I was 10 years old. I remember sitting in Hebrew school class furiously sketching a poster. I was working on the detail of a Pepsi can, hoping he would notice my artwork, hoping that I could decode what was going on in his mind. He was enigmatic. I couldn't figure him out. He was tall and skinny with black eyes that seemed to see through you. He loved kickball. I was clumsy. I was quiet, but I loved art. I lived through writing and colored pencils. I was shy, he wasn't. Even though he was seemingly outgoing, there was something underneath the surface that I couldn't get to. He wasn't giving it up. I was afraid to scratch it, but I was curious to know what was there.
His name was Nick Atlas.
After elementary school, we went our separate ways, him to a private school and me to a public arts high school.
Life is funny, and so is the internet. We connected 22 years later through Facebook. He was no longer a jock, but had transformed into a yoga teacher.
We talked online, and Nick told me he was going to be teaching a sleep therapy yoga workshop in New York. I signed up, I traveled to the Om Factory, and I took the workshop. After engaging in yoga and meditation for two and a half hours, he told me his story:
For more information on Nick Atlas click here.