Grace Cathedral

Grace Cathedral

Yoga at Grace has evolved. While the cathedral is closed to in-person gatherings, Yoga at Grace has migrated online, offering new practices each week to enjoy from the comfort of your own home. The Rev. Jude Harmon, instructor Darren Main and a gathering of musical guests continue to provide yoga practices that feed your body and soul.


I’ve always hated yoga. I tried it a bunch of times over the years: My track and cross-country coaches in school introduced me to a lot of yoga poses as stretches. Once I was out of school, I’d try a yoga class about once a decade.

But I never got it.

I found my mind wandering. I got bored. I figured that my mind was just too restless, that yoga would go into my box of “mindful practices at which I fail,” along with tai-chi, centering prayer and Buddhist meditation.

Then last summer, we had good friends from New York City visiting. They’d heard about yoga at Grace Cathedral and wanted to try it. These are some of our dearest friends, and I agreed, even though, in my mind, I was grumbling, “I hate yoga.”

We got to the cathedral just before class started and barely were able to find a spot to unroll the mats we were able to borrow for a modest donation. A few people graciously moved so that we could squeeze into three spots on the floor near the choir stalls, behind the altar. I’m a member of the Sunday congregation, so I was amused by this different experience of the space.

I didn’t hold out much hope for the yoga, though.

The class began with cycles of “downward dog” and “cobra” poses. Before I knew it, more than a half an hour had passed. The gorgeous sacred space, the cathedral, the ethereal live music and the company of more than 500 other people seemed to hold me, keeping my attention focused.

Holding “Warrior 2,” a sideways lunge with arms stretched to front and back, I stared down the nave at the rose window that depicts the Canticle of the Sun, a poem by St. Francis of Assisi. Daylight was fading, and the primary colors and geometric patterns of the window pulled me in. Somehow, attending this cathedral on Sundays for years, I’d never looked at the rose window this way. I guess I’d never been really present enough to appreciate it fully.

Then, just before seven, we all laid flat on our mats and closed our eyes, meditating silently and waiting for the cathedral bells to chime the hour. When the tolls began, I could feel the vibrations ripple through the floor under my body. I felt one with the familiar building in that moment.

As class ended about half an hour later, we sat cross-legged and closed our eyes again as the musicians led us to chant “Ohm” seven times. I felt one with all the other practitioners.

After that first class, I became a bit of a yoga evangelist. I told friends in the Sunday congregation that I thought it would be cool, just once, to chant “Ohm” during a regular service. (Of course, I have no idea how complicated that might be, both theologically and liturgically!) As enthusiastic as I’d once been skeptical of yoga, I gushed about the live music during yoga class, the calm teaching of the yoga team, the friendliness of the volunteers and other practitioners.

“If you try it, you’ll totally get why it’s become what may be the largest yoga class in the country,” I’d insist to people at coffee hour.

I became a yoga regular, and attended almost every Tuesday until the end of last year. Then my teenager took on a commitment that meant I have to drive her to Marin every Tuesday evening. She’s on a waiting list to change days.

Then I’ll go back to Yoga on the Labyrinth. I can’t wait.

This month, the Grace Cathedral Congregation Council began preliminary plans for Congregation Sunday, the annual September lunch and festival that marks the beginning of the cathedral’s “program year.” It’s kind of like back-to-school day.

As we talked about menus, carnival games, bouncy house reservations and decorations for the Plaza where the event is always held, I kept thinking about ducks.

I joined the council four years ago. Because I like to give parties, and am reasonably good at it, I ended up on the council committee charged with organizing that year’s Congregation Sunday. That’s when I met Peg Van Loo. Though in a motorized wheelchair due to illness, Peg was an enthusiastic member of the committee and foursquare behind the notion of doing carnival games.

“Let’s do a duck pond in the Plaza Fountain!” she enthused. “We could get a bunch of rubber ducks, put little magnets on them. Then we could rig up little fishing rods for the kids. They could try to catch the ducks with the rods. If they snag a duck, they win a prize.”

Peg spent the next several months that year acquiring a varied and hilarious collection of rubber ducks: Rubber ducks with top hats, sailor hats, suits, tiaras—you name it.

That September, Peg parked her wheelchair next to the fountain and sported a ridiculous inflated rubber duck hat on her head. She handed out the rods and kids had a blast trying to snare the bobbing ducks for a prize. It was such a hit that we did it the next year, and the year after that. We all looked forward to the irrepressible Peg in her crazy duck hat.

Peg’s duck game was truly a thing of grace: It brought together a woman in her 70s with the youngest members of our cathedral community. I like to think that kids were less scared of people in motorized wheelchairs after encountering Peg and her duck game. Peg reminded the rest of us that we can all have fun and make a difference no matter what challenges life throws at us. She reminded us all to laugh.

Peg died unexpectedly earlier this year from complications due to her illness. I only knew Peg for a few years and, though I admired her and liked her immensely, I cannot say that I was one of her best friends. But she made a profound impact on me. It may sound over the top, but I feel comforted each time I come to the cathedral now knowing that Peg’s remains are in the Columbarium in the north tower. Her laughing, determined spirit abides with us.

Peg made kids a priority in her life: writing children’s books, making sure that each child baptized at the cathedral got a personal note from someone in the congregation, throwing baby showers for expectant parents, working with foster youth at Braid Mission, and of course, organizing the duck pond each year.

So I’m thinking about ducks. The Council is thinking about ducks. I think we’ll do the duck pond again at Congregation Sunday this year. I know we’ll never match Peg’s inflatable duck hat, but we’ll do the best we can. I think Peg would approve.

I’ve always hated yoga. I tried it a bunch of times over the years: My track and cross-country coaches in school introduced me to a lot of yoga poses as stretches. Once I was out of school, I’d try a yoga class about once a decade.

But I never got it.

I found my mind wandering. I got bored. I figured that my mind was just too restless, that yoga would go into my box of “mindful practices at which I fail,” along with tai-chi, centering prayer and Buddhist meditation.

Then last summer, we had good friends from New York City visiting. They’d heard about yoga at Grace Cathedral and wanted to try it. These are some of our dearest friends, and I agreed, even though, in my mind, I was grumbling, “I hate yoga.”

We got to the cathedral just before class started and barely were able to find a spot to unroll the mats we were able to borrow for a modest donation. A few people graciously moved so that we could squeeze into three spots on the floor near the choir stalls, behind the altar. I’m a member of the Sunday congregation, so I was amused by this different experience of the space.

I didn’t hold out much hope for the yoga, though.

The class began with cycles of “downward dog” and “cobra” poses. Before I knew it, more than a half an hour had passed. The gorgeous sacred space, the cathedral, the ethereal live music and the company of more than 500 other people seemed to hold me, keeping my attention focused.

Holding “Warrior 2,” a sideways lunge with arms stretched to front and back, I stared down the nave at the rose window that depicts the Canticle of the Sun, a poem by St. Francis of Assisi. Daylight was fading, and the primary colors and geometric patterns of the window pulled me in. Somehow, attending this cathedral on Sundays for years, I’d never looked at the rose window this way. I guess I’d never been really present enough to appreciate it fully.

Then, just before seven, we all laid flat on our mats and closed our eyes, meditating silently and waiting for the cathedral bells to chime the hour. When the tolls began, I could feel the vibrations ripple through the floor under my body. I felt one with the familiar building in that moment.

As class ended about half an hour later, we sat cross-legged and closed our eyes again as the musicians led us to chant “Ohm” seven times. I felt one with all the other practitioners.

After that first class, I became a bit of a yoga evangelist. I told friends in the Sunday congregation that I thought it would be cool, just once, to chant “Ohm” during a regular service. (Of course, I have no idea how complicated that might be, both theologically and liturgically!) As enthusiastic as I’d once been skeptical of yoga, I gushed about the live music during yoga class, the calm teaching of the yoga team, the friendliness of the volunteers and other practitioners.

“If you try it, you’ll totally get why it’s become what may be the largest yoga class in the country,” I’d insist to people at coffee hour.

I became a yoga regular, and attended almost every Tuesday until the end of last year. Then my teenager took on a commitment that meant I have to drive her to Marin every Tuesday evening. She’s on a waiting list to change days.

Then I’ll go back to Yoga on the Labyrinth. I can’t wait.