One of my greatest spiritual teachers in life has been my car. My ride serves me as a tangible and relatable metaphor for my body, my life, and what have been the life-changing practices of yoga and meditation. These practices are perhaps the most effective vehicles that transport me to my ultimate destination and purpose in this Universe. My car is a close second.
A shattered car window obliterated any obstruction from my seeing the complicated intersection between justice and compassion. A constellation of motorcycle accidents blessed me with life-changing gifts I would have never imagined. When my truck was literally stolen from out of my hands, the Universe was directing down a twisted road that ultimately led to understanding kindness and generosity.
Though I didn’t always understand it, in retrospect, I realize that the mishaps of my vehicle have presented me with some sort of car koan: It is only by your ride breaking down that you will arrive at your destination. Now, I see that the mechanical mayhem I’ve endured throughout much of my life is the action of a benevolent Universe trying its best to bless my life and give me a lift further down my road of spiritual evolution, even if my actual ride rests motionless on the side of a dark and lonely highway, it’s hazard lights blinking weakly into the darkness.
My ride often reminds me of a valuable teapot. When I lived in Korea, once, a monk gave me a box of expensive tea while reciting the inscription on the box, “Zen and the taste of tea is the same.” At tea houses, the teapots with the most pronounced veins, cracks stained by their decades of use, were deemed the ones with the most spirit. Like those valuable teapots, I am beginning to understand that the derelict nature of my vehicle often demonstrated a spirit much beyond what I could perceive in the moment.
This is one of those stories …
There was a time in my yoga career when I was teaching as many yoga classes as possible in order to make ends meet, sometimes as many as 27 classes a week. I loved teaching but I just hadn’t learned yet how to make it fincancially sustainable yet.
Around 2006, I had just picked up a new yoga teaching gig at the new Soma Yoga studio, the one on 1700 South in Salt Lake City, Utah, if you know it. One day, I showed up early to class, parked my car in the lot outside of the studio, and thought that I’d go on a walk for a few minutes before class to clear my mind and grease the wheels a little bit before being “on” in front of a yoga class.
In those days, I didn’t own a lot of pockets; my wardrobe consisted mainly of yoga clothes. Instead, I’d sling a bag over my shoulder as I drove from yoga gig to yoga gig. If you are someone who also rolls with a purse, particularly a big one, then you might relate with the completely absurd accumulation that can happen with such a satchel. You start off with only your keys and wallet in there and before you know it, you find yourself lugging around 27 pounds worth of pens, punch cards, and half-eaten bagels.
So, before heading out on my walk, to save my shoulder from lugging the metric ton of detritus I had accumulated in my bag, stupidly, I threw my bag under the seat of my car before closing and locking the door, keeping only my keys. My bag was out of sight for sure but had a significant proportion of my essential yet meager possessions including, my ID, debit and credit cards, check book, $42 in cash, and my brand new iPod, the ones that looked like a small pack of gum, remember those? Classic!
I’d only been walking for a few minutes when I decided that on second thought, I’d better just go to the studio and set up early. Maybe I’d run though some poses to warm up. As I arrived back to the parking lot, I was walking toward my car to grab my bag and looking through the glass of my driver-side window, I noticed with some curiosity that the window on the passenger side was remarkably cleaner than that of the driver’s side window. Was someone washing windows in the parking lot? “They did a thorough job,” I told myself, “the window looks so clean that it almost looks like there isn’t a window … wait a minute?!”
The spray of broken glass on the asphalt near the passenger door confirmed my fears. Someone must have seen me throw my bag in the car, walk around the corner then, in the 3 or 4 minutes that I’d been walking, smashed my window and stole my bag. My 42 dollars! It was probably more than I had in my bank account at the time. My iPod! I stood by my car feeling equal parts violated, angry, and stupid.
Without any time to process this shock, my students began arriving at the studio. Soon, the studio was filled with eager yogis, waiting for me to teach. I had no choice but to surrender my emotions. I sat on my mat in the front of the classroom full of students, closed my eyes, and placed my still-shaking hands at my heart before chanting three long OOOhhmmmms. Into my head, came the Leonard Cohen lyrics, “There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” I wondered what light could penetrate that dark feeling in my heart.
But I had to teach a class. And strangely, instead of being distracted by the shock of someone breaking into my car, this real-life experience was a splash of cold water in the face to wake me up and become extremely present. Raw and with all pretense stripped away, I proceeded to teach one of the best classes I can remember ever having taught.
After class, I filed a police report and borrowed the $145 I would need to fix my window.
Several weeks later I was surprised and exhilarated to receive a call from a detective investigating my case. He told me that they had found the guy who broke my window and stole my bag. I hoped that the detective would then announce with an air of sweeping heroism that they had opened a case, their best and brightest had worked tirelessly to solve the mystery, and by the fruits of much hard work, my property would be returned to me, that justice had prevailed. But he did not.
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Instead, he spent 15 long minutes trying fruitlessly to explain how the guy who had broken into my car and stolen all my stuff (known henceforth referred to as “the perp”) had tried to use my checks and ID to operate some complicated check scheme worth much more than my $42 and iPod, that “the perp” was recognized by security cameras at the bank or something, and that essentially they drove to his house and arrested him without much drama, bla bla bla. I wasn’t following the bravado of the detective’s drawn-out overly-complicated caper about check fraud. Boring. And frankly, I didn’t care if it didn’t involve getting my 42 bucks and iPod outta hock. What I did glean from the story is that they had caught “the perp,” that he was in custody awaiting a trial or sentencing or something, and that I was invited to attend the hearing if I wanted. If I couldn’t get my iPod back, at least I’d be morbidly gratified to see the punk who’d stolen it.
On the court date, I drove to the courthouse, parked and locked my car (window intact), and this time shouldered my bag, new and uncharacteristically free of the usual “memorabilia.” Once inside the courthouse, through the security portal, and out of view of the scrutinizing security guards who wondered with their inquisitive eyes why I wore a purse, I walked the maze of marble hallways and found the courtroom assigned to this hearing. I picked a seat in the back and sat down feeling nervous, like somehow I was the one who was on trial. I looked around and there were a LOT of people in that room. It was clear than many of the people crammed into that room were there to see what might happen to their loved ones who were in custody.
I had never been to a hearing. I was expecting smart, snappy lawyers in expensive suits examining and cross-examining witnesses, shouting intermittently, “I object, your honor!” before bringing some crucial piece of evidence to slay the jury’s prejudice and right the scales of justice. But it wasn’t like that at all. No, instead, I’d describe this as a public viewing of a meeting between two lawyers and a judge as they hammered out their schedule for the next 3 months. The many people in the room made it hot, oppressive, and claustrophobic. I felt more as if I was at someone else’s family reunion being hosted at the DMV than sitting in the hallowed halls of justice I’d seen in movies and TV.
After maybe an hour or so, they finally announced the case for “the perp” and into the courtroom strolls a scrappy kid, early twenties, spiky haircut, and cocky despite the manacles and prison-chic jumper he was wearing. A tired-looking judge stared over his glasses at a thick file while shuffling papers and began mumbling dates interspersed between unintelligible “legalese” to a pair of lawyers who were alert but far from agitated regarding either the conviction or releasing of “the perp.” I’ve had more lively conversations with my wife about what kind of apples to buy at the grocery store than this trio had about the situation at hand. But from what I could discern, in just a few minutes, they’d decided that something else needed to happen at some other time so this really was just a meeting to schedule another meeting several weeks later. And just like that, it was over. Those involved shuffled out the door to make way for the dozen or so other people there to schedule or reschedule other events. I left as well, somewhat deflated by the lack of resolution of my case but firmly resolved NOT to attend anymore of this dramaless drama. I wasn’t getting my stuff back and I didn’t need to add insult to injury by attending long, drawn-out scheduling meetings. Getting emotionally involved in this situation felt like a prison sentence in itself. So I let it go.
On the way out the door, I was surprised to bump into Brenda, one of my regular students at my Intro To Yoga class I was teaching on Wednesday nights a different nearby yoga studio. “Hi, Brenda! What are you doing here?” “Oh, I’m a defense attorney. This is work. What are YOU doing here?” she asked with a skeptical curiosity. I relayed my brief non-drama about the hearing. She told me how much she enjoyed coming to yoga but found it difficult to get out of work early enough to make it to class. I asked her if she thought that perhaps she and other colleagues at her work would be interested in some in-house yoga, either on their lunch break or after work. She positively lit up at the idea and said that she would ask around to see if anybody else would be game.
A few weeks later, I began weekly after-work yoga classes for Brenda and her colleagues in the law library of their offices, a hushed space dampened with old, plush carpet and lined ceiling to floor with limitless rows of stately volumes of law books. Once a week, we would roll out our mats, turn off the fluorescents, and align our movement with our breath as I helped them unwind from their day of defending people like “the perp.” They helped me to realize that many of their defendants are innocent and many who aren’t innocent are often unfairly sentenced because of the system’s prejudice toward the prosecution. Either way, they reminded me that everyone is entitled to have someone smart in their corner who speaks dates and legalese.
I soon discovered that despite the unmitigatedly dull hearing I had attended, being a defense attorney was a much more stressful job than I had imagined. These attorneys needed some way to breathe a sigh of relief and let go of some of the unseen tension they gained in and out of the courtroom. During one yoga class, one of the defense attorneys broke out of a warrior pose and began pacing around her mat, radiating anger like heat waves off a barbecue. I asked her if she was ok and she told me with a forced calm that she was working through some intense anger about a case she was involved in, that someone’s life was literally held in the balance.
Those classes after work with the Legal Defenders gave us all a way to find balance in our lives and we grew close in the process. Though I’d see them only once a week, sometimes more if they also attended classes at the yoga studio, over the years we became true friends. On numerous occasions I was invited to Legal Defender staff parties and I met their kids, spouses, and bosses. They met my family as well and supported and witnessed me during many ups and downs in my life and career. Together we were engaged in the practice of life.
I loved teaching the Legal Defenders and taught that class for many, many years. Eventually, I moved out of town and I had to hand the gig off to a fellow and trusted teacher who continues to teach this class today which is now in its 14th or 15th year!
Not long ago, having moved back to Salt Lake City, I had the opportunity to sub my old class with the Legal Defenders. Since I had left town, the Legal Defenders had moved buildings. Instead of the muted and quiet carpet of the law library, now we unrolled our mats over the modern natural-fiber jute rugs in the hip, custom-built lounge area complete with an espresso bar, ping pong table, and swinging chairs that hang from the ceiling. The Legal Defenders are still the low person on the legal totem pole, but at least now they are consoled with a decent espresso. Many of the original students continue to attend the class after all these years and upon my return we celebrated a happy reunion and reminisced about the many things that have happened over the years since we began this class: marriages, divorces, retirements, kids, and adoptions.
After leading the class through some movement to release stress and loosen up tight muscles, I directed the students into an extra-long savasana. I learned years ago that they desperately needed it. As I was sitting quietly in meditation, I found myself thinking about the string of events that had led me to be where I was at that moment.
I thought, “Thank you, ‘the perp,’ you have given me a lot. You afforded me a unique true-crime, insider’s-view of our legal system (sometimes boring AF), you’ve facilitated an enduring and enjoyable gig for me, and most importantly, you paved the way toward the richness of several friendships that have endured 15 years and counting.”
Then, as I sat in meditation, I performed a rough calculation of the amount of money that I had personally earned over the years from this after-work yoga class and it totaled well over $25,000. More than enough to replace a passenger-side window … and buy a new iPod.