Izanami smirked as she watched the students for her next class file in. She watched their faces as the incense filled their lungs, as their eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. She watched the newer ones widen their eyes in amazement at the weighted and rhythmic rocking of the sōzu in the garden just off the patio. They could hear the sharp thunk of the bamboo hitting rock through the window. She had often explained to her students that the sōzu was an ancient Japanese meditative device. It wasn’t. It was meant to scare off herbivores that liked to nibble on nearby plants.
As far as Izanami was concerned, it didn’t work. Most of her students were vegetarians and if anything it only brought them closer.
She never really got into yoga, it was just one of those jobs that fell into her lap. She came from a circus family and flexibility was trained into her from a young age. Yoga wasn’t a choice, it was just something they did and found out it was this huge commercialized movement years later when they finally got cell phones. When Izanami came out to her family, they kicked her out. She was the eldest, and they couldn’t rectify their need for an heir with their need to love their daughter instead of their son.
So she moved to California, and started teaching yoga to pretentious middle-class moms. Her favorite part was making up names of the more challenging and lesser known positions. It’s amazing what you can get away with when people only see your skin. It was her small little vengeance against those who saw her skin as her culture, and her vengeance against the people who refuse to see her as the woman she is.