Lift

Chapter 1

March 2015

Karen surveyed the vinyasa class and made a bet with herself about which new students would bail out. There were always a few who only wanted to do their own practice. Which was fine: that was yoga, to do what worked for you, but on the flip side a sequenced class worked best if all the students were doing the same thing. In Karen’s experience, someone else’s sequence nearly always revealed a weakness in one’s own practice. She made a point of taking classes with other instructors several times a year. When someone wasn’t progressing in her own class, she tried to steer them to one of the other instructors at the studio; sometimes it was just bad chemistry.

This time, Karen spotted a fortysomething white woman who had the look of a short-timer. She had claimed a back corner of the room and her mat was surrounded with props. There was a much older woman a few mats down along the back who looked as though she didn’t think she belonged in this class. And then there was the guy. Oh lord, she thought. He had the look of a guy who was too competitive. Not necessarily with the rest of the class, but with himself. And it was a shame, because judging from the body inside the leggings and the sports tank, he had potential. Down girl. Hi everybody. Welcome to the class. We’ll warm up with a few sun salutations, and then proceed.

She demonstrated her own variation on the sun salute, then had the class repeat four times while she observed. The older woman in the back wasn’t very flexible but she understood the sequence. She had good alignment, and made intelligent modifications for her flexibility deficit. The woman in the back corner was doing her own thing, which was basically all wrong. Probably learned online. The new guy was fighting himself all the way through. Karen suppressed a sigh.

They were thirty minutes in before she got to him. Most of the students weren’t newcomers, and were therefore comfortable asking her for advice, or an adjustment. It took time to work her way through. She approached the woman in the back corner and got a snippy I’m fine, so she moved on.

The older woman asked about private coaching. Karen said, Yes, several of us here have some time available. I’d love to work with you. You’re doing great. See me after class?

Yes, thanks. A few more students, and then to the guy, who was again fighting with himself.

Karen made sure he knew she was there. Today’s sequence was bound standing postures, and he was doing the one called half moon, a great example of an asana named for something it didn’t resemble in the slightest. He had the alignment, he had the flexibility, and he wasn’t falling over. You sound frustrated, she said softly. Everything okay?

I’m fine, he said, impatient, then seemed to hear himself. He came out of the position, down to the mat, and made eye contact. Thanks for checking in though.

I realize we’re all here for our own reasons, she said, still quiet, but it affects the other students when they can pick up on your frustration. Try to breathe into it a little more. He didn’t say anything. She gave him a reinforcing nod and moved on, thinking he’s so outta here.

But he came back the next two weeks, and was exactly the same. She didn’t know anything about him personally, of course, but she couldn’t help thinking whatever was pissing him off had nothing do with the class. In which case she couldn’t fix it, and it wasn’t her job to psychologize anyway. At least not in a group class. After the third week she kept an eye on him as the others were packing up to go. He wasn’t; he was still on his mat, still in that day’s most challenging posture, rock solid and positively buzzing with stress. When the room was otherwise empty – it would remain empty for an hour – she went over to him and said, Zach, this isn’t working out. You’re like a time bomb over here, the others are feeling it. I’m going to have to ask you to find a different class. Your energy might be a better match for the group in—

But I like your class.

Well, great, but you’re freaking people out. She stared at him. She wasn’t usually that blunt, but this guy was clearly a blunt instrument himself.

I’ll try harder.

He didn’t get it. That’s not what you need, she said. You need to yield. You need to accept. You’re trying too hard already.

Zach wasn’t usually a confrontational guy, but he’d had a bad month and now here was another person telling him he was doing it wrong. How am I supposed to learn if I have to change classes?

Sometimes it’s just chemistry, she said, her answer ready because it happened so often. It’s not personal.

***

It was always personal. Zach was more upset than he should have been, more upset than the situation warranted. It was only a yoga class. I don’t want to change classes.

Well, I’m sorry, but it’s my call. She stood there, slim and lovely and adamant. So much like the last person who rejected him that he stepped forward into her space before he knew what he was doing. She didn’t retreat, but a second later her hand was flat on his chest and she was braced, holding him off. What the heck, Zach, this is not okay. Back off. Karen didn’t raise her voice, even though he suddenly seemed much taller. She realized she’d misjudged his height by a couple of inches.

He did back off, shocked at himself. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve had a really shitty month and it’s carrying over and I’m sorry. I’m a dancer, I’m failing, I’m not handling it well. He took another step back, trying to get his breath under control. He hadn’t said that out loud before, I am failing. Hearing himself say it made it horribly real.

Karen studied him. The apology sounded sincere but his own body didn’t seem to believe it. How old are you?

I’m thirty-three.

About what she would have guessed. And it was about the age when a professional dancer knew if what they were doing was working, or if it was time to cut their losses. If she hadn’t been annoyed (okay, angry) at his aggressive response she might have been more sympathetic. Well, guess what, Zach. I used to be a dancer too. And I don’t make other people miserable because I can’t do what I wanted to do. I can be a good yogi and a good teacher even if I can’t be a ballerina. She hadn’t meant to say all that. Breathe, she told herself, and consciously relaxed. After almost twelve years it shouldn’t hurt so much.

All Zach heard was ‘I used to be a dancer.’ When?

I’m not telling you that. Zach, find another class. And if your dancing isn’t working out, do something else. Do something different. She had an inspiration, and went over to her gear bag for the flyer Kevin’s friend Dmitri had given her the last time she’d seen him. She’d said thanks, amused that he was trying to get her back into dancing. Dmitri thought everyone who could dance - at all - should dance. She found the sheet of paper and went back to Zach, who hadn’t moved. Do this. Or don’t. But don’t come back to my class. He took the flyer mechanically. He didn’t say anything. Karen returned to her bag, picked it up, and left the room.

Kevin Park was standing right outside. Is everything all right? he asked quietly, turning with her. Shall we get a cup of tea?

Eh and yes, she said. Thanks. That was funky. He set his hand lightly on her back, keeping it there until they left the studio. She didn’t say anything for a while, and he didn’t press her. He never did. They got their drinks at the coffee shop down the street, then started walking back. That guy is having an early midlife crisis and isn’t coping well.

You handled him well.

Eh, she said again, shrugging. Kevin smiled. I’m so glad you’re in my life now, she blurted out. I was getting to that point of, you know, am I ever going to have someone. They had been colleagues for a couple of years, but hadn’t become friends till