Tag Archives: yoga

Mean Christians

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A couple of weeks ago, we were coming into the calm finish to our yoga class when a woman at the back burst into projectile sobbing.

Photo by kike vega on Unsplash

Near the front of the class, I made eye contact with Becky, the instructor, and we did the woman’s non-speaking language of “yes please go check on her.”

I didn’t know the woman, but found her doubled over on a bench outside, sobbing. I sat down next to her and rubbed her back. It wasn’t a time to talk, just to signal “you’re not alone and nothing is expected of you.”

The class ended a few minutes later, and another woman with a blond French braid emerged to sit on the crying lady’s other side. Over her back she said to me, “her son was on that plane.”

That plane being the one full of people from the skating community, which collided with a helicopter. Everyone aboard died.

The woman began to talk, sharing horrific details of the crash and how she was coping. We listened in sympathetic silence, shielding the crying woman from class participants and track walkers who were trying to gauge if they should help. Most kept going, which was a good thing.

The crying woman said suddenly, “And of course my faith sustains me. But at my church some people…” then she stopped talking again.

French braid lady patted her arm. “My brother committed suicide. And my church wasn’t particularly helpful. Some people just don’t know what to say.”

“But they say it anyway,” said the crying woman, and burst into fresh sobs.

I had nothing to contribute except to continue sitting there, shielding her from curious eyes. She said a few more things, then Becky came out and gave her a big hug. Told her she should come back to class anytime, and cry all she wanted, everyone was there for her, everyone understood.

French braid lady gave the other woman a final hug, and said, “Don’t listen to the mean people. They don’t understand and they don’t get to dictate how you feel.” Crying lady nodded, blew her nose, smiled at us both, and gathered her stuff.

I really don’t want to interpret this exchange. When did Christians become the mean ones to be avoided when in pain?

Don’t answer that. Thanks.

Appalachian Yoga

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About two months ago my sister Nora convinced me to join a gym. This was just as firewood and gardening season were picking up speed, two facts that didn’t co-register until my muscles began to point out the connection.

This is not me

“I can’t go to Core Strength class today; I have to pick up and cut and stack firewood.”

Or, to my friend Dawn, co-conspirator in finding and hauling home dead trees of other people, “I can’t go hunt firewood today, I have to go to Zumba.”

It got complicated, and between the classes and the workload and my day job at a desk, I found stiff parts and sore stuff that hadn’t been there before.

That’s how I came to invent Appalachian yoga. A couple of days ago, still in my pjs, I went out to pick the abundant black raspberries growing on our little homestead. Hard rain had fallen last night, and one of the best spots requires walking under a kind of topiary arch, which of course would shower my thin cotton jammies and me with cold water if I touched it.

Sneaking between the bushes to my favorite picking spot, I observed a cluster of ripe berries just out of reach. One leg lift over the low thorny vines, a careful placement, toe up for balance, lean forward, back leg extended for balance….

Thus was Appalachian yoga born. I call that one “the berry picker.” It has two variations: “the berry picker and the mosquito,” which focuses on agility motions with hand slapping, and “the berry picker and the dropped bucket,” which involves core strength because you have to bend down at the waist without losing your back leg extension and scoop up the fallen object.

Discussing this with Nora as we prepared for Low-Impact aerobics, she felt the idea was an instant winner. We quickly invented “Milking recalcitrant cow” and “pulling pokeweed from the root,” both involving simultaneous dexterity and core strength.

Other moves (patent pending) may include “the chop that goes wide,” in which you fling your arms over your head, and then downward, hands joined in a single fist, to try and hit an imaginary target. We also have “the chainsaw,” in which you lock fists, squat so your knees and toes are aligned and your butt is pushed back, and shake for 30 seconds.

“Pulling the ivy” is an upward thrust of one hand, other down for balance, and a shift of weight from one leg to the other, leg up with toe point, leg back with squat. If you’ve ever pulled Virginia creeper from a tree, you don’t need further instruction. There is a variation, “pulling poison ivy,” which repeats the move from the ground up, but adds a sudden swift revolving circle of toe-hopping panic running and a primal scream.

Finally, “chasing the chickens”: you power walk, legs wide, toward a location, shuffle sideways without turning, and then race forward for 10 seconds, all while flapping your arms.

Nora and I plan to introduce this class to the good people at the Wytheville Community Center soon. We are sure it will be popular.