There are certain people you meet in your life who you never, ever forget.
On New Year’s Eve 2022, I had a vivid dream in which my beloved landlady of 2000–2003 appeared in a bathroom, curiously without taps or light switches, and we chatted.
But it wasn’t like her to have her house in a state of disarray and… renovation?
I recall once going into her downstairs flat to give her my monthly rent (I did knock first, but there was no answer, which concerned me). There she was in full yogic headstand. In her mid-70s. God only knows how long she’d been in position. Absolutely amazing.
What with her Reiki certifications and the mysterious weekly congregations (“It’s magic! Join ussss…”) hosted under my floorboards every Wednesday confirmed she was definitely *my* landlady. She’d survived divorce, an empty nest, life-threatening illness, and was now living life her own way.
There are so many different types of meditation out there for the western consumer to pick from, not to mention the mobile apps. On those dark days, this westerner generally prefers the sound of old-school silence to pan pipes. There were no pan pipes going on downstairs, though. Whatever it was seemed to make the walls and winding corridors of this huge 1930s house breathe and sigh, creak, moan, and then come alive. Was it – the people upstairs?
(NB: My landlady would often refer to ‘the people upstairs’, and I was never sure if she meant the tenants living on the second floor above me. Or, you know…)
Being unfamiliar with the sounds of pranayama and laughter, for about 6 months I was convinced these were nitrous-oxide-fuelled weekly orgies and séances. Then, one day, they got me, and I finally experienced it for myself (the meditation evenings, not nitrous oxide). But I had to take a – reasonably priced – introductory course first to ensure I was doing it 'right'.*
It was great. The deepest dive into the psyche yet. It was the meditational equivalent of swapping blowing into a puny brown paper bag for the kind of grand hot air balloon Philias Fogg might have travelled around the world in. But make that two hours, rather than eighty days. You know, kids: if you’re going to ‘do balloons’, that’s what you might need to try.
Then there was the time when I felt her hands on my shoulders, and heard her whisper:
“Keep breathing.”
Somehow, I must have stopped for a while. I was somewhere else, but quite okay.
“Now go out and have a ball!” she always said. “I am.”
I don’t know if she’s since ‘gone upstairs’ but expect that wherever she is, she’s still keeping folk in order.
And having a ball with it, too.
* Afterthought: Some readers might wish to know the name of the course – it was called 'The Art of Living'. There are many others out there, and different types that work for different people ... but the combination of breathwork, meditation and rest (which can be taken horizontally under a blanket, lying on a spiky 'Yantra' mat, if you wish) works for me. It's down to earth and you don't have to believe in magic to find benefit.
ALL WORDS COPYRIGHT | © Anya Hastwell | Friday 15th September 2023