I paid $23 to lay down in a meditation room and breathe with other people. I’m very glad I did. And I can promise you I won’t do it again.
A very good and generous friend of mine suggested the class. And of course, I said yes. Yes is the response these days. Yes to inner-work. Yes to healing from the past. Yes to owning the present. Yes to taking ownership of my future personally and professionally.
I considered having to pay for valet parking, but I was very lucky to snag a spot on the street. A free spot.
After checking me, they confiscate my cellphone. No problem. I’ll just sit in this gorgeous lobby with ‘shhhh…’ signs around me until the class begins.
I sat and discovered there was competition.
She said: oh, have they opened up the doors yet? I want to get my spot.
She added: Breathwork is really in right now. I haven’t a lot of these people here before.
They meant me. It’s a Saturday night in LA. And we were all waiting to lay down on cushions to breathe. For $23 or less. The 23 was the drop in rate. One and done.
The class was a combination of therapy and a call to altar. It was comforting to hear words of encouragement that I’ve heard before. And the tone was very familiar too– especially in the spoken volume to be heard over the crescendos.
I didn’t expect to hear so much crying. I knew it was going to be a safe space, but I wasn’t expecting a chorus of weeping. And as a group, I felt the strength of the community to surrender.
Inhale. Inhale. Surrender. There were so many phrases that resonated with me. I’m sure everyone else felt the same. There was so much said by our worship leader– I mean, meditation coach? Breath-work Instructor? Fearless Leader?
I am Whitina on the Westside. I am a daughter of immigrants. I will not pay to breathe again. I will take what I’ve learned for 23 dollars and try my best to use the practice in my daily life.