Page 6 of Your Echo
2Trojans || Atlas Genius
STÉPHANIE
There’ssweat pooling between my boobs. I can feel it sliding down my skin and collecting in the bottom of my bra, which I’m now strongly regretting wearing. Puberty went easy on me back in the day. I used to feel self-conscious about being an A cup, but I’ve seen enough girls spill out of their leotards on stage over the years to have finally realized my itty bittynichonswere a gift in disguise. With most shirts you can’t even tell I’ve decided to go without, but I pulled a sports bra on today anyway.
“Thank you all for coming today,” I tell the crowd of ten seated on their mats in front of me, speaking in French first and then repeating myself in English. “I know it’s a little muggy, but I appreciate you being here.”
Even with the distraction of my boob sweat situation, I switch between languages seamlessly. I taught three hours of ballet today and I’m in full-on bilingual mode, my English so perfectly pronounced even an accent couch would have a hard time figuring out it’s my second language. The hard part is adjusting to the fact that I’m speaking to adults now, not eight-year old girls in slippers.
“I noticed some new faces here today, so we’re going to...”
I trail off for a moment as four guys turn off the path a few feet away and start heading towards us. They look like some kind of rock band, all of their arms covered in tattoos, their haircuts messy but clearly styled. What they don’t look like are people who came to Parc Lafontaine to meditate.
They keep coming closer and I flick my eyes back to the group in front of me, who are all staring expectantly as they wait for me to go on.
“...We’re going to get back to basics today and really work on building a strong foundation for our practice,” I continue in French. The rock band/troupe of male models hovers a few steps away and I motion for them to sit down. “Learning to meditate is like building a new muscle. It’s not all going to happen at once. You have to stretch yourself, test yourself, and, most importantly, you need to havepatiencewith yourself.”
“Damn. Yoga chick is hot.”
It’s just a whisper, so low I’m sure most of the group didn’t even pick up on the comment, but I see one of the guys’ mouths move along with the words.
So that’s what this is. Another group of douchebags who think it’s perfectly okay to barge in on my session and try out a few pick-up lines.
“Stop being an asshole, JP,” the guy next to him hisses, loud enough that some people in the group turn around to glare.
“Sorry,” the one who called me ‘yoga chick’ whisper-yells. “Whew, is it just me or is it really hot today?”
He reaches for the bottom of his shirt and the guy next to him hits him in the stomach.
“Leave. It. On.”
The second guy is so worked up I almost laugh and forget to be annoyed. They look so out of place right now, four hip guys with muscled arms sitting cross-legged in their skinny jeans behind a bunch of forty and fifty year-olds in track pants. My meditation students don’t seem so happy about the new company.
“Meditation is also asilentpractice,” I warn, giving the guys the kind of look I reserve for the worst of the eight year-olds. “So let’s begin by getting in touch with our breath.”
I lead the group through a few warm-up breathing exercises, closing my eyes and trying to tune into the sensation of my own inhales and exhales filling up my chest, but even when I’m not looking at them, all I can focus on are the guys at the back. They’re attractive, sure—in the kind of way I would have been all over as a teenager, at least—but what has my attention is how strangely familiar they look, like a question on a test I know I should have the answer to.
“It’s okay if you still have thoughts moving around in your head,” I tell the group. “That’s fine. Picture them slipping by like clouds across the sky. Let them be there, but also let them go. Don’t judge them, but don’t hold onto them. Just let them go.”
That was the hardest part for me when I first started coming to these classes myself.
Laissez-les, laissez-les,the teacher would say, over and over again, but the more I was told to let go, the tighter my thoughts seemed to hold on. Releasing myself into the moment has always been easy when I’m moving. When I dance, the world unravels itself into something that makes sense. I’m a vessel for emotion, but it doesn’t control me. Feelings pass through me like they’re shapes in the clouds and I’m the wind that pushes them.
Doing the same thing while sitting in a park took some practice, but giving up was never an option. I knew if I wanted to keep practicing the art of movement I would also need to learn the art of being still.
“Now, see if you can go a little deeper. Let the world around you fall away, and try to take your attention inwards. I know that’s hard to visualize, but try to imagine all your senses—all the information your body is giving you about this park right now—just slowing down...Slowing down with your heartbeat...Slowing down with your breath...”
I open my eyes a crack to make sure I haven’t totally lost the group. A few of them have their eyes squeezed shut so tight they look like they’re in pain, mouths set in harsh lines of concentration. I make a mental note to focus more on relaxation next week.
I shift my attention to the back row. Three of the guys are sitting there with their hands on their knees, chests rising and falling in slightly different rhythms from one another.
The fourth one is staring right at me.
My eyes fly all the way open, and the steady breaths I was keeping up stop altogether for a second.
He has his chin propped in one of his hands, and he doesn’t seem at all embarrassed to have me catch him staring. I take in the strong lines of his face, the sandy hair falling across his forehead. He’s wearing a thick metal ring on his index finger.
Je le connais, I can’t help thinking.I know this guy from somewhere.
