Yoga Bitch

by Suzanne Morrison

  I just told everybody about it, and they think it’s ingenious … but that maybe I should come up with another idea to present to class tomorrow.

  “Though I’m sure SuZen would love it,” Lara added. “If she hasn’t already branded a handbag-based yoga practice herself. Or a doggie-bag yoga?”

  You know, I didn’t say as much to Lara just now, but maybe it’s a good thing to teach our dogs yoga. I mean, I would definitely like it if the scary dogs on Bali were a little more yogified. But really, it comes down to this: we have to take good care of our dogs if the yogis are right, and we’re all going to be reincarnated. I mean, we don’t know for sure if reincarnation is real, but let’s say it is—then don’t we want to take care of our dogs because someday we could, you know, be them?

  Maybe doga is just enlightened self-interest.

  April 16

  Indra showed up for class today transformed. Her blonde hair has been braided into teensy-tiny cornrows, and she’s put Bo Derek beads at the bottom of each braid. They clicked and clacked every time she moved her head. I could see the white scalp between her braids.

  When she arrives in the wantilan these days, she goes straight over to Marianne or SuZen to check in and say hi, and then they chat for a while as the rest of us finish moving the gamelan instruments to the side and placing our mats in a circle for check-in.

  We’ve been gossiping a little bit. About Marianne and SuZen. It’s really yogic gossiping, though, because they do this thing that, as Marcy puts it, “is really harshing our mellow.” See, Marianne and SuZen have a really annoying way of chanting Om.

  As a group, we have found our Om. Seriously, we’re like the freaking St. Olaf’s Choir with our Oms. For many weeks now, we have opened and closed every class with three Oms. In that time we have learned to listen to one another, blending our voices together so that our gorgeously round and full Om rises up to the rafters like the voice of Indivisible Unity itself. We chant an Om so rich in vibrations, it could create a universe. An Om that sounds like the word that began it all.

  We never even had to speak of it, we just created this Om together every day. Then Marianne and SuZen arrived. As Marcy put it at lunch today, “I don’t think they get it. I don’t mean to be elitist or anything, because everybody has their own way of doing it, but I think they’ve misunderstood the seed sounds.”

  I don’t know about the seed sounds, all I can say is it sounds like they are trying to chant and clear out their sinuses at the same time. It’s a very harsh, nasal sound they make at the beginning and end of each class. But Marcy insists that what they are doing is overemphasizing the seed sounds. The seed sounds are the three sounds of Om. If you say Om slowly, you’ll notice that it breaks down into an ah that leads to an ooh that leads to the oh … m. Marcy says that some people spell it Aum for this reason.

  But the idea is that these vowels are present in the Om already. One need not exaggerate the seed sounds because they’re already there. But Marianne and SuZen chant AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH in those thin, nasal voices, and then they switch to OOOOOOOHHHHH, their mouths puckered like blow-up dolls. And then they land it with a short and sharp MMM. Sitting next to one of them while trying to recapture our group’s lost Om is like trying to sink into a deliciously comfortable bed while a hornet buzzes in your ear.

  “Yeah, they’re really crap with the Oms, aren’t they?” Jason agreed.

  Worst of all? I think their Om is contagious. Indra seems to be catching it.

  THE COUNTDOWN TO teaching has begun. Our afternoon classes are now devoted to learning about every single muscle in the human body and then palpating our neighbors to see if they’ve got them. SuZen’s our teacher, and she doesn’t seem to be all that interested in anatomy. I think she’d rather be teaching a business seminar on how to start your own yoga brand.

  I spent most of today’s class crafting an e-mail to Jonah in my head. I think he would find SuZen terribly pretentious.

  Later

  I’ve been trying to meditate, but our days are so active now, there’s hardly any time for it. I was hoping to fit in a few minutes on the veranda, but Jessica came home flustered and upset—she had a run-in with Indra over SuZen’s anatomy class. She doesn’t want to take it. Jessica has taken countless courses in anatomy to become a massage therapist/bodyworker person. She could probably teach the class.

  The thing is, we’re paying SuZen a separate fee for anatomy classes, so it’s rather like a bill’s just come due, and Jessica doesn’t want to pay it. She told Indra as much, but Indra is insistent that she take this class. My guess is that she and Lou promised SuZen a certain income for coming out here, and if Jessica doesn’t participate, it’ll cause business problems.

  Here’s what’s weird: Indra told Jessica that she has attachment issues with money, and that paying for the anatomy class will help her to overcome those issues. I’ve never seen Jessica indignant before, but that’s exactly what she is. Her face turned bright red when she told me about it, and she didn’t make eye contact when she spoke. She looked just beyond me, her voice flat and colorless.

  Seeing Jessica like this, I was furious. I can’t help but think that Indra’s taking advantage of her. I said as much, but then Jessica started fingering the spiral binding on her journal and said, “But maybe Indra’s right? I do have money issues. I grew up poor and I don’t like to give up my money, even if it might be good for my soul if I did.”

  I don’t know. My soul feels a little squirmy thinking about it. Anytime you have to fork over money to better your soul, it’s a little fishy, right?

  I mean, except for paying to be here. And paying for my yoga classes. That’s different, I think. I mean, yoga teachers have to eat, too.

  Anyway, people are pissed. Lara and Jason both think that Indra was out of line and manipulating Jessica. But maybe that has more to do with the fact that we all hate our hour of anatomy every day—really, SuZen is an excruciatingly boring teacher until she starts talking about branding or marketing. As far as anatomy goes, we’d get more out of “the knee bone’s connected to the leg bone” than we’re getting out of this class.

  “I don’t think Indra gets it,” Lara said. “It is unacceptable to manipulate Jessica like this, and for what? So that SuZen can get more money? Is that what this retreat is all about, for Indra?”

  April 18

  Watching Jessica correct SuZen in anatomy class is quite possibly the most entertaining thing about that otherwise tedious class. Today SuZen said that the cranium doesn’t move, and Jessica freaked out!

  “I don’t want to be disrespectful,” she said, her face turning red, “but you are so wrong!”

  “Excuse me?” SuZen said, lifting her eyes from the textbook she was reading from. I think she was really surprised that anyone would contradict her.

  “You are so, so wrong. The bones of the cranium move. If you knew about craniosacral work, you would experience it yourself and never teach that again!” She looked around at the rest of us. “It moves, you guys, and if any of you want to see for yourself, ask me to show you later.”

  I told everybody then about how Jessica had given me one of her head rubs and that it was true, my skull moved and so did the earth. Take that!

  INDRA AND LOU call our names out in class a lot, telling us to adjust our knees or our sacrums or whatever, and every time they call out my name, SuZen adjusts herself, and when they speak to SuZen, I do. It’s pretty funny. Or no. Wait. Actually, it’s annoying.

  April 19

  I’m staring at a woodcarving that’s been wrapped in newspapers and bound with rubber bands. It belongs to Jason and Lara, but they left it on our table after stopping by for tea just now.

  We had our usual morning class today. Eight million Sun Salutations. Meditation. The usual. But when it was done, Indra asked us to sit in a circle, and then she retrieved a thick blue duffel bag from one side of the wantilan. She told us she had offerings to share with us. She reached into the bag, her Bo Derek bea
ds clicking and clacking, and then gently placed a wooden carving in front of us.

  It was a figurine on a foot-wide base, standing about a foot high. Its subject matter was a long-haired woman in Warrior Two pose. The wood had been stained dark brown, but I could make out where the chisel had been—it had that rough-hewn quality that a lot of Balinese folk art has. She told us that she had commissioned a woodworker here to carve the statues for her. “It was so much fun modeling the poses for him,” she said, holding the statue up with both hands for all of us to admire. “And I want you to have something to remember our experience by. I hope these will continue to inspire you in your practice wherever you go from here!”

  A statue of Indra to take home with me. I immediately found it both exciting and weird. It could help me to remember all of the good things Indra’s taught me, I thought. But then I looked at her more closely. I saw the way she held the statue of herself up to the light, like a precious, priceless offering, and I felt so strange; like I was retreating from her, as if she had something catching. Something like hypocrisy. She has pointed out every flush of ego she detects in me, and yet there she was, worshiping her own effigy?

  I knew I didn’t want the one of Indra in a Forward Bend.

  She held the statue out for all of us to get a better look. “Now, back home, these would go for fifty, sixty dollars apiece. Balinese crafts are in high demand! But since we’re in Bali”—she looked at Lou and smiled, and her voice was all business, like SuZen’s—“I’m not going to name a price for them. Instead, we’ll do it the way the Balinese do. We’ll haggle!”

  A few muted chuckles broke out around the circle. Jason leaned in to take the statue from Indra. He ran his fingers over it. “These are brilliant,” he said.

  Indra pushed the duffel bag to the center of the circle. “There’s enough here for everyone to get one and even buy a few gifts for family and friends. Who knows, maybe it’ll inspire them to start their own yoga practice!”

  Most of my yogamates got up and offered her thirty, forty dollars for their statues. I didn’t. I don’t know if Indra noticed it or not. I just couldn’t do it. I felt like the wantilan had suddenly become an open-air market, and even if a part of me wanted a statue to bring home and place on my shelf, an object that I could point out to friends as proof of my spiritual journey, I didn’t want it like this. The last thing I want to do with my yoga teacher is haggle.

  I just asked Jessica if she bought one—she’s listening to her Walkman on the edge of the veranda—and she said no. “But I have money issues, remember?” she said.

  I think it’s the first time I’ve heard Jessica be sarcastic. And I gotta say—I kind of liked it.

  Later

  I forgot to mention something Jessica told me last night. Apparently, while I was trapped in my bathroom cell and sleeping on the futon downstairs, Jessica woke up in the middle of the night to find a mop levitating in our open window! It hung in the air for a while, and then started thrusting in and out of the house, rattling the windowpane. I asked her if it was just a surreal sex dream or something, but she swore on Saraswati that it wasn’t. She said it really happened. We have a ghost. Supposedly. A Mop Ghost. Forgive me if I’m not terribly frightened.

  Anyway, she didn’t tell me about it until last night, because she didn’t want to worry me when I was sick. I think that was a wise decision. I love ghost stories, but not if I’m sleeping by myself in a bathroom. I guess Noadhi’s going to come by tomorrow to purify the house, so we have to spend the day in town. Maybe tomorrow’s a good day to see some monkeys.

  April 20

  Eating fruit before class. I forgot to drink pee again this morning. Bad! Oh, well. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be inspired. Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe I won’t be.

  I’m tired, I’m sore, my brain is exploding with the names of ligaments and tendons and ideas for yogic “brands,” and the idea of going to class and listening to Indra laugh it up with SuZen and Marianne just isn’t sounding that good.

  Today’s date is trying to tell me something. Is it somebody’s birthday? Shoot, I really can’t recall, but I know that there is something I’m supposed to remember about today. It’s been so long since I’ve even checked my e-mail—I keep thinking of these e-mails to send people, but then I don’t get around to it. I’m completely out of touch with the outside world. It’s hard to imagine ever going back.

  Later

  When we sat in our check-in circle this morning, Indra looked at me and smiled. I wanted to be wary and guarded and say something about how uncomfortable I was with the haggling yesterday, but I couldn’t help myself, I grinned right back at her, like a trained monkey. Then she said, “So, Suzanne and SuZen, I think we have a little problem with your names.” Everybody laughed. Then she turned to me. “Suzanne, how would you feel if we changed your name? What if we called you Suzie from here on out?”

  Um. Suzie is not the name of my higher self. Her name is Suzanne. Or, you know—Suzananda. But I knew what I was supposed to say. I’ve been here long enough. I was supposed to say something like Of course you may call me Suzie. One string of syllables is the same as any other in this capacious ocean that is existence.

  Honestly, though, I didn’t think it would be a big deal. Most of my family members call me Suzie, I went by Suzie until high school. I didn’t see any reason not to go for it. So I said sure, no problem.

  Holy cannoli, it was a problem.

  Class started out just fine. As we moved through the first few slow rounds of Sun Salutations, I felt like I was clawing my way out of the mood I woke up in. I felt my body wake up with the stretches and lunges. I wondered if I might not clear my head of all those nagging, grumpy voices and get back my post-kundalini high.

  Then something happened. We were halfway through our fifth round when Indra spoke to me. “Tuck your pelvis, Suzie,” she said.

  I was startled out of my meditation by the name. Suzie. I tried to keep my mind focused on my breath, but inexplicably I felt a little knot of fear in my throat.

  I did what she said, and tucked my pelvis, but at the same time I felt my heart tighten into a fist, and my eyes became wet with something like indignation, or resentment. I tried to wrestle these feelings to the ground: Why fear? Why indignation? Why now? I thought I’d moved past the fears that brought me here. I thought my breakthrough had purged me, liberated me. So why were they coming back?

  I glanced at Indra, her braids swinging around her face, and became aware of a sort of rage gathering around my sudden and unbidden understanding: Indra could do nothing for me anymore. I felt SuZen somewhere in the room, enjoying her own name as well as Indra’s friendship and attentions. And I hated my nickname, the way it reduced me to Little Suzie, to Suzie-Q, to Thister Thuzie Thittin’ on a Thithle.

  “That’s right, Suzie, there you go,” she said.

  I could feel the tendons in my throat. My windpipe burned with each inhalation. I thrust my arms toward the ceiling in the next pose in the series, and then dove downward to Standing Forward Bend, my throat aching. My teeth clamped down on the smooth flesh of my cheeks, my jaw slid forward and froze.

  I pushed my left leg back, then my right, in Plank Pose. We held that push-up for longer than any human need ever hold a push-up. The longer we stayed there, the hotter and tighter my heart felt, as if it were on fire. As if it were creeping up my throat. I imagined my heart flying from my mouth and exploding like a firebomb, igniting the wantilan, consuming all of us.

  In Downward Dog, my arms shook.

  “Strength, Suzie!”

  Adrenaline coursed through me like it did when I was a kid, playing tag, my older brother chasing me, yelling my name, Suzie. I imagined the fire blowing the roof off the wantilan in a great explosion of sparks and black smoke. I wanted to fly up in a plume of that black smoke, retrieve the roof as it blew away, and then bring it back down to earth to break over SuZen’s head. Or perhaps I could simply kick my legs up into handstand and walk across the burning wood on
my hands, weaving a path around charred yogis in Upward Dog, circling back to SuZen’s precious designer mat and there I would kick, kick, kick my legs in the air, knocking her into a ball, rolling her around the circumference of the wantilan until she cried out for mercy.

  Suzananda Eleison, she would cry, Suzanne have mercy!

  Give me my name, I would growl, kick-kick-kicking. Give me my name, SuZen, give me my real name, you Sue-One-Hand-Clapping.

  And then Lou made a mistake. “Pelvis down, Suzanne,” he said. “I mean—Suzie.”

  We lifted our arms to the ceiling, our heads back, and I felt water running into my ears and down my jaw and neck. We lowered our arms in a swan dive and folded our bodies in Forward Bends. Water ran like fingertips up my forehead and into my hair, tickling my scalp. I held the backs of my legs, wiping my wet cheeks on my calves.

  Right leg back in Warrior One, eyes straight ahead, I was drowning, I was sick, my rib cage rising and falling in choppy waves.

  I didn’t know what was happening to me. I was overwhelmed. I hated myself for crying, for being so stupid and emotional over a name, but hating myself only made me cry more.

  An hour passed. Each time I caught my breath and thought I was back in control, Indra or Lou would call me Suzie and I was consumed again by a dark ache. I relived twenty-five years of that name, images of my parents and brothers and sister flashing in front of me, my grandparents, great-grandparents, my friends, all of them calling me Suzie, their own. The place where I am Suzie is the place I will be leaving soon, maybe forever. Home.

  When I lay down on my mat to rest, I caught my breath for a moment before the quaking began again. And then, I swear to God, I split in two.

  I rose up to the woven ceiling of the wantilan, and I hovered with the geckos in the rafters. I looked down at myself. I was the brunette on the pink mat. I saw her crying. And then I was next to her, on the wooden floor beside her mat. I slid my arm under her waist, where I could feel her breath starting and stopping. I pressed my body into hers until she became still, and I could feel her heart beating in my chest. And then, without saying a word, I reminded her that today is the day Jonah moves to New York.