Tuesday

Coming Back 

It’s been months since I’ve written here. Bart Van Melik, a dharma teacher whose wisdom stays with me, talks about mindfulness as remembering. That’s been sitting in my chest lately - this idea that practice is about coming back, returning to what we know but forget in the dailiness of living.

I’ve been recording my audiobook, preparing for the release of You Can Sit With Me, building community, working on other projects. My attention has wandered from prose, but prose is where I learned to trust myself as a writer, as a person, as someone who believes in more than I can touch and see. So this is me remembering. Coming home.

As the book launch approaches, I keep finding myself back at Rikers Island in my mind. Not because I’m stuck there, but because those years teaching yoga and meditation behind bars fundamentally shaped how I understand this work. I’ve been thinking about one student in particular, and what she taught me about who the real teacher is - not because the story has a neat ending, but because the moment itself was complete.

The Story

I call myself a yoga teacher, but I think it’s because I’m always learning. I call myself a meditation guide, but it’s because I’m willing to be led by my ancestors when I’m in the stillness. It takes courage and vulnerability, and yet it’s the only way to do the work that I do.

The sessions I had with my students were as varied as the people I met. And while “favorite” isn’t a word I use, Tuesday became my favorite day because of the time I spent with one student, Sasha.

Our time together evolved from her being tentative to the two of us doing handstands and talking about the fullness of yoga. When the pandemic started, I stopped teaching public yoga classes and my own physical practice slowed to a muddy crawl. I spent six months waiting to go back to Rikers, and when I did, Sasha was anxiously waiting to return to our work.

I brought in books about yoga that now belonged to her. She asked questions about poses, how to properly breathe, and we giggled, getting lost in the joy that comes over any yogi who discovers all that the practice offers.

At the end of one class, sweaty and tired, we sat quietly with our legs crossed and eyes closed. My office had transformed into a yoga studio. We could have been anywhere. I wasn’t a meditation coach at Rikers and she wasn’t a woman incarcerated.

I was about to thank her for practicing with me. I wanted to thank her for her passionate curiosity and transformative vulnerability. Our time together had reignited my tapas, my inner fire. All the things I loved about the practice came rushing back. My love of movement - squashed and dormant because of Covid - resurfaced with a soundless yet intense nod. It hadn’t really left. I needed to be shown this lesson.

I wanted to convey this feeling because in this moment, Sasha had become my teacher.

With my eyes closed, I began to open my mouth. Instead, she spoke first.

“Thank you, Oneika, for being my teacher and showing me this practice of yoga. I’m grateful for what you show me.”

I’m deeply moved at work. People show me their hearts and I honor the responsibility that comes with it. I said, “You’re welcome.”

What I wanted to say to her could wait. Teaching is about understanding the moment and not hijacking it for personal gain.

A few weeks later she was having a bad day but said she felt better after practicing. I told her what I’d felt those weeks before, and her eyes lit up. “I teach you things?”

We teach each other.

Some of the women began to practice with her in the dorm. Sasha has said she wants to sign up for yoga teacher training. She will be an excellent teacher if she does, and I will be in the front row of her class, eager to be her student.