Soulmates by Jessica Grose Page B

instruction, and she was so right. Lama Yoni’s yogic teachings have given me better balance in soul and body.
    That’s the only change Dana noticed in me when I started studying with Lama Yoni during the day—my body. She wasworking so hard she didn’t get home until eight, at which point I was at Green Wave. She knew I’d started going to the occasional yoga class during the day when she was at work, but she didn’t know how much of my life was consumed with my practice. Dana was happier assuming that I was plugging away on my latest play. She was also happier when my beer gut had been replaced with a burgeoning six-pack, and she was happiest about our athletic weekend sex. She wasn’t able to see that our physical connection was fast becoming the only thing we had in common.
    DAILY AFFIRMATION : The universe is built on numbers. If I listen to those numbers, I can come to a deeper understanding of my life.
    Last year it was sixes that held significance for my fate. This year it’s sevens: a number of creation, of generation. It was the twenty-seventh day of the seventh month of my practice when Lama Yoni took me into his inner sanctum for the first time.
    I had been dutifully attending classes—usually Amaya’s—at Yoni’s Urban Ashram. I went to early-morning meditations, midday yoga, and afternoon indigenous culture study. But I’d never been allowed to see what went on in the back of the ashram, behind a wooden accordion door that stretched from one end of the front studio to the other.
    But on the twenty-seventh day, after the meditations, I was sitting with Amaya, drinking cashew-apple-mint juice to recharge, when Lama Yoni approached us. He had never spoken to me directly before, but on that day he knelt down in front ofmy chair and looked me right in the eyes. There’s no other way to describe my reaction in that silent moment: I melted.
    The only other time I’ve had such a reaction to another man was when my mother took me to a town hall meeting in Bozeman that Bill Clinton held when he was president. He talked about protecting federal employees, like my dad, and about health care. Afterwards, I went up to shake his hand, and he gave me the same look Yoni did—one that said, I understand, and I want to help .
    Without saying anything, Lama Yoni got up from his knees and walked toward the accordion door. Amaya gestured for me to follow Lama Yoni, and I did.
    We stood in silence in the center of the inner sanctum on a small, circular purple rug. The room was all white—the exposed brick walls were even painted white. The only other color besides purple came from a small shrine with a golden goddess perched near a window. Lama Yoni stood five feet away from me and met my gaze. We stared at each other so long without speaking that I kept ascribing different motivations to Lama Yoni’s actions. My thought process was something like: Does he want to slap me? Kiss me? Is he trying to telepathically transfer some knowledge? Is this a test? What if I have to go to the bathroom? Oh god, I think I have to go to the bathroom .
    All this is to say: don’t quickly dismiss a spiritual opportunity. After what must have been twenty minutes of this staring contest, my brain went to another plane. I felt like I was accessing some unused space that I could only find through true connection with a spiritual leader. I don’t know how long we ultimately stood there, but I remained in prayer pose until LamaYoni broke eye contact. He bowed toward me so slightly he may just have been nodding his head. Then he walked slowly away, in large, deliberate steps, and sat down in front of his altar. Once his back was toward me I assumed it was my cue to leave.
    Amaya was still outside the door when I emerged. She was drinking her juice and looking contemplative. It was a silent period at the ashram and so I didn’t say anything to her, but, like Yoni, she gave me a