Bathed in Beauty

An intimate yoga retreat, complete with clothing-optional hot springs, inspires a shy yogini to connect with others.

By Lauren Ladoceour

For the past two years, my yoga practice has been a deeply personal retreat from the world. I'm often uncomfortable even in small crowds, so I go to classes where I know I'll encounter no more than a half dozen students. What I really love, though, is to practice by my bedroom's bay windows, which overlook a lush city garden. With the scent of honeysuckle wafting in from below and green branches tapping against the glass, my oasis is inspiring, private, and secure.

But I knew there was a great big yoga community out there, one that I had yet to connect with. I'd often see yogis introducing themselves before class, making plans to meet for tea afterward, and encouraging each other to go further in their practice. "Hello" was about as far as I could ever get. A part of me was afraid that if I knew the people I practiced with, I would lose my inner focus. And yet I was beginning to feel like a hermit. Perhaps, suggested a co-worker one day, the next step in my evolution as a yogi was to make friends who would support my practice.

A few weeks later, I found myself taking the long, winding drive down Highway 1 from San Francisco toward Big Sur on California's central coast. My destination was the annual yoga festival at the Esalen Institute, a place known for its transformative yoga retreats, more than 26 acres of beautiful coastline grounds, and (gulp) coed clothing-optional hot springs. And, yes, I was anxious.

Once there, though, I knew I had to commit fully to the experience: no hiding away in my room. I was here not only to practice in an intimate setting with great yogis—Seane Corn, Thomas Fortel, Shiva Rea, and Mark Whitwell—but also to connect with others. So after dropping off my bags and grabbing a quick bite in the dining room, I headed straight to the famous cliffside baths and stripped—fast. Look down. Plunge in. Stare straight ahead.

The hot mineral water soothed my aching muscles after the long drive, but it couldn't ease my mind. Were people looking at me? Could I look at them? Had I remembered to shave? How could I cover as much as possible without looking as though I were trying to cover as much as possible? The entire time I was in the baths, my racing thoughts never let up. Tired of trying so hard to relax, I fled midway through a beautiful sunset that made the ocean waves shimmer red and gold. Still, I felt a sense of accomplishment. That, I thought, would surely be the scariest thing I'd have to do all week.

That night, the festival's 175 attendees gathered inside a large yurt at the center of the property for kirtan, or devotional chanting, led by Bhagavan Das, an early influence in American kirtan. Brightly colored fabrics were draped around the room, and small altars with burning incense were scattered here and there, giving the place the look and feel of a bona fide festival.

Eye Contact

But before the music began, I had to find a seat. Everywhere I looked, people greeted each other with warm hugs and beaming smiles. Some clearly knew each other, but others didn't, and it was surprising to see how quickly people seemed to feel a sense of connection.

As I scanned the dimly lit room for an empty corner, I felt a small tug at my left pant leg. "Been saving you a spot," said a man sitting on the floor beside his partner. I accepted his invitation, and we settled into our places and introduced ourselves. Moments later, musician Joey Lugassey quieted the crowd and asked that we begin the evening by taking the time to look at the person next to us. This was to be not a glance, but a long, thoughtful gaze into a stranger's eyes.

My neighbor who had asked me to sit with him had no problem with this. His warm eyes smiled patiently while I struggled to focus for more than a few seconds. Each time our eyes locked, I could not help but look away to his nose, ears, or graying eyebrows, hoping I could fake the exercise and no one would notice. My palms became clammy, and I could feel my cheeks flush. How was it that poses like Shoulderstand and Reclining Hero had never fazed me, while an intimate moment with a stranger made me feel like a failure as a yogini?

"It's OK," my neighbor said, squeezing my hand. "You'll get it."

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