A #SaturdayScenes from near the beginning of my #RiverNovel . I'm wondering if the crotch shot is too crass.

As I leave the meeting, a notice on the board catches my attention. The wave of people passes, and then I pull off one of the tabs with the contact info. Maybe I'll get to know some of my new coworkers there.

As the class starts, the instructor apologizes for bringing her daughter. The youngster gleams, standing tall beside her mother. I imagine that finding a satisfactory babysitter might be difficult. Or maybe the instructor doesn't pay enough to attract a reliable one. Or maybe the babysitter is legitimately sick.

As we adults breathe into each posture, the child's flexibility moves her into fluid variations of our Sun Salutation: she dances it with waving arms, nodding head, and bouncing knees. Her yellow t-shirt becomes a silhouette on the dark window behind her mother as my attention shifts to a beautiful silver-haired woman. I must ask her where she gets her hair cut. Its frizziness is soft enough to frame her face and rest on her shoulders, while maintaining its poofy fullness. Her eyes close, and her focus softens the stress creases above her eyebrows. Her sweatshirt and leggings probably conceal empty sacks of skin that used to be plump with muscle and youth. I wonder what silver pubic hair looks like as my head stretches backward into the Fish position, and her crotch is directly straight ahead in my path of vision.

While sitting up in the Lotus position, rolling my hips forward to strengthen my lower back, reaching my head up to open my spine, a clump of chattering voices moves into the building, along the corridor, and into the room. Apologies scatter as the women establish their places amongst us who were prompt.

As I breathe into the Warrior posture, power surges up from the earth's core, into the arches of my feet, up my ankles, through each bone that holds my body stable in this aggressive stance. Meanwhile, I feel radiance pour from the farthest universe, into the top of my head, through the muscles that support my bones, and out around my body, forming an aura that blesses all that approaches me. These two energies coexist in harmony, with Me suspended between them in a place near Nirvana.

The token man leads the Moon Salutation, then leaves before the meditation. My thoughts are drifting away like small puffy white clouds in a clear blue sky as the instructor guides us deeper. Her daughter continues her dance, this time to the bathroom with her mother's permission, tiptoeing with loud skitters interspersed with twirls.

The chime signals the end of the meditation time. I strain to hear the sounds in the room: the ticking clock, hums of the fans, the young girl's absence. I draw in the sounds outside: traffic passing. My body is warm with blood pulsing out to my fingertips and toes. As consciousness returns, my arms and legs and spine wriggle. The room wavers as I rush too quickly to sit up. Breath fills the space from the edges of my shoulders to the bottom of my pelvis. I have a taste in my mouth like peanut butter from a cast iron frying pan, even though I haven't used either lately. A few women are up already, rushing out the door. A few are still flat on their backs, so I allow my self a little more time to return to this place. The instructor comments that I went really deep. I swell with the compliment. If you can be "good" at meditating, then I am. I like going deep, letting go of everything, getting away from chaos and demands, to stillness and clarity and acceptance.

A tight cluster of women moves out the door, erupting with exclamations and chuckles.

As I enjoy the inner peacefulness, and slowly pull my things together, I regret that none of the faces are familiar yet. I hope that I made a favorable first impression. I hope that the woman in the black leotard becomes familiar. I like her smooth hair, held back by a red paisley scarf, her focus on each posture that her body moved into with familiarity; her laugh as she lost her balance during the new variation on the Giraffe pose.

As I reach the curb, the chuckling cluster breaks into hugs and disperses through the parking lot. I feel a tap on my back.

"Hello. Is this your first time at the class?"


Her eyes dart between mine and the parking lot behind me. "Have you done much yoga before? Oh, of course you have. You're really very good at it. Must be because of your long, skinny body. I've only taken a few classes, so you probably noticed how clumsy I am."

"No, not really." Can you be "good" at yoga? Or "bad" at it?

"Yeah, well, maybe I'll see you here again?"

"Maybe. I signed up for the six-pack of trial sessions. When do you come?"

"Oh, not often enough. Every now and then. I really need to come more often. Well, I'll be seeing you."

"Yeah, I suppose so. Bye."


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Photo credits:
Ukraine dnepr at krementchug by Lutz Fischer-Lamprecht. Licensed by Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 3.0 Unported. Modified by Grace Buchanan.
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