YOGASTUDIO TEACHERS

Natalia Rae Kraft

Natalia was a hoot. A gonzo-liberal from the word go. A chattering parakeet of new-age aphorisms, a player, a coach - hell, there were times when she felt like the whole team, no�both teams. She was a consummate purveyor of American popular culture, and a resolute critic of our materialistic way of life. A real-life walkin' talkin' example of her own beliefs. She burned brighter than most of us, and, sadly, faster. There was nobody like Natalia. Yet she was one of us – all of us.

She was a yogi, a dancer, a free thinker, an optimist, a progressive partisan, and a fun loving party girl. She taught and meditated and stretched; she gave therapeutic massages and non-stop philosophic pep-talks. She was the un-Zen, Zen master, causing enough commotion to cook a koan. A steam-rolling goof ball, hell-bent on getting it right, she'd take you out of the play for eating from a non-sustainable diet, while watching Oprah, and networking on Facebook. A modern day Mohammed who had no problem bringing it to the mountain, over and over again, she could float like a butterfly, and sting like a bee.

She was vocal, public, politically correct, and doggedly authentic. Her home was a happy mess. She lived in a house that should have been a house boat, propped up on the mud flats, out at the end of a quarter mile long wooden boardwalk suspended over a tidal marsh at the foot of Mount Tamalpais , smack-dab in the middle of the wealthiest county in California . Before that she lived at Esalen Institute in Big Sur. She had a gestalt community in Carmel , an ecstatic dance community in Marin, and yoga communities all over the place. She made regular pilgrimages to Austin , Nashville and LA for music, and Mendocino and Mt Shasta for new age tribal celebrations.

She was a chider, a cajoler, a protestor and a critic. She had an Apple not a PC, and tracked music and movie celebrities like a space-based telescope. She wanted in on almost everything, and complained loudly about being excluded when access was denied. As a friend, she insisted that you 'show up', meaning really be there rather than just put in an appearance, and share your inner most feelings with her or risk her wrath. She was a hard driving, type A, over-achieving spiritualist in search of a little recognition and fame to go along with the enlightenment, and a beautiful, vulnerable, supportive friend to the end.

She wanted, among other things, a meaningful committed relationship with a man, and children. She got breast cancer instead. True to form, she went public with it, aspiring to, and I'd have to say, attaining, near rock star status as a poster girl for her ailment in a community where 'healing' was a touchstone religious sacrament, and breast cancer was rampant. She went on-line with her 'Boob-log', sharing all the nasty details of her condition – the chemo and its various side effects, the full body scans, the removal of her breast, the radiation, all with her positive attitude on full display. When it was time to lose her fabulous, teeming hair, instead of waiting for it to fall out in clumps, she threw a head-shaving party and recorded the whole thing. Teams of friends raised funds for her, made dinners for her, gave her massages, put their art work up on her walls, and carted her to countless doctors' offices and hospitals. Her misfortune became an opportunity for us all to rise up and be better versions of ourselves, and the extent to which we did or didn't became a standard by which we judged ourselves.

I can hear her now – 'Nobody's perfect. Keep the faith. You can do it. There's a better way. No attachment! Love me! Struggle! Enjoy!' - her mantra had all the cacophonous syncopation of rush hour in Manhattan . With a lesser being, it might have all worked against itself and faded, but with Natalia it was more like a building weather front pulling in energy from its own contradictions and beyond.

And then she died. Just like that. Hours, practically, after hearing from her doctor that it was over. That the cancer had spread throughout her brain and elsewhere. That there was nothing more that could be done. That she had only weeks remaining. Shrugging off the proffered morphine she died in her bed by the Bay, catching us all by surprise.

The cadre of friends in attendance, acting on her wishes, washed and dressed her, laid her on a bed of ice, and let it be known that all who wished could come and sit with her. She wanted us to know what death was, to 'show up' for that, too. To find our own way to a good-bye that was real.

And so we came. In pairs, and groups and alone, and sat with her, and tried to take it in. There in the candlelit dark of her mudflat shack on languid Lagunitas Creek, amid the scents of summer and Indian incense, we gathered round her lifeless form and got as close to death as we could, hoping to see, wanting to understand, needing to do something with the storm of feelings gathering in response to the utter stillness of her remains. The void that had been our friend pulled at the room until it seemed to swirl, threatening to sweep away the stage props of our existence and expose the forgeries of our lives.

This was the moment religions were made for - the rituals and vestments, the canons and dogma, the cathedrals and crusades, all the mighty mechanisms of belief - a shield against this one incomprehensible truth. But not that night, not for Natalia's friends. We sat next to her death without answers, unprotected by unquestioned beliefs, and looked, and felt, and breathed, and cried and laughed and sang, and didn't look away. She would have been proud of us.

I loved Natalia, like a sister, as a friend, and as a comrade in the struggle for a better world. I loved the wake she left behind as she cut through life, full speed ahead. The wake she's left behind in dying is a little harder to deal with. It comes in waves throughout the day with the sudden remembrance that she's gone, causing the bottom to drop out, or bringing on a transcendent lightness, or a searing anguish, or a suffocating sadness.

Given time, my rocking world will come to rest again, and I'll go on, with her in some way by my side. I have a feeling that when I do, I'll be breathing a little deeper, stretching my limits a little farther, burning a little brighter.

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