I attended my first yoga class yesterday. Not my very first one ever, but my first since moving to Colorado three months ago. Far from the amped-up, silicone-packed, poser-filled experience I half expected from an upscale downtown studio, I was surprised to find myself genuinely moved by the reverence our lanky mop of an instructor demonstrated toward the ancient exercise form—and toward us students. Following the young man’s cue, we quietly claimed our respective places within the candle-lit room and folded ourselves into cross-legged observance as he told us what to expect for the next seventy-five minutes we’d be spending together.
“This is not a competition,” he reminded us (as I silently assessed my peers). Tripping on the soft glow of candlelight and self-congratulation for having shown up in the first place—and secondly for appearing to be in better shape than I originally thought—I barely noticed the rest of his monologue. Until he asked us about Haiti.
“Have you all prayed for Haiti yet?”