the final surrender and the humble new beginning. Mia had moved into the second series by then. She had memorized the name of every posture in Sanskrit and added to her repertoire a lengthy final prayer, also in Sanskrit, whose hypnotic, painfully redemptive closure consisted of the word shanti —the peace that surpasseth understanding—chanted three times.
At first Anna had failed to understand. She had practiced in New York, Boston, Los Angeles, Chicago, Seattle, Denver, Santa Fe, and Taos. The ashtanga studios of America were packed with all-star athletes outdoing each other in the name of yoga. Only in her tiny studio on Morada Lane—a single room where orchids bloomed all year round and silence condensed like matter around human breath—had Anna truly rested in the heart of the practice. To the people who came from out of town to dazzle, to impress, her teacher—a lunar creature with eyes like pools of amber—would say, “Lie down. Find your breath. You’ll be doing better yoga that way.”
Mia was a curious blend when she’d shown up. She was clearly unconcerned by the performance of others and yet so obsessed with her own that Anna had looked upon her with some suspicion. It hadn’t taken long to figure out that every extra effort she put into the practice was in the service of a religious ritual, an exercise of absolute devotion. She had a good way of putting it, a solid way of putting it. “Without this practice,” she’d say, “I’d be smashing bottles into the wall.”
Mia had a ridiculously successful marriage, but she also had a thing about Persephone, who was dragged down into the underworld by Hades and there enslaved and raped. Nothing in her childhood suggested exposure to trauma on that level, but Mia was raised on a ranch, in the spare world of horses and cattle, fences and gates, dry manure, constantly rising dust. She was raised in a world where little life moved and where her drawings—pencil first, charcoal later—drew pitying smiles from the women, savage laughter from the men. “You gonna eat that, honey? You gonna day-gest that, baby girl? Get the calories you need to pull that gate shut?” And because she’d loved that world, she’d lingered in it far too long—coming out of it a fury.
“Look at that idiot, that knucklehead.”
“Where?”
“Over by the cash register.”
It was early in the morning, not long after they’d first met. The coffee shop was full. Anna squinted and eventually brought into focus a relatively benign-looking man in a pert cowboy hat.
“What did he do?”
“His wife just asked him for twenty bucks and he said no.”
Anna took a second look. The man was putting his money clip away. There didn’t seem to be much in it.
“Here, darlin’,” he said, handing his wife a tall Americano.
Mia shook her head. “Fucking men,” she said.
A couple of weeks later, in the same coffee shop, after enduring a leisurely stare from a total stranger for what had clearly been a minute too long, Mia took the man’s cup of coffee and poured it in the trash. The man jumped out of his seat.
“You got a problem with that?” asked Mia.
“Yeah, I got a problem with that, that’s my fucking coffee, you crazy bitch.”
“Didn’t your momma teach you not to stare? No? She didn’t? Well, somebody’s got to teach you not to stare. ”
And maybe six months after that, down in Santa Fe, at a stage when Anna had begun to physically maneuver Mia away from all potential offenders, including bent-over old men with walking canes, three lads in suits and ties had watched them come in and strategically positioned themselves next to them at the bar. Anna had purchased a drink and kept her eyes glued to it. Mia had turned to one of the men.
“What are you standing here for?”
“I was thinking we might strike up a conversation.”
“Do I look like I’m in a mood to talk?”
“I can’t tell, honey. It’s kinda dark in here.”
“Do I look like you
At first Anna had failed to understand. She had practiced in New York, Boston, Los Angeles, Chicago, Seattle, Denver, Santa Fe, and Taos. The ashtanga studios of America were packed with all-star athletes outdoing each other in the name of yoga. Only in her tiny studio on Morada Lane—a single room where orchids bloomed all year round and silence condensed like matter around human breath—had Anna truly rested in the heart of the practice. To the people who came from out of town to dazzle, to impress, her teacher—a lunar creature with eyes like pools of amber—would say, “Lie down. Find your breath. You’ll be doing better yoga that way.”
Mia was a curious blend when she’d shown up. She was clearly unconcerned by the performance of others and yet so obsessed with her own that Anna had looked upon her with some suspicion. It hadn’t taken long to figure out that every extra effort she put into the practice was in the service of a religious ritual, an exercise of absolute devotion. She had a good way of putting it, a solid way of putting it. “Without this practice,” she’d say, “I’d be smashing bottles into the wall.”
Mia had a ridiculously successful marriage, but she also had a thing about Persephone, who was dragged down into the underworld by Hades and there enslaved and raped. Nothing in her childhood suggested exposure to trauma on that level, but Mia was raised on a ranch, in the spare world of horses and cattle, fences and gates, dry manure, constantly rising dust. She was raised in a world where little life moved and where her drawings—pencil first, charcoal later—drew pitying smiles from the women, savage laughter from the men. “You gonna eat that, honey? You gonna day-gest that, baby girl? Get the calories you need to pull that gate shut?” And because she’d loved that world, she’d lingered in it far too long—coming out of it a fury.
“Look at that idiot, that knucklehead.”
“Where?”
“Over by the cash register.”
It was early in the morning, not long after they’d first met. The coffee shop was full. Anna squinted and eventually brought into focus a relatively benign-looking man in a pert cowboy hat.
“What did he do?”
“His wife just asked him for twenty bucks and he said no.”
Anna took a second look. The man was putting his money clip away. There didn’t seem to be much in it.
“Here, darlin’,” he said, handing his wife a tall Americano.
Mia shook her head. “Fucking men,” she said.
A couple of weeks later, in the same coffee shop, after enduring a leisurely stare from a total stranger for what had clearly been a minute too long, Mia took the man’s cup of coffee and poured it in the trash. The man jumped out of his seat.
“You got a problem with that?” asked Mia.
“Yeah, I got a problem with that, that’s my fucking coffee, you crazy bitch.”
“Didn’t your momma teach you not to stare? No? She didn’t? Well, somebody’s got to teach you not to stare. ”
And maybe six months after that, down in Santa Fe, at a stage when Anna had begun to physically maneuver Mia away from all potential offenders, including bent-over old men with walking canes, three lads in suits and ties had watched them come in and strategically positioned themselves next to them at the bar. Anna had purchased a drink and kept her eyes glued to it. Mia had turned to one of the men.
“What are you standing here for?”
“I was thinking we might strike up a conversation.”
“Do I look like I’m in a mood to talk?”
“I can’t tell, honey. It’s kinda dark in here.”
“Do I look like you
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