Today, yoga in America is mainstream. People born after 1970 may not understand the subculture it once was - the semi-secrecy that came along with owning a yoga mat 25 years ago. It was hard to even find one to buy. Internet shopping was not an option.
As a church musician I felt extra pressure to keep my yoga habit in the closet. I worried that choir members or clergy would think I had converted to Hinduism, involved myself in devil worship, or had in some mysterious manner forsaken the wholesome way of bread, wine and coffee hour. My liberation came the day that Reverend Louise said to the church staff, "I cannot make that meeting time, it conflicts with my yoga class." With that imprimatur I began to carry my mat without fear.
In 1977, when I was a teenager, the church youth group leader became a devoted yogi. She invited a small group of teens to visit at her home one weekend. While she practiced asanas on the living room carpet, we thumbed through the yoga book on her coffee table. Good God! The twisted postures - arms and legs mangled together! Eyes rolled into heads, tongues sticking out, stomachs vacuumed up to disappearing. The book included confusing dietary recommendations and even more confusing cleansing methods for various entry and exit points in the body. We pointed and giggled as if it were a pornographic magazine.
Fast forward 30 years. The three teenagers who shared that early experience with yoga are still in touch. One is a nurse. One is a yoga teacher. One is yours truly. We talk about how this holy woman touched our lives and remember how she welcomed us into the life she shared with her family and the love she extended to us. We remember how she made each of us feel special.
We tried to find her through Facebook and through People Finders, to no avail. She moved to an Ashram and was never heard from again. She left the grownup teens longing to show their appreciation - wanting to say thank you.
Dottie, we still love you.
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