Excerpt from
Yoga Bind
(chapter 1)

Barley soup.

 

The air feels so thick it conjures memories of Nana’s culinary specialty, of my cousins crammed around her wooden table with me, dipping crunchy homemade bread into a viscous masterpiece.

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I chuckle at the reminiscence, realizing I’ve inherited little from my late grandmother: not her considerable kitchen skills or her knitting ability, and definitely not her aversion to cities, places she had derisively dubbed “Filthyvilles.” What I did inherit was her desire to be a positive presence in the world.

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I glance around my beloved New York City apartment, where the only similarity to her sprawling Vermont farmhouse is the wet laundry in various stages of air-drying—although Nana stretched hers taut on clotheslines and I haphazardly toss mine over any surface I can find.

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When I pass the living room mirror, I’m shocked by my reflection. The scorching, steamy day has turned my gentle honey waves into a ball of poodle-like yellow frizz, a hairdo that, as it happens, does make me resemble Nana. I pull a hair clip from the console drawer and pin it all up to stop my neck from sweating.

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It’s so hot my window AC groans like a haunted house. Part of me wants to flop on the couch and lie there all day, but that would mean missing my favorite yoga class. If I start skipping Saturday yoga because it’s too hot, I won’t be taking any classes until fall.

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There’s still half an hour before I need to leave, so I walk the handful of steps to my kitchenette, stuff a glass with ice cubes, and pour some cold chamomile tea from the fridge. I press the tumbler to the side of my face before taking a sip.

 

“I appreciate your efforts against this ninety-eight-degree day,” I encourage the AC. I pull a chair from the kitchen table over to the unit and sit before the vents, repositioning the cold glass to the top of my head. Maybe the condensation will tame my crimping hair.

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Ding-a-do.

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I slowly sip some tea before reaching for my cell, certain the text will be from Danny. My cousin is arriving Friday, and in the past hour she’s bombarded me with texts asking what clothing to pack, whether I have a blow-dryer, what my size shoe is (in case we can share, I surmise), and so much other flotsam.

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If I hadn’t focused so many years on being a centered, spiritually uplifted person, all this texting might have made me rescind my offer. In any event, I still think it will be fun to spend the summer introducing Danny to the city I adore.

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HEY JANELLE, I HOPE I'M NOT BECOMING A BOTHER.

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You are close to becoming one, I think before clawing back this very un‑Zen thought. “You’re an enthusiastic young woman. You’ve always been one of my favorite cousins. Your eagerness will be energizing to be around.” I say all of this out loud, to shift my negative mindset.

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I look back at my phone.

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DO YOU NEED ME TO BRING A BLANKET, PILLOW, AND/OR BATH TOWEL?

P.S. I HOPE. YOU KNOW I'M BEYOND EXCITED!!!

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I marvel that Danny is questioning whether I, a grown woman in her late thirties, possess guest linens. Then I remember how we grandkids used to tote our bedding to Nana and Papa’s home when we overran the place during blueberry season. Maybe the memory has fueled Danny’s question.

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If I miss anything about growing up near Papa and Nana’s farm, it’s the fresh blueberries. There’s nothing like pulling those sugar-bombs straight off the bush and popping them right into your mouth. Even back then, years before I learned about mindfulness, I knew to savor every bite.

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Aside from the blueberries, though, I don’t think much about the rural area where I grew up. We lived near Nana’s, in a place where “town” was a two-block stretch miles away. Every night I closed my eyes and pictured myself in a high-rise apartment, the cricket chirps morphing into honking cars, swaying trees becoming swarms of people. I learned about cities from the heaps of novels I read—and from my second-grade teacher, who had decamped from New York the prior year.

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Unable to afford New York’s soaring rent after graduating college, I spent a decade in Hoboken, New Jersey. Last year I realized it was time to fully live my dream and moved across the river. I treasure New York with its museums, theaters, dance troupes, film festivals, vegetarian restaurants, and, importantly, my wonderful spiritual community that I now get to see without taking a train. I do miss my Jersey friends, of course, especially my bestie Lorna. But this place is truly home.

 

I stare at my phone, willing positive words to flow through my texting fingers. I think about how much I adore my cousin, who’s a decade younger. When I feel the love sufficiently flowing through me, I respond.

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HELLO WONDERFUL COUSIN. CAN'T WAIT TO SEE YOU. NO NEED TO BRING ANYTHING EXCEPT CLOTHES AND TOILETRIES. YOU DON'T EVEN NEED A YOGA MAT— I'LL HAVE ONE WAITING.

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I smile as I type that last bit. I’m not sure if Danny has ever done yoga, but I qualify as a fanatic. A few years ago, I became a certified yoga teacher, mostly to deepen my own knowledge of this ancient practice, as I don’t currently teach. The first thing I did when I moved to this apartment was search for a yoga home, someplace akin to my beloved Daily Om in Hoboken, where I met Lorna. I took a few classes at different studios but quickly settled on Earth Yoga, where I’m now a regular.

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For the past four years I’ve also studied with an amazing guru, whose ashram is walkable from here. I haven’t yet let Danny know about him, or that I attend his lectures and group meditations several times a week. I think this will all go down smoother if I tell her in person.

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Maybe she won’t be too surprised. We may both come from Jewish backgrounds, but my family was not religious. Mom always said when Nana and Papa moved from suburban Boston to rural Vermont during the back-to-the-land sixties era, they left their religion behind. Judaism in my house meant potato pancakes once a year and regular contributions to charity. But Danny’s mom, my mother’s sister, married a religious man and Danny was raised Orthodox.

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The box I check is “spiritual but not religious.” My path involves an eclectic array of teachings, from Buddhism and Hinduism (my guru’s tradition) to contemporary spiritual teachers like Eckhart Tolle and Esther Hicks.

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Bong.

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My phone chime signals I have five more minutes till I must leave for yoga. I relish a final sip of tea as it slides down my throat before launching into a quick mindfulness practice I’ve taken to calling the inner-outer pause. This involves focusing on a part of my body making contact with the material world, where the inner meets the outer, so to speak. I direct my attention to how my butt feels resting on the chair cushion, then switch to sensing my bare feet pressing against the warm wooden floor.

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I’ve done this exercise hundreds of times and never tire of it. Guruji says techniques like these connect us with our highest essence, enabling the eternal life force to flood through us, which always feels fresh and new.

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My practice complete, I stand and gather my yoga mat and purse, then head for the door. I’m turning the knob when—ding-a-do—my phone reveals another text.

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I’m in such an elevated place I’m certain I won’t be annoyed by whatever Danny might ask about. But the text isn’t from Danny. It’s my girlfriend Elise.

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MASSIVE NEWS ABOUT GURUJI, she’s written. CALL ME NOW!