I originally wrote this blog in January of 2015. Though much has transpired between then and now, it still feels like a good introduction for this new site. It’s also really fun to look back at how relationships change and grow over the years. So without further ado, I give you Yogi Jess from early 2015.
About 4 years ago I was at work browsing Groupons and other social deals and not working, as I tend to do. I came across a deal for Hot Yoga and Pole Dancing (oooohh!) at a local-ish studio. So, as I also tend to do, I bought that sucker. I decided I would Not be doing the pole dancing portion (turns out they only offered the pole dancing like once a month), but would give the hot yoga a try. I had done yoga once before, but had done gymnastics and cheerleading most of my life growing up. I was a few years removed from “growing up” time, but figured it was like riding a bike. Also, I was taking college classes at the time and had signed up for a gym class, so it was pretty much like I was in shape already. A few weeks later I bought some new yoga pants, got a pedicure, and signed up for my first class. February 1. It was a Tuesday. I brought my sweet new yoga clothes with me to change and go straight from work. I announced to all my (all male) co-workers that I would trying hot, sweaty yoga, and I was hoping not to die. They were more concerned with the flexible details of a hot yoga class than they were with my hydration level or possible death. Anyway, no thanks to them, I didn’t die. As my schedule permitted, I attended hot yoga once a week on Tuesday afternoons for the length of my discount deal. It felt nice, and the instructor was in hella good shape, so I figured I would probably get jacked like her if I continued. I bought a 10 class pass when my deal was up.
Fast forward to May. My handsome sailor husband deployed. For 7 months. I had been living there like a year and half. I had Some friends, I knew some people from work, but I didn’t have a dedicated hang out group to speak of. I saw a girl I knew in the grocery store the week before he left and I cried on her shoulder in the produce section. I’m a fairly independent lady, but 7 months of solitude is kind of a tough pill to swallow. He left on a Wednesday. The studio offered a level 2 (I think they were calling it advanced hot yoga, which sounded really scary, but they turned the heat off, so it wasn’t actually hot) yoga class on Wednesday nights. I decided, since I had some free time on my hands, that I would give it a try. If you do not believe in fate or divine intervention, stop reading now, cause *spoiler alert* I’m bouts to talk about it. I was meant to be in that class. My teacher, who I’m not convinced was not heaven sent, was married to a private security contractor who worked overseas for a few months at a time. She was on some sort of study grant leave program while she wrote her dissertation for her Ph.D. She did research and yoga. And loved them both the same. (and fun side note: I took my first class with her the day hubby deployed, and the last time I saw her was at a party at her house the week before he returned home… tell me she wasn’t my deployment angel) She challenged me mentally and physically in every practice. She was the most handsy teacher I’ve ever had. She made me feel the poses. She wasn’t my only teacher there, but she was My teacher. Yoga was transforming every inch of my body and brain. I was not only coping with deployment, but thriving. One day after she started back teaching at the college, she came to yoga in a whirlwind. Her hair was a mess, she looked pissed, and frazzled, and just tired. I don’t remember what pace her class was that night, but I remember the look of peace on her face when we were done. Yoga works even when you are teaching it.
The studio I spent 3+ hours a day at all summer and fall closed that November. I had just enough time to get ready for my husband to come home. Months passes and I attended some workshops here and there, tried out a few other local-ish studios, but nothing really felt like home. Late that summer I was Googling yoga studios in Hampton, VA, as I did pretty religiously at least once or 10 times a month, and, One Popped Up. OMG. It wasn’t open yet, but it Was Opening!
When the day arrived, I got a pedicure, put on my coolest new yoga threads, and carried my Christmas Manduka to the studio. The studio was owned by a devastatingly attractive husband and wife team (we’ll call them Yoga Dude and Yoga Lady). He was the outgoing, she was the tender. They were awesome. They Looked about my age, but because they owned a studio (as their side gig to day jobs as aerospace engineers) and had their shit together, I assumed they were at least a few years older than me and yoga was keeping them young looking. After my first class, I decided. These are my people. I started back to school and life got busy. I caught a class here and there. One night I was in a level 2 class with Yoga Dude and I was attempting something relatively difficult. I was completely capable of this difficult thing, but was just a little out of practice. As Yoga Dude tended to do, he had a little word of wisdom as we were all trying to contort into some glorious pretzelesque shape. I don’t remember the exact words, but it was something about Regularly and Continually showing up on our mats. Got it, Dude. Hear ya, loud and clear. The more I was around Lady and Dude, the more I learned, and the more I loved them. The next summer I decided to commit to Yoga Teacher Training with them. I finally convinced SS (step-son) to take a class with me. His dad was working, so we made a date night out of yoga and a movie. Yoga Dude taught class seemingly just For SS. He used words non-yogi teenagers would understand. He adjusted SS to make sure he was feeling what he should be in each pose. He ended class with the most amazing meditation about sharing love to rekindle sparks in others when theirs may be almost out. It was so beautiful we all cried.
The next day Yoga Dude died in a plane crash. He was 31. My age. He left behind Yoga Lady and 6 month old Yoga Baby, and one large, aching Tribe. It was a dark and sad time for a while, however, from such a tragedy I’ve seen new things born. I said earlier that Yoga Lady was the tender one. And she is. But I have learned so much more of her and about her since then. She is without a doubt the bravest, most genuine person I know. Even though she’s less than a year older than me, I kinda want to be her when I grow up (and with a slightly different understanding of time, it’s totally possible). She led our small yoga teacher training group with grace, and sometimes tears. We all started to heal. When I teach, yoga works on me, not just my students. Our studio has truly become the Tribe it was intended to be in the wake. I’ve made more friends in a quiet yoga room than it even makes sense to have. Yoga makes me sore and heals my body. It breaks my heart wide open and fills it back up. At the risk of sounding super dramatic, yoga is the piece I’ve been missing for a while. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it feels good, but it’s always with me. It’s always mine to keep and mine to share.
The Trailer Park Yogi 