Human beings are wired to be self-serving, placing wants at or above our basic needs.
In our on-the-go, interconnected, perfection-seeking lives, stress burnout rages through every level of society. Abandoning the pursuit of personal gains and sacrificing for another's benefit is almost unheard of. The number of individuals who cast themselves out into the world with goals of being selfless comprises the biggest minority on the planet, and we fail to understand that giving without expectation of reciprocated personal gain was one of the most, if not the most, virtuous acts of humanity.
I pulled back my pen and closed my notebook. Fuck, that was deep.
Like a hypocrite, I wasn't exempt from my written thoughts. My bank account was empty, leading me to accept Sam's 'new' job. When I did leave the house, I donated my time and efforts to teaching yoga for one purely selfish reason: it felt good. I also mailed out Christmas cards hoping for some mailed back. To gain likes, I liked social media posts, and I plastered fake smiles to receive one back.
My superficial goodwill had its limits. Flopping back and forth between helping rehab Sam's shoulder and dealing with his arrogant, nerve-grating existence bordered between lost cause and a stick poked in my ego. "Not the time to think about that crop-dusting weasel," I muttered as Shanti's chimes rang out.
"Namaste, Mia." She flashed her always radiant smile.
"Namaste," I returned.
Tonight's class served as a prime example of masking my selfishness as charitable. Volunteering my time leading a free class for twenty local, and sometimes forgotten, heroes appeared selfless. It wasn't.
In my limited experience, injured and honorably discharged veterans were a neglected segment of society. They were released from service with a severance check, GI support to refocus their life, and few resources to deal with a mindfuck our civilian brains were incapable of processing. Past pitfalls demonstrated my understanding's limited capacity in a painful, personal way. Fuck, I was a walking billboard for 'mental work in progress' myself.
All twenty members of tonight's class were veterans or active duty from the Army's nearby medical center. The class was flexible around physical limitations, but several people recovered from more than physical injuries. Meditation, a central component of my and Shanti's classes, offered one flicker of therapeutic light through dark, hidden, and often swept-aside trauma.
Research, including the grant that supported our classes, suggested meditation was a worthwhile tool in the battle against PTS, CTS, and anxiety. Yoga pulled me out of my darkness. If I offered someone else one sliver of a chance I wished I'd known of earlier, then my damaged spirit snacked on a minuscule reassurance of redemption.
See? Selfish. After whatever the fuck meeting I had with Sam in Michael's office, I desperately needed a mental and spiritual enema.
"Good evening, welcome," I lowered my voice to a quiet hum. "I'm so glad you're here tonight."
Guilt carried me here as much as road rage. A few sniffs of my lavender face towel basket and dimmed lights helped me settle into my space, shutting off the noises and distractions outside the closed door. Especially a particular, six-eight manchild.
Twenty resting bodies. I tucked my feet under bent knees and rested my hands in my lap. "Take in a deep, ujjayi, three-part breath. Chest, lungs, then deep in your belly. Fill it with breath until it's so tight it might pop."
I palmed my chest, my eyes sweeping the room. "When stressed, our breath turns shallow and hollow. Hot, stale air traps in the bottom of our lungs. Release it, breathing as slowly as possible. Turn your attention away from the distractions outside. Focus on the feelings stirring inside, acknowledge them for a breath, and let them go..."
The next fifty-five minutes were a blissful journey away from my overthinking tendencies and refocusing on the present. The stress-inducing influences in my life and spirals out of my control dissolved under the more pressing physical and mental needs of my class members.
All twenty names, their physical restrictions, and mental challenges lived in my brain space. Each relaxed face projected a checklist of background demographics and injuries. Tyler, the newest, struggled with PTS after losing two in his unit. An IED forced Dave, the oldest vet at 34, to retire before his service time ended. My first participant could teach the class himself. The rest fell in between and on their recovery trajectories.
I rotated through class routines but, despite the attendees' discrepancies, my end meditation approach never changed. "Chakra, meaning wheel, refers to different energy points in your body. Think of spinning centers of energy. Each corresponds to different locations on the body, bundles of nerves, organ systems, and how we're feeling."
Returning to my seated position, I smiled at the resting bodies. "Seven main chakras run along your spine from the crown of the head..." I palmed mine and pointed to my tailbone. "...to the sacrum. Keeping these energy centers open allows for a balanced mind, body, and spirit."
"Anja..." I pressed between my eyes. "Associated with images, dreams, imagination, and visions. A blocked Anja can cause headaches, lack of concentration, and hearing problems. Beyond that, slipping away from reality or losing touch with your intuition..."
My breath hitched.
"...And its demon is disillusion."
"Preparing for meditation, join me for three Oms." Drawing a deep breath, my throat, tongue, and palate warmed and vibrated with a low chant. I slacked my jaw, releasing the 'Aum' sound.
The more experienced mouths opened. Baritone hums vibrated the air space, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. Goosebumps followed, and heat pumped through my palms. Its instant impact was followed by smiles, then shoulders and jaws relaxed.
"Lay down. Close your eyes. Draw a deep breath." I took an exaggerated, loud breath. "Imagine your breath spreading to all corners of your body. Exhale, tension melting."
"Imagine a clean, rich purple bleeding into the darkest blue. As you inhale, feel this color, picturing it in your mind. Open your ability to think clearly. As you exhale, release the mental blockages. Sweep out the cobwebs. I have some facecloths to help. If you don't want one, then lay your hands on your belly and I'll walk past." Tiptoeing, I draped folded cloths over one forehead after another. "They're washed in Tide and infused with lavender, Anja's essential oil."
"Trust your ability to recognize what's right, what's true. Feel your mind becoming clearer, distractions settling down and disappearing. Thoughts will come, that's okay. Acknowledge them for a breath, then let them go."
"Take the next few minutes. Breathe. Relax. Try to find a sense of silence."
The room fell silent as a tome, so I turned up the music volume. Tyler's flinching temples gave me a note to talk to him afterward. My mind drifted to its usual dark places. With two minutes left, I pulled out my notebook and read off my sixth chakra affirmations. "Focus on my voice. Let these words soak in. Repeat them within your mind, if you'd like."
"I manifest my visions."
"I seek wisdom and guidance in all situations."
"I listen to my inner guidance."
"I see clearly."
Hopefully, I offered a safe, open place for more than exercise–exploration, mental focus, and neural restructuring. As class participants struggled to press their military boots into civilian shoes, hopefully, they found an applicable coping mechanism and a post-deployment brotherhood.
Peace filled every pair of eyes, my measure of success. Warmth glowed in my chest, mirroring the LED candles circling me, and the usual knots pinching my shoulders were slack. I bowed my head, resting my lashes against my cheeks. "In peace and loving kindness, Jai Bhagwan. Namaste." (Loosely: May the divine in you be victorious. I bow to you.)
Deep 'Namaste's' returned the sentiments. The vibe was somber but warm and relaxed. My spirit was lighter, my brain quieter, and my body tired. Success. A shiver ran down my back as mats were sprayed and gathered.
"Great class." Phil, a tall, muscular honorable discharge, offered me a grateful smile that warmed my heart. Bending over, he dropped his towel into the dirty laundry bag. "Thank you, Mia."
I smiled. "Glad to see you watching that shoulder."
"Forgot I was wearing this." His hand palmed his prosthetic attachment's bicep as he paid me the highest compliment. "Thank you."
A quiet man with cropped hair, bulging shoulders, and his chin dipped down approached me. "Mia? Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, Tyler." I stepped over, hugging my elbows with my palms. "What's up?"
"I, uhh..." His eyes studied my feet. "Do you do one-on-one help? During meditation, my brain... it's–"
"Not quiet enough?"
He whooshed out an exhale, deflating. "Yeah."
I widened my smile into one I hoped was encouraging. "Absolutely. I'm here tomorrow. Does eleven fifteen work?"
"Yeah." The tightness in his voice relaxed. "Thanks, I appreciate it."
"Of course."
My usual collection of conversations, thank-yous, and check-ins continued. Once the last pair of feet exited the studio, I slipped on my Crocs and joined Shanti at the front desk.
"Why do they make us jump through these hoops?" I signed my twentieth Fort Simmons attendance voucher.
"Practice for your John Hancock." One of her dark brown eyes winked. She paused and opened it, dark lashes fluttering with her parted open lips. "Did I say that right?"
"You did." I placed mine in an envelope and shoved it into the outgoing mail pile.
She peered over my shoulder at the log I scribbled over. Shanti couldn't balance a checkbook if her life depended on it, but her infinite heart took a chance on me. With the GI bill, I obtained my two-hundred-hour certification under Shanti's instruction. I didn't express enough appreciation, but she had my loyalty.
"Here." I handed her the completed log.
"Thank you. I haven't seen Mister Pearson in a week," she said without hiding her amusement.
A weight sank in my stomach. Sam was the last person I wanted to think about or any other person. Crawling into a box of wine was the only viable alternative to a hot shower. "He's back tomorrow," I assured her with a shoulder pat. "Good night, Shanti."
As much as yoga therapy offered me, it took more out. The space between my eyes pounded by the time my damp head hit my pillow. Abby was right. I was tired.
The admission sank my shoulders. I was tired of debating which aspect of my life was worse: waking up to the same sobering realization that Nathan left or I was an untrained therapist and hand-holder trying to convince a room full of people that they were worthy of fighting against life-crippling demons.
My heavy eyes closed, but my mind juggled thoughts with the coordination of a circus reject. Slowing my breath, I calmed my racing heart.
"Wake up, Ladybug."
"Mmm..." I groaned, pulling my blanket over my head. "Too early."
"You're beautiful when you're grumpy." A hand tugged back the covers, blinding my half-closed eyes with sunlight. Too early. I released a troll groan. In front of a backlit spotlight, his short blonde hair and broad shoulders leaned over. Rough fingers cupped my cheek, the ring one newly minted like mine. "I could stare at you naked and in bed all day, Ladybug, but I wanna show you something."
I shifted my legs, the soreness between them prompting another groan. "You already did last night, Nate."
"Not that." His warm, rich laugh filled my ears. "Come on."
Nathan bounced with so much childlike excitement. His old Ford rumbled along the road. Threading my fingers between his, I kissed the back of his hand. "I'm going to miss you."
"None of that yet," he whispered. "Almost there."
He pulled off the dusty road to a run-down wood fence. Overgrown grass poked through it. Endless untouched acres passed behind it, as far as my eyes saw. A 'For Sale' sign hung on the gate.
Nate flung one leg over the rickety fence, then held out his hand. "What do you think?"
"I think we're trespassing." I climbed up, clutching the wobbling gate.
His hands gripped my hips, his blue eyes shining brighter than the sky. "Take a look."
The unruly, untamed grasses were endless. Birds chirped from a smattering of green trees. A breeze tugged my hair, tickling the side of my neck. The sky was open and unobstructed. Not a soul passed on the single-lane dirt road.
"It's perfect," I admitted.
"Good, because I want to buy it as soon as I'm back." He lifted me, ripping a squeal from my lips. My vision blurred as he spun me around, dizzying my head. "I have enough."
Sliding down his hard body, the tips of my toes landed on top of his. Unfiltered excitement radiated in his eyes.
"We're gonna grow old here someday, Ladybug."
"Mia?" a soft voice accompanied by warmth rubbing my shoulder. "Wake up."
"Oh!" I flipped open my eyes to concern filling brown eyes, not crystal blue ones. A pounding beat throbbed in my ears.
Abby offered a sad smile. "You were dreaming."
"It was a good one." Reaching up, I wiped my damp cheeks. Remnant pain clutched my heart as my pulse slowed. Sunlight streamed in, warming my skin. The hairs on my forearms pricked with goosebumps. "Fuck, it feels so real every time."
"Good." She booped my nose. "We'll talk during breakfast before your class."
I groaned at the reminder, slumping under the covers and remembering it was Monday. Sam day. What the fuck had I gotten myself into? He couldn't have impressed me less in the human decency department, but Michael's meeting left me angrier at myself than him. Now I worked for him! I left with a folder tucked under my elbow, my privacy sworn in an NDA, Simone in my corner, anger surging in my veins, and my brain whirling in a total mindfuck. Jeremiah provided me with Sam's shoulder assessments, rehabilitation plan, diet, and orthopedic surgeon scans.
Simone, a prime example of a cutthroat lawyer, walked me through the agreement. I signed my life away. But she flexed her sympathy, securing me a weekly salary equivalent to my twenty hours at Midfield and additional bonuses for meeting milestones related to increasing Sam's mobility measures. "Congratulations and good luck," was her closing statement.
Ashley, Sam's publicist, wrung me through a ringer of nondisclosure jargon. I left that conversation with a 'never speak' message received loud and clear. "Welcome aboard," she clipped in a tight voice. "Good luck."
Per my agreement, I submitted a month of weekly class routine to Jeremiah. He most likely didn't know the Sanskrit or English names, so I included video links for all poses. He was an engaging man, thanking and wishing me good luck. While friendly, one message bothered me.
Jer: Glad to have you on the team.
The Sam Pearson support club wasn't one I wanted membership in. Michael needed several conversations, bringing in his ringer Abby to convince me not to back out. "It's good to keep you out of the house." Her sad smile pulled at my heartstrings. "Staying busy, stick it out until you find another job."
She had a point. Pearson only needed to achieve a 'recovered enough' status based on Jeremiah's mobility metrics. So our contract, and time spent together, had a finite end date. He'd forget all about me once the season started. Desperate for a diversion, I smiled at her. "Did you see your ob, Abby?"
"Yes, all normal." Her eyes beamed from across the breakfast table. "A few scans are at twelve weeks. I'm hoping to invite John's parents."
I rested my chin in my palm. Our parents screamed so loud the entire state heard. "Do they know?"
"No." Tears glossed over her eyes. "We'll surprise them."
"Big understatement." I raised my eyebrows. "Good luck."
"You too." Abby beamed. "You'll do great."
Despite an expiration date on my Sam Pearson misery, the pressure to deliver mounted. I wasn't a medical or physical therapy specialist, but I could grasp basic anatomy. The rotator had four small stabilizer muscles, each controlling different rotational movements. Sam's accident caused a minor tear in his right supraspinatus tendon. His surgeon reattached the torn muscle and also performed an arthritic scrape.
Six weeks later, Sam's pain came when his shoulder rotated outward and up. He should have cried through chaturanga, updog, and downdog, not powered through it. Either he had a high pain threshold or Godzilla-sized stubbornness.
Sam was fit for Monday and Friday's Gentle Flow, minus standard vinyasas. Most morning participants were retirees, less likely to cause eye-fucking distractions than my evening classes. And he wasn't welcome near my Tuesday and Thursday therapy classes.
***
"Draw your knees to one side," I shifted and palmed my mat. "Push up to seated."
With a side-to-side shift, I rocked on my butt. "Settle on your sitting bones. Draw a deep breath in..." I pinched my middle finger and thumb and lifted my hand, pulling an invisible posture string. "Sit nice and tall through the spine."
My favorite part of beginning breathing was synchronization. One by one, minds quieted into focus. Bodies settled still. Lavender filled my nose with each loud inhale, flaring my nostrils. Harmonized breaths filled the space with rhythmic inhales and exhales. It's simplicity was beautiful...
...Except Sam squirmed like a kid that needed a bathroom break two blocks into a car trip. I locked eyes with him. "Deep breath."
A relaxed sensation drew down my shoulders as I took an exaggerated breath. Sam's broad chest expanded. His abs crunched into definition as he exhaled, but a flash showed behind him. Sam's fucking phone screen illuminated shadows over his jack-o-lantern jawline, chin, and cheekbones. I pointed my eyes at the exit door. "Good."
Sam shut it off, but he deserved to feel the guilt in his eyes. What were his distracted thoughts? The mental image of a hamster falling off its wheel made me smile.
Through warmups, he was twitchy. His hips shifted, and fingers tapped his knees, so I clutched mine. The fuck was he thinking about? He needed a reminder of grounding humility. Since my pettiness wasn't about to melt away overnight, I swapped in two particularly ball-busting poses: seated twist and eagle.
"Bend your knees, cross right ankle over left." I demonstrated, smiling at Sam's immediate frown. "Option cross your thighs, squeeze tight. Wrap elbows, right under left."
I shouldn't have enjoyed his discomfort...but I did. Eagle offered a nice shoulder opener for Sam, with a side of smashing meatballs into the breadstick.
When I wasn't squeezing Sam's pride, at the expense of my class, today was his assessment. His core and upper body strength were professional athlete level. With the right adjustments, his tree stump legs were a solid foundation. Flexibility wasn't Sam's friend and his stabilizers were weak. While he was in good shape –fine, great– he needed a more balanced approach to smooth the hard pounding his body endured. That was physical though. Sam's mental challenges, leaving his ego at the door and quieting his mind, brought on a headache.
Pose-wise, he liked the warrior ones. Spiritually based on an ancient warrior story of Virabhadra, son of the Hindu god Shiva, their modern-day symbolization was overcoming ego and ignorance. Despite the irony that tickled me from the crown of my head to in between my toes, I gave Sam the credit he deserved. His warrior poses were strong.
With a stone-serious expression, he breathed through Warrior II. He stiffened, holding his breath, on my approach, but all he needed was a small adjustment, so I nudged his back heel with my toe. His long, sculpted thigh muscles popped out with the veins on his biceps and forearms. Not a guy who skipped leg day.
The redness creeping up his neck prompted my cue. "Breathe."
He exhaled, a glimmer shining in his eyes. Before I turned, his smile curved up into a smirk.
"You did better," I offered as he cleaned up his space. "Good work, Delores."
"Thank you, Mia." She tucked her mat into a shoulder bag. "Sam, it's nice to see you again."
He nodded at her, his eyes tracking my movements. I leaned over and picked up Delores' strap. When my eyes met his, he threw me a charming smile. "Thanks for the half-compliment. Delores got–"
"It's not a competition," I murmured. Coiling the long, purple belt-like cords in my palms, the woven texture brushed over the pads of my fingers. "If you have a praise kink, then–"
"You did fantastic, Sam," Alyssa chirped, squeezing his bicep like a blood pressure cuff. Of course, she hadn't left. After slipping her mat to the other side of Sam's, the girl focused more on him than herself. By the lusty looks oozing out of her eyes, her mouth and vagina drooled over him. As with any class distraction, the obvious display of attraction irritated me.
This could turn awkward as fuck quickly. Oh, wait, it was already there. Adjusting people's positions meant touching, but I never initiated contact outside of class. Sam's body was his space, and if he liked her produce-selection gropes then that was his business.
"You never called me," she huffed.
"Nope."
"So?" Alyssa purred. "Maybe I should call you."
Should call her desperate. She was one eye fuck away from asking to hold his huevos. I caught my eyes before they rolled, focusing on a teetering stack of blocks in the supply cabinet. It was like animals put this shit back. Six recoiled straps and the blocks tucked away, I locked the cabinet and ran smack into a massive chest.
"Ugh," I grunted, stumbling back and bumping the cabinet. Steadying my feet, a dark look hung in Sam's eyes. "I wasn't eavesdropping..." I tucked one corner of my mouth into my cheek. "But if you intend to hit on people, do it outside so I don't puke in my studio."
Two hands slammed around me, rattling my back into the hard surface. Two tensed arms squeezed around my shoulders, and broad, sweaty chest muscles filled my vision. A natural, musky perspiration scent infiltrated my nose.
"Hit me," Sam murmured, prompting my eyebrows to rise.
"Huh?" My tongue dried at his proximity. Muscle Man was too close, his testosterone killing my brain cells. I couldn't think straight. And breathing? The struggle was real. "Contrary to my–"
"You watched me the entire class."
He blinked as if waiting for...Oh. He wanted feedback. I ducked under his stinky armpit for some much-needed airspace. "My job involves keeping an eye on people, in particular newbies. Safety first."
"I know when I'm being evaluated. So, what's your assessment?"
By the stubborn look in his eyes, he wouldn't let this go. "Fine. Obviously, this–" I waved at his stacked wall of muscles. "–Gets you strength and power results. But it's not enough. You need to work on subtle refinements, small tweaks, and adjustments. Flexibility is a solid C-minus, and your stabilizers are weak. You wobble like your mat's in an earthquake."
I patted his damp chest before it swelled with resistance. Such a sensitive ego, so easily pricked. The contact warmed my palm, and the steady beats quickened mine. "Relax, I'll help you with that. After..."
"After what?"
I smashed the tip of my index finger into his forehead. His skull was like poking a boulder. "After we tackle this."
Sam's lips parted, the tip of his tongue parting the seam. "What?"
"Mia?"
Tyler's tall, muscular figure stood in the doorway. His hair hung over his forehead, and his eyes hid behind his glasses. Retraining his mind wouldn't happen in a finger snap, and he would need to continue practicing, but none of that was Sam's business.
"See you Wednesday, Sam."
Originally this was 2 separate chapters, but I combined them to speed up the story. More insight to Mia here. Any theories on Nathan now?