It’s not often, outside of a Queen tribute concert, that someone asks if they can rock you. Yes, I answer, you can rock me. I can’t see the rest of class, all slung in our separate hammocks, but they also seem keen. I signed up to this restorative aerial yoga class as part of my mission to get to know Whitstable, my possible future home, beyond the beaches and beachfront eateries. Also, there is no way I could do this yoga at home. The room is filled with potted plants and a moveable-type board declaring that a beautiful day begins with a beautiful mind. Such ambience, should one desire it, is relatively easy to recreate. What’s harder is matching the building’s exposed cooper pipes to the circular ceiling rivets capable of holding, as the instructor started the class by announcing, a weight of up to 1,000 pounds. Comforting, though I doubt anyone here today weighs more than me. So far, the industry-grade hammock has supported me as I’ve slithered into a backbend and wrapped myself into folds. I’ve flown, belly down, arms sweeping around and down. Great fun. Now it’s time for savasana. With an option to be rocked. Why not? Sure, I’m already dizzy. My vestibular imbalance always spikes before my period. I’ve walked around in a world rendered both fuzzy and yet hyperreal all day. (The later effect is caused by the brain frantically storing ever little bit of visual data to compensate for a proprioceptive system on the fritz. I have to remind myself of this many times.) The clinical advice is basically lean into it. Right. I pop on the lavender scented eye pillow for extra disorientation and wriggle into my super-strength textile. The pose is very Egyptian mummy: stretched long with my arms crossed tight across my chest. The hammock is so all enveloping that it’s hard to identify any one point of pressure. Just the experience of held. The occasional warm pressure of my instructor’s hands on my feet is the only outside sensation. Here we are: six grown women being rocked to sleep in our swaddling hammocks.
