I managed to shield Liam from the worst of it. (I wonder if the need to do that sustained me, because we spent wonderful time together in the middle of this.) My mother was less fortunate, as were some of my friends.

I desperately — not a pretty word, I know, but accurate — sought something, anything to hold on to. To comfort me. To stop the descent. Some of those somethings were not, ummmm, productive. Or very healthy. Then I stumbled upon Naada Yoga.

Now, if you know me, this is where you start giggling. You know that I HATE yoga. The whole visualize-the-yellow-light-and-breathe-in-the-universe bullshit of it. I would point out, and still will, that this practice is from the same folks who brought us sati. Chew on that. Twenty years ago I spent a month in an ashram learning to do massage — and I managed to skip yoga most every day.

But I desperately needed to take care of myself. And I knew that part of this meant physically. Getting out of my head and negativity and into my body. Consistently. So I decided to research Ashtanga yoga teachers in the Mile End. I had done some Ashtanga in the past and found it to be less annoying than most.

At Naada, Elizabeth Emberly and her partner, Jason Sharp, have created a wonderful, welcoming space. Their approach to yoga is practical, simple, and supportive. The mixing in of sound sends me to a far away (or far inside) place. The best part? They serve tea afterward and folks are invited to stay and chat. And they do. Aaaaaah, community space. My favorite thing. Feels good.

Naada is sanskrit for sound, vibration, rumbling. Like a river. I’m going most everyday. Helps (miraculous?) that it is five minutes from my house, and right next to Station C. Last week I did seven hours of yoga. It does make a difference. Making space for myself matters. It is healing.

Liam beatboxing from Christine Prefontaine on Vimeo.