A single pearl of perspiration rolls off the creator’s brow, negotiating the narrow furrows of linear time’s impact, trickling and tickling down the flushed face beneath its solitary path to freedom. It dangles from the tip of my nose – defiant – oh, so silent in its innocent observation as if appraising my performance this evening. Yet, all I seem to care about is her approval.

Still, I’m sweating, now, from mild exertion, at best. Maybe I can fling the saline bastard off before she notices. Don’t look at me, please. I need more time to perfect my form before I can be seen.

The taste of the tiny, liberated one’s salty siblings in the corners of my mouth merely reminds me of a primal desire to feed myself. Licking my lips, I look at her and understand completely why I am here on this night, in this place, on this planet and in this position. Her energy enchants. I lap it up.

My arabesque, nonetheless, causes no distress to befall the watery ego bead clinging serenely beneath my proboscis through another conscious breath. In stillness it shudders at my thoughts of separation as hips rotate downward once more and I push further this time.

I barely notice her musical selection or the dimness of the room, for I find that harmonies of soulful strings and gentler things are no match for the mesmerizing melody of her whispers. My heart listens – open. My body stretches to respond.

With shoulders shaking slightly, I covertly peek beneath half-closed lids to quickly study her leonine form amidst the shadows, but notice only her focus and grace. She issues a request and I arch willingly at her coaxing, committed to the moment.

Hot breath exhales sharply from deep within my core’s furnace and I feel my body temperature rising with every lunge. A bad right knee gives mute support, thanking me for placing a folded blanket on the floor before we began. My eyes sting. My left leg quivers – indifferent to any pains or pleasures registering elsewhere, knowing only itself.

The silent observer, still hidden beneath my nose, only grows and grows with every execution of this evening’s passion play. I would wipe away such errant testament to my sedentary soul were I not supporting this labor of love with both hands. Paradox. And man shall live by the sweat of his brow. Ah, I’m beginning to understand, now. My Southern Baptist upbringing is reemerging with a decidedly eastern bent, literally.

I feel the warmth of her hands on my lower back, again, and the effect is magical. Perhaps it is only because I am a willing participant. However, her touch is filled with energy seemingly independent of my wishful projection. I don’t want her to stop, but I cannot be selfish. Elsewhere, many souls have needs and she must attend them, also.

Although our chakras spin out of control, we may keep our balance by simply not impeding the energy flow between them, or each other. This one’s restorative powers are obvious as she calls upon my spirit to receive the nurturing forces of nature that are my birthright. Long live the earth goddess. Come touch me, again.

At her suggestion I lie upon my side and draw my knees tightly toward my chest, hugging myself in a fetal embrace. I feel her presence move about the room and wonder if I’m the only one she doesn’t notice. She’s taking my mind on a healing journey with simple visualizations that are quite easily imagined due to the very vibratory tone of her incantations. God, how I need this. My mind needs this. My body and spirit heartily agree as one.

It has been a long time since I have felt this way . . . too long. I’ve thought about taking this yoga class for many moons, now, but my pale excuses wither against the illumination of what is. My body cries for discipline. Why do I prolong my suffering by avoiding that which is so easy, once immersed? What fears keep me at bay?

Seemingly, my demons of ignorance overshadow even the seven-headed hydra of my ego, or I assume that – just by thinking about the result – I have accomplished something. In the collective consciousness of our dimension, the apparent density of this world demands attention in an active manner. I manifested myself in this material world, yet, whine when it comes to getting physical. Dense is as dense does; my apologies to Mr. Gump.

Lying in the Sava’sana pose – on my back with a bolster and rolled blanket under my legs just beneath the knees – I listen to the soothing sounds of eastern spirituality emanate from a tiny CD player somewhere in a far corner of the Santa Barbara Yoga Center. Buddha in a boombox.

Undoubtedly, it is physically closer to India than I at this particular moment (perhaps I should drag my bolster to the other end of the room, but that may annoy my mat mates’ meditation). In good-natured one-pointedness, I smile inwardly at my blissful revelation. If I cannot be in India, tonight, then let India be in me.

Cheri, our instructor, assumes the lotus position and softly invites the class to begin the end of tonight’s session. Her mystical voice cuts clearly across the musical buffer like a child’s breath through a pregnant dandelion. The mystery of her soul wells up and flows in tune with the cosmic waveform, scattering seeds of samadhi upon, hopefully, fertile ground.

The yoke of ancient wisdom unites our group in salutation as the universal Aum resonates within and without, simultaneously. Mind, body, and soul are one. The class is one. The world is one. The universe is one. All . . . is . . . one. I’m just thankful to be a tiny part of what is.

While the other tiny parts of our Restorative Yoga Class drift away into the Santa Barbara night, I look at the fog rolling in from the west and think of Poseidon, God of the Sea, lying back in the corpse pose. Floating upon the rhythmic waves of nocturnal creation, his exhalation is cupped and held by the Santa Ynez Mountains while the city sleeps beneath the gray blanket of an immortal One’s contemplation.

Hungry for more, we decide upon the Sojourner Restaurant, an aptly named hearth for such an inquisitive night, where we will nourish ourselves from a list of wholesome things we can actually grasp in our hands. I learn of Cheri’s yoga training at the White Lotus Foundation, located here in Santa Barbara, as cups of warm Chai tea are placed before us.

“Yoga is about creating a sacred space,” Cheri replies when I ask about her relationship to this ancient Hindu healing art. “It’s a time to give back to yourself, to nurture yourself.”

We discuss the distinctions between Restorative Yoga and some of the many other types. Cheri’s practice is ideal for people who are sick, in the healing process or who have some injury that might make them hesitate, initially.

In Restorative Yoga the students utilize blankets, bolsters and pillows so they may properly support themselves instead of straining to achieve a particular pose, which could be detrimental. In this manner, Cheri helps the student to let go and experience the benefits of the pose on a much deeper level, opening up the flow of energy in their body so they may heal from within.

In fact, it was Cheri’s own bout with a serious illness that brought her into the art of healing – and the world of Yoga. After remarkable success healing herself through yoga practice, diet, massage and with the aid of acupuncture, she decided to help others find a way to deal with their suffering and, in many cases, ease it while supporting their own healing process. Cheri lights up when I ask if she sees a particular direction for her style of Restorative Yoga.

“I’ve worked with AIDS and cancer patients,” she recalls. “It was a profound experience for many of them. This kind of refined therapy allows you to go directly into the ailing area, helping to focus your energy on the spot where it’s really needed. They would be in altered states – the deep breathing, physical postures, plus, mind-body techniques of visualization combine to create a perfect environment for the body to heal itself.”

I look at her with greater appreciation. Cheri displays the utmost respect and passion for the oldest relationship known to mankind: the trinity of mind, body and spirit. Without judgment the students listen. Without judgment the teacher poses them. Without judgment the cosmos breathes in and out . . . and in, again and again. The cycle is now complete, yet, never-ending. Yoga, like life – the eternal journey – merely asks that you breath into it, find your strength and then stretch to fill your desire.

It is an hour past the Sojourner’s closing, but the conversation continues though the warm tea is long since gone. The restaurant staff is tired and Cheri gasps at the time. I only know that I want more of this as the last sticky mat is rolled up and we float toward a beckoning door of consciousness into the foggy autumn night of our Pacific paradise.

The Kat

© Copyright 9/27/96
for “Healing Retreats & Spas” Vol. 1 / Issue 1