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ROGUES: TALES FROM THE VALLEY, PART 2 Yoga class ends with a bang, not a whimper Comment By Lyda Woods For the Daily Tidings DailyTidings.com By Lyda Woods For the Daily Tidings Posted Sep. 29, 2014 at 6:00 PM Updated Oct 14, 2014 at 2:36 PM By Lyda Woods For the Daily Tidings Posted Sep. 29, 2014 at 6:00 PM Updated Oct 14, 2014 at 2:36 PM » RELATED CONTENT • Episode 23: Family secret solves exploding house mystery • Episode 21: An interview with a zombie • Episode 18: Need activists? Go to a boomers' anti-establishment meeting... • Part 17: Dawn answers the call of the Rogue Sirens • Laying out the dots, looking for connections • Talking turkey: What's in a nickname? • Squeezing psyches in the aisles at Shop’n Kart • ROGUES: Tales from the Valley: Sherry and Dawn prepare for a psychodrama weekend... • Escape from the mummy like a Marx brothers' comedy • Another empty house blown up, and something smells funny • Search for Sherry leads through Talent • Babycakes comes along on a trip to the hypnotist • Barely bearing a brother's poetry » Social News The continuing fictionalized adventures of two sisters, Sherry and Dawn, one Medford-bred, the other Ashland-loving, and their adventures across the Rogue Valley. The next morning, I was sitting on the sprung-wood floor at the Ashland YMCA, taking a yoga class from True Betterman, the flash Cadillac of yoginis. In other words, although he was probably not the best instructor, he was tall, tan, friendly and virile; fresh catnip for the average Ashlandian. “With these fires in the Valley, we’ve really got to watch out for each other. People will exhibit increased anger, irritation. They won’t be themselves. You won’t be yourself. The air is incendiary and we are nothing if not our breath. It’s time for the breath of rage.”  We were sitting on the floor, staring at True. The room was packed to capacity, with my friend, Jasmine, sitting next to me in the front row. “Lift your arms and make fists but keep that ego-maniac thumb tucked tightly inside the fist. There is a direct connection between the thumb and the ego. Thumbs tucked up!”  We humbly tucked up our narcissistic thumbs. Oh, the things you learn in yoga class.  After the breath of rage I really did feel better. Perhaps it was just the hyper-ventilating, but I didn’t care.  True whispered in my ear during downward dog, “Looking good Dawn, press the fingers into the floor. Yes.”  He patted me on the ass and my heart splashed wildly in my chest.  At the end of class, True encouraged us to sign up for his “Wildfires and Kundalini” workshop.  As Jasmine and I floated on our endorphin highs over to return our blankets to the class cabinet, there was a loud boom and the ground started shaking. Classmates grabbed each other as we all stumbled back and forth over the gleaming wood floor. The walls creaked and the ceiling fans swung wildly.  “We’re having an earthquake,” someone yelled.  “No, it’s something else, that loud booming sound. Maybe a bomb?” Jasmine whispered in my ear.  “A bomb? Good God.” I felt my yoga high take a nose dive.  We suddenly heard sirens out the window and then saw a large Ashland fire truck screech down the street.  “It must be nearby.” I said.  “I wonder if it was a meth lab explosion,” Jasmine said as we peered out the windows. “Maybe in West Medford, but not here Jasmine. Jeez.” I looked at her as if she were out of her mind. We were in Ashland for goodness sakes. “Hey, for your information, with the middle-class disappearing, more and more regular folks are driven into the underground economy, just to survive.” Jasmine sniffed at my ignorance. “And what are you, esquire to the spindarella set?” I knew she helped a few pot farmers with their legal issues, but now I wondered about the rest of her clientele. “Everyone is entitled to a vigorous defense. I’m proud of my work.” She glared at me and walked out of the room. When I got home from yoga, there was a voice message from my brother, Josh. I held my breath and listened. “Hey Dawn. Can I try out my audition for OSF for you? I’ve been working on sustained inflections with my vocal coach and I really think I’ve got a shot this time. How about tonight?” My older brother had auditioned for the local, Tony-Award winning festival countless times, always using his own poetry, alongside a Shakespearian monologue. He was talented but stubborn about using his own writing. In the meantime, he worked as a roofer, having learned the trade from one of our many stepfathers. Was he going to perform that horrendous poem for OSF? I’d soon find out. Next week: In which the poem gets a really big hand. By Lyda Woods For the Daily Tidings DailyTidings.com By Lyda Woods For the Daily Tidings Posted Sep. 29, 2014 at 6:00 PM Updated Oct 14, 2014 at 2:36 PM » Comment or view comments Reader Reaction » STAY INFORMED Email NewsLetter Sign Up Today Sign up for our newsletter and have the top headlines from your community delivered right to your inbox. 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