Page 54 of The Ripple Effect

But I can feel who we might be.

The fallen tree where I can get two bars isn’t far. I’ll text Liz, then turn around and discover what’s calling me home.

Sixteen minutes later, I’m unrolling a mat in the empty spot beside Sloane, where Dereck usually sits. I hurry into a meditation pose: back straight, eyes closed, palms open.

I’ve done yoga before—any class with “power” in the title, I’ve tried.

In those classes, the message I internalized was tonotlisten to my body. I’d drive myself through fatigue and pain. I’d plug into the atmosphere of competition: who could do the quickest, springiest asanas, who was the most flexible, even who could sweat the most and not clean it up (somehow always a man).

It felt a lot like work.

A soft footfall breaks through the soundtrack of birds and water. I crack one eye to see a gentle smile under a ginger beard as Lyle indicates a coaster-sized green card he’s placed near my mat:SEEKING BALANCE, ADJUSTMENTS WELCOME.

I glance over at Sloane’s mat. Her card is flipped over to the yellow side:NAMASTE, NO ADJUSTMENTS TODAY.

Giving in to my second impulse of the day, I keep my card on the green side.

“Let’s move into downward dog, if that pose is available to you,” Lyle says. “There’s never shame in deciding your body isn’t ready for this pose today, like there’s no shame if today isn’t your day to run a rapid. Today is the first day of I Get You, so honor the spirit of appreciation and collaboration in this stage by knowing yourself first. Be gentle with yourself first.”

I push into down dog, the old competitiveness curling through me like smoke from a snuffed candle, ready to reignite if I put a match too close. I force my elbows to straighten and rotate inward, push my heels down, hips up, index fingers forward.

I cut my eyes to Sloane. She looks like she should have Hollywood-perfect strength and flexibility, but she’s on her back, knees moving from side to side in a windshield-wiper motion.

Lyle interrupts the sound of agonized breathing with a low, Zen-like stream of instruction. “The perfect form is the one your body wants to take today. Not the form it took yesterday, or the one it will take tomorrow. Work with your body, not against it.”

My right shoulder hurts; it always does when I make downward dog look “correct.” I let my arm uncoil a little, allowing my elbow to bend slightly.

The relief is immediate.

As Lyle’s footsteps traverse the room, I close my eyes and breathe. Is this how it’s supposed to feel—slow and almost pleasurable, a wave cresting and receding?

Over the past year, I’ve felt like a buzzing, smoking machine about to start throwing parts. Maybe I could unplug for a second. Cool down enough to undertake repairs.

Unplug, ha. I’m becoming more McHuge-like all the time.

“Think about being strong and feeling easy at the same time. Bow and stern, power and steering. Partners, working together.” His footsteps stop at my mat. A moment passes where I think he’s checking my form, but then there’s a flutter of sensation that grows firmer as his thumbs find the crest of my pelvic bone, palms settling up my waist, fingers wrapping around my hips.

He has my back. Literally, this time, but it doesn’t feel different from when he threw his weight behind my canoeing idea yesterday. It doesn’t feel different from when I asked for 5 percent of his company, and he gave me 10. There is no difference. It was only different in my mind.

He pushes up and toward my heels, and I’m floating. The ease of it floods me with pleasure, bone and muscle falling into place like a video of a shattering cup played in reverse. His ring presses sweetly against the crest of my hip bone, the metal warm through my shirt.

“Find a way, with yourself and with each other.” The voice is McHuge, the hands are all Lyle. Warmth and power and giving with an open hand. “Water goes where it wants, does what it wants, pushes anything and everything out of its way—and carries what it needs.”

He eases his hands away, the pleasure of his touch still sparking along my skin, lemon yellow, soft and zingy at the same time. He gives everyone these thoughtful gestures. Maybe we all feel like they’re saying,I care for you, body and soul.He’s one to talk about things beingmeaningful, when I never know whether the touches he gives me mean I’m special.

Afterward, people float toward the tents, sighs driftingback from the trail. I tidy the stack of yoga blocks in the lean-to beside the pavilion, its new plywood unsoftened by weather and time.

“Brent,” I hear Lyle say through the screened windows. “Hey, Brent! Don’t forget your mat and props.”

“Oh, yeaaah,” comes Brent’s voice, in fullwho, me?mode. “Can Stellar grab them?”

My teeth clench. Lyle will say it’s fine. He’ll “manage” Brent by tidying the props himself. He’ll give yet more of himself to a man who doesn’t deserve any piece of someone as good as Lyle.

But that’s not what happens.

“You could ask her. But Stellar would definitely question why you didn’t tidy your own space. If she knew I’d reminded you, she’d ask why you didn’t apologize and take care of things right then instead of leaving your mess for someone else. And if I were you, I wouldn’t know how to answer her, you know? So I recommend doing it yourself.”

Slow, petulant footsteps drag back to Brent’s prime spot on the river side of the pavilion. I can hardly keep from bursting out of the lean-to to watch Lyle’s victory.

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