Yoga in the Rainy Season

"The rainy season" of a given geographical area will have its own unique character. I was in Tlaquepaque, in Jalisco, Mexico, in early July, the heart of the rainy season there.  The nearly daily storms became the sensory background to some of my favorite experiences during my two week visit.  The most memorable storm happened one evening just as my friend Denise and I were arriving at yoga class.  This storm of incredible power created a truly magical moment for me.

 The storms were erratic. There were 7pm storms, 3am storms, 7am storms, and on a few days no storm at all. This was a 7pm storm. Our other housemate, Edward, had walked to the yoga studio with me.  Denise was to meet us there.  Just as we arrived at the arched wooden door of the old house, the storm broke. The rain was brutal, the thunder and lightning astonishing.  The electricity went out, and there was a sort of tangible nervous excitement running through the foyer as Edward and I and a few other people sat in the dusk wondering if the sky would fall down on us. Whether we were waiting for the yoga class in the other room to finish or to see if we would survive the storm seemed unclear. I looked around and took in the Spanish Colonial details of the room. This room and the rest of the house had the bare beauty and texture that only a grand past of a very long time ago can give. A beautiful iron light fixture hung from the ceiling. The floor was stone.  This splendor, juxtaposed with plastic sheeting, partial roofs (I'll get to that in a moment), and peeling plaster, sums up a lot of the Mexican architecture I saw.

To my relief, Denise arrived not too long after Edward and I did, not terribly wet, and cheerful as usual. Then it began to hail, and the deafening weight of it falling on the roof was really frightening. As my further experience in Mexico was to prove, the concept of a house being "watertight" doesn't seem to exist. Water poured in underneath the old wooden door, and it drenched the back half of the house through plastic sheeting stretched under whatever passed as a roof over that section of the old house (I think a good portion was open to the sky).  Someone opened the door to look outside, and the water in the street was a couple of  feet high.  We had that kind of shared moment strangers enjoy when something particularly amazing happens to all of them, and our voices were excited as we exclaimed about the flooding.

 I was basking in my situation. The novelty of being in Mexico and taking part in an everyday activity like a yoga class was satisfying. Throughout my time there, it was these ordinary things I most relished doing, because they allowed me to imagine what it would feel like to live in Mexico, instead of being just a tourist.  The ironic thing is that I may not have gone to yoga if it hadn't been for Denise, as her interest was greater than mine.  I can't imagine what my first week in Mexico would have been like without Denise's friendship and companionship. She was exactly what I needed.

El Refugio

 

I had paid 50 pesos for the hour-long class (about $3.50) to Daniel, who manned the front of the studio, shortly after we arrived.  Daniel,  about 15 years old, already felt like a friend. This was Denise's doing. She has this power, literally charm, that draws people to her and instantly converts them into friends. She  had "converted" him the day before, as we stood in front of El Refugio, a cultural center across from the yoga studio. Broom in hand, he had called out the answer to her question about Refugio's hours, in good English.

Finally, the storm reached its denouement. The rain lightened, slowed. A woman got a broom and began pushing the water back out the front door. The water in the street was noticably lower.  The next day my Spanish teacher told me that the hail had knocked a dozen little birds dead to the ground out of the trees by her house.

 The previous class finished and I walked into the room with anticipation. It was a beautiful room, which I have come to value for yoga.  Along the front wall were two large arched windows, covered with dark wooden shutters.  The floor was of smooth dark wood, and the walls were white plaster.  Night was falling.  If the electricity had come back on I would have been disappointed. I could hear Edward chatting with a very tall American or Canadian man named Mike, who was a martial arts instructor at the studio. Later I learned that Mike was telling Edward, who has a fear of mosquitoes and dogs, that he had gotten dengue fever and suffered from it for a year.  A woman who may have been Daniel's mother brought in a pillar candle, and set it on the floor under one of the windows, exactly in front of a stone statue of an angel, suddenly transforming the room from a damp, dark place into one of candlelit magic. The instant beauty was so overwhelming it brought out a physical response from me, something between a gasp and a sigh.  I longed to be able to capture the moment, like a firefly in a jar, and keep it forever exactly as I was seeing it then. I knew I would write about it to hold onto it.

The yoga instructor, José, possibly Daniel's brother, was around 20 years old. He chatted with Denise and me about how we would do the class. He spoke English, but we said we wanted to try to follow him in Spanish.  He was very accomodating and sweet. I felt proud of myself for being able to follow the cues in Spanish, and it was amusing when he sometimes patiently repeated a cue while looking pointedly in our direction: "La izquierda..." ("The left...") The yoga felt good, as I breathed out the traveling and adjusting stress my mind and body were holding onto (this was my fourth day in Mexico), and at the end of the class we all hugged each other- standard procedure at this studio.

I left that yoga class aware that I had stepped, for a brief moment, into a community. I had shared life with Mexicans. It was a community that I could imagine myself being a part of, although I knew I never would be. This explains in part my passion for Spanish. It is a key that opens doors to life experiences that would otherwise be closed to me. I think it also explains my occasional dissatisfaction with not being able to do more with Spanish. I can unlock the door, and I can even go in, but I can not stay.