Savasana had begun: I was lying in a field of clovers, trying to sync my breath with the wind rustling the trees above me. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inha-whack! A rogue soccer ball fell from the heavens and clocked me in the face.
I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Along with the soccer game, my yoga class was sharing a patch of green in Prospect Park with a group of kids playing tag, picnicking yuppies, and a silent meditation/dance party. But the soccer was by far the most distracting; I winced at the snap of every goal kick, tightening my muscles instead of relaxing them as instructed. The onlookers blasting techno music didn’t help either.
Throughout the class, our teacher had gently reminded us to treat the sounds of the park as an added challenge to deepen our focus. This was familiar advice from before quarantine, when the bustling sounds of Franklin Ave would seep into our Crown Heights studio space. But there was no ignoring the ringing in my ear after that blow to the head. My face grew hot with anger.
Amid the first hints of autumn chill, it seems that Brooklynites are trying to soak up as much outdoor activity as possible, and Prospect Park is their arena of choice. At 526 acres, Prospect Park is actually the second largest park in the borough, but its central location and variety of terrain attracts 8-10 million visitors a year even without a pandemic. Along with the expected runners and cyclists, this summer I’ve also seen Zumba classes, every kind of martial arts, Little League, volleyball, hacky sack, ultimate frisbee, Quidditch, and more. And that’s just the exercisers; I’ve also come across LARPers, an all-female brass band practice, paint classes, portable karaoke, engagement parties, weddings, baby showers, and a stand with free spider plants. The park has become Brooklyn’s hottest night club, gym, and open-air market all at once.
So how do we negotiate all of this public space? The NYC Parks Department has capped the number of attendees allowed for outdoor fitness classes and other special events, but the crowds of individuals and small groups on evenings and weekends amount to such that even 6 feet apart seems pointless. We down-dog at our own risk.
I could, of course, just do yoga at home, as I have for the past six months. There is a glut of live-streamed and prerecorded virtual flows, from lauded teachers all over the world. Unlike soccer, yoga is a non-competitive, deeply internal activity. I’m after that elusive mind-body connection, not the rush of surpassing someone else. Why not make more room for the activities that are impossible to do indoors right now?
In her gorgeous meditation on Turkish baths, Leslie Jamison writes, “When we lose the ability to live among the bodies of strangers, we don’t just lose the tribal solace of company, but the relief from solipsism.” I can only connect my mind and body if I understand the context in which that body moves; a messy and unjust world where certain other bodies are too often ignored. For many, 2020 has felt like a constant stream of soccer balls to the head (though given that many of the disasters we’re facing could have been prevented, a stream of Zidane head butts might be the more appropriate sports analogy). The kicker responsible for my injury apologized sincerely (though I ended up shooing him away as he approached me while not wearing a mask.) His teammates moved their goalposts a few feet and the game continued, every one slightly more in tune with their surroundings.
Back on the mat, after I shook off the cartoon birds circling my head, I melted back into savasana, keeping my eyes half open. In the dusky sky above me I saw a stray kite, aimlessly floating higher and higher. As I watched it disappear into the ether, I felt tethered, not only to the yogis around me but the soccer players too. We must be braced for impact, but we must keep gathering.