By Jennifer Keefe

The slush of melting snow splashed beneath my tires as I drove into the gray, wintry parking lot. I got out of my car to grab my mat and water bottle out of the backseat when I saw another car pulling into the church lot. It was always a game of chance as to who else might show up at yoga class. The dynamic changed every week, keeping it interesting and preventing me from having any sort of expectation of how things should go. When children attended the atmosphere was light and playful, a sweet reminder of innocence. Older folks required more modifications to the poses as their limbs were less malleable, therefore the pace slowed, giving us time to practice patience and compassion. Men added a distinct competitive energy that fueled a desire to push a little further and try a little harder.

And then, as was most often the case, a group of only women often left me feeling like I was in The Red Tent with my “sisters”. Our quiet strength building with each pose, our voices braided in unison when we chanted “ohm” together at the end, sending our strong feminine energy out into the tiny village below.

Today as I stepped through the front door I was met with a welcoming warmth. Not from the atmosphere of the foyer, which was fairly sterile and non-committal, but from the actual temperature. Followed by the musty smell of libraries, old things and public spaces. But there was also a lingering hint of flowers, presumably from all the weddings and funerals that had taken place here over the years. Did the smell actually penetrate the walls? Or was it in my head? To be honest, the first time I had come to this class I found myself pondering whether it was smart to open myself up physically, mentally and emotionally in a place which contained such sadness... family members mourning lost loved ones, parishioners pleading for their prayers to be answered, “cure my child”, “get me this job”, “find me a partner who I can trust”. It struck me how much pain and distress had echoed through these halls.

But by the end of that same class, as I lay on the floor in “Shavasana”, staring at the ceiling, smelling the musty floral scent, I envisioned all of the heartwarming moments that had unfolded here as well. Babies being baptized, surrounded by doting families. Weddings overflowing with love. Holiday services where the whole congregation sang as one. The sense of belonging that is felt so rarely these days. It all encapsulated the feeling of hope. And at that moment I realized that this church has absorbed life itself. The despair. The joy. And everything in between.

What better place to practice radical compassion toward myself and others than here?

Today as I unraveled my purple mat onto the floor Molly, our teacher, was greeting each of us warmly. She had a palpable sense of peace about her. Non-judgement was written clearly across her face accompanied by a sweet smile. We settled in and began our practice as the church bells outside chimed, celebrating the hour. Molly lead us through breathing exercises to calm our busy minds and to urge us to let go of all that had happened earlier in the day and anticipation of what was coming after class. The concentrated breathing forced us to be exactly where we were. Then she moved us through sun salutations, twists, bends and inversions. As we prepared for balancing poses she asked us to settle and breathe.

“Find your drishti”, she suggested, “a non-moving spot to gaze at - it’ll help you to find your balance”. Somehow this suggestion felt like it held a deeper meaning. What in our lives could act as a drishti does? What could we lock our attention onto that would keep the world from feeling like it’s moving too fast or trying to knock us off center?

That’s how yoga is. At least for me. Each term, pose and saying seems to have a deeper meaning. For example, “mountain pose” sounds strong, like it might be difficult to achieve. Yet to excel at this pose you must simply stand relaxed with a straight posture, arms limply at your sides, palms facing forward. What could be easier? Though the honest yogi will tell you that it might be one of the hardest things to excel at, because sometimes the most difficult thing you can do is to let go and completely surrender. Not think. Not move. Just be.

There are many poses referring to youth like “child’s pose”, “happy baby”, and “puppy pose”. These seem to remind us to reconnect with our playful, innocent sides illuminating the fact that, at any age, we each deserve nurturing and self-care. At one point Molly asked us to stand up and twist our torsos back and forth letting our arms fling like limp rags with the centrifugal force. She asked us to let our hands flap against our bodies with no resistance. We uncontrollably grinned at each other like children. It was as if we were transported back to grade school recess. The spring air, the blacktop, the squeals of children playing and the freedom of swinging your arms with abandon. Not caring how you looked. Not caring what happened an hour ago or what would happen later. Literally carefree. It was a reminder not to forget the child inside. Not to take ourselves so seriously.

As we eventually wound down our practice by laying serenely on our backs, eyes closed, soft music lulling us, bodies scattered listlessly all over the floor, Molly urged us back “inside” by explaining that right here in this moment “There’s nowhere to go, nothing to do and no one to be”. Those last few words struck me deeply. No one to be? Have I ever tried to not be anyone? Perhaps only in this room. When I was so focused on breath and balance that I forgot to worry about anything else. In this room I found peace. And belonging. And self-love. And my drishti.