Vector, a Modern Love Story

Today’s review is of the recently published novella, Vector, by author J.J. Brown. She has previously published a collection of short stories titled Death and the Dream, which I reviewed here. Vector is her debut novel.

Wealthy philanthropist playboy Michael Barnes has just returned from Johannesburg, South Africa. His physician, Dr. Emmanuel Victor drops in on him at his upscale EastVillage apartment on the eve of the soirée they will be attending, a benefit of The Barnes Foundation at the Waldorf. Dr. Victor is privately concerned with Michael’s ability to put in the required appearance and deliver the expected speech. We quickly learn that, though Michael appears normal to the casual observer, his health is in serious decline.

The story is further complicated by the unexpected arrival of Michael’s protégé: the girl in the golden coat, beautiful young opera student Eva Mascona, who is secretly infatuated with Michael. As naive as Michael is worldly, Eva believes Michael is not a cowardly man. But will that faith in him, and her obsession, prove to be her undoing?

Dressed in a beautiful purple gown pilfered from the stage wardrobe at her music school she follows Michael to the charity ball.

(Excerpt)

Eva slunk back behind a column to collect herself. She watched and waited. Her eyes burned and welled up with tears as she observed them, keeping herself concealed behind the curtains. Eva followed Michael’s every move. She was waiting. Watching, waiting, following. She wanted to intercept him alone. She had to see him alone. All other thoughts were consumed by one, that she had to have his attention tonight.

(Excerpt)

Eva didn’t notice where she herself was going, absorbed in the game of tracking him. She was in love. She had been in love with him for so long that tonight, she decided, was the one time she would not let him slip away form her. Tonight she was Musetta, and tonight, she thought, with the desperation of the obsessed, she could have anyone.

In a plot that echoes La Bohème, the very opera Eva is soon to perform in her stage debut, Vector explores the inequities of poverty, health care and the availability of medicine, alongside the modern day plagues of hepatitis C and AIDS.

Beautifully written and tightly plotted, Vector draws the reader in to the very real seeming world of the characters, and subtly notches up the tension as each vivid character is drawn inexorably toward their fate.

Word Count: 51,000 words

This writer’s strengths: subtlety, brevity, voice, characterization, and the ability to float effortlessly between characters points of view. This writer knows how to approach and tell story. She is strong on craft and spareness, vividly detailed description that supports the overall theme of the novel, and dialogue that sounds natural and is dusted liberally with interesting facts.

Who will like this book: Anyone who loves a seamless, tension laden story told in classic literary style. Readers who enjoy deeply investigated characterization.

Self published score: 97 out of 100. Vector contains a few editing mishaps: mainly the misuse of ‘lie’ where the word should be ‘lay’, a suit which was hung up during a scene, then later appears on the floor. The physical production of the paperback is very good: it is made of quality stuff and the glossy cover is interesting and feels nice in the hand. The layout and formatting are up to traditional standards. It’s available as a paperback or as an e-book.

Vector is a very entertaining, satisfying read, and I highly recommend it.

J.J. Brown was born in upstate New York and has worked in New York City for two decades as a scientist, author, educator and now publisher. Brown’s current author site and blog is http://www.jjbrownauthor.com  She studied writing with South African poet Dennis Brutus and genetics with Nobel Laureate Barbara McClintock, completing a PhD in Genetics on work at Cold Spring Harbor Laboratories. The author has previously published in leading science journals including Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, Hepatology, and Genetics among others. Vector is her first published novel.

Vector may be purchased on Amazon.

Lucky 7 Excerpt From Sword of Mordrey

Chilham Castle

Many thanks to Audrey Kalman and Melissa Crytzer Fry, both of whom nominated me to play Lucky 7 with my WIP. These women are wonderful bloggers and I suggest you take a moment and check out their blogs. You won’t be disappointed. Audrey’s posts about the craft of writing are helpful and often make me think of aspects of writing from a new angle. And Melissa pays tribute to Arizona’s natural world as she asks questions that apply to writing in particular, and life in general.

Thank you, ladies.

Almost everyone knows the rules by now, but in case you don’t, here they are.

The tagged writer must:

1. Go to page 77 of the current WIP.
2. Go to line 7.
3. Post the next 7 sentences as they appear in the manuscript.
4. Tag 7 blogging writers. (I’m going to skip this part. While I have enjoyed reading all the posts and getting glimpses into so many enticing WIPs, I feel this game is winding down.)

Sword of Mordrey is set during the first crusade, and the year just after it. This bit of exposition that came up in my WIP is from the view point of Tristan, a bard who travels medieval England. He’s on his way to Chilham Castle, but has become disoriented in a storm and seeks refuge in a castle perched upon a high cliff above the ocean, its stone walls black and running with rain. He enters the great hall and begs leave of the lord to remain until the storm abates, offering to entertain them with song in exchange for food and shelter. Permission is granted, but Tristan soon has feelings of foreboding about the place.

        Tristan set down his pack and rested his precious lute on the bench the gatekeeper hauled near. He looked around himself as he removed his sodden cloak and spread it over the bench to dry. The hall was a strange mixture of opulence and squalor. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, but they were dark with years of soot from the smoking hearth. Elaborately carved wooden pillars, thick as the trunks of ancient trees, held up the high, smoke-blackened, heavy-beamed roof far above him. Where most halls were draped and decked with yuletide greenery this time of year: mistletoe, ivy and holly, this hall lacked any sign of the coming celebration of Christ’s birth. Torches blazed along the soot-stained walls.

Thank you for stopping by. Be sure and check out Audrey and Melissa’s blogs, and have a wonderful writing and reading week!

An illustration of the first crusade.

Sucker Punch Part Deux

Over the course of the next two weeks it became apparent I had somehow (I still don’t know how) hurt myself. I have no clue how it happened. There was never any moment of lifting my overstuffed briefcase out of the back seat of my car and feeling anything strange, never any moment at the gym that gave me pause. But an MRI revealed bulging disks at the L3 and L4 positions in my lower spine. A visit to a pain doctor led to a diagnosis of pinched nerves. This amazing and talented healer could tell just from my description of the path of the pain and numbness down my leg exactly which nerves.

As I sat in his outer office waiting my turn to be seen a parade of damaged people limped and wobbled through; victims of car crashes and on-the-job injuries, some so dire mine paled by comparison. It made me acutely aware of the amount of physical pain many people must endure. I had hope that mine would abate at some point, but it became clear that for some, it would never go away. What must that be like? 

As a writer I am used to letting my mind wander down strange paths and into dark corners in the pursuit of a character’s inner life, but the thought of living with the kind of overwhelming pain I had recently experienced—on a chronic basis—was difficult to examine too closely.

During those first two weeks I was almost completely helpless. My husband had to take care of me, helping me to the bathroom, helping me dress myself, and making all our meals by himself. Our house is two-story and stairs were non-negotiable, so he made up the bed for me in our daughter’s old room downstairs, then slept with his phone beside him, in case he was needed during the night. I tried not to wake him. He was doing a lot to care for me, on top of his day job.

My daughter drove all the long way to my home from her home in Scottsdale, and met with clients for me when I was unable. She had worked as my assistant briefly when she was younger and now that experience proved to be a blessing. She filled in for me without question or complaint, even though she is enrolled at ASU, and is employed as the manager of two sports rehab clinics. She also drove me to a doctor appointment, as did my son. I have been pleasantly amazed at how giving and selfless the people around me have been. My friend Diana offered to pick me up for the monthly meeting of our workshop without me even having to ask. Near the end of the meeting she turned to me and asked if I would be able to stand after sitting so long, which stunned me, because I’d just been privately wondering the same thing. (I was able to stand, but this had been the longest I’d sat up in a chair since the ‘event’.) Am I suggesting she’s clairvoyant? Not at all; just empathic. She is obviously able to put herself in another’s place, and know what they are feeling.

And of course I will never forget my neighbor Laura sending over dinner the evening we got home from the emergency room. I know she doesn’t expect anything in return, but I’m going to think of something.

As of writing this I am nearly recovered. I have some numbness and slight paralysis in my right leg that diminishes with each day that passes. I will walk with a cane for a while longer, but eventually I know I will be able to put it aside and get on with my life as usual. But I hope I never forget this experience, because it has taught me a new, deeper level of compassion and appreciation for others. A gratefulness for those around me who selflessly gave me help when it was needed, and a thankfulness for the health I have. Those are the life lessons I will hold close and cherish.

Next week: My Lucky 7 Post. Stop by to get a sneak peek at 7 lines from Sword of Mordrey.

Sucker Punch

I thought March would be a month of writerly delights. No less than three weekends were planned, all centering on what I enjoy best. The first of these was the much anticipated Tucson Festival of Books, a weekend long writer’s conference/book fair I’d been looking forward to ever since attending it the year prior and having such a grand time. Getting there was to be a fun road trip with friends Char, Diana, and LaDonna, all serious writers, and interesting people.

For a lover of books the TFB is a kind of high desert Nirvana. This year’s schedule included the likes of Alice Hoffman, Elmore Leonard and Jenna Blum. My friends in the ANWW and I planned to have dinner together Saturday evening, and a few of us would probably spend Sunday morning sipping lattes in some campus coffee shop or another, before a second delicious day of everything bookish. I would also finally get to meet fellow Arizonian Twitter writers, Melissa Crytzer Fry and Jessica McCann in the ‘real world’.

The following weekend in March was the Saturday meeting of the ANWW…always a weekend I look forward to with anticipation and joy.

The third Saturday would be spent in the Phoenix living room of my dear friend Trish, an awesome writer who organizes and hosts a Pulitzer book study group that is attended by writers. Again, the conversation here would center around everything I love best to discuss: novels and writing.

Those are the events that were supposed to happen. Here’s what actually did.

In February March shimmered on the horizon of my life like a literary oasis. I dragged my small overnight suitcase out from storage and made reservations for a room to share in Tucson with Diana. I worked diligently to wrap up outstanding business, bought batteries for my camera and notebooks small enough to fit in my purse. Last year we starved during the day at the festival—the cafeteria was jam-packed and the workshops are scheduled so close together there’s no time to wait in food lines if you don’t want to miss anything—so this year I bought beef jerky, nuts and dried fruit to share with whoever was with me. I had it all planned. It would be great fun, and I wouldn’t allow anything to spoil even a moment of it.

The week before the festival I developed what I first took to be allergies. By Thursday I realized it wasn’t allergies, but either a sinus infection or the flu. Thursday night I was so miserable I didn’t sleep at all, and as the sun rose on Friday I realized I would not be going to the festival. I called my friends and let them know. I looked up the confirmation number for the hotel reservations and emailed Diana. I also cried for a few minutes. But stuff happens, and I’m a big girl, so I got over the disappointment and set my sights on getting well.

And I did get better. By the time Sunday rolled around the worst of the snotty, sneezing, aching misery had passed and I knew I’d be completely well in a day or two.

But now I had a small pain in my lower back, just to the right of my tail bone. Had I perhaps sneezed too hard and pulled something? The pain wasn’t bad. I took some of the Motrin and flexural my rheumatologist prescribes for MCTD, and figured it would pass. My sinus infection got better but the pain in my back did not. I met with clients on Wednesday and one of them pointed out I was limping.

By Friday I knew something was seriously wrong. The small pain was not so small anymore, and it had spread like flaming napalm to my hip and down my right thigh. By 7pm Friday night I could find no position that didn’t hurt, and my right leg could not be bent without causing me excruciating pain. I could barely walk by this time, and I couldn’t sit, because that required bending my leg at the hip and knee, so it was a tense ride to the nearby urgent care clinic. We got there right before their 8 pm closing time. I stood leaning against a wall in the waiting room as the attending doctor saw to the last people who had been there before me. I was fighting back tears, and trembling with pain, but more importantly, I was beginning to feel frightened.

I am not a sissy when it comes to pain. I’ve given birth to two children, both of them large babies, and the first without benefit of pain meds. But this pain I was experiencing was so widespread, severe and inexplicable it actually frightened me. The doctor saw me. He suspected bursitis of the hip and gave me a scrip for pain meds, which my husband went and got filled, after taking me home and icing my hip and thigh as the doctor had recommended. I took the vicodin and waited for the pain to abate. But it never did.

By 5:30 am Saturday morning I was officially out of my mind. I was experiencing back-arching, claw-handed agony that nearly made speech impossible, and the pain meds the urgent care doctor had prescribed, even doubled, weren’t touching it. The large muscle in my right thigh jerked and jumped like it was electrically charged. My husband half carried me out to our truck and attempted to get me up into the passenger side. I was sobbing and frightened and in the most complete misery I have even experienced, outside childbirth. On a scale of 1 – 10 this pain was a 10, and I was completely freaked out by it.

Jim took me to the nearest emergency room, which happens to be located in a nearby retirement community. At the emergency room entrance I fell into the proffered  wheelchair. But since my hip and knee wouldn’t bend without exponentially increasing the pain all I could do was perch on the edge of the seat with my back arched and my head resting on the top of the seatback so I was staring straight up. I could not lift my right leg onto the foot rest, so whoever was pulling the chair wheeled me into the hospital backwards, with my right foot dragging, as my husband went to park our truck.

The wait in the emergency waiting room would have been humiliating…if I had cared what anyone thought of me. I was sweating profusely and my teeth chattered uncontrollably. My waist-length hair was wrapped everywhere around me and under me. I sat arched back in the chair, gripping the armrests with white knuckled intensity, hissing and sobbing with pain. I wore an old pair of black yoga pants and an old tee-shirt and flip-flops. I’m sure, in retrospect, I looked perfectly demented.

You would think a person in this condition would be brought right into the treatment area of an emergency room and cared for, but such is not the case. I was deposited in a public waiting room full of the disembodied voices of curious strangers while my husband had to fill out and sign a lot of papers. I don’t know how long I sat in that waiting room. It may have been an hour, it may have only been ten minutes, but every second ticked by like an hour. I recall hearing a woman nearby say, “Oh, my, that poor girl. She can go in front of me.” Next I heard the deeper rumble of an indignant man: “No. You’ve been waiting. When it’s your turn you go.”

“But I’m not that bad off,” said the female voice.

My husband returned and hovered over me, trying to comfort me. “Hang in there, babe. Just a little longer.” I heard him return to the admittance nurse’s window numerous times to ask how much longer I’d have to wait, and asking if they could at least get me out of the chair and onto a table, because sitting was not really possible and the position I was in was making the pain worse.

Eventually they called my name and someone grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and attempted to push it. The metal footrest jammed into the soft ligament at the back of my right ankle. “Mame, pick up your foot and put it on the footrest.” The demand penetrated the red haze surrounding me and I tried to respond. My leg wouldn’t move on its own and I couldn’t relax my grip on the arms of the chair or lean forward, both actions that would result in my hip bending. “Can you hear me?” Louder now. “I said pick up your foot.” The chair jerked impatiently. I think I said something like: “Uhhgrr.” I heard the low murmur of my husband’s voice. Then I felt hands lift my leg and place my foot on the footrest. The institutional acoustic tile ceiling above me whirled dizzily and I was wheeled off to the station where temps and blood pressure are checked.

I was so out of it that I remember very little of the next fifteen minutes or so. I was cuffed and questioned, and did my best to answer coherently. But I’m not sure I made much sense. I have no recollection of what anyone who spoke to me looked like, or what they asked me. I was wheeled into the treatment area of the emergency room and parked beside a bed, which my husband helped me up on to, all the while gently encouraging me. More questions were asked, and a short, middle aged Hispanic woman got an IV in my left arm.

“Where’s that noise coming from?” a male voice asked on the other side of a white canvas curtain. “It’s this one, in here,” another male voice replied. “I just ordered up morphine for her.”

My husband stood beside the bed I lay on, alternately stroking my hair back from my forehead and rubbing my spasming right thigh, while I worked on breaking the world record for saying ‘oh’.

The morphine took a long time to get to the emergency room. It seemed it needed to be brought in by camel, then unpacked and accounted for, before I could have it. Hard as it is to believe, morphine is apparently not kept in the very place where it is most needed.

The relief, when it finally arrived, hit my blood stream like mother’s love. The pain, which had grown to colossal size, shrank to a smoky throb in my lower back, hip and down my leg. My madly twitching thigh muscle slowed and my teeth ceased chattering. I felt my senses begin to return. It occurred to me I might be in some serious trouble. I could even be dying.

Over the course of that long Saturday I was again given morphine, and a little later something called dilaudid, when it became obvious the morphine wasn’t ‘holding’. The person assigned to me, a P.A. named Grace, ordered up tests and asked more questions.

Somewhere near the middle of the day I realized it was the Saturday of my writers workshop, and I was missing the second pleasure I had been looking forward to in March. My children came to see me, faces worried as they bent above me. My daughter brought me a birthday card, and I remembered it was St. Patrick’s Day…my birthday.

It was nearly 7pm by the time Grace had ruled out all the dire things she thought might be causing the problem. It wasn’t appendicitis, and it wasn’t anything to do with any of the other organs in my abdomen. Should I be admitted? Or should I go home? My only fear, at that point, was going home and having the pain return. The dilaudid was beginning to wear off and the pain was bearing its teeth at me in a wolfish grin, so Grace ordered up percoset to see if it would be sufficient to see me through until I could get to my GP on Monday.

Jim and I arrived home near sunset: me pale, hobbled and shaken; both of us ravenous after a long day without anything to eat other than some crackers the nurse had provided when she brought the Percocet. He brought me into the house and got me settled. There was a card on the front door from Diana, who had been worried and come looking for me when I hadn’t showed up at the workshop, which really touched me.

Jim went out front to retrieve my purse from the truck, and returned with his arms full of Tupperware. Our next door neighbor, Laura, had given him a corned beef supper, the traditional meal of St Patrick’s Day, complete with homemade Irish bread. This unexpected act of kindness completely shattered me. If I could have moved, I would have run next door and hugged her. It’s funny who the angels turn out to be, when something like this happens.

To be continued…

Harbingers of Spring in Arizona

Blooming Brittle Bush in my front yard. This is a native desert wildflower in Arizona. It lines the roads and covers the hills in spring. We started this bush from a seedling two years ago.

This Lilac Vine isn't native to Arizona, but grows well here. The bees are enraptured with its purple blossoms.

This Native Globe Mallow was brought to my yard by the birds. I found it growing in the lawn, and moved it to our Desert Garden.

Rosemary grows easily here. Its blossoms come in a variety of shades of blue, and drive the honeybees wild.

Honeybees at work (or is it play?) on Rosemary's offerings. You can hear the bush humming with activity when standing near it. It's covered with bees from morning to dark.

Our dwarf orange is covered in delicate white blossoms this time of year. Their heady scent greets visitors who come to our front door, even though the tree is out back. The bees are extra busy right now, making sure we'll have a crop of juicy, sweet Valencias next winter. Like the Rosemary, this plant actually hums when you stand beside it.

 

I have a difficult time sitting inside writing at this time of year. The weather in Arizona is perfect in spring; not so hot we can swim, but sunny and warm. It’s ideal for hiking and exploring. Now is the time to clean up the yard, get the pool ready for summer swimming, and spend time enjoying the garden.

What’s it like where you are?

Buddha Face and the Impatient Yogini

I joined a gym last week. Our community built an absolutely gorgeous park a few years back, and I sometimes take Zeus there to walk him along the walking paths and bridges. The gym I joined is on the second floor of the community center there, and its walls are all darkly curving glass overlooking a lovely desert wash, partly landscaped by people, partly by nature.

I went to my first class today. I picked yoga, since I already do it, and I thought maybe I’d save the classes with scary names like Absolute Power and Cardio Kickbox for later, when I’m in better shape.

I arrived early, so I had a little wait, and ended up meeting another woman who was there for her  first class as well. We chatted while everyone else arrived. I got a good look at who would be taking the class, which is always fun; people come in so many varieties.

guyan mudra

If you’ve ever been to a yoga class, you know it attracts several types. There are those who have been doing it for years, and actually live a yoga lifestyle. Probably they’re vegan. They look slim and limber. Suppleness comes to mind. They’ve got the Buddha face; smooth and worry-free. They wear flip-flops and have organic fiber mats. The Buddha babes calmly unfurl their mats and drop down into sukhasana  right away, hands moving gracefully into gyan mudra.

Next there’s the hardcore yogini. She does yoga like it’s a competition—forget all that spiritual stuff. It’s part of the cross-training her personal fitness coach recommends. She’ll be in one of the scary classes tomorrow, or out pumping weight in the gym after yoga. She’s got a high, rock hard ass that could crack a walnut, and sinewy feet. She enters the yoga studio and snaps her mat open with a sound like a gunshot. Rather than sitting,  she talks to the yogini next to her about what she has to do after class, or what she was doing before.

Then there’re the ones like my new friend and I. Where do we put our shoes and socks? Where does the teacher sit…which way should we face? Ooo, look at the pretty view out the glass walls! Where do they keep the bolsters? Oh, we need a strap?

I got myself situated with a minimum of disturbance…I aspire to being a Buddha babe.  But honestly, I know I’ll never be a vegetarian, let alone a vegan, however much I admire those who are. I need a tattoo that says: Cows, chickens, and pigs beware! I watch my husband feed the pigeons mornings—they’re hugely plump (and delicious-looking) from all the carbs he administers—and I think: In medieval times we would eat those. I wonder what they taste like? But then I would never think of eating Zeus. The very idea horrifies me. What is it with us humans, that we can compartmentalize other living creatures this way? Some we eat; some we pet and spoil.

Zeus, The Spoiled.

It bears thinking about.

Anyway…

The teacher walked in and glided across the pale blond wood floor to the front; a small, very fit looking young woman with a long dark, smooth ponytail. She told us we’d be doing a ‘restorative’ class today. I greeted this announcement with (quiet) cheer.

For those of you who don’t know what a restorative class is, it’s basically stretching and holding in relaxed positions, while watching your breath. It’s deceptively simple, but can actually be challenging, if not done in the right spirit. It’s one of my favorite yoga classes to take. I excel at relaxing. The trick is to surrender.

Surrender what?

Well…that depends.

This whole concept of surrendering used to be anathema to me. Me? Surrender? Not on your life, buddy! But that was because I didn’t really understand it. I just thought of it as throwing in the towel, waving the white flag. Maybe even an act of cowardice.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

One day, a few years ago, I was holding trikona asana  and I couldn’t get all the way down to a flat hand on the mat beside my foot. I was frustrated and trying to force my body into position. Suddenly I heard this very patient, calm voice suggesting I surrender. And I got the very distinct notion it wasn’t just suggesting I surrender with regard to the yoga. I was going through some challenging times in my life.

With it came the perfect understanding of what surrendering really means; not giving up, and certainly not giving in, but simply to stop struggling.

I took a deep breath and let go of the thought that my hand had to lay flat or I wasn’t good enough. When I let go of the breath, my hand was…okay, not flat. But almost. And I had the slowly dawning realization that struggle actually creates opposition. A pushing back.

Struggle creates opposition within ourselves, and also within the world.

Surrender is a powerful kungfu-like mental technique, and once we get that, things start going more our way. It’s all about what’s going on within our thoughts, and in our heart. We can move with the world and it will accommodate us, or we can struggle against it, and we’ll constantly be frustrated.

It’s a paradox. Cool, huh?

So, now we’re back to yoga class again, and I promise, no more digressions.

We were half way through class. I was lying in this pose with my left shoulder on the mat and my right hand resting, palm up, on the small of my back. I was breathing and relaxing (surrendering) deeper into the pose.

I let my eyes travel along the shining wood floor and out the glass wall to the deep cornflower blue sky. White, billowy clouds hung without moving. They appeared perfectly still. It looked hot out, and probably was, but inside the studio it was cool. A light breeze floated all around me from a lazily turning fan overhead. The instructor had put on a CD of women singing together.  

I thought about how grateful I am to live in a community where we have a center like this one. And how thankful I am to be self-employed, so I can come to a class like this one during the day if I want. And just how sweet life is.

The instructor was one of those who didn’t talk a lot beyond the need to know stuff, like what we were doing next. Perfect, since the entire point of restorative yoga is to relax the mind, stretch and simply chill out. No thinking, and definitely no talking. She moved us through the poses, and I felt my muscles, tight from yesterday’s workout on the weight machines, begin to elongate, my face, breath and attitude softened like cream cheese left out on the kitchen counter.

We moved into savasana, which is lying on your back with your palms face up. We had the bolster under our knees. The music played very low in the background, dulcet voices softly chanting.

Alleluia…Alleluia…

Harp music, a flute… I felt completely relaxed. I let my mind slip gently into neutral.

A feeling welled up within me.

Hello. What’s this?

A deep peacefulness suffused my stomach and chest. It radiated out to my fingertips like the sweetest of sugar rushes. It rose toward the crown of my head.

I felt tears start at the corners of my eyes. Don’t cry!

Oh, who cares…everyone’s eyes are closed. I breathed into it…floating on my own snowy cloud of bliss. I lifted my left hand to wipe away the moisture  on my cheeks. No worries…my eyelids fluttered open as I wiped them.

Inexplicably, the nut cracker yogini’s face hovered above mine. “Does this class usually last this long?”

You know that sound in movies, when something totally unexpected happens? It’s the sound of a needle dragging across a record, and everything comes to an abrupt freeze frame?

“Uh…I don’t know.”  I peered up at the yogini, wondering briefly if she’d seen me crying, then I lifted my head and looked at the instructor. “This is the first time I’ve taken this class from her.”

“I think she’s fallen asleep,” the yogini said, flipping her hand toward the front of the class. “This isn’t supposed to go on so long.” She walked off to deposit her bolster in the closet where they are kept, sinewy feet beating a busy tattoo across the wooden floor. Another yogini­ was also putting away her bolster. They had a sotto voce conference by the closet.

I turned and looked toward the front where the instructor was still in savasana, the pale soles of her bare feet facing me. The Buddha babes lay supine on their organic mats around her, bellies slowly rising and falling, a phalanx of serenity.

I lowered my head back down to the mat, quietly laughing. I couldn’t work myself up to be annoyed. I felt too good.

Five minutes later class was ending. The instructor beamed at us as her palms came together in front of her heart. She had the Buddha face going on.

She looked wide awake to me.