As I was stretching before class, the typical soft Sunday morning chatter was filling the studio: grumblings about the fresh snow, who had stayed out a little too late the night before, and the best remedies for this infernal cold that has been going around. All of this conversation dropped of a cliff of awkward, chilling silence when a new Barre attendee padded into the room.
To say this woman was ill would be an understatement. Her hands and feet mimicked that of a marionette, too large and heavy to be on such frail and spindly appendages. An ankle was wrapped tightly in athletic tape, nearly double the size of the other ankle. Her sunken cheeks were emphasized by her swollen salivary glands and puffy eyes. When she removed her baggy sweatshirt, the silence in the class turned over on itself...there was a collective need, wish, hope of health and healing for this ghost of a woman.
The entire hour after class began was spent strategically casting my gaze in directions away from this woman. Nobody wants to stare. Nobody wants to be rude. Nobody wants to talk about the ghost in the room.
