I sprint inside the colorful coffee shop for an afternoon
caffeine kick. Pressed for time, I impatiently wait by the stack of magazines
and newspapers. My mind runs through my to-do list, making a mental check list
for the upcoming yoga class I am about to teach, even jumping ahead to tomorrow
and pondering outfit choices (what shirt would be suitable for both work and
then yoga?). Then, the young girl’s face on the cover of The New York Times
pulls me into the present. Her eyes don’t meet the camera. Her schoolmates,
silent figures clothed in long, grayish robes, surround her. The article
reports about the recently released video of the schoolgirls as a hopeful sign
for parents, at least suggesting that the girls are still together and alive.
The Nigerian schoolgirls sudden presence in the coffee
shop puts my reality into sharp focus. I feel guilty about being so safe and
secure in my slither of the world. Any grumblings I had about my day dissipate
as I search the face of the photographed student. What violence and madness has
she witnessed? I feel small standing next to the newspaper, powerless to help.
My drink is called and I feel again a bit silly, a bit too privileged to so
freely romp around while there are girls in the world who chance death by simply
walking to school.
I step out into the hot spring day. Already my thoughts
are turning back into the usual cycle of to-dos: ahead of me is the drive to
the yoga studio and two classes waiting to be taught. My world is faraway from
the forest keeping them captive, but the schoolgirls remain with me. I carry
them out into the sunlit day, more aware of the heat, the brilliant sky, the
soft breeze.
I slide into the muggy heat of the car, think about
checking my phone, and begin to rummage around for my ipod, wanting to blast a
new playlist. I know these signs: I want to bury my discomfort in loudness and
external busyness. I force myself to pause. Pausing is hard, I don’t want to
acknowledge the heavy emotions stirred by the photograph, but if I don’t
recognize them now, they’ll fester and snap out sooner rather than later.
I place my hand over my heart and breathe. I listen to the
anger, disbelief, sadness. I breathe in the pain and fear the girls and their
parents are feeling. Listening and breathing creates a space, a softening where
I can safely dwell and be.
Breathing consciously, I feel myself in my body and give
thanks for it. My mind sweeps through the interactions I have had with people
today and I silently offer the people in my day thanks and peace. My thoughts
gently turn to the approaching yoga classes, to the teachers and yogis who will
be sharing their practices with me, and gratitude for the opportunity to teach,
for the ability to spread a ripple of peace blossoms within my heart.
I return to the Nigerian schoolgirls and dedicate my day
to them. I intend to speak loving words, invite peaceful thoughts toward myself
and others, and act with purpose and poise. The schoolgirls empower me to be a
being of peace in this small corner of the world that I call home. For a
moment, in that colorful coffee shop parking lot, their world and my world feel
connected, and not so very faraway.