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Back in the dark yoga sanctuary in the Columbus studio, called Yoga on High, Lynn leads a group of unemployed
-- or barely employed -- women through relaxing poses. It's yoga more shabby than chic. Most of the students are dressed in T-shirts and hoodies rather than the hip hippie garb of Lululemon. They rely on the kinds of blankets you might find in car trunks. Apparel aside, the class resembles its full-priced counterpart. Students bend into silhouettes of the alphabet
-- the outline of an A in downward-facing dog, an I as they stretch long, lean, toward the ceiling. The din from the street gives way to a yawn-inducing state of silence, the kind of silence that quiets the deepest worrier's qualms. A sign reminds fellow yogis passing by, "Quiet Please.... Savasana In Progress!" Lynn adjusts the students' postures as they ripple through poses. Then he tucks them into forts made of ergonomic pillows for deep relaxation. "If you are extremely comfortable and want to stay there, that's fine," he says. "But I would prefer that you lie on your back for at least a few minutes."
Bethia Woolf, a 35-year-old who recently started a food-tour company in Columbus, went to her first free class after she lost her job as a rowing coach. She says the class forced her to get out of the house and stay in a routine
-- something she wouldn't have been able to afford if she had to shell out $15 per class. "Even though it has a lot of health and well-being benefits, there's things you feel guilty about spending money on that aren't essentials," Woolf said. ___ Online:
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