Yoga ends with the word “namaste,” and though I’m willing to bend into up-dog and sweat through down-dog and collapse into dead-dog, honestly, when it comes to “namaste,” I decline. I do bow to the divine in my fellow dogs. But saying so — in another language, in another tradition — feels fraught.
That’s why I like Steve’s class. It’s sneaky. He works his way through the workout so calmly that it takes me 90 minutes to realize I’m in agony. Then he instructs his students to close their eyes and wish for “peace, peace, perfect peace.”
Peace I can get with. I also wish for cold water, hot shower and distraction. Like the witty, fast-paced, cross-dressing rom-com “Twelfth Night.”
Which I recently took in, post yoga. After the bows, I scanned the program and was surprised to find Steve’s name, along with his job title: violence coordinator.
