class

Four years ago this month, several weeks into the brave new world we knew as “lockdown,” two of my aunts contacted me and said, “We’re bored. Teach us chair yoga over the Zooms.” Thus began the online phase of my teaching career.

They liked the class so much, they invited their friends. The ranks have ebbed and flowed over the years, but even now there are a core group of seven or eight women who attend every week, if not almost every session.

Soon after that private class started, I opened up a public class, one not by invitation only, which lasted all the way to this week. Yesterday I held the final one. Attendance had been low for a while, and I’ve lost the energy to hold up six classes per week. But the thrice-weekly private classes continue. Despite the fact that last week, we lost our seminal member, the woman who had gathered us all together.

One of my aunts passed away at her home, surrounded by family, with a view of her beloved garden. I wonder what that would be like; to have death be a peaceful experience and to have your favorite people gathered by your side. I have a feeling I’ll have a much less refined kicking off.

I have written about the women who attend these yoga classes before. Artists, businesswomen, chefs, strategists. They were all friends of my aunt’s. She was the main force who gathered us all together and kept inviting people. Because that’s how she rolled. After her passing, I sent an email to them, acknowledging the loss, and many wrote back with stories of how my aunt had enriched their lives. She encouraged the making of art. She connected like-minded people. She remembered birthdays. She held luncheons for her women friends. She understood the importance of connection, support, kinship. She left behind many fond memories, and some gaps that cannot be filled.

When my mom died, a few people reached out and told me about what a wonderful woman she’d been, how she had always been cheerful and had friendly words for everyone. The people who had told me these stories were mostly coworkers. Her job was what she let define her. But those stories didn’t line up with the woman I had known. The truth lies somewhere between their version of her and mine, and in the end, it doesn’t really matter. She’s transcended it all anyway.

When my dad passed away, I heard a few stories. He was helpful and patient and kind, people said. He was the one who took the midnight to four a.m. slot at the all-night vigils at the Hollywood Vedanta temple. He was the one who scrubbed their stone statues clean with a toothbrush. All those stories sound about right. He was a loner. His gifts to the world were quiet ones, perhaps many will go unknown to most of us.

The story of my aunt bringing our yoga group together had a big impact on my life in recent years. She seemed to think I am a good teacher, and I suppose the fact that four years later I still have attendees might be a bit of proof. But I still think we were all there because of her, and the joy of community. Even though some of us have never met in person, we are connected by her, and we understand the importance of moving and breathing and being present through our lives.

Yesterday I taught the first class after her passing. In a nutshell, it sucked.

I’m not a very emotional person, I’m not a big crier. But the tears came through the whole thing, and at the end I lost it. But I wasn’t alone. I think we were all bawling at the end.

But I didn’t cry because I was sad. I cried because of how sweet it all was. How sweet to see these ladies on the screen, moving, breathing, holding space for someone who may not be with us physically but who is, somehow, still here. And she held space for us too. I cried because I was present. And for someone who doesn’t get there very often, it can be overwhelming. Today I am tired and sore, but I’m giving myself the grace to rest into it.

The passing of my aunt has made me wonder once again about the life I’m leading. I don’t need a big life, or to be famous or to be rolling in dough. I don’t need to be on the NYT bestseller list. But I wonder what mark, if any, I will leave behind. Will I have touched anyone’s life in a meaningful way? Will there be someone who might have a kind story about me? Will I have brought people together to create community, will I encourage anyone to do what they love?

I don’t know.

But today it feels more important.

the garden

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