Transformation.
The regular yoga teacher was absent, and the woman gliding toward the front of the room looked to be the polar opposite of what I had grown accustomed to on Tuesday mornings. It's not that I was disappointed, but I had become a devoted fan of the yoga instructor with the decidedly un-yogic and somewhat voluptuous physique and her uncanny ability to push me toward my edge with her deceptive sweetness. She dresses more modestly than most yoginis, and my guess is she is less chiseled. She is strong and graceful, though, when she demonstrates a pose, and her flawlessly called complicated sequences (not once has she confused left and right) make me sweat like nobody's business.
Looking as if she had just stepped off the cover of Yoga Journal, the sub flashed us a broad smile and suggested we start on our backs. Look up yoga teacher in the dictionary and there she would be, rail thin but in a sinewy kind of way, muscular without bulk, tucked neatly into light-colored print tights without an ounce of love handle in sight. When she pulled back her wild mop of curly hair, her eyes gleamed, her teeth got even whiter. I would have despised her completely, had it not been for the starting on our backs part.
The list of detestable qualities grew as she told us she would be walking around with some sort of magic box, from which we should choose a card. An "intention" card for our practice, so we would not have to come up with one on our own. Seriously? I never have any trouble coming up with an intention. My intention is always survival, with a big lunch to follow. Had I not already rolled comfortably onto my back, I might have fled.
She tapped my toe and I reached into the magic box, drew a card. "Transformation." Transformation? Was this what my goal of the day would be, to change? Into what? A kinder person? Yoga Barbie moved on to the next mat too swiftly for me to grab her ankle and beg for a second chance. I am almost 58 years old, and the only transformation I can hope to experience is the gradual amplification of my most negative traits. I desperately wanted a realistic intention card -- wait until noon for lunch; don't drink before five (ish); do not turn on MSNBC.
On my oldest daughter's first day of first grade, her teacher taught the class a new word: metamorphosis. I had thought it was an interesting opening vocabulary word for a six year old, but it made me feel good about our move to suburbia. With such an auspicious beginning, my daughter would certainly be elite-college-bound. Our decision to avoid twelve years of private school tuition in the city had been prudent, my fears of a bland suburban upbringing for my children unfounded.
In the years since that first day of first grade, my daughter -- and her younger siblings -- have indeed gone through a zillion metamorphoses, shedding the charms and problems of each childhood stage as they acquired new ones, for better or for worse. I miss their plump cheeks and their wishful eyes and unabashed dreams. I miss the chaos, as much as I miss my own youthfulness -- the absence of wear and tear that helped me deal with it all. As much as I cherish all the transformations, in all of us really, I wouldn't trade where we are now for where we were then. For the most part.
The yoga class was different, as it should have been, no matter what the instructor looks like. Her voice was not quite as clear, and she occasionally mixed up left and right, but still, I felt better at the end than I had before it started. And not just because lunch was fast approaching. Dare I say, it was even a bit transformative, as every new experience tends to be. She told us we could keep our intention cards, but I unintentionally left mine on the floor. Maybe someone else will read it -- maybe someone less set in her ways.
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