Polina's thoughts on YASMINE

Yasmine: she is tall and beautiful, intoxicatingly feminine and overpoweringly strong. She starts each session with a five-minute meditation around a small flickering flame, “to summon the divine creative energy with in you.” She says just enough to know you do not breathe, smile, fidget, or mumble unless it is inexcusably justified and intersplices her poignant dialogue with small Spanish phrases such as “Mas or menus” and “chelo.” She works us hard. Crunches and legs kicks, half splits and standing tree poses. “Your body is your tool, sculpt it, nurture it, take care of it, otherwise, how will you be able to communicate anything at all?” “We are dealing with the topic of women,” she softly explains, “so we will tell the story of Adam and Eve, wordlessly. Sculpt your bodies and transform your voices.” She teaches us acrobatics on a concrete floor, no mats, no spotters. “You must stand on his shoulders,” she commands. She hands us a large cloth to be maneuvered, woven and reinterpreted through out, splits us into two groups and leaves us to work collectively. If she doesn’t like something, she chimes in unapologetically. She is constantly asking for more; one step further, one layer deeper, one dance step more complicated. And then I watched the other group’s piece; I was so moved, re-reminded of the power of images, collective creation, our bodies as abodes for spiritual energy and the ingenuity of an incredible teacher.

I have committed to major social faux phas in the last week:
1. In the middle of reciting my poem for Mr. Ashouk, I stumbled over my words and accidentally burst out with, “Fuck!” Mr. Ashouk slowly and gently put his arm around my shoulder, and softly said, “Madame, please remember that you are in India and that you are at an Indian college.”

2. Loudly cheering “Woooooo!” after a performance from the back row of the auditorium, prompting all of the rows in front to turn around and stare.