Balancing Acts (6 page)

Next time, she would say hello. Well, maybe not. No, she would. She was going to and that was final. No excuses.

T
hat one kind of looks like a robin, don't you think, Noah?” asked Naomi. She looked at her son, walking beside her—his long eyelashes all she could see peeking out from the insulated hood of his down parka. It was a brisk afternoon, but they had decided to take the long way home from school. Naomi loved these walks with her boy. Sometimes, his little paw would drift into hers and her heart would melt as they ambled through the park, looking at birds and trees—talking about the pleasures and perils of an eight-year-old's life.

Noah's hand in hers was so warm and small. Naomi knew all to well that these were her last chances at Noah hand-holding. Soon, he would think that gesture too babyish. It was the circle of life.

“Mmm, not really, Mom,” answered Noah. “It's not even red!”

“Good point. Maybe I just want it to be a robin because that would mean that spring was on its way.”

“Mommmm, it's not even February yet! We have a long winter ahead of us.” Like his mother, Noah was very matter of fact about most things. But about winter they differed. He never started climbing the frozen walls of April like Naomi did, praying for leaves on trees and warm sun. Whenever Naomi had a hissy fit, which happened like clockwork around the last week of April every year, Noah would pat her on the head and tell her, in sweet little-boy speak, to get a grip.

“Spring is in May, almost June, Mom,” he would say. “That's just how it is.” Then he would grab a cookie and saunter back into the living room, leaving Naomi shaking her head and mumbling, “You're right, Noah. I know you're right.”

Here again, she found herself adhering to Noah's season-coping strategy. “I know, Noah. Spring is many, many miles away. Point taken. How was school today?”

“It was okay,” answered Noah, as he stopped to try to make a ball out of some slushy snow. Rolling it proved impossible, so he stopped midway with a sigh. “This snow sucks.”

“Hey, hey,” reprimanded Naomi. “I don't like that word.”

“What,
snow
?” asked Noah, with a lopsided grin.

“You know what word I mean,” said Naomi. “There are so many words to use, why use—”

“An easy one that requires no thought,” finished Noah. “I know. This snow is. . .” he searched his mind for the appropriate word. “Useless!”

Naomi laughed. “Much better. It is pretty useless. It's more like slushy ice.”

“When Dad and I were out last weekend there was some good snow. We made a snow cat.”

Naomi fought to keep herself from making a face. Whenever Noah mentioned his dad, she reflexively tensed up. Gene had come back into Noah's life in the past year. Even acknowledging it mentally made her angry and defensive. She knew that having him around was good for Noah, but she couldn't help but feel as though she were waiting for Gene to mess up royally. She didn't trust him for a minute, and she fought with herself internally every time Noah expressed happiness about their newly formed relationship.

“Oh yeah?” she asked, battling the urge to make a sarcastic remark. “What's a snow cat?”

Noah took her hand again, instantly calming her down. Even though she tried hard to maintain a neutral front, Noah somehow knew, with wisdom way beyond his eight years, that Gene made her nervous.

“It's what you make when there's not enough snow to make a man,” Noah explained.

Naomi laughed. “That's resourceful. What did you use for whiskers?”

“Straws! That was Dad's idea. It looked pretty cool. We took some pictures.”

Gene was a photographer. That was how he and Naomi had met, so many years before. They had both been somewhat big shots on the New York underground photography scene. Now Naomi could barely pick up a camera and mostly felt zero connection to what had once been her biggest passion.

Gene, on the other hand, had turned his skill into a full-blown career as a fashion photographer. When his photos first started appearing in magazines, Naomi had not been surprised. The perks of that job—young, beautiful women, drugs, and a jet-setting lifestyle—all seemed like perfect matches for a man with eternal Peter Pan syndrome.

While Naomi had been changing diapers and wrestling with strollers on subways, Gene was screwing his way through Milan. Now, only when Noah was more of a buddy than a baby, was Gene back in his life. Gene had missed so much, and willingly at that. Naomi wasn't sure if she could ever forgive him or take him seriously. The mere mention of his name made her want to scream.

“I can't wait to see them,” said Naomi, regaining her composure for Noah's sake. “Hey, what do you know about yoga?” she asked him, eager to change the subject.

“Oh, yoga is cool,” said Noah. “We did it at school once. It's when you stretch and think about stuff,” he added knowingly.

Naomi smiled. “Think about stuff?” she asked.

“Yeah, you know. You close your eyes and are quiet on the inside,” he explained.

Wow,
thought Naomi,
my own little Zen master.
“Good definition, monkey,” she said. “I'm going to start taking a class on Saturdays for a while.”

“Cool!” answered Noah. “Can I do it, too?”

“Mmmm, I don't think so,” said Naomi. “This is something that I'll do myself.” Noah's face crumpled a bit as he turned to face Naomi. Her heart smushed, seeing him look so forlorn.

“Don't worry,” she said as she squeezed his hand.

“What about Saturdays at the park?” asked Noah, a slight whine creeping into his voice.

“We'll still go to the park. My class is early in the morning. I'll be home by noon and then we'll go. You won't even know I'm gone.”

“Who's going to stay with me? Dad?”

Naomi tensed involuntarily. “No, Cecilia will come over and fix you cereal. She'll hang out for a bit and then, before you know it, I'll be back.”

Noah digested the information as they walked. “Okay. Will she watch cartoons with me?”

“Maybe. Or you can watch them yourself while she does some of her work.”

“Okay, Mom,” said Noah, agreeing to the setup. “That works.” He dropped her hand. “Will you show me some of your stretchy moves?”

Naomi laughed. “Yes, I will show you all of my new stretchy monkey moves.”

“Monkey moves!” repeated Noah, laughing. “I like that.” They were almost home now—the wind whipping a bit faster and colder as the sun set.

“Mom, can I get a cupcake?” He gestured ahead of them toward his favorite bakery. Two blocks from their apartment, it had the most amazing vegan confections. Naomi had winced originally at the mere thought of sweets without the sweet, but even she had to agree that the cupcakes and cookies were delicious. Naturally, she and Noah were not alone in their love of these confections. It appeared as though every Bugaboo-pushing mother in a fifteen-mile radius had also gotten the memo. Every time Naomi and Noah went or even just strolled by, the front door was always swarming with what seemed to be hundreds of them, talking about the merits of breast-feeding. Naomi didn't smoke, but she often fantasized about lighting up a cigarette in the middle of the swarm, just to witness the mass mayhem.

“Sure, you can eat it after dinner. I'll get one, too.”

“You get chocolate and I'll get vanilla,” demanded Noah, skipping ahead of her a bit to part the sea of strollers first. His brown curls bounced out from underneath his wool cap with each stride. “We'll split 'em!”

“Deal!” answered Naomi, quickening her pace to keep up with her boy.

L
uuuuuucy, I'm hooooome,” bellowed Julian as he entered the sun-dappled studio. George and Michael scampered in in front of him, their tiny nails skittering over the hardwood floors.

Charlie peeked her head into the front room. She had been at the studio for a couple of hours—first running her Sunrise Class at the crack of dawn and then preparing for the first installment of her Saturday class with Naomi, Sabine, and Bess. After her discussion with Felicity, she had decided to push it back an hour earlier, to 9
AM.

Luckily, the women had all agreed—Bess and Sabine halfheartedly, as they had to commute from the city. As much as Charlie had been comfortable defending the class's financial viability to Felicity, she did have a point. Naomi was occupying their most profitable day with a tiny class. Better to make it as early as possible.

“Hey, Julian,” answered Naomi.

“Good morning, my love,” said Julian, as he unzipped his lean frame from a long, puffy coat and hung it in the closet. “It is cold as a witch's tit!”

“What does that even mean?”

“I have no idea. But my Gramma always used to say it. Gramma Joan. She was a firecracker, God rest her soul. Used to sip a glass of bourbon every night during the winter. She would pour herself up a cup and talk about witch's tits while I sashayed around the house in her pearls.”

“No way! Really?”

“No. At least, not the pearls part. I always like to say that though.” Julian kneeled and unzipped George and Michael from their respectively ridiculous coats. “I wasn't aware enough to know that I even wanted to wear the pearls, truth be told. But maybe I did sashay a bit instinctively.”

Charlie smiled, envisioning a mini, gawky Julian. She looked at the clock. It was ten to nine. “My ladies should be here in a minute.”

“Oh right, your BU class! Felicity told me about it.”

“Was she freaking out? She wasn't so jazzed on the idea when I told her.”

“She wasn't freaking out really. Just concerned about the time and the size.”

“I know. But I promise that this class is a good thing. They're forking over a nice chunk of change and the class is early enough that it doesn't cut into the day really.”

“Hey, I trust you,” said Julian, sprinkling some flaxseed into his yogurt. “You know what you're doing. I am glad you pushed it to an earlier hour, though.”

“Thanks, Julian.”

She heard footsteps on the stairs. Sabine walked in, her mass of dark hair concealed beneath a gigantic, rose-colored knit cap. She pulled it off and smiled nervously at Charlie.

“Hey!” Charlie greeted her warmly.

“Good morning, Charlie.” She giggled nervously. “Don't they say that in
Charlie's Angels
? You know, when they gather around the phone and talk to the mysterious voice?”

“They do!” agreed Julian. “I never thought of that.”

“Hi,” said Sabine, extending her hand. “I'm Sabine.”

“I'm Julian. Welcome to Prana!”

“Oh thanks, I'm excited to be here.” Sabine unzipped her coat and Charlie showed her the closet.

“You can hang it here,” she explained. “How are you?”

“I'm good. A little nervous.”

“What's to be nervous about?” She put her arm around Sabine's shoulders. “This is going to be fun and relaxing,” she said. “No nerves.”

Sabine smiled at Charlie. “No nerves,” she repeated. She couldn't help but envision her terrible flexibility ruining the entire class. She had tried to touch her toes the night before in an attempt to limber up, but she hadn't even made it to her knees. It wasn't pretty.

“Hey!” they heard behind them. They turned to see Bess and then Naomi as she appeared behind her. Both were ensconced in their urban winter gear—only their bright eyes and chapped lips peeking out from gigantic, fake fur–rimmed down hoods. They unzipped themselves as Sabine, Charlie, and Julian greeted them—the studio suddenly abuzz with laughter and electricity.

Despite her original intention of merely running a Saturday class, Charlie already felt herself warming to them. It was like freshmen year all over again, except Charlie had always been too focused and consumed by her schoolwork to reciprocate her classmates' kindness. She paused, remembering how lonely she had felt in those first months, choosing—instead of making friends and hitting the requisite Landsdowne bars with abandon—to hole herself up in the library. If she could go back in time and change her behavior though, would she? Would she be here today if she had taken a different turn at an earlier point in her path? She thought so—her life had never felt so refreshingly “hers” and ultimately, so right—but she couldn't be sure. Inevitably, she thought of Neil.

“Hey Charlie, where do we get our mats?” asked Naomi, shaking her out of her nostalgic coma.

“Oh, in the classroom there's a pile of them against the wall,” she answered, leading the way. She pointed to the wall. “Just grab one.”

Bess and Sabine followed behind her, each one of them selecting a mat from the wall.

“Wow, what a gorgeous studio,” said Bess, taking in the stark white walls, the huge windows, and the waxed wood floors. “I really like how spare it is. It's soothing.”

“Oh thanks,” answered Charlie, pleased by the compliment. They had taken great pains to create a soothing atmosphere—ripping up the floors, knocking down walls, and painting over years of city soot on the walls. It was a labor of love, no doubt, but it was definitely labor.

“Okay, if you have a seat, we can get started,” said Charlie. Bess, Sabine, and Naomi were all standing awkwardly in the middle of the studio, clutching their mats with apprehension. Charlie was suddenly sure that they hadn't looked much different fourteen years earlier, arriving at college with their suitcases and shower caddies—their clothes smelling of Mom's detergent. Their nervousness was endearing, but Charlie had to nip it in the bud now, if she expected them to get anywhere in that morning's class. They had only six weeks, after all. They had to let go.

Bess spread out her mat carefully and sat at its edge. Yoga had never held an iota of interest for her before. She preferred running. It wasn't a workout for her unless she felt like she might die around the halfway point. She thought about her article and closed her eyes, pretending to relax although her mind was racing. She would try to take the subway back in with Sabine after class. That way, she could start gathering some information for the article. Six weeks felt like an impossibly short amount of time to get to know these women inside and out, but she didn't have a choice. She had to make every minute count.

“Hey Bess,” whispered Charlie, “ease up honey.” She took Bess's hands, which were balled into fists by her side, and unfurled them. “Don't think right now, just be.” Although Bess's eyes were closed, she rolled them. Already, yoga annoyed her. Such was the sacrifice she had to make though. She took a deep breath.

Naomi perched on the end of her mat. It had been so long since she had truly acknowledged her body. She couldn't remember a time postpregnancy that she had given it her undivided attention like this. She looked down at her belly, slightly protruding over the waistband of her pants as she sat, cross-legged. And there were her breasts, firmly contained within the impenetrable shield of her sports bra but considerably less perky than they had been before Noah. She straightened her spine and took a deep breath.
This is not about perky breasts,
she reminded herself. Her brief experience with prenatal yoga had been refreshingly devoid of any physical insecurities, but Naomi suspected that had to do much more with maternal celebration of the baby growing inside her than with the state of her self-confidence.

“I want to take a moment to welcome you all here,” began Charlie. “I am honored to introduce you to yoga. I know you must all be slightly intimidated by the idea of moving your bodies in new ways. Maybe you're a bit apprehensive about the idea of letting your minds go and of connecting with a much more interior sense of being. All of that is completely normal.”

Sabine listened intently to Charlie, somewhat entranced by the soothing nature of her voice. Already she felt her tension subsiding.

“Before we begin, I want to talk a little bit about the type of yoga we will all be practicing here. We will be practicing vinyasa yoga, which is a technique that focuses on connecting our postures, or asanas, with our breath. Vinyasa is all about achieving balance through this connection.” Charlie paused, acknowledging the furrowed brows of her pupils. She was losing them. “This all sounds horribly technical, I know, but once we begin, it will seem far less textbook and, hopefully, much more organic. Eventually, to maintain our asanas, we'll be incorporating some of the blocks, blankets, and straps you saw against the back wall when you came in.”

Sabine turned her head to examine the wall of props. This was sounding far less enticing than it had at alumni night. She had been seduced by the thought of sinuous arm muscles a la Gwyneth and now, finding out that she would be strapped into some kind of yogic torture device for the next six Saturdays, her own floppy triceps were sounding much more like something she could live with. She sighed deeply.

“Sabine, I hope that's a sigh of extreme excitement,” joked Charlie. Sabine blushed. Subtlety was not her strong suit.

“I want you all to close your eyes, please,” continued Charlie. “Connect with your bodies. Feel the way your neck sits on top of your shoulders and your shoulders extend into your arms, and your arms into your outstretched hands.”

Bess unclenched her hands, which were rolled into tight fists again, despite Charlie's unfurling of them just minutes before.
Take it easy, Bess,
she said to herself. She wondered if her nervousness was just a natural product of her covert intentions, or whether she was just wound up beyond repair by nature.

“I'd like to start class in what is called Vajrasana, or thunderbolt,” said Charlie. “Sit on your heels with your knees and feet together and your arms above your head,” she began.

God, this feels gooood,
thought Bess, surprised. Knots she didn't even know she had unclenched as she stretched toward the ceiling.

“Okay, now exhale and lower your arms with your palms facing down,” said Charlie, as the women all released collective
whooshes
of relief.

“Let's do it again,” said Charlie, taking the women through the second of four of the stretches.

She circled the room, cognizant of how tough the class would be for Sabine, Bess, and Naomi just because of the nature of yoga. It wasn't something that you reaped the benefits from physically until you were relatively comfortable with the process. It was nearly impossible to relax when every movement was new and challenging. She hoped that their six classes together would be enough to establish a true level of comfort for all of them.

“Throughout class, I would like you all to be as mindful as possible about your breathing—inhaling and exhaling fully and deeply,” Charlie explained. “I know it can be difficult to move through these foreign positions and keep track of your breath, but I also know that the flow of the two into each other will become more comfortable for you as time goes on.” She smiled reassuringly.

Sabine opened one eye quizzically. She could barely walk and chew gum at the same time, much less be mindful of her breathing while she contorted herself into pretzel-like positions. She thought of her mother in a yoga class and stifled a laugh. When she had mentioned the yoga class to her, she had given Sabine her standard advice: “Wear lipstick, for God's sake. There could be a young man there, you never know.” Sabine envisioned bringing Julian home and giving her mother a heart attack. “I met him in yoga class, Ma!” she would exclaim, as Julian pirouetted into the living room—George and Michael trotting in beside him.

“We're now going to move into Tadasana, or mountain pose. This is the basic standing pose,” said Charlie. The women stood up from their mats, following her direction. “Keep your spine straight and your feet together. Your heels and big toes should be touching each other. Keep your stomach in, Bess,” Charlie chided gently.

“From here, we move into Vrksasana, or the tree pose.” As she demonstrated the pose, she noticed Sabine struggling to maintain her balance. As she wobbled, her brow furrowed in obvious frustration. Charlie moved across the room to help her.

“Sabine, try to let go,” encouraged Charlie.

Sabine shook her head in frustration. “I'm sorry, Charlie,” she said. “I just can't get this.” Tears welled up in her eyes, much to her own horror.

“Hey,” whispered Charlie. “It's okay. Don't be so hard on yourself. Comfort here takes time and practice.” She wanted to go on to say that the pressure Sabine was putting on herself was the very thing preventing her from “getting it,” but her instincts (and the fact that Sabine was very near tears) told her that this was not the time.

“Stay for a few counts in this pose, breathing deeply,” instructed Charlie, moving from Sabine's side to address everyone. “Lower your arms and separate your palms. Straighten your right leg and stand again in Tadasana.”

The women looked at Charlie, clearly puzzled. “Mountain pose,” she translated. As if to say, “Oh, right!” they all relaxed into the now familiar pose.

“Now, repeat the tree pose on the opposite side,” said Charlie.

She moved to Bess's mat, watching as she, too, struggled with her balance. She had been noticing Bess's impatience since the start of class. It emanated from her like a toxic glow.

“Everything okay?” asked Charlie, as Bess wobbled wildly.

“Yeah yeah,” she replied. “This isn't so hard!” she puffed—her breath coming in short bursts.