By Kelley Bowden
Redlands News Collective
Before I ever stepped into my first senior chair yoga class, my humorous husband had already renamed it: “Cherry-Oga.”
Every time I headed out the door, he’d announce that I was off to Cherry-Oga, as if I were attending some mysterious fitness cult involving fruit, flexibility, and questionable chanting. Somehow, the name stuck along with a smile.
My husband is very disciplined. For years, he has worked out faithfully five days a week. He is one of those people who hears a 4:45 a.m. alarm and thinks, “Excellent. The day has begun.”
I hear that same alarm and think, “There has been a terrible mistake…”
Occasionally, I vaguely hear it go off from the safe, warm distance of my pillow, at which point I perform my own morning exercise: rolling over and going right back to sleep. I am remarkably consistent with this routine and intend to continue improving my performance as I age.
He believes the best part of the morning happens before sunrise. I find this sacrilegious and have for years. In my opinion, if the sun hasn’t made an appearance, neither should I.
My body clock is clearly set in another country entirely — a place where daylight is required before any major decisions are made. Coffee should already be brewing, and the birds should have already completed their early morning serenade.
For me, 8 a.m. is the perfect time to begin sleepwalking toward the shower and slowly preparing myself to be present for my 10 a.m. YMCA class.
Not energetic. Not enthusiastic. Just present.
At this stage of life, present is a perfectly respectable goal.
My first visit to Cherry-Oga was in late winter. We live in Redlands, and the morning carried just enough chill to convince everyone they were crossing the Arctic tundra. You would have thought we were a group of White Walkers from Game of Thrones making our way toward the grand glass doors of the YMCA.
Most people arrived carrying water bottles, towels, and quiet determination. I arrived carrying iced coffee, lip gloss, and absolutely no intention of becoming a morning person.
I remain convinced I was the only person entering a yoga class while sipping caffeine from a disguised water bottle. The others looked prepared for wellness. I looked prepared for a Costco run that had taken an unexpected turn.
As I walked into the large auditorium, I saw people gathering their chairs and mats. Each person arranged their space deliberately, some with postures of comfort, others with visible tension.
The attire of the attendees varied. Some wore bright, contemporary outfits, while others favored simple classics. It was clear some wore beloved T-shirts that had survived multiple decades of weekly wear and washing. We all have those comfort shirts that should have been put out of theirvmisery years ago.
As I looked around, I noticed something comforting. Nobody was trying to impress anyone. It was wonderfully refreshing. We weren’t there to look young. Some of us were there because getting up off the floor had become a group project.
Then a very small, beautiful Indian lady, perhaps 4-foot-10 walked in wearing a simple white T-shirt and pants. In the months that followed, I don’t believe her outfit ever changed. It simply appeared she had found her perfection and saw no reason to complicate matters.
With quiet authority, she arranged us in a gentle U-shape (a rainbow of mats) so the energy would flow properly. If our chairs weren’t positioned correctly, she would gently correct them.
No one argued. When a woman who can balance on one foot while folding herself into a human pretzel tells you to move your chair three inches to the left, you move your chair.
Her accent was thick, and her eyes were wise. It was apparent she was aging exceptionally well and moved better than people 20 years younger. I was immediately inspired to come back and become a follower. Thankfully, this cult seemed to require nothing more dangerous than a yoga mat, a chair, and comfortable pants.
In the beginning, I found the silent portions of class nearly impossible. When instructed to close my eyes, breathe deeply, and clear my mind, I immediately began thinking about to-do lists, unfinished projects, whether I needed more dog toys, what was for dinner, and why I had walked into the laundry room the day before.
Apparently, my mind interpreted meditation as an invitation to host an imaginary conference call with my own thoughts.
While everyone else appeared to be achieving inner peace, I was chairing a committee meeting in my head and struggling to keep the agenda moving.
Then something magical happened.
The heater shut off.
We hadn’t realized how loud it had been until the constant hum disappeared. Suddenly, the room was silent. Not ordinary quiet. The kind of silence that makes you wonder if you’ve accidentally gone deaf.
Then came the chirps.
One tiny beep.
Then another.
Then one more from somewhere across the room.
Within seconds, hearing aids throughout the class began announcing their presence like tiny electronic crickets.
Beep.
Chirp.
Tweet.
Ping.
The room had transformed into what sounded like a small bird sanctuary for senior citizens.
I looked around, expecting everyone else to react with smiles or laughter.
Nothing. Not a reaction. Not even a raised eyebrow.
Apparently, only a handful of us possessed the superpower required to hear the Great Hearing Aid Symphony.
To this day, it remains one of the finest live performances I have ever attended.
One year later, I still attend Cherry-Oga religiously. I’ve become more flexible, more social, and slightly better at sitting quietly without reorganizing the garage or deciding which outfit I will wear for the upcoming fundraiser.
Aging, I’ve discovered, requires movement, friendship, laughter, and occasionally a room full of chirping hearing aids.
And if you’re lucky, an iced coffee hidden in your water bottle.