Revelations on a yoga mat
I’m laying on a yoga mat. Minor injuries have forced me to put lifting weights and angry mirror staring on hold and to commence a session of supposed relaxation. Yet, up until now, it’s been pure confusion.
The yoga teacher is a skinny individual in worn down, grey clothes. On her wrist I see a tattoo of a serendipity-symbol, above her elbow I read ‘Wanderlust’. Her hair is frizzy and unwashed, beneath her eyes are bags big enough to hold the stock of an entire warehouse. She has either had a rough night or lives up to the tattoo on her upper arm.
Myself and my fellow yoga colleagues have thus far spent twenty minutes trying to decipher what our spiritual guide has been saying. Not one person has managed to discover any coherency in her phrases and everyone is copying the person laying next to them, hoping that eventually something will make sense.
“Degrees… Fortitude… Ice cream cone… Poorly painted cucumber,” she mumbles towards the ceiling, floor, walls and at everything except us.
I copy my neighbour, spread my arms and legs and start making snow angels, without snow, with horns on my head. Establishing an angelic effect seems to be impossible.
She walks towards the windows, overlooking a narrow street, and whispers words of wisdom to the outside world. Even the birds on the branches start feeling uncomfortable and quietly fly away to a less disturbing environment.
“Hollow empanada… Obstruction… Three pizzas towards the greasy stains in Finland.”
Around me people start standing on one leg, with their arms in a horizontal position. I follow, utter a justified “What the fuck?” and feel how she grabs my left hand and points it upwards.
“Point to where you plan on going,” she says. The first understandable sentence. A wise human being after all.
We stand like this for a few minutes, until all of us start losing our balance. More random words attempting to form a phrase sound. I look at my neighbour, he’s in dispair. He shows off his flexibility and bends as far as biologically possible, perfectly resembling a question mark.
The yoga teacher motions that we should all lie down and she follows. We wait for the next order, but she merely closes her eyes and starts snoring.
As she’s ascending into her personal Valhalla we skyrocket through the multiple layers of the atmosphere, reaching a new level of confusion.
After a meeting without words we stand up and put a blanket over this unique individual.
As she reaches for the star signs, I take the time wasted as a sign to pauze taking a pauze from reaching for the stars.
Then we leave.
Maybe pilates next time.
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