My Inner Pandemic Life

How the forced isolation of Covid deepened my yoga and meditation practice

It’s Friday the Thirteenth. The weird and scary virus that everyone is talking about but unsure if they should take seriously is on the books in Pennsylvania.

This younger yogi’s attempt at flying crow (Eka Pada Galavasana) on retreat in Tulum, Mexico

The governor announces a partial shutdown; it’s just a matter of time before he shuts down the whole state. In the newsroom, where we had been on alert, they tell us to pack our laptops and head home. You know, until this thing blows over.

What happens next, well, we know what happens next. People start dying like it’s some kind of slasher movie. The virus spreads like wildfire. The world comes to a screeching halt. And that’s just the first few weeks.

Hunker down. That’s what we are told to do and what we do. Because we are scared shitless to do anything but. Lucky, though. We can do our jobs from home, a house big enough to keep us from annoying each other. There are plenty of beans in the cupboard. Local businesses are delivering vegetables and bagels, coffee and meat. We are lucky.

But we are bored. We are so fucking bored. Every day is the same. We wear the same sweatpants. We work long days and we drink too much wine at night. We watch Rachel at nine and wring our hands.

I first got on the mat in 2002, with 9/11 still fresh and heartbreak over a bad boyfriend coursing through me. Yoga is what I need, I declared. I made fast friends with two other girls on their mats, who seemed to know everyone at the cool yoga studio in the church. We wore snug tanks and hip-hugging yoga pants from Victoria’s Secret, pushing our thirty-something booties into the down-dog sky. Giggled when a mouse scampered behind the instructor. Went for sushi after class.

The practice went from something I did with my girls to something I did with myself. A relationship that would ebb and flow depending on where I was in my life. A dip into the teacher training pool. Thanksgiving on the mat before turkey. A gentle practice under a tree on the morning of our wedding. Jamming a mat into my suitcase wherever I traveled. Showing my friends’ kids how to down dog when life got loud. Or tree for balance.

When the man in the White House suggested injecting bleach to ward off the weird and scary virus, I knew I needed to dust off my mat.

Teachers I loved from those early years — Danielle and Kevin — are teaching online. Their home studio is part of a nationwide network that took all of its classes to Zoom. (Until this moment, my Gen X self thinks only of the PBS kids’ show from the 70s when I hear the word ‘zoom.’)

This means studying with teachers from all over. I can’t believe my good fortune. My inner life just got a whole lot sunnier.

Along with Danielle, Maud, Mel, and Tamika become part of my week. I’m now practicing every day. I’ve never practiced every day.

The months turn into a year, and into another year. People keep dying from the weird and scary virus. And black and brown Americans keep dying at the hands of police.

The only way I keep my days straight is by looking at the class schedule. This is how I keep my time. This is how I keep going. This is my sourdough starter.

Earlier this year, the yoga platform is sold and goes corporate. All but a handful of instructors are let go. I’m morose. My cheese is officially moved. But change has a way of inspiring creativity. Maud, Mel, and Danielle all launch their own Zoom thing. They keep the practice going. They need it as much as we all do. I hope they know how much they mean to me.

When I first came to the mat more than twenty years ago, I wondered if or when I’d ever be able to sit still and focus on my breath. Stillness was elusive. Now it is essential.

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P.S. Save the date: On Wednesday, November 15, I am hosting a live chat to talk about Thanksgiving, the cooking-est day of the year. Join us!