At last, she opens her eyes. The studio is slowly emptying as students scurry back and forth from their mats to the props cupboard, from the changing room to the front door. All the activity reminds her of edgy squirrels in autumn, bounding and scampering, trying to outrun time. Unlike the other students, she isn’t willing to give up that pleasing hum, that quiet place inside, where everything makes sense, even for her. She’s in no rush to leap back into her complicated story.

She flutters her knees. Her inner thighs ache from too many hip openers. Still, she notices her body is growing supple. Soon she will be able to rest her forehead on the cup of her arches in Cobbler’s Pose. Well, maybe not soon, but soon enough. Her physical transformation, however, isn’t the most astonishing progress she has observed about herself lately.

During those timeless moments on her mat, somehow her life is no longer a jail, nor does she feel trapped by circumstance. While she rests on her mat in compassionate contemplation, she no longer tries to outrun her grief. Instead, she sits with it, like company, her sad friend dressed in blue. Something she was too frightened to even consider a couple of months ago, convinced that her pain was greater than she was, that if she let it out, it would sink her, the way Sunil’s pain had submerged him.

Now, when alone, she discovers space. Space between herself and her circumstances. Space between herself and her grief. Space to be safe.

When she finds space, she is no longer part of a turbulent narrative. Rather, she is a step beside it, as though watching a blizzard from behind a pane of glass. Within the storm, she sees all the things that have troubled her. Yet, from her vantage point, a step away, she understands that none of these tumultuous states are who she is. Just as Sunil was not his illness, she is not her pain. None of the thoughts or feelings or situations she had found herself in since Sunil’s passing are who or what she is.

Who and what she is, is indestructible.

She stands and gazes across the room at Hawthorn, who is arranging cushions and making tea. The kettle whistles as though summoning her.

“Another great class.” She grins sleepily as she strolls toward the mass of colourful cushions that are piled in their usual spot by the bay window.

He hands her a steaming cup. “One ginger lemon tea for my favourite student.”

“I thought you were supposed to be impartial,” she teases. She sets the mug on the floor to cool.

“That’s true.” He blows over his tea. “But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.” He places his cup on the floor and then lowers onto the cushions.

“What do you mean?”

He bobs his tea bag a few times. “I have something to tell you.”