American Pranayama

Breathe in—I calm. Breathe out—I smile.
—Thich Nhat Hanh

She was breathing into a ‘cobra’ position, back arched in a perfect half-moon with eyes looking to the ceiling when it hit her. Between the second and third repetition of sun salutation, when she had begun to exhale in order to lift her hips up and lean her body back into ‘downward dog,’ that is when the tears started to drip-drop out of her eyelids and onto the purple yoga mat. Of course it was hard to tell what drops were teardrops and what drops were sweat drops and what drops were just the essence of her being strenuously seeping out of her every pore. The sensation of knives running up and down her hamstrings and deep into her Achilles tendon made her throat catch and her arms ache in rubbery compensation. The yoga instructor stood behind her, gently tugging on her pelvic bone in the attempt to make her muscles relax from the fist-like state the had become accustomed to. And while getting physically closer to her than any woman over the age of 40 ever had, she heard the yoga instructor asking everyone in the room to let everything go, hear the voice inside you say it’s going to be okay. Closing her eyes she tried to breathe, pranayama, in order to inhale new life and exhale the pain. That’s when she lost her shit.

The breakdown wasn’t one of those noticeable, weepy, sky-is-falling moments that cause mountains to tremble and strangers to appear from unknown places in order to gawk obscenely. It was simply and aquatic release from the eyeballs—just a typical function of the human body, nothing more. She inhaled with the tears and forced her neck and legs to relax for the first time in a long time. She exhaled and her mind went blank. All she could feel was empty as she surrendered to the notion that she could be safe within herself. Even with her ass raised to the heavens and her heart sinking slowly into her throat she could feel confidence in her breath allowing her to leave the present for a minute, if only for a minute. She closed her eyes and breathed.

It isn’t usually like this. She isn’t usually the girl having an intense emotional confrontation with a yoga mat in the middle of a dance studio. Usually she’s the girl who walks down the street and says ‘hello’ to everyone she knows, even if they refuse to remember her. Mostly laughing, too loud, too happy, too much confidence than any normal person should have.

But that’s during the day. At night the façade is unnecessary. One doesn’t have to pretend that they are a full person when the only sound in the room is their own breathing, long and steady breaths uninterrupted by the inconsistent measure of conversation. Without distraction, without words, the demons come out. Albeit small, a daily depression ensues while she ponders the age-old question of if she can ever really be happy.

It’s around this time of night when she can hear loud staccato breaths coming from the girl next door, struggling along with their creator to find her ears. These breaths are often accompanied by a deeper, smoother, more masculine series of breaths, but the tone varies from night to night. Although the sounds of sex through the wall usually only last a few minutes, it is enough time for her armor to melt off her resting body and drip-drop from the sheets onto the dirty floor. It only takes two sets of respiratory systems and two strategically placed, squeaky mattress springs from one room over to scream through the paper maché walls and let her know exactly how empty a twin-sized bed can be with only one person in it. It only takes five minutes at twelve-o’clock for the past to seep into her brain and muddy the pathways that she had spent all day making clean and safe for travel.

Her brain swims, floundering and drowning in the memories of when she was happy or was she ever really happy or could she have prevented this or was it worth it and goddamn it anyways. Even after the girl next door and her bunkmate have rolled over, exhausted from the exertions, she’s the one wide-eyed awake trying to catch her breath. But, at the moment, her eyes are actually closed because she’s been reduced to crying on a yoga mat which is exactly one step forward and one step back from where she was last night.

On the mat she is breathing in, allowing her eyes to open and her pupils to dilate and fill with light. It’s the darkness that gets to her, that follows her during the day when the whole world is watching, keeping every muscle tense and at attention. But yoga instructors have a strange way of pulling your pelvis to the back of your hips in order to alleviate the strain in your back and arms while simultaneously pulling your brain from the past into the present. With feet planted into the purple mat, hands spread out in front of her, body shaking with fatigue and pain, she realizes that this is right now. The past is gone and the future will come soon enough if she can just give it enough time. She is there: sweating, crying, being mildly molested by a well-intended AARP cardholder.

Exhale slowly, let your mind be free. The instructor is still talking. Let you body loose—trust yourself. While still struck in downward dog, a small laugh escapes from her diaphragm, interfering with the in-an-out movement of the stomach, and melts among the drops of liquid below her.