A Killer Retreat by Tracy Weber

challenge. The trick is figuring out how to design a sequence that keeps new students safe without boring those with more experience. Since no one in the room had acute injuries, I decided to make the class simple, but energizing.
    I pulled out my Tibetan chimes and rang them three times, as I did at beginning of every practice. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs anticipating a cookie, my own body began to relax.
    â€œClose your eyes and start to settle in. Allow your mind to quiet, and feel the sensations of your breath.”
    The door opened and Toni, Helen’s friend, eased through it. She mouthed the word “sorry” and grabbed a mat. I smiled and pointed to an empty space in the front row.
    I began with a few simple kneeling poses to gently warm my students’ lower backs as they learned how to link movement with breath. The first pose I taught was Chakravakasana, also called Cat Pose.
    â€œPlease come to your hand and knees.” I coached the beginners to place blankets under their kneecaps. “Inhale and lengthen your spine, from the crown of your head to your tailbone.” As expected, each student gently extended her spine. “Exhale and fold back, bringing your hips toward your heels and your forehead toward the floor. This is called Child’s Pose.” Although I saw various interpretations of my instructions, each student appeared to find the desired low back stretch. More importantly, their movements looked peaceful and coordinated with the breath.
    So far so good.
    Twenty minutes later, my disparate group of early morning yogis huffed, puffed, yawned, and stretched their way through the first cycle of Sun Salutes. I kept my instructions short, timing them so that each phrase would fit within a single breath.
    â€œInhale and raise your arms toward the ceiling. As you exhale, bend forward and place your palms on the floor. Inhale and step your right foot back. Exhale and step your left foot back next to it in Downward Dog.”
    As intended, the group moved in unison, like synchronized dancers flowing with coordinated breath. The experienced students, Toni among them, closed their eyes and flowed with the grace and ease of consistent practice. The beginners moved tentatively, eyes open, glancing left and right for guidance. Everyone seemed to be enjoying their yoga experience.
    Everyone, that is, except a frowning woman in the back row. I nicknamed her the Grumpy Yogini. Michael wouldn’t have approved of my choice, but the term fit. Yogini meant female yogi, and this female yogi was certainly grumpy. The tiny, scowling woman wore black yoga pants and a blue tank top with the word shanti —Sanskrit for peace—printed on the front. I caught her eye and smiled encouragingly. She looked away, lips thinned. In concentration, I hoped.
    After three Sun Salutes, I led the class through several balance postures, a few strengthening prone poses, and some gentle seated stretches. We ended with a breath practice designed to build energy, followed by a ten-minute rest in Savasana, yoga’s pose of quiet relaxation.
    The sea of supine yogis in front of me looked happy, relaxed, and injury free. Except for the Grumpy Yogini, that is. I tried not to take it personally each time the still-frowning, tank-top-clad woman looked pointedly at her watch. After all, my gentle, breath-centered style of yoga wasn’t for everyone. She might be used to Power Yoga, Iyengar, or—I shuddered at the thought—even Hot Yoga.
    I didn’t get a chance to ask her. She scooted out the door without making eye contact as soon as we finished saying Namaste—the Sanskrit greeting exchanged at the end of each class.
    I pushed any lingering feelings of inadequacy deep into my subconscious, said goodbye to the rest of the participants, and invited them to return the following morning. Most students departed quickly after class, heading off to breakfast and the rest of their morning adventures.