The Outside and the Inside are Inseparable

As I am haunted by the events that occurred late Sunday afternoon, I struggle not to feel robbed myself.

The reactions of one student who was followed inside a yoga studio that I attend and work at by a lone gunned man, versus the reactions of another student who was mugged by the same man outside the studio appear on opposite ends of a spectrum. I can only make sense of it by writing about it and putting it out of my mind.

We'll call her Cindy, was a young lady perhaps in her mid to late 20s who because she was immediately consoled by the other students caught off guard in the lobby by the incident- was pleasantly calm and seemed just glad that he was gone. When I approached her with a glass of sweet reddish kombucha, she welcomed it with a smile still standing in the classroom beside the spot where she had been held up for her car keys. She was not shuddering as I had half expected, but surprisingly collected. Later I found out from the teacher who had dropped down on her knees to chant a protection mantra pointing her mudra at the assailant who had Cindy cornered in the classroom, shared that Cindy had immediately cried after. The teacher appeared more shaken, her preparation for class interrupted violently by a stranger who carried a weapon with the potential for serious harm.
    Jesse on the other hand, an older mid-40s to early 50s woman with wavy silver hair had perhaps never been to this Kundalini class before. She was accosted by the assailant outside the studio up the street waving his gun in her face. Apparently according to the police and to Cindy's relief, he could not start her Honda Prius and had left the keys in the ignition to pursue another victim. By this time, if he was not already desperate- he had become desperate and his desperation dictated the way he waved his gun to Jesse's face  versus I believe holding it lower and perhaps more steady when holding up Cindy.
    After she was mugged, Jesse tried the yoga studio but found the door locked- everyone inside doing only what they knew to do when there's a gunned man on the loose, hiding. She went over to someone on the sidewalk to ask for help, but they walked away from her. Then she flagged a car down, and inside were students on their way to the same class- the drive answering, 'of course- get in.' Quick action influenced these circumstances, and I believe no one is to be blamed for the aftermath.
     When the class finally resumed inside the studio after the police had gone, in order to ground themselves from the terrifying ordeal that they had been through- I reached out to Jesse who still sat beside her husband in their car. As her passenger window rolled down, I introduced myself with what I could humbly offer, Jesse's eyes were filled with both a sense of someone recognizing her violation while also trying hard to hold back overwhelming tears. She concentrated on my face with a hungry and sad disposition as she choked words out in response to my presence. In return, I tried to remain as calm and steady as possible- assuring her that she could get all the support she needed and to do whatever she needs to do to take care of herself. Her husband stared blankly out the front window. I did not want to place any further pressure on him so all I said was "Take care, Mike."
     As I walked away I felt a knot of guilt that I could not stay with them longer. I had given them resources for additional support and knew that at that time, I simply didn't have it in me to sit down with her. The yoga studio was my place of solitude and rest aside from my home, and I had not come prepared to provide crisis intervention. I was already feeling run down and incredibly vulnerable when I arrived at the studio. The door was locked and for a moment, I half-hoped that whatever awaited in the lobby was news of a leak from the heavy storm that had just passed, and not what I knew deep down in side, was much worse.
    The students, a manager and a teacher looked deeply disturbed and remained quiet as I stepped inside. After a quick assessment, I decided I had to do whatever I could do to remedy the situation and put aside the unsteadiness that was beginning to creep. It was not until days later that I remembered where I had seen these same facial expressions.
     I watched thousands of people walk over the Brooklyn Bridge fleeing the burning towers of 9/11. No one spoke, not even cried- just astonished as they marched forward across the river. I will never forget the deep anguish and shock that I felt at that moment with my fellow New Yorkers. I stood on the Brooklyn side, wishing to get to my loved one whom I was supposed to meet for breakfast in East Chelsea, just blocks from lower Manhattan. I worried about her asthma and how far the smoke and debris would reach. 
   I was suddenly reminded as I comforted the students and offered tea that the manager had started but which I took upon myself to finish brewing and serve because this felt comforting to me- of the many robberies that had occurred in my own life. As a child, we were robbed at least two times if not more that I can recall at least. One took place at my home and the other at a crowded restaurant we were eating at. 
Both times I remember my mother's bitter resentment at being taken advantage of. I don't really recall whether anyone had checked whether I was okay. 
Whether I was okay.
Whether I was okay. Okay?

So now as I look at all these different puzzle pieces, I wonder if they fit together somehow- if I was meant to be at all these places at these times- to witness, to feel robbed and to offer assistance. Is that what life is about- learning from these experiences? Because it does not feel fair. I feel horribly inadequate because of these situations. I want out most of the time. 

No one was hurt during the incident on Sunday. But I worried about any post-secondary trauma that could color what was experienced by all the yoga students and staff who had been caught in the middle of that heavy atmosphere. It wasn't until days later that I realized I had my own shadows to contend with and became aware of a gnawing feeling in my stomach whenever I thought about returning to that studio location.

I know that the gunman is not coming back. Last checked, he had run through the backdoor of a home not far from the studio and the police would be able to glean his DNA from the interior of the Prius to find him. Somehow, the Kundalini teacher's prayers has been answered- her protection mudra and loud chanting had not been done out of chance, but vigorous spiritual training. We held eachother in the lobby of the studio after giving police reports and sent love and kindness to the gunman for whatever brought him to that desperation must've been bad.

I can never bring back the lives lost that fateful day in New York on September 2011. That my childhood possessions tossed every which way along side an overturned mattress can never be unviolated; while my parent's crumbling marriage disintegrated further under the pressure of the gunmen at the restaurant where we sat- my mother loudly whispering at my father not to try to hide his gold necklace amongst the ski masks and the semi-automatics that pandered loudly around the pink tables. Nor the family member that interrupted my sleep at night to touch me in places I would forget in order to learn my times-tables and write stories.

"I stood transfixed, listening... and knew what can never be expressed: that the natural is supernatural...that what is outside happens in me that outside and inside are inseparable."
- Frederick Franck, painter and Zen drawing teacher
from Sacred World, The Shambhala Way to Gentleness, Bravery and Power
By Jeremy and Karen Hayward