Today, it rained. It was a sad, pitiful drizzle.
Since I had the day off, I planned on going to Jimmy’s 8:25am class this morning. Jimmy is my all-time favorite instructor. He is the reason why I was deeply drawn to yoga when I first started 8 1/2 months ago.
Last April, I was an emotional mess, deeply heartbroken, and directionless, after leaving my love of nine years in a whirlwind. In May, I met a new boy, someone who was different, a breath of fresh air, a distraction. I didn’t know if I wanted it to be something real, or what I wanted at all, so I was reckless and stupid. By the end of May, I desperately needed an escape from my life, and found yoga.
Now, there are about 20 or so instructors at New York Yoga, but I found myself taking Jimmy’s class every day that first week. He was everything I thought a yoga instructor should be: tiny, graceful, and spiritually connected. Jimmy wanted us to set intentions, and I would dedicate my practices to my new life, trying to forget my old life. I cried furiously. Luckily, it was so hot that tears were easily confused with sweat, so I don’t think anyone noticed.
Over the next couple of months, I grew to adore the new boy. He didn’t feel the same. But, I still had yoga, and lots of tears.
Anyway, 8 1/2 months later, I am more or less emotionally stable. I stopped crying in yoga. But, whenever I get to take Jimmy’s class, when I look at him, my heart races and I feel my eyes welling up. He looks back at me with a half smile of slight recognition.
i love him. he doesn't know who i am.
Namaste,
Christina
