Just Breathe

 In 1974,  Peter graduated from Berkeley and bypassed the corporate world to study yoga in India. He stayed a year, living in an ashram, meeting with his yogi, trading work in the kitchen for a place to sleep. He lived on lentils and rice, his mind blissfully free until the one steamy morning that his mother cabled with the news that his father had died. It happened that Peter was with Wanda, the first woman he’d ever slept with. An overworked veterinary student who had come to the ashram for a week, she sported an electric blue headband that held back her black curls. She’d followed him to every class and had finally knocked on the door of his yurt, wearing only a long sheer nightdress, her body visible beneath it. Now she looked at him sympathetically as he squinted at the telegram, his fingers growing damp.

“Don’t go,” he said.

“You’re the one whose leaving India,” she whispered. She was headed to an elephant sanctuary the next day. She gave him a soft kiss, pulled a ballpoint pen from her backpack and scrawled her phone number on his forearm. The beads in the doorway swished as her silhouette hung against the morning sunrise.

Peter packed reluctantly, reminding himself that attachment causes suffering, and that his adventure was fated to end at some point. But he would not come home empty handed. He would continue with meditation and find a way to bring peace to his life and the lives of others.

After his father’s funeral, he moved to back to Berkeley. Remaining detached from the need to make money, he found a job as a running coach. He put down roots in his neighborhood, growing many of his own vegetables, making his own bread. He taught yoga in the evenings. The older he became, the less he needed. He gave up material success, the need to own property, and finally, the assumption that he’d have a family. Before he knew it, he was in his sixties and Berkeley had changed around him, the buildings growing newer, the students at the University becoming more clean cut, but no less anxious than he had been at their age.

On Saturdays, he taught at The Lotus Room. He walked across the floor barefoot, feeling the room come to attention as he stepped around the brass singing bowl, folded his legs into a triangle and lowered himself onto the mat in the front of the room.  A beat of silence. He always started with silence.

He smiled slightly at the class as he opened his eyes, calling them to begin.

“Just breathe,” he instructed. “This is a mindfulness practice that can help all of us in our daily lives. It’s about focus, intention. Starting with breath.” To help the newcomers he added. “Inhale. One, two, three and hold.”

Now his throat snagged. He took a deep cleansing breath to open up space. He leaned into the exhale. Whoosh. Repeat. In. Out. His solar plexus relaxed. So did his arms and legs. The room followed. The exhales were audible. Peaceful.

“What if I can’t catch my breath?” He blinked. Could it be? The woman on the mat in the far back corner had curly black hair, and now, a heavyset frame.

“Just bring it back,” he said. The woman’s eyes were wide as her chest moved out of sync with her body. He stood. His feet hugged the floor, then lifted, each part of his foot articulating, heel, arch, toe. 

Beside her he squatted, breathing until hers slowed and joined his. Yes, he was sure it was her. Wanda. His body remembered her. He shook his head, flattening the memory of India in his mind.

“Thanks,” she whispered. Her voice was professional. Did she remember? He returned to the front of the room, his mouth turning up in a smile like the Buddha. He savored the thought that rose like warm bread in his mind, that he would talk to her after class.

But for now, the community practiced as one, just as he had taught them. The studio filled with the hum of steady exhales. Wanda’s eyes were closed, and a serene look had crept over her face. The next seven postures flowed, one after another like pebbles dropping into a pond. After that, the standing postures, building to camel, a wide kneed back bend that often left newer students feeling nauseous and dizzy. Thirty bodies arched, all working in harmony. God, it was beautiful. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. “Good,” he said. “Beautiful work everyone.”

Clink. Wanda again. She had opened her water bottle, anticipating the break. She took a noisy drink.

Peter’s forehead creased slightly as he attempted a benevolent look.

“Sorry,” she stage whispered. She rested her palms on her kneecaps. And then, she gave him a slow wink.

Someone sneezed. Peter’s eyes shot to the left before he could slow them. Michelle, a petit Asian woman in zebra striped tights and a tight black tank top dabbed at her nose with a tissue. Then she sneezed again.

 There was a rustle of a leg to Peter’s left at the same time that someone else farted to the right. And then Wanda sat back up again, knocking over her water bottle.

“Shhhhh!” Peter said, turning toward Wanda. He felt nauseous. Strange.

“Just come back to your breathing,” he said, as much for himself as for everyone else. Michelle stood, legs crossed.

“Bathroom,” she mouthed. She tip toed toward the door. There was a hard squeeze in Peter’s upper arms. He put a finger to his neck. His pulse hammered. Inhale. Long hold. Exhale. Class was ending, thank God.

“Be curious,” he instructed. “Take your favorite closing asana.” A line of sweat seeped across his forehead. The air was thick. The heater must be acting up again. Sometimes it did too good a job. He opened one eye. The bodies on the mat looked quiet and still.

Everything was fine. Three minutes to go.

The back of his brain pinged, as if he were missing something important. His vision clouded, and he saw black dots hovering in front of him. Smoke, he thought. The dread was so strong that breathing could not extinguish it. He jumped to his feet, his hand clutching the singing bowl. He hit the bowl hard. The whirr of it seemed to bounce between his ears, side to side. Surprise and anxiety looked back at him from the mats.

“Everyone out!” He lunged toward the door. He made a big swinging gesture with his right arm, pushed hard against the door with his left. The singing bowl clanged again as his students jumped up and ran out of the studio. Legs churned. Bare feet slapped the pavement. Some even ran across the parking lot.  Across the front of his chest, pain spiraled. He clutched the door, waiting for room to empty. 

Wanda stood on her mat, feet hip distance apart. “Are you out of your mind?” she asked, her voice a gentle chiding.

His old yogi’s face flashed through his mind, watery eyes intent as he held Peter’s gaze, waiting for Peter to take the intended lesson. The biggest threats are in our own minds. We make stuff up and most of the time, we are wrong.  He inhaled. Clean fresh air. No smoke. Not even incense.

Wanda gave him a small smile. A friendly one. He loosened his grip on the doorframe, relaxing into whatever was coming. Be curious. Just breathe.

Wanda had been right. Maybe he should have stayed longer in India. Or called the phone number that she’d scribbled on his arm. The ink had faded but the attachment to her had remained.

“Sorry,” Peter said to Wanda. Then he slumped to the floor. He felt the warmth from Wanda’s body as she knelt at his side, the steadiness of her hand on his shoulder. Happiness and calm filled him. She’s here. It was more than he would have hoped for in this, the final moment. He found his breath, two quick rapid sips of air before his chest sank toward the back of his ribs. As his thoughts blurred, like a machine unplugged, he focused on the sweet sound of Wanda’s water bottle, clinking like a call to prayer on the wooden floor. Inhale. Exhale.