Yoga camp teaches the art of slowing down
From Interstate highway to county road to gravel
trail, the roaring river of rush-hour traffic
dwindles to a trickle.
My car is the only one in sight when I turn
onto the dusty path to Camp Neyati.
The road winds around frost-covered hills,
dips through straw-colored valleys and weaves
around stands of barren trees. A red-gold sun
peeks over the Loess Hills.
Though I'm driving slowly, my mind races with
all I'm neglecting this Friday night: gift buying,
Christmas decorating, getting the car fixed
and, mostly, the arguments left hanging when
I left the city.
Suddenly, I'm blinded. The sun gleams through
a swell of dust ahead, someone else's trail.
It's impossible to see anything but the glow
-- unless I slow down.
When the dust clears, I spot a whitetail in
a clearing to my left. A doe. She turns her
head toward me, steam curling from her nostrils
like a question mark, then darts into the woods.
--Yoga mat over my shoulder and borrowed sleeping
bag in hand, I tug on the heavy door of the
two-story lodge. It sticks. With a second pull,
the door opens to the scent, sound and warmth
of a crackling fire.
Inside: a large, wood-paneled room with a vaulted
ceiling and the sort of putty-colored tile floor
you'd find in a 1970s church basement. Floor
cushions, neatly folded Navajo blankets and
wool rugs line one long wall. A few waiting-room-type
chairs line the other. A puckish fellow in boots
tends the fireplace at the far end.
Women's voices and a mix of smells -- chili,
cinnamon, some sort of berry? -- emanate from
a kitchen with orange counters, an ancient Vulcan-brand
stove with an industrial hood, and a pass-through
window to the great room.
By ones and twos, the yogis come, piling sleeping
bags in the entryway.
About 20 of us, mostly women, assemble in a
circle, perched on blankets on the cold floor.
Some are teachers or dedicated students. Some
have come to this annual overnight yoga camp
since the Omaha Yoga School launched it more
than 25 years ago. Others are relatively new
to yoga: A teen who came with her dad. A 16-month-old
toddling between her parents. And me, only a
dabbler.
Mark Watson, a longtime Omaha teacher who recently
launched the Yoga Path studio, asks us to close
our eyes, breathe and think about our intentions
for the weekend. What do we want to accomplish?
Then Watson -- a calm, middle-age man who squints
through his glasses as if to hear or feel or
focus better -- arranges us in two long rows
before the fire. He leads a series of standing
poses, seated twisting poses, undulating spine
rolls and partner poses that leave me feeling
like a handwashed sweater -- stretched back
into shape and laid flat to dry. We end on our
backs, heads propped on folded blankets, in
savasana -- the corpse pose.
Near sleep, I start slightly when Watson cups
my head. I watch him silently work his way around
the dark room, cupping each head gently like
a priest blessing a child. At last, he calls
us to open our eyes and inhale.
--Bread warming in the oven. Vegetarian chili
burbling on the stove. Sweet, steaming blueberry
tea ladled from an 8-quart stockpot.
My stomach does a little turn in anticipation.
With order but without orders, we clear the
room and prepare it for supper.
Four thick, cotton paisley tablecloths form
a giant rectangle on the floor. We edge it with
cushions and mats and top it with mismatched
silver and mustard-gold, butterfly-patterned
Corelle plates. We light tall, wrought-iron
candelabra in the center. The lights dim.
A freight truck driver named G. Walter Struz
ladles his homemade chili into bowls. Others
add sour cream and tortilla chips and pass the
bowls until we each have one. Massive salads
and whole loaves of bread float by. Plates of
cheese. Pitchers of sparkling water. Apple crisp
with freshly whipped cream.
In this amber light and with this good hot
food, we could be anywhere -- India, Africa,
a European hostel, camping outdoors, a cave,
a beach. Eyes flash in the candlelight as we
talk of our families, our travels, our passions.
We find connections in that peculiar Omaha way.
As it happens, one woman's brother is another's
co-worker.
The post-dessert "talent show" has
the feel of a large family entertaining itself
after the power's gone out.
Struz sings and strums a guitar. Aspiring novelist
Margaret McGrath reads a Rumi poem. With prodding,
voice teacher Judi Torneten sings James Taylor's
"The Water Is Wide." The rest of us
lament our lack of stage-worthy talent. In small
groups, we share our less-obvious faculties:
our silly faces and finger tricks, our ability
to knit, decorate, cook, speak French or write
mediocre haiku.
A boy whistles. Who's next? Anyone? Anyone?
Margaret Hahn -- wise elder of the group, founder
of the Omaha Yoga School and longtime retreat
organizer -- shares a silly song she made up
to keep herself awake while driving at night.
Her blue eyes twinkling, she walks us through
the words, then adds the melody and movements.
Soon we are on our feet making fish and bird
motions, smiling, twirling and singing: "The
fishy-wishy-wishies go swimmy-wimmy-wimming
in the stream, stream, stream, in the brook,
brook, brook . . ."
--The night is cold, but there's no wind, no
snow, no clouds. The moon lights our path as
a dozen or so of us head for a hike. We walk
down leaf-covered hills, through woods and around
stumps, past overturned boats next to a creek,
over small, ice-covered puddles, across a rickety-rope
bridge and up a hill that spits us onto a gravel
road near the spot where I saw the doe.
We trace Orion in the sky, marvel at the glittering
frost and mull our answers to Watson's question.
What do we want out of this?
Christine Billings wants that honeymoon feeling
-- the feeling she had when she first started
yoga, before her baton-twirling daughter and
other passions consumed her time. "I want
to love it again," she says.
Watson says he wants to slow down. Doing so
brings out his better self.
Mindful of the argument dangling back home,
I confess I want more than a story from this
weekend. I ask: "Can one day of yoga make
you nicer?"
We are supposed to do sun salutations at dawn.
But it is cold this morning. And -- sleeping
on the floor, bundled in sleeping bags, with
the toddler in a portable crib in the corner
-- we are slow to rise.
Hahn calls us by ringing a Himalayan brass
bell.
We sit before her like pupils and read a morning
prayer: "Bless us so we have power to do
limitless good to all beings."
This, Hahn says, is yoga. "It's not just
something you feel or movements you do,"
she says. "It's how you take it out into
the world."
Her silver hair pulled back in a bun, Hahn
leads us in a Sanskrit song she remembers hearing
daily in India -- an ode to the sun and sky.
We read a poem about the historic and beautiful
hills around us and a Sanskrit chant that Hahn
translates: "Every one of us has the power
to do right."
Finally, she quotes from a children's book:
"The way to start a day is this: Go outside
and face the east and greet the sun with some
kind of blessing or chant or song that you made
yourself."
She asks us to find a solitary spot outside.
She will summon us to the boat dock by ringing
her bell. "Don't worry," she says.
"You will hear it. The sound carries."
Off we march, bundled, clutching blankets and
rugs. The north wind stings but the walk feels
good after a night on the floor.
Like the perfect pumpkin or Christmas tree,
my spot seems to call to me: A little clearing
near the top of a ridge, protected by trees,
with a natural slope facing the east. I sit
on my rug, lay a blanket across my knees and
feel the cold seeping through my coat and five
under-layers.
I try not to feel foolish, sitting out here
freezing, waiting for a bell. My mind wanders
back to how badly I've behaved, how much work
remains here and at home.
Listening to the constant whir of the wind,
I focus on my breath. In. And out. In. And out.
Whorls of steam whip away with each exhale.
I close my eyes, look through my glowing red
lids and try to imagine I am as warm as that
faraway sun.
I am beginning to forget the cold when twigs
snap and leaves crunch over the ridge. I turn,
expecting to see a near-frozen yogi marching
back to the lodge.
Instead, I stare into the eyes of a deer --
my doe from the day before? -- not more than
10 feet away. In an instant, she is gone.
I smile. Seeing her strikes me as a sort of
gift, a reward for my momentary stillness.
=--=
After breakfast -- an indoor picnic of scones,
clementines, hard-boiled eggs and chai -- some
of us wash dishes. Some put away their sleeping
bags and pillows. Others consider a book excerpt
Hahn has given us about the potential pitfalls
of modern-day progress.
We talk softly and take turns tending the fire.
We all mind the baby who toddles about, stealing
sports bottles, waving "hi" and delighting
in her newfound ability to perch on a gallon
water jug.
Theresa Murphy -- the earthy, throaty co-owner
of One Tree Yoga and leader of our next class
-- stretches by the fire. Before guiding us
through a chant and a strenuous series of twisting
and back-bending poses, she observes the room.
"It makes us nicer people, this coming
here, this working together and cooking and
cleaning together. It's the ultimate yoga."
=--=
We are on our backs on the floor again, sandwiched
between blankets for warmth.
Omaha Yoga School director Meredith Busher
tells us to get comfortable. We're in for a
long yoga nidra -- deep relaxation with guided
imagery -- and a sankalpa, an affirmation uttered
while relaxed to help achieve a near-term goal.
We close our eyes and count our breaths backward
from 10 to 1.
After a long rest, Busher's calm alto voice
guides us through clouds toward the sun, through
a red mist and into "the dark cave of the
heart."
Here we are supposed to reveal our sankalpa,
repeating it (or rather thinking it) three times.
I do, and I wish it with all my heart. Tears
trickle, tracing a cold, wet path to my ears.
We sit up and end with the traditional yoga
parting: a palms-together bow and the word "namaste."
Busher says: "'Namaste' means 'The holiness
in me bows to the holiness in you.'"
=--=
The sun fades fast behind the Loess Hills.
The lodge grows dark.
Is it possible only 24 hours have passed?
My sense of time is thrown off, perhaps by
the lack of clocks or the drastic change in
routine. Hahn offers another explanation: "When
it seems longer than it is," she says,
"you know you've entered sacred time."
I am sad to leave my fellow campers. We share
a group hug that's not as cheesy as it sounds,
tidy the room and help each other load up.
Back in my car, I feel stable and pleasant
-- a sign of well-practiced yoga, Hahn says.
I wonder how long the feeling will last. Already
I sense the tug of home, the impetus to accelerate
from gravel road to paved road to Interstate.
At least now I'm mindful of that pull.
I turn the radio off and try to focus on the
drive. I hum the fishy-wishy song and grin when
I spy a yellow road sign ahead.
It's one I've seen a million times but never
fully heeded: a deer, in silhouette, crossing
the road.
Tonight, on so many levels, it reminds me --
slow down.
