I was in yoga class the other night and got to thinking about a class I took during my Ninth Grade Community House year while at Sandy Spring Friends School. The school was unique enough in the way the teachers presented the subject matter to the students, but Community House was an entirely different year and was more akin to a year-long, sleep-away camp rather than a traditional public school’s freshman year.
The class I was remembering occurred during the winter trimester. It was held next door in the Historic Sandy Spring Friends Meeting House which was built in 1817 and was taught by Mike DeHart. Poetry. Ninth grade. It was embraced by the artistic or introspective students and rejected by those who thought writing poetry was for pansies.
I can still feel the drafty air and smell the cold dampness in the Meeting House. The fabric of the long maroon pew cushions that we placed on the floor as our meditation mats didn’t provide much of a barrier from the cold floor but it was welcomed as we were told to close our eyes. I was aware enough to appreciate that only a few students per trimester were lucky enough to have class in this historic building, much less enjoy relaxation poetry during our time there.
I wrote one of my favorite poems there in that building. It is not a piece that is worth sharing or publishing, but when I read it, it brings me back to that building and that time in my life. I felt so alone at times, during that school year, yet learned some very important lessons about myself and resilience. We were taught to relax, open our minds and write down whatever thoughts and feelings came to us during that class through the relaxation practice. We were told to imagine a safe, joyful place, and now as an adult when I get tired, stressed or depressed I often try to mimic that same practice. I engage in this mediation exercise on weekly basis at the end of my yoga class on Wednesday evenings and always drift back to that meeting house while in the midst of Shavasana.
