Natural light poured in through the newly added skylights, making the once-dark, cavernous space airy and bright. The mirrored walls, which had done nothing but distract, were gone, replaced by crisp, white paneling. The chatter that once filled the room prior to class had been silenced. Most of the women who had come here today were seeking relief. They craved the quiet, the peace. Their bodies craved the poses, the guided breathing. Once class was over, the chatter would begin again. At that point, they would crave it, too, the respite having provided a restorative break, a realignment, a calming.
The women sat in padmasana, lotus position, and waited for instruction. Soft new age music filled their ears and the faint scent of lavender hung in the air. Their teacher, a longtime yogi named Amy, was positioned in balasana, child’s pose. She exuded a calm, nonthreatening authority. Shortly, Amy would ask her students to join her in balasana and, from there, move to other poses, rising her students up off the mats and building the intensity.
Meditation in motion. Releasing mind, body, and emotion.
There would be no lecture. No product pushed. No inappropriate adjustments or laying of hands. No manufactured sexual tension.
During shavasana, when the women moved to the prone position, Amy would leave them alone with their thoughts. No judgmental interference. No conflicted messages. Their minds would be free to wander.
Some would take the time to remember. Counting stars with her brother, laughing with a best friend, a toddler’s first ice cream cone, holding hands in a field of heather…
Ten minutes of stillness. Ten minutes to simply be.
Some would work through a difficulty: the frustration of an illness, a parent’s death, a sudden job loss, the solitude of an empty nest…
Ten minutes of quiet, used for personal growth. Ten minutes of reflection.
And then there were those for whom yoga was only a form of exercise. They came to the remodeled studio, too—the classes were the best in town, after all. For them, the quiet of shavasana was for a different type of contemplation, for dealing with more “pressing” issues: choosing a nail color for their afternoon pedicure, deciding which designer dress to wear that night, settling on a new style of Louis Vuitton bag, picking the next far-flung locale for a girls’ weekend away.
Despite all of Jack’s shortcomings, he did try to encourage personal growth during his yoga classes. But, for those only there for exercise, that instruction always fell flat. And Amy’s insights wouldn’t penetrate either. There were no spiritual enlightenments, no mental developments, and no adjustments of their lives. They were who they were. They would exit the darkened room. They would turn their iPhones back on. They would walk to their luxury cars. They would return to their impressive homes.
Contentment just wasn’t in the cards for them. Not yet. Maybe never.