shrinkhla
They sat across from each other, one atop a pink and green blanket, the other with her shirt rolled up to protect her knees. Did the one with the blanket come prepared? Or was it luck that presented her with a thicker cushion for the ninety-minute practice? The one who’d removed her top had a dark sports bra that matched her leggings. It was a little inappropriate, considering the setting. Before she stripped, the girl considered what was more important: her comfort or consideration for the other participants. She opted for the former.
They were meant to be practicing with their eyes closed, anyway. Three of the exercises asked that the girls look into each other's eyes. They chanted, sang, sweated, cried, and waved their arms for eleven minutes without breaking eye contact. It was an arduous journey.
We push ourselves past our predetermined limit when we show up for each other.
That was the point of the practice.
If the girls had taken easy pose and closed their eyes, they may have given up midway through the activity.
Their arms were sore. Their lower backs ached. Their mouths were parched.
They would have at least stopped to take a little break, though many considered starting up again to be more painful than pushing through.
As the group chanted back and forth, calling the words to their partners, the sun started its descent. It hid behind the mountains. The floor was cold, and no one thought to turn the ceiling fans off, so the room buzzed with a breeze.
The girl's arm hairs stood up like a cat, though she was sweating and red-faced. Vigorous movement broke through stagnation. She needed a reason to take a pick ax to the hardened clay around her heart. Thwack-thwack-thwack went the ax. She raised her hands over her head and brought them down sharply in line with her shoulders.
Keep your elbows straight! The teacher bellowed. Turn the palms down and draw your fingers together. Neat lines; no sloppy spaghetti arms.
What was it to be humble?
The woman sitting across from the girl was dressed in all white. White pants, white tank top, white hair band. She had a tattoo between her breasts that linked to a second mandala at the abdomen.
It’s a work in progress, the woman had said when the girl inquired.
I like it, the girl replied.
The woman blinked her gratitude.
They kept chanting.
Thwack-thwack-thwack.
Cardamom and citrus candles burned in the corners. Someone had lit them as the light waned. It was an encouragement to breathe deeply. The girl filled her lungs with the husky scent and licked her lips, breaking the rhythm. It took the duo several seconds to realign. It felt like an eternity. When in pain, the slightest pause feels like a great rupture.
The girl longed to close her eyes, but the interaction was to keep them open.
Stay with your partner. When you close your eyes, you enter the imagination, a wonderful realm, but it’s only for you. This is about your partner. What you feel and perceive.
At the three-quarter hour mark, the room writhed with pain. More individuals had stripped to reveal lithe bodies slick with sweat. They were in an exercise that asked them to open the heart by expressing the chest and shoulders. The mantra was a full sentence broken by laughter.
The girl did not laugh. Neither did her partner.
Later, at the group dinner, the woman would share her appreciation.
I would have been angry if you laughed. I wanted to do the exercises.
Me too.
Why do you think we were partners?
The two had not chosen each other. Wallflowers, they were the loose strands that come together out of a shared need. Each had raised a hand when the instructor asked who needed to be paired. The girl was at her usual spot in the back by the window where the King Fishers threw themselves into the windows. The woman was at the front at the foot of the gong.
The girl could not be so close to that instrument; its vibration caused her soul to leap straight up and out of her skin. She liked the back row, where there was more space. It was quiet, considering the consternation of the birds.
Why do you think we were paired together? We chose each other unconsciously.
The girl considered the question between bites of coleslaw and falafel burger. The Dijon mustard was the best she’d ever tasted. Their table was in a heated debate over whether the kitchen staff had made it themselves and what was in the recipe.
Well, we seem to be very similar in our habits, the girl replied.
How so?
You enjoy solitude: I see you reading on the bench in the sun during our leisure time. I also see you walking every morning alone. I do the same thing.
My apartment is filled with two things. Books and plants. Can you guess how many plants I have?
Twenty-six?
Over fifty! Where I live in Switzerland, there is very little sunlight in winter. Some of them don’t like it, but they do alright.
Why do you think we became partners?
Well, you looked like you were about to cry the entire time. Are you quite sad about something?
Funny, said the girl; I would say the same to you! She touched the woman’s shoulder. Are you very sad?
I feel like I have a deep grief inside of me always, but I am happy. I enjoy my life. I have no obvious complaints.
The girl nodded.
Maybe this is why we were paired: to see ourselves. To witness our suffering.
I wish we’d met sooner, the girl said. I did not speak with you this entire time.
The woman shrugged, dipping her bites of tofu in a bit of salt. Tomorrow, we can have breakfast before we go. I want to hear about you.
Dinner was in the dark because the afternoon session bled into twilight. The partner work was complete when the girl joined the group in a circle. They all held hands, the sixty-one participants in the training, and ran around in circles. One big ring on the outside moved clockwise. One smaller ring in the center moved counterclockwise. One person drove, and the rest followed, skipping and running faster and faster until the girl's heart was hot thunder at her throat.
The afternoon session ended with a womb walk. The thirty pairs, plus one adjacent individual who came at the end and stood on the sidelines to watch, formed a long line with their palms pressing overhead to create a temple. The result was a long canal of people, dancing and swaying, with their palms pressed in a prayer across from their partner. The womb walk was the birthing process: each pair would move through the channel in a simulation of the baby making its way from the water world into the physical realm. The procession started at one end, where a leader blessed each babe and sent them on their way. As the duo moved down the line, the pairs with palms pressed whispered words of encouragement. When they were released from the channel, another leader hugged them and set them at the end of the line to continue the process.
It took nearly thirty minutes for everyone to move through. Many cried. Most laughed. The words of endearment stayed the same: we love you, you’re beautiful, you are a wishing star, you will do great, keep going, you’ve got this, I love you, you’re wonderful, you will do magnificent things on earth!
The girl laughed and danced down the line. The woman cried. She wiped away tears, and her palms were wet when she pressed them to the girls as they took their place after completing the womb walk.
Wherever you go, these words will be with you. You are blessed, the instructor said. She wore a white turban with a red jewel pinned to the silk above her third eye. Her dress was floor-length, and she sat on the stage with her microphone. She was the Divine Mother guiding each participant along their path, yet we each walked alone.
It is a lie to think that we are in this together.
The ceremony closed with the pairs sitting across from each other. Knee to knee, palms pressed in Anjali mudra at their own hearts.
Now close your eyes, the Divine Mother said, and bless your partner. Send a prayer to everyone in the room, and send a prayer to everyone in the world. Send your prayers. Spread your blessings. Feel your heart. Know that this is your gift: your connection to yourself and the divine starts in the heart. It is there, waiting for you at every moment.
Photo source.
