart said quietly. “Tum never allowed us to see or touch it. It was this mysterious thing he kept locked away. I was terrified of the book. We made up all kinds of crazy stories about it.”
I grinned. “Yeah, like if you read the words, lasers would shoot out of the text and burn your eyes right out of their sockets.”
Evie laughed.
Heart did not. She said, “Another one was if you dared to open the book, you’d unleash a powerful curse, frogs-falling-from-the-sky stuff.”
Down Dog Diary Page 2
