Page 16 of Thursdays at Orange Blossom House
‘Um … yoga,’ she said, not sure if she should admit it. If he hadn’t heard of it he might think she’d said ‘yoghurt’.
‘Oh yeah?’
Dennis looked like he wanted to have a chat about it. Which Patricia didn’t want. She doesn’t want to encourage any remnants of a crush that he might still have. Or that she might still have.
‘I’ve heard of that,’ he went on. ‘And I saw someone doing it on a TV show …’ He grinned, then she thought she saw him blush. ‘She put her legs behind her head. I’m pretty sure my hamstrings will never be that long.’
It was her turn to blush. ‘Right. Well, I’m going to be late. Bye!’
‘Have fun,’ he called after her. ‘Maybe I’ll join you next time.’
Patricia felt mortified. It was bad enough Marjorie had seen her in a leotard. Dennis absolutely must never.
By the time she reaches class, she’s almost talked herself out of going. She feels like a bad daughter, even though she’ll make her parents dinner when she arrives home. But as soon as she sees Orange Blossom House she’s glad she didn’t succeed.
The long white weatherboard building up on its little brick stilts seems to welcome her: its large front windows are ajar, and a candle in each corner like a beacon shows her that she’s heading for the right place. Soft exterior lights accentuate the tall frangipanis on each side so they look like friendly sentries, about to lower the drawbridge to her evening. With the sun setting behind the house, yellow light is changing the colour of the lawn as Patricia steps onto the winding footpath and feels, much to her surprise, the stresses of the day almost sliding out of her body.
She can smell the incense that Sandrine likes to burn just as she hears Sandrine’s mellifluous voice and the soft laughter of one of the students. By the time she’s rolled out her mat and flopped on the floor, she knows completely and absolutely that it’s worth being here just for these short seconds of respite from herself.
‘Excuse me,’ says a voice next to her and Patricia turns towards it.
Its owner is a woman at least a decade or so younger than her, with thick yellow-blonde hair in a plait that makes her look like she should be collecting wildflowers in the Swiss Alps, a pinch between her eyebrows and the biggest, roundest brown eyes Patricia has ever seen.
‘Yes?’
‘Have I brought the right thing?’ The woman gestures to her mat, which looks like a newer version of Patricia’s own.
‘Yes, you have.’ Patricia sits up properly. ‘It must be your first time. I’m pretty new too.’
The woman smiles nervously. ‘I don’t really know what to do.’
‘I don’t either. But that’s okay. I’m Patricia.’
‘Dorothy.’ The nervous smile turns into a furrowed brow. ‘I don’t actually know what I’m doing here.’
‘A colleague told me to come because it’s a good stretch. And it is. But …’ Patricia searches for the right words. ‘I actually feel more calm when I leave here. The breathing is good.’ She smiles. ‘I had no idea there was a right and a wrong way to breathe, so I’m learning the right way. And with the poses, Sandrine doesn’t push you to do anything you aren’t ready for.’
Dorothy looks surprised and Patricia thinks she can guess why: she’s just blurted out a whole lot of information that Dorothy might have no interest in hearing. Dorothy’s not her student, after all.
‘Sorry,’ Patricia says, ‘you didn’t ask to hear all that.’
‘No, it’s wonderful,’ Dorothy says. ‘Thank you. Calm is what I need, so now I know I’m in the right place.’ She smiles and radiance almost glimmers from her.
‘We’re starting,’ Patricia says softly, nodding towards the front of the room where Sandrine has stepped onto her mat. ‘Don’t try to copy me because I don’t know all the poses yet.’
Dorothy nods and they both lie down as Sandrine commands.
The class begins slowly, as it always does, with Sandrine wandering between the mats, sometimes putting a hand on someone to adjust them with a light touch, sometimes murmuring encouragement. Today she floats in Dorothy’s direction a couple of times but has no words for Patricia, who feels mildly, strangely, disappointed.
There are words in Sanskrit, which Patricia had never heard spoken before coming to this class, names of poses – of asanas, as they are properly called – that no doubt make sense if you know the language. Only one pose is named in English: downward-facing dog. Patricia wonders if it’s because the Sanskrit name is too difficult to say. Regardless, she’s learning to like the pose even if her legs still shake a little.
Her shoulder and neck still aren’t fixed – despite Marjorie asking her every day if they are – but she finds herself worrying less about them. When she’s in these poses, in her body, following Sandrine’s instructions –inhale,exhale,inhale,exhale– she doesn’t think of anything else. Especially when the pose is painful. When she’s in a standing pose that forces her hips open, that makes her hold still inside that opening and try to breathe through the pain, she is right there.
Like now. Her left hip feels like it’s being made to do something unnatural. She feels like she’s going to fall. Like she can’t support her own weight.
‘Use your back leg, Patricia,’ comes Sandrine’s voice in her ear, so softly only Patricia would hear it. ‘You are making your front leg work too hard. You have two legs, no? They both have to work.’
She feels Sandrine behind her as she attempts to do what she’s asked but it feels like nothing changes. Her legs are wobbling. Her hip feels like it’s on fire. Her spine doesn’t seem to know where it is. The whole thing is wrong. And stupid.She’swrong and stupid. She can’t even hold this silly—
