Blocked Chakras

"Take a deep slow breath in through your nose. One, two, three, four, five. Now slowly exhale through your nose and feel your belly empty. Five, four, three, two, one," says the yoga instructor. I lift my head off my mat and squint my eyes in the dark wooden room to take a look at the owner of the tranquilizing voice up front. The lithe, red-headed teacher sits in a meditation pose, the tiny center of a candle circle.

"Let's repeat the breath again slowly,” she says and I drop my anxious head and comply. After three rounds of breath, I already feel the edges of my characteristic taut nerves soften. The hours I need to spend alert for studying and passing stressful vet school exams don't allow for my daily Xanax dosage. A medicine that's been prescribed to me since 7th grade when I had a panic attack watching those planes fly straight into the towers. Over and over and over again. It was a horrifying rude awakening about the kind of world we live in and something they failed to informe me of in kindergarten.

When I arrived in Costa Rica to begin school a few weeks ago, all it took was a quick google to find Ocean Asana, the beachside yoga haven 20 minutes south of campus on the eastern shore. I need all the help I can get to get my frantic breath under control so today I made the short drive down to the studio, paid the special intro price for new students and entered the studio with low expectations.

"Before we begin to flow take a moment and notice where your thoughts are,” Zen instructor purrs. “Is your mind spinning thinking about past and future events, to-do lists, or worries outside of this room? It's not real. It's a fictional story that a toxic society has groomed you to believe is real. To believe is you. You are not those thoughts in your head. You are not what your parents think you are, and you are not the girl with anxious thoughts that can’t cope.” Wow, either Ginger is reading my mind, or all humans are sick with the same illness.

"Take another deep breath in."

I inhale attempting to push the racing thoughts aside, then quickly admonish myself for being obviously bad at this.

"We are so prone to beating ourselves up about everything," she says clairvoyantly. “You are a perfect being limitless in your capabilities and the only place that exists is you and me breathing in this beautiful studio together. Listen to the sound of the birds chirping outside and inhale the smell of the sea wafting into this calm space. Now let's get into our first down dog."

The other six yogi students leave the room after our final shivasana and Miss Clairvoyant sits alone in the front of the room. I begin wrapping up my strap around my hand and approach her. "Hi, I'm Helen, I just want to say thanks for a great class. It's like you were reading my mind." Her previous serenity has dropped away and been replaced with a crease of worry between her brows.

"Hi Helen,” she smiles, “Are you new to the studio?"

“Yes, I drove down from the Escuela de Ferdinando just north of here. Studying to be a vet, but from the States."

"Oh, nice well I'm so glad you made it here," she responds.

I look down at my messily rolled strap and look at her apologetically. "Sorry I've never been good at rewrapping these."

Compassionate yogi face uploads onto the teacher’s pretty visage as I take note of her delicate features underneath the most beautiful mane of fiery red hair I've ever seen. "There is that judgmental voice Helen. I want you to start watching out for it. It's not real you know. It's a story, a misogynistic tale as old as time told to women from the day they are born that they are never good enough and must always apologize for themselves. How many times a day do we women beat ourselves up?"

“Oh, that's easy,” I respond. “Infinity...and beyond.”

“Well, I'm Arie. Do you need to get back to school or do you have time to grab a beer?” I twitch back slightly stunned by the hospitality, something not freely offered up in my hometown of New York City. That surprise combined with the familiar feeling of awed, inferior student admiration causes me to smile wide. You like me?

"Sure,” I say.

Twenty minutes later we sit facing each other at Kooks, a local favorite according to Arie and also Norman Rockwell’s visualization of an open-air island bar complete with paper lanterns, coconut drinks and an actual pig running around. I see a larger number of shirtless surfers than I actually expected, and their seared appearance makes one thing clear - it's never too early in life to begin applying sunscreen. And it's not that early in life for most of these dudes. Jobs are way overdue here. Apparently Arie thinks differently because she is intently glancing from one oily body to another standing near the bar.

"So," I say trying to reel her back to me. "How long have you been teaching yoga here?"

"Huh?" she turns back to me almost as if she forgot my presence. "Oh, I've been teaching yoga a long time."

"That's cool. How long have you been doing it in Costa Rica?"

Arie sighs and takes a sip of her beer. "Helen, Costa Rica is the best place in the world to stay in the present moment. That is what everyone comes here searching for. To escape their life sentences of soul crushing gray corporate torture followed by mindless swiping on shallow dating apps looking for relationships with people who don't value us. Who end up abusing us."

"Oh no,” I reply, “Is that what happened to you?”.

She pauses, puts her beer down and leans across the table squinting at me. "What's that scar above your eyebrow?" she asks innocently.

"Oh, wow you can see that in here? That’s a former eyebrow piercing from my punk pre-teen days. I basically wanted to be Gwen Stefani. Still do." We both laugh and I’m happy to see the brow crease disappear.

"Cool," she smiles. She starts to say something else when a, even I must admit, pretty handsome surfer of the shirtless variety pulls up a chair very close to Arie and begins talking one inch away from her face. Apparently in Costa Rica, no shirt + no shoes = service. He doesn't bother greeting me. It's actually not surprising at all to learn that Fuck boys are an international epidemic.

"Look at this!” he yells into her face. “The wallflower has actually moved out of her corner and is talking to someone." Yeah, me douchebag. Arie transforms so quickly from trusted, pensive confidant to giggly flirty guy’s girl it's almost goals. Her changing moods are keeping me from figuring out who this girl is, but I will do as she says and sit back and enjoy my beer, nonjudgmentally. Who I am kidding this guy doesn't have a pocket for a wallet. It doesn't take me long to realize that Arie is at least partly a girl who will leave me alone in a bar in a heartbeat for a surfer she just met.

As if the entire island of Costa Rica specializes in mind reading, he leans in even closer and asks her, "Want to go outside and toke up?" Arie giggles coquettishly and pops up from her chair only remembering her beer partner at the last second.

"Oh Helen, do you want to come with us?" she asks with all the fervor of someone that doesn't.

"Um, no I'm good," I smile. "I have an exam in the morning," I lie.

"Ok well be safe driving home girl. And come back for my Thursday night class, it'll be a good one." She waves and hurries through the door after Surfer Ken. I exhale and stare down at the unpaid drinks, then head to the bar to settle up. I exit Kooks and am hit with the briny thick night island air. The dark parking lot is successfully hiding the location of my car keys in my messy satchel, and I think I must get organized when I hear Big Wave Ken speak. "I really like you Arie, come on." I pause. "Just let me island-wife you," Ken pleads. Aww, I think then roll my eyes, at myself. Helen, the man can’t find the energy to don a shirt.

"I like you too," Arie coos expertly. "But you know I just got away from a seriously abusive ex. I barely got out alive, or with my sanity. I'm working through a lot of trauma."

I find my keys just in the nick of time because I'm actually scared to hear Ken's response. I can't imagine Ken ever having even pondered the meaning of the word trauma. I quietly hop in my Kia and turn on my brights as I exit the dirt lot to begin the climb up the dark, gravelly road to the main highway and I think of Arie. Poor thing. No wonder she is an enigma. She is healing from that horrible, abusive relationship. But why is it that, with some girls, even if it's a man that has ruined their whole lives and forced them onto another continent hundreds of miles from home, another man is what they find?

After a stressful exam on Thursday involving a sharp knife and a reptile corpse, I am looking forward to Arie's class. On the drive down I feel my anxiety amping up. Becoming a vet has been my dream since I was a little girl with a habit of bringing any and all sick, crawling creatures into the house and attempting to nurse them back to health, much to my parent's horror. But was I really cut out for all this…bloody reality? When, after all the other vet schools rejected me due to those lukewarm MCAT scores my heart sank and it was then I realized this was all I wanted to do. When that fat envelope arrived from the Escuela I called and accepted immediately, six figure debt be damned. I pushed aside a specific worry I had about this location. Who can learn anything near multiple surf yoga retreats in paradise? Wouldn’t it be better to have these schools in Antarctica? Regardless, that same day I didn’t think twice about trading my job as Assistant pet store manager for dissecting amphibians in a resort town frequented by Tom and Gisele.

I’m running late so I tip toe my bare feet into Arie's class, catch her eye and mouth "sorry." But for a second, I think maybe this is a sub because instead of that fiery red mane I see a woman with a short black bob and a bandage over a very swollen - and is that bloody? - nose.

"Come on in Helen." It is Arie and she looks vastly different from three days ago. After our opening breath sequence we move quickly through Sun Salutation A – from Warrior I to Warrior II, down through a chaturanga push up on the floor and pushing back to rest in a downward facing dog. I begin to wonder about Arie. Has her abusive ex located her? Am I going to end up alone in life with six figure debt and a fear of amphibians? Should I join Facebook?

All of sudden a familiar sound interrupts my misery story. That irresistible ska bass pounds through the small yoga room and that smooth girlish vibrato emanates from the speakers, "Take this pink ribbon off my eyes, I'm exposed and it's no big surprise...Oh I'm just a girl, I'd rather not be."

"Now walk your feet up to your hands on the top of the mat and let's get into eagle pose on the right side.” I do so and smile at Arie.

“Great song!" I yell.

She smiles back at me. "Wrap your right arm under your left and your left leg over your right and let's hold here for ten breaths," she says. "We are all limited in life by the assumptions people make about us, in this male dominated society,” she continues. From boys shouting out their answers in kindergarten to the slut shaming we are forced to endure, always trying to balance being the cool girl with changing the world all the while praying we don’t come across as God Forbid, ‘bitchy.’ And listen, they wouldn't even let Gwen drive late at night. So drop those limiting beliefs right now and let's get into eagle pose on the left. And do not be shy, sing along to Gwen!" The handful of us begin to murmur quietly before Arie joins in and by the end we are practically shaking the walls, "Ohhhhh, I've had it up to here!"

I sit across from the newly onyx haired Arie at Kooks that night, each of us munching on salads between sips of beer. "Oh man, when I heard my girl Gwen come on in class today, I felt my anxiety drift away. The singing helped too. Brought me right into the present moment. You really know how to read a room."

"I'm glad," she says. "Unfortunately, I am an empath who absorbs people's pain. It's actually kind of hell for me." Reluctant empath yogi flirter. What other adjectives would I add to the list tonight?

"Hmm,” I reply. You are really reinventing yourself down here! The hair and...your nose. Are you ok? What happened?” God forbid her abusive ex had located her down here.

"Oh, it's nothing,” she says disinterestedly. “I went for a surf lesson the other day and stupid me got hit in the face with a board.

"With that surfer guy from the other night?" I probe suspiciously. Granted Ken doesn’t look like he’s going to split the atom anytime soon, but he didn't strike me as a violent guy.

"Omigod," Arie suddenly drops her fork, and her eyes widen.

"What happened Arie, did your ex find you?" I ask worriedly.

She doesn't register my question as she just keeps repeating Omigod. Omigod. OMIGOD. She starts scratching her neck viciously.

“Are you ok?” I ask worriedly. She begins hyperventilating and as I’m well aware, a full-on panic attack is on the horizon.

“No! “I'm not ok!” she wails. She starts crying hysterically. "Waitress!! Someone!! WHAT IS IN THIS SALAD?!” She screams. “I see walnuts. Omigod, Helen are there nuts in your salad?”

And it registers - she's deathly allergic to nuts. Omigod.

“Ok” I say trying to stay calm. “Where is your epi pen?” I put my hand on her shoulder and she throws me off with one hand while flipping over her salad bowl with the other. The entire shirtless population of Kooks is staring at us but no one moves. “Arie, try to take a breath, where is your epi pen?”

“My? I... I…” Loud sob. “I don't have one.”

“You don't have it with you?”

“No,” she says between hiccups. “I don't...don't need one. But they block my chakras!”

 I back away from her and just stare. “What? What do you mean...”?

“Atencio, por favor!" I turn towards the source of the deep Spanish drawl to find a handful of large police officers standing in the doorway. I notice their hands are braced over their guns. “No one leaves this bar until we ask everyone a few questions, please have a seat everyone." I sit back down in my seat still processing Arie's epic meltdown. I glance at her and see her red blotchy face has gone white. Does this have something to do with her abuser?

The cops move around the room clockwise and by the time they get to us I can tell they are verifying everyone's names on a list they have brought with them. The whole bar sits in silence. Arie's eyes face her lap and I notice she is still breathing heavily but it’s calmed significantly.

“Buenos noches chicas. Identification please” requests the cop. I hand them my license and they hand it back to me apparently satisfied.

"Miss?" they look at Arie. “What is your name?"

"Collen Anderson" she replies. She glances at me blankly then back to the cops. "Oh, I don't have it on me Sir."

“Well one of our officers will accompany you to go get it, Miss.”

“That's not necessary Sir." she says. “I'm just here with my friend.” Oh now you want to stay with me.

"Officer Paz please accompany Ms. Anderson to retrieve her identification. Go with him now Miss." Arie complacently rises and trails the cop out into that dark island night. I know this is the last time I will ever see her.

I am awoken the next morning by a news alert on my phone.

Kaitlin Anderson, woman accused of killing cyclist Meredith Wilson, caught in Costa Rica after a 56-day manhunt. 

The picture is of a pre-makeover Arie. When the police searched her room they found her sister Colleen Armstrong's passport, a bottle of black hair dye and a receipt for a $6,000 nose job. She is accused of killing a younger love rival after catching her boyfriend with the victim on a secret swim date. Meredith was 25 years old and set to become to the next star of the gravel racing circuit. In response to her arrest Kaitlin's defense team accused the police of concocting a "misogynistic and fictious story portraying Ms. Anderson as a jealous woman scorned." They admitted they could not explain why Ms. Anderson’s car was recorded on camera at the victim’s residence at the time of the shooting. 

And Just a Girl hasn't sounded the same to me since.