I.
I’m supposed to be melting.
Melting like candle wax, she said. But I’m thinking: It’s just yoga. Why is it so hard? How can my muscles be so tight? I can’t reach as far as I used to, can’t fold as tight as I used to, can’t hold my balance for two seconds.
I’m looking at the geometrical things on the ceiling: squares, rectangles, circles. And I’m wondering how long we have been lying here. Are we going to spend a third of the class in corpse pose? She did say it was a very important part of the practice.
It only feels like wasting time because I’m not good at it yet. I have to learn to melt.
II.
This time she didn’t say to melt. She gets us into the corpse pose, and then we hear her walk to the door and leave.
In my mind, I see her going out for a smoke break. Maybe because most of the people I’ve known who leave at inappropriate times are being controlled by a cigarette habit. At the same time, I doubt this is true.
I am a terrible dead person. I feel all fidgety and I want to look around at the other people pretending to be dead. I have to adjust my pony tail because it is a hard lump under my head. The polished wood floor is cold beneath my right hand.
After an incredibly long time, she brings us back to life and reads a quote – the one that she had printed out when she left the room.
III.
This time my corpse is contained within the space allotted by the mat. The air feels cold and I know the floor will be colder.
We have a different instructor this time, one who doesn’t believe that dying is the most important part of the practice. She has led us on a complicated trail of poses that I could not begin to attempt. I spent much of the time in the simpler poses that led to the harder ones, waiting for the flexible folk to finish and come back to something I could do.
Still, I can see that I am improving, if only a little. Here and there something is easier than it was before, and this makes me feel less frustrated and hopeless.
IV.
Back to the original instructor. She has given us the suggestion that we send positive thoughts to both our inner and our outer selves. The focus has been on accepting our abilities, whatever they are.
This causes a struggle in my brain, as it is having trouble forming a positive statement that doesn’t sound like a backhanded compliment: “You’re doing fine, considering how much you’ve let yourself go.” After a minute or so, I give up on this.
It’s so quiet and it takes so long this time that it begins to feel like a kindergarten nap time. Only much quieter, because we are now adults and can’t giggle and fake snore. I get restless and I take a peek at the silent teacher. She is sitting up, her glasses bright with the reflection of something on her smart phone.
I move my dead arms, crack my dead neck. I look at my neighbors. The younger one is also fidgeting.
When you are ready, slowly come back to life.