A Flash of Joy and a Little bit of Wonder

A few years ago while I was writing my first novel, on my way home from hot yoga, my husband informed me that he saw the purple flash during Shavasana. “It was incredible. Magical even, if you believe in that,” he said. “I was totally centered and grounded but felt this lightness of being.”

He looked elated. 

“How about you?” he asked, glancing my way.

I shook my head. “Nope. No purple flash. No lightness of being. Nothing magical,” I said, then backtracked slightly, “although I did have an epiphany about Jacob and his arc.”

“Jacob?” my husband asked.

“The husband in my book.”

“That’s what you were thinking about during Shavasana—Jacob’s arc?” my husband’s tone was almost suspicious, as if thinking about a fictitious husband while lying next to my real husband was unfaithful in some way. 

Thank God I didn’t name Jacob Noah, I thought, then replied. “No, not during Shavasana. During head-to-knee. I heard him during standing head-to-knee.”

“You heard him. During Dandayamana Janushirasana.”

My husband is good with Sanskrit. I am not—which he knows. 

“If that’s standing head-to-knee.” 

“It is,” he replied. “Dandayamana, standing stick, Janu, knee—”

“Hon,” I interrupted, “that’s awesome, but, as you know, my brain doesn’t do Sanskrit. The point is, I heard Jacob. Like he was there. In the studio.”

I remembered the moment—standing on my right leg, torso bent over my left, which was extended parallel to the ground. My fingers linked under my left foot, which was slippery. A drop of sweat fell from nose to knee. Both legs were shaking. The instructor intoned “inhale/legs straight, exhale/chest to thigh,” and then I heard Jacob and his wife, Kate, arguing, in the long marble hallway of their beautiful home. She was begging him to stay and, for the first time ever, his emotions were flying loose. 

“Trust your balance,” the instructor said. 

“Please, Jacob,” Kate said. “He won’t be there.” 

“Give me something here, Kate.” Jacob replied.

“Breathe,” the instructor said. “Inhale. . .”

“What did he say?” my husband asked, back in the car.

“Who?” 

“Jacob. During Dandayamana Janushirasana.” 

Show off. I thought, always with the Sanskrit. “He said, ‘Give me something here, Kate.’”

“‘Give me something here?’ That,” my husband paused to recall the word I’d used, “was an epiphany?”

“Yes, because he was angry.” 

“He was angry.” My husband shook his head. He should be used to this, I thought, my treating characters as if they are real people. I did it often. Just that morning, I’d shared “Kate’s mother played the flute,” while listening to classical music during breakfast. The day before, I’d explained “Ryan (Jacob’s best friend) wrote about climbing El Cap for Outside,” while discussing summer vacation plans. I remember he once drew the line when I asked him to slow down while kissing me, so I could note his hand position for a scene in the book. “Hon,” he said, “I love your brain and that you’re constantly conducting research in your head but knowing you’re taking notes right now kind of ruins the mood.”

Back in the car, I worried I was doing this again—ruining his ethereal mood, but he was looking at me, expecting an answer.

“Yes, like, really angry,” I said.

And this was epiphanic. Calm, cool, collected Jacob was angry. No, it was more than that—the Jacob I heard during Danayanananana was furious. And standing there, head to knee, shaky and sweaty, I’d been elated, because I saw it clearly—Jacob, a man his wife describes as “an open book of limited pages,” was expressing an emotion he’d kept bottled up his entire life, like the vintage wine from his birthyear kept in the cellar to commemorate important days of his life. Jacob was uncorking and it might go down smooth, or it could be bitter—filled with too much sediment to drink.

And then, there, in the car, I realized what I’d experienced during head-to-knee, and, I further realized, it had happened before. As an intensely type-A overthinker, I struggle to meditate or “relax,” as instructed by those around me. But practicing yoga— focusing on the placement of my limbs, feeling an inhalation spread from my lungs to the tips of my fingers, giving myself over to the present—I can leave the over-thinking world behind. Perhaps this is why my brain doesn’t do Sanskrit. Because I relish these moments. Clearing my mind. Allowing creative energy to spark and move freely.

I know neuropsychologists and yoga practitioners have rational reasons for this: the release of neurotransmitters; the impact of ujjayi breathing on the parasympathetic system; the circle eight of cerebrum and cerebellum. But Mary Oliver has reminded me I’ll only see angels if I look for them. Neil DeGrasse Tyson has explained we are made of the same energy as the stars. I grew up trusting in the faith of my parents and grandparents, the people whose energy created me, and I’ve borne two children and leaked milk at the sound of their cries. 

And so, while the type A in me is curious about the scientific basis for what happened when my chakras cleared enough to hear Jacob during standing head-to-knee, there is another part of me that just wants to accept it as a gift. Unexpected. A flash of joy and a little bit of wonder. Ethereal. Magical even.

—

ANASTASIA ZADEIK is a writer, editor, and narrative nonfiction performer. She lives in San Diego, CA, where she serves as Director of Operations for the San Diego Writers Festival and as a mentor and board member for the literary nonprofit So Say We All. When she isn’t reading or writing, you will find her hiking, practicing yoga, playing tennis, swimming, or hanging out with her husband and their empty-nest rescue dog, Charlie. Blurred Fates is her first novel. Find her online at the following:

               Website: https://anastasiazadeik.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/@anastasiazadeik

FaceBook: https://www.facebook.com/anastasiazadeik/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/anastasiazadeik

BLURRED FATES

Kate Whittier has it all—a loving, even-keeled husband, two great kids, and a beautiful home in Southern California. But Kate is living a lie. In a desperate attempt to create for her children the safe, happy family she never had, she has been hiding dark secrets for decades—things she’s convinced make her unworthy of her wellborn husband, Jacob, and the privileged life he has provided.

Then, one ordinary evening, always dependable Jacob confesses to a drunken sexual indiscretion he doesn’t quite remember, and Kate cracks open. Molten memories rise to the surface: hiding in the dark, her brother’s whisper in her ear; crying out, knowing no one will hear. Along with the memories, volatile emotions swirl—a sign, Kate fears, that the mental illness that took her mother has finally come for her.

Stepping in to support Kate and Jacob as their lives unravel is the guy who introduced them: Ryan McCann, a peripatetic journalist who has recently settled nearby to write his first novel. Ryan was with Jacob on the night of the indiscretion. Ryan is with Kate when Jacob leaves. And when Kate’s malevolent older brother calls with news of her father’s imminent death, it is Ryan who accompanies her as she journeys back to her childhood home looking for closure. Instead, as the past invades the present and relationships collide, Kate discovers complicated truths that could mean redemption—or destroy her entire world.

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