Robert Steven Williams

In my new novel My Year As A Clown, yoga plays a role in Chuck Morgan's post-divorce life, despite a rough start. Here's the scene with his first class...


I grab a yoga mat, kick off my shoes, and open the frosted door. The studio is rectangular, sparse; the light is low and new age music floats in the air like incense. It’s a lot hotter here, it’s a change of seasons, but the parquet floor is cool to my bare feet, like fresh grass on a spring morning. A woman stands on her head in the center of the room. She's squat, short haired like one of those gold statues you see in a temple somewhere in India. Several other ladies are in yoga positions too. One looks like a pretzel, another appears to be folded in thirds. I grab a blue mat and set up in a spot furthest from anyone. I don't know any postures, all I know is the stretching I did as a kid. I lie on my back and tug my legs the way I used to in Little League.

By the time class starts there are twenty or so other women and one other guy -- he's in the far corner, as if not part of the group; he's a senior-citizen with straggly gray comb-over hair, he looks like a mutt on his last legs.

The woman who stood on her head approaches. "Have you done yoga before?" Her eyes are a cobalt blue and her voice is reminiscent of a high-school-gym teacher.

"Is it that obvious?" I say light heartedly.

"This is an Ashtanga class, a vigorous form of yoga, I don't recommend it for beginners."

"I didn't realize, I just wanted to give it a try. To be honest I was unaware that there were different types."

She sighs. "You can stay, but I won’t give you much guidance because it will only frustrate you, just watch, rest whenever necessary in child's position, listen to your body."

I want to ask what child's position is, but I’m too afraid. Only thoughts of Pauline keep me in that room.

The instructor calls everyone to the front of their mats. "Close your eyes and bring your hands to heart center."

We begin by chanting a Sanskrit prayer. I keep quiet until the 'om,' The vibration of ‘om’ is soothing and reminds me of the time Claudia and I stayed in a Buddhist monastery in the Japan Alps, chanting in a temple with a room full of monks.

I miss what the instructor says because I’m thinking about that Japanese trip. The class has gone into some sort of 'A' salvation. I watch and try to follow, but it's like doing the tango if you've never danced. Things move fast and it's hard while watching others do the postures. There's no instruction from the teacher either. I feel helpless, but I can’t give up now.

By the time I've figured out the routine, the group has moved on to what is called 'B' salvations, or at least that's what I heard. Whatever it is, the sequence is more challenging. I do my best, but it's not pretty and the sweat pools on my mat the way it does in my driveway after a thunderstorm.

Now everyone but me is standing with eyes closed.

The instructor commands us through a series of standing postures and she reminds me even more of Mr. Frostman from ninth-grade gym. I finally catch up to the rest of the class but these postures are impossible too. At least with direction I’m more at ease. She's telling us when to breathe and that's helpful, since mostly I hold my breath.

The positions have odd names, which I assume are also Sanskrit. I'm not catching the proper names, words like Prasaritta something and Chattanooga Vondashinu, but everyone else seems to understand. Each student moves with the precision of a solider and the grace of a dancer. I, on the other hand, am the clown, the court jester, the one always out of step and breath. I had no idea yoga meant learning a new language either. We are told to engage our locks -- I'd be happy to engage them if I knew what they were, but I don't dare ask or even look at the teacher. She might make me run laps, do a hundred push-ups or worse, turn me to stone.

There are attractive women here but the struggle to keep up makes it hard to appreciate them. I look ridiculous. My fleeting thoughts of making a positive impression for future opportunity is insane. These women must think I'm pathetic. They are strong and even the older ones don't break a sweat.

"Slide into downward dog," the instructor says. "Relax into this, it’s a resting position. If you're tired, retreat into child's position."

I’m on all fours to make an upside down 'V,' but this is no rest area. My shoulders are on fire. The back spasms and the arms buckle, but I’m too weak to retreat into child's position because every woman in the room holds firm. Maybe it’s the name of the position that makes this so difficult. Couldn't they have called it something more masculine? A pit stop, for instance. I'm dying to pull off the road, to cool my burning shoulders, but I'd rather suffer from a muscle pull than be the only one retreating into a kid's posture.

By the end of class I consider dialing 911. I had no idea how hard this was or that I would suck so bad. Even the old guy in the corner has me beat. I stumble out red-faced and exhausted.