A Few Seconds of Magic

A Few Seconds of Magic

(Submitted to Yoga Diary section of Yoga Journal)

     My balance isn’t what it used to be so when my yoga teacher Missy announced that we were going to do “Dancer,” my heart sank.  It’s a beautiful pose and when Missy demonstrates it, she looks graceful and strong.  Like a dancer.  But when I’d tried it in the past, I toppled over before getting into the full posture. 

     Today I was feeling peaceful and positive as I listened to the soft piano music and Missy’s encouraging voice.  “Try to relax and relinquish control.  Just flow into the pose.”  She explained that we often try to control the people and events in our lives, but we can only direct our own thoughts and actions.

     Reflecting on Missy’s words, I willed my body to let go.  Gazing at a point ahead, I bent one leg up behind me and grabbed my foot.  I extended the opposite arm up for balance.  As I straightened my grounded leg and pushed into the floor, I felt strong.  Slowly, I let my outstretched arm lower while bending forward with my head high and chest up.  I slowly pulled my back leg up with my other hand.

     The calm of the music and my mind relaxed any tension in my body.  I pushed away lingering concerns in my head and my movements flowed effortlessly.  For a few seconds, I did feel dancer-like:  graceful and strong.  Then I lost my balance and fell out of the pose.  I smiled:  What a magical few seconds those were.

Missy's Music

                                                                             Missy’s Music

                                             by Ellen Resnick

                                          (250-word essay submitted to Joga Journal for "Yoga Diary" section)

It was my first yoga class with Missy, and as I entered the large, well-lit gymnasium at the Naples recreation center, I felt disoriented: I’m a snowbird, used to taking classes up north in an intimate studio with lit candles and burning incense. Unrolling my mat, I reminded myself that where I practiced yoga was not as important as being present and trying my best.

 

But then Missy bounded in and set up her sound system. As we settled into Child’s Pose, she turned the switch and rock music exploded into the gym. For the next hour, I struggled through my Vinyasa practice to the tunes of Red Hot Chili Peppers and MCYogi. Didn’t Missy understand that we were there not only for the physical benefits, but also to escape the sensory overload of everyday life? I yearned for my New Jersey class, where the only sounds were the teacher’s gentle voice guiding us through poses; the Tibetan singing bowl rousing us from Shavasana; and the final collective “Om.”

 

Despite my initial dismay over Missy’s music, I continued to attend her classes. Over time, Missy’s upbeat teaching style helped me push aside my judgments, and I began to appreciate and even jive to her music. Now, you’ll often find me swaying my hips during Chair Pose or humming in Side Angle Pose. Missy’s music has added energy and playfulness to my yoga practice that I would never have expected. Rock on, Missy! Teach to the beat of your own drum.

Pierce Manor

Pierce Manor
by Ellen Resnick

March 8, 1966.  The day I celebrated my 8^th birthday.

Also the day Wendy Wolin died.

I wonder if she took her last breath at the same moment

I extinguished the colorful candles

placed by my mother in a line across my birthday cake,

with one in front for good luck.

We found out about the tragedy the next day.

She was standing at the bottom of the driveway

that curved up behind the tall red brick apartment buildings

that was home.  Pierce Manor.

Waiting for her mother to bring the car around

from the parking lot.

Who knows where Wendy and her mom were planning to go,

maybe shopping in town or out for a slice of pizza.

Who knows how long she stood there before the man

approached her.

Did he say anything first?

Did he smile at her and did she smile back?

Or did he rush over with muscles tense, looking side to side

to make sure no one was watching.

Wendy stepping back instinctively, knowing something bad

was going to happen.

Maybe she simply stood on the corner facing the driveway where her

mother’s car was about to appear over the hill.

Waiting patiently.  Unsuspecting.

We read in the newspaper that she said “a man punched me”

to the men in the firehouse across the street,

as blood patches soaked the front of her overcoat.

I don’t remember Wendy’s face,

but I think I would know it if I saw her photo.

I do remember that our town, Elizabeth, changed

forever that day.

A sketch of the crazed man who took her life

hung for weeks on telephone poles, in supermarkets,

on the front page of the local newspaper.  

Every morning our mothers walked by our side

holding our hands tightly, 

as we marched in twos, big and small

towards Nicholas Murray Butler #23.

We formed a solid protective line

to and from school,

for weeks upon weeks.

I don’t think they ever found him.

I don’t remember when we began to walk to school

alone again.

But I will always remember that day.

My 8^th birthday.  The day Wendy Wolin died.