This story originally appeared in the February 2003 issue of the magazine.
The young woman in the jewelry shop can’t believe how gorgeous I am.
It’s clear she’s never met anyone quite as stunning as me.
The highest aim of yoga is to hold balance even when the world shakes under your feet.
She stares at me in wonder and repeats over and over again, “You’re so beautiful!
You’re so beautiful!”
“Look how beautiful you are!”
she says again, smiling at the sheer miracle of my face.
“But you’re beautiful,” I correct her.
This is not merely polite; it’s true.
Simply put, she’s Balinese.
If you’ve ever seen Balinese women, that’s all I need to say on the topic.
“But you are the most beautiful one!”
“No, you are!”
It’s about ten o’clock in the morning.
This could go on all day.
I’m starting to really love this country.
I’ve come to Bali for two weeks on ayogavacation.
I am a devout believer in yoga.
Because this one is mine.
I came to the practice of yoga right before I turned 30 years old.
My life was in absolute turmoil, and my body was reflecting it.
Actually, my body was broadcasting my turmoil long before I’d started to admit it intellectually.
I looked in the mirror every day at an old, terrified, lonely, exhausted, ugly stranger.
However, I was able to accept all this as normal (“Just a little stressed!")
until the knee incident.
That’s how tense my body was.
Probably on both knees.
This was a week after she’d told me I needed surgery on both wrists.
Dismayed, I asked, “Why is my body falling apart like this?”
And she smartly replied, “Well, you are turning 30 this year.
And there’s a reason it’s called ‘getting older’ and not ‘getting younger.'”
I never did go back to that woman’s office again.
Six months later, my knees were so strong I was running two miles a day.
My carpal tunnel syndrome had vanished, and I had the complexion of a milkmaid.
By the next summer, I was doing handsprings on the beach.
In a bikini, people.
“Your thighs are your houses of uncried tears, my dear ones.
Just let them weep, let them weep.”
And then with that most dangerous and vital question your whole life can change.
How could I feel good about myself when I didnt quite know what my “self” was anymore?
(And when someone I’d loved now thought I was the worst person in the world?)
But I’m not nearly done healing yet and I still have much to learn.
And that’s really why I’ve come to Bali for two weeks of intensive classes.
To immerse myself in a practice that has helped me so much already.
To see just how many more inches closer I can stretch toward peace, contentment, and true self-worth.
The administrative details of the trip proceed fairly simply.
First, I get on an airplane and fly for about 30 hours.
Her Bahasa Indonesian is as flawless as her posture.
And the trip she’s organized is as well-balanced and solid as a good triangle pose.
That you get to play with!).
And did I mention the actual living monkeys?
Everything in this trip is casual and easygoing, except the yoga.
Which is not to say that Ann is a hard-ass, but she is a certified Iyengar yoga instructor.
Which is the yoga equivalent of being a Navy SEAL commander.
Just as miraculously, Iyengar has helped my butt look much, much nicer.
(And, of course, rescued me from knee surgery.
But you mostly see it in the butt.)
She says, “I think of it like Balinese tapestry.
I disappear into the meditative pace of Ann’s classes immediately.
Just let them weep, let them weep.”
We’ve each come to Bali with our own stresses and troubles.
There are deaths in our families, out-of-hand careers, fears that injure our bodies and minds.
It’s kind of like saying, “Eden was a little garden in the Middle East.”
(And I say that even though the nation was rocked by terrorist attacks shortly after my vacation there.
he will most likely smile and reply, “Maybe for sure.”
Ann says, “Can you hold that headstand for another two minutes?”
Maybe for sure, I think, and slowly give in to the challenges of the pose.
For sure maybe, I decide, and, lo!
just as Im relaxing into the pain, the perfect form comes upon me.
Something is happening to all the women in that group.
We’re turning into…girls.
We’re all starting to look and act more feminine.
It just feels appropriate.
Because everything here is gentle and lovely.
Even the men wear saris of gold silk, and the policemen wear flowers behind their ears.
But why would a person possibly feel bad about herself?
When the world is so beautiful?
And when you are a part of it?
So it’s not long before we American women relax into this welcoming world of beauty ourselves.
We all start wearing saris and sandals instead of shorts and sneakers.
We spontaneously pick flowers off the ground along the beach paths and weave them into our hair.
“This happens to me, too, whenever I come here,” Ann tells us.
“I become more feminine, more gentle, more pretty.
Bali is a society where it’s safe to be soft.
And then I go back to America and all my defenses come right back.”
But none of us wants to think about that right now.
As for me, I let my hair act allcurlyand wild and I start walking…swishingly.
I buy bejeweled slippers and teensy little beaded purses.
I wear tropical colors I’ve never imagined before.
I have become the Balinese landscape!
And, yes, everyone seems to have lost weight.
It’s a question that’s on everyone’s mind, in some form.
How can we bring this home with us?
We are given ginger tea to drink and papaya to eat.
Finally comes the ultimate luxury they lead us by the hand to private baths filled with floating rose petals.
I’m not crying out of sadness or confusion not like all my other tears this year.
I am crying out of release and understanding.
How could we ever have treated ourselves so poorly?
Why had we not been more sweet to ourselves?
And while I cry, this other voice inside me my inner Balinese woman, maybe is comforting me.
But now you understand, yes?
Maybe for sure?”
