Walk Lightly
The Udelsons are like German Shepherds or Labrador Retrievers - hip dysplasia runs in our family. In high school, I suffered from so much pain, I saw an orthopedist. “You have bad hips and big boobs. No jogging,” he declared. Despite his inappropriate comments about my breasts, I was delighted to have been given permission to not run.
In my 30s, I seemed destined for hip replacement surgery until my girlfriend suggested yoga. In those days, there weren’t classes at every gym and studios on every corner. Yoga wasn’t calesthenics, but a spiritual practice that prepared the body for long periods of sitting meditation. Yoga was in its infancy in America, being practiced by Madonna, some sensitive ponytail men, and me. I would attend class at YogaWorks on Montana, then go downstairs for an iced blended mocha at the Coffee Bean. Decades later, I’m still at it, having discovered that if I say ‘yes’ to yoga, I say ‘no’ to pain and surgery.
When I find a yoga teacher I like, I follow them around from studio to studio like a little puppy. It’s not exactly a crush, just the joy in knowing a teacher that makes me laugh, says what I need to hear, and leads a class that includes hip openers.
Jane Doe was my first yoga teacher love. She trained in India with K Pattabhi Jois, a founder of the Ashtanga tradition of yoga that has become so popular in the West. As an instructor, Jane knew so much about yoga and Buddhism that she inspired me to drive across town to the Bodhi Tree bookstore to educate myself.
We called Jane Doe the “Yoga Nazi.” Her class was tough, yet I would experience a euphoric, meditative state like nothing I’d ever experienced. My mind was a black hole, staying present with what was going on in the steamy, sweaty room. One day during class, a student got up from her Warrior Two pose to go to the bathroom. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Jane shouted. The woman slunk back to her mat in shame. “Go to the bathroom BEFORE class. You’re a big girl. You can hold it for an hour and a half.” No one got up to pee again.
Once, a guy clomped loudly across the room, returning to his spot with some props - a block, a strap and a bolster. “EVERYONE STOP!” Jane demanded. “WALK LIGHTLY!” She made us march in a circle like careful kittens for the rest of the class. I never pounded the pavement again. Jane’s instruction changed the way I think about walking, step by mindful step.
Jane Doe quit teaching at YogaWorks, but I’m pretty sure the “Yoga Nazi” was let go. While Jane had control in the studio, she had a tough time finding her way afterwards. She struggled to make ends meet. Jane led yoga retreats. Some friends and I hired her for private classes and massages. Then life happened, and somehow my friendship with Jane faded away.
One day when my son Theo was in kindergarten, I was on the elementary school campus when I looked over and saw a woman clinging to the fence, weather worn and leathery with uncombed, medusa-like, platinum-dyed hair. She stood there smiling, watching the children play. Something drew me to her, and as I got closer, I realized it was Jane Doe.
“Hi Jane!” I shouted as I got closer.
“Lisa Udelson!” she exclaimed. “How’s your son?”
“He’s amazing,” I said proudly. “He’s right there.”
I pointed out my kid, and Jane cooed, “Beautiful boy!”
We talked for a few minutes. I asked if she was living on the street. “Yeah, for now. I have a few things in the works,” she assured me, as she took the twenty bucks I offered.
I’ve seen Jane Doe around the neighborhood since that first time on the schoolyard, five years ago. I’ve waved and shouted to Jane, but always wondered what more I could do to help her. Last week, I was at Whole Foods and there was Jane, more weathered, with even crazier hair, eating an ice cream cone at 9:00 in the morning.
“Hi Jane!” I said as I sat down next to her.
“Lisa Udelson!” she shouted joyfully. “How’s your son!”
“He’s amazing.” I said proudly, showing her a photo on my phone.
I asked Jane how she was doing, told her I often think of her as I lightly walk, and that I pee only when I won’t interrupt the flow of my yoga class. I thanked her for being the best yoga teacher ever. She appreciated the compliment, abruptly rose, spoke something brilliant, then something unintelligible, and disappeared.
Jane had told me about her family history with psychoses, and that she had a schizophrenic father that died by suicide. I don’t know why it surprised me to see her at the fence that day, nor why it continues to shock me every time I see her on the streets of Venice.
Theo and I often deliver food to those residing on the street behind Gold’s Gym in Venice. It’s good for him to hand a bag of trail mix or beef jerky directly to a person, to look into their eyes and recognize that there isn’t very much difference between us and them. I hope that Theo and I run into my friend Jane one day, so I can introduce him to the woman who taught me so much, but especially, to walk lightly.