Coffee With Mara

Mara Morgan is beautiful. Some of it is simple physical beauty. Her hair is long and wavy. A perfect shade of red. Her body is tall and slender. Her facial features are in perfect proportion. Some of it is the way she holds herself with a sense of natural nobility. Anytime she moves I am reminded of a cat, poised to jump from an impossible height. But really most of it has to do with the intangible field of heightened meaning that surrounds her. It feels like I’ve become part of the story simply by standing next to her. Instead of feeling competitive or threatened I feel like my own sense of beauty is enhanced. Her beauty is such that the whole world seems more beautiful. 

We’re sitting in a cafe on Piedmont Avenue. The sunlight is streaming through the oversized windows, causing Mara’s hair to look like tiny flames. I vaguely wish I could pull out a camera and capture the effect. She is drinking a cup of herbal tea, I’m sipping a large coffee. I took of the afternoon from work to be here. It’s a lovely change of pace. Serene, sunny, and peaceful. 

The waiter stops by our table to bring food. I’m eating a large salad with a heap of croutons on top. They’re made from parmesan, not bread. Mara is taking dainty bites out of an almond croissant. Seeing her makes me wish I was a dainty eater. But I’m not. Pity. We’re talking about a new yoga class she is developing: Trauma-informed yoga. Between bites of food we talk about the some of the exercises she is thinking of incorporating into the class. “I want people to really feel safe in those classes”, she says. “There’s so many people who we’re currently not reaching with things like yoga. Maybe the people who need it the most.” I nod, vigorously. “In therapy, too.” I say. “It’s like the methods work best for people who don’t really need it. And the more someone needs it, the less I know what to do.” Mara nods, slowly.

Mara runs a small yoga studio. Her classes are the best in the area, at least according to me. I’m a picky yoga consumer. I hate the let’s-get-to-business-and-sweat variety. I abhorr any kind of overly sweet, insincere encouragement to relax. If the teacher starts showing off pretzel shapes I’ll leave faster than they can un-pretzel. Mara isn’t like that, which is why I love her. Her classes have a spiritual quality to them. Her students leave the room visibly more embodied, at ease with themselves. 

“Leia”, Mara says, suddenly a bit nervous. “I have this friend that I think you should meet. His name is Julian.” I feel intrigued. Mara is leaning forward in her seat. There’s a little charge in the air, as if she’s about to tell me something risky. “He’s an energy healer. Julian. I think he can help.” I groan inwardly. Energy healing. I wonder if Mara is serious. I really hope she isn’t. 

“I know this probably sounds weird.” Mara continues. She is absolutely correct about that. It does sound weird. “But what do you have to lose in trying it out? When I started out as a yoga teacher I thought all the instructions about energy were pretty bogus. I don’t usually do too much of that in my classes, because everyone thinks it’s weird.” I nod, slowly. I’m unconvinced, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings. “I think there’s a reason why so many traditions talks about energy in the body. Like, it’s not just the Indian traditions. Chinese medicine, too. And many other places.” I don’t know about her argument. People used to believe all sorts of things. “Just try it it out Leia”, Mara pleads with me. I nod yes. Then I catch myself. Why am I agreeing to this? But there’s something in the way that she is asking. Something sincere, and vulnerable. “I’ll set it up for you.” she says.

Back home Sarah, Nate and Murphy are hanging out in our living room. I’m glad to be home. I’m feeling a little unsettled from my conversation with Mara. And maybe more than a little bit unsettled that I’m going to waste my Sunday afternoon on possible quackery. Sarah rolls her eyes at me when I tell her. “Typical”, she says. “You really can’t say no to anyone.” Within half an hour all four of us immersed in food preparation. There’s plenty of real croutons on the salad. I’m glad nobody around here is a dainty eater.