In the Zone

I took my first yoga class at a Los Angeles spiritual center in 1995.

From the moment I stepped out of the car, everything about the place screamed “crazy cult religion.” Halogen lights shone on paintings of figures (I would later learn were “deities”). Gold statues of these deities also abounded, donned with garlands of pink flowers and bowls of uncooked rice placed at their feet. The yogis milling around before class spoke softly and smiled at me a little too much. I looked down. Whatever happened, I knew enough to not drink the Kool-Aid.

I sat down on the studio floor in a cross-legged position and was proud for doing that. All I knew about yoga was that you sat on the floor.

The teacher wore a tightly wrapped white turban and a flowing white robe. Based on an Anthropology 101 class I had taken in college, I knew that people from different cultures dressed differently than me. But why was a middle-aged white woman in L.A. dressed in the manner and attire of another culture?

She opened up the class with some song about Peace and Love. The lyrics were in English, but I couldn’t understand what I was singing about.

The exercise class moved in slow motion. She instructed us to do a pose and we would do it. But much to my annoyance, she kept us in that pose for what felt like an eternity. I thought my arms would fall off as she asked us to keep holding them up. Then she’d finally say the name of another pose and I’d storm into it––only to be asked to hold it for another eon. 

Throughout class, I couldn’t stop thinking how “stupid” I thought it all was: the place, the teacher, the poses and most of all, me for agreeing to “come here” with a friend. But somewhere in the middle of all that chastisement, I looked up at my clasped hands, index fingers pointing upward, and I was flooded with purpose, intent and unflappable presence.

When I walked out of class, I smiled at the other students. I was thrilled to accept a hug from a stranger who overheard me mention it was my first class. I paused in front of an open window to smell the scent of jacaranda.

It’s now 16 years later and I’m still practicing yoga, almost daily.