We finally came to Savasana. I had spent more time annoyed than not. I judged the heavy breathers, anyone less than super thin, and the older people who blissfully greeted each other with hugs. I scoffed at them with a what-are-you-laughing-at or laughing about attitude, not sure which.
Our teacher, the epitome of new age, overdid it with all the chants and mantras. I knew she would, because I had taken her class before and vowed not to do it again, but it beat going home. His kids were scheduled to come over for the weekend and I simply didn’t want to be there. I didn’t know why. I took yoga to calm down or kill time and hoped it would fix me one way or another. Halfway through the class, however, my desire to go home hadn’t returned. Why wasn’t yoga helping?
Last year I was having one of those heart-to-heart advice-seeking conversations with my dad and wondered why I was so resistant to the kids sometimes. He coolly replied: “I know why. You are jealous.” A very rude answer popped into my head. I would never in a million years consider the possibility. What the fuck? Jealous towards children? No one does that. Certainly not me.
But today, right now, lying in Savasana, when I question the possibility, the answer is yes. I am jealous. I don’t want to be there when two people, whom he created with another woman, come to our home for one day, three days, or a week, and take up all his attention. I’d rather remove myself when they take over the house, make a mess, and leave. I don’t want to be there when there’s no us. I don’t want to be there when their mother coolly walks into our house. In anger, I refuse to help him. I have no interest in addressing their needs, of which there is no shortage. My inspiration to write comes on those days. My body suddenly needs a massage. My desire to exercise, not just one class, but two or three classes escalate.
The teacher takes us through a guided meditation in Savasana. We are to imagine two streams of light going through our nostrils, meet at the third eye and go back into the midbrain in shape of round ball of light. We are to bring it down into our hearts and then behind our navel. I have trouble bringing the streams in. Mine look like two gray streams of smoke. It takes me a while before I work out the sphere of light.
“This is who you are: light, in a vast space, like an ocean, a light on the earth,” she says.
I lie there ashamed of my feelings. Tears stream from my eyes and I don’t stop them. It has nothing to do with the girls. They are sweet girls. All the tension, resistance, and anger, which make me disconnect from him before they even arrive, (and run to my multitude of activities), stem from my own thoughts, my belief that I don’t belong and sometimes don’t want to.
Did yoga help? Maybe it did. It held up a mirror I could look into. The mirror showed me places where I am small, with emotions inappropriate for a supposed “being of light.” I thought I was better than that. It also showed me that I was capable of more than this petty, angry shit. As the tears released and I surrendered my body to them, they passed for a moment revealing a being of light, who is also human.