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Resisting Yoga

© Kuan Chong Ng | Dreamstime.com

Lotus Seed 1 by © Kuan Chong Ng | Dreamstime.com

One of the best yoga studios in the world is around the corner from me, and I used to go regularly.  Since March, however, I’ve been resisting it.  I wanted my mornings for writing, and by the time the afternoon rolled around, I was too weary to go.  I did suffer from a flu that had me miss classes I’d especially signed up for, but what is my resistance to going now?  I fear I am so far out of touch, but I know that this studio is full of non-judgmental students, students who are very much concerned with their practice.  I’m heavier than a few months back, which makes me body-conscious. I know, as we all do, that getting there (to a class, to a studio, even to a restaurant) is the hardest part; once you’re there, you wonder what made you stay away.

Is it that I’m moving so I don’t want to miss this studio and its teachers and its students too much?  That I stay away so I can let go?  The sadness of loosing something is enormous.  I fear the loss, the change.  I was lucky enough to find a teacher who directed me to her teacher, a blessing I sometimes forget.  When I met my principal teacher, her teacher, I felt aligned immediately.  I have only felt that way in some auditoriums, just before I know I am going to see some good film, theatre or listen to a reading.  It is a sense of identity, knowing, oh, I’m one of this crowd, I know how to do this, I belong here.  It’s a sense of recognizing, I’ve been doing this all my life.

That’s funny sentence to write when I am very much a beginning student who avoids arm balances and headstands, but to sweep up one’s arms in a salutation to the sun seems familiar.  Maybe I speak of two different things: yoga and sitting in an auditorium filled with a buzz.  Maybe the buzz is the connection, the mutual energy that film-goers and yoga practitioners share, the knowing that one is a participant in something bigger than the individual.

I cannot bear to promise I will go to yoga today.  I think I might, though.

Later: I did.

In the meantime there was hail

Ricotta salata e zucchini by Paola Sersante, CC by 2.0

Image via Wikipedia by Paola Sersante

I had the idea that since it was cold, I could bake a lasagna, and set off to get ricotta and cheese. The store that used to be an independent then a Wild Oats then a Whole Foods and now is back to being an independent was the one I chose. Wandering around, disappointing the young man who wanted me to try hummus, possibly even insulting him by not trying it, I made way to the cashier who wanted to know what the customer in front of me was going to do with his lone avocado. Instantly, I felt guilty for the amount of dairy I had, but I had slipped in dates and a mango, and a brought a bag.
We discussed the mango, I paid, and was on my way to my car when I realized it was raining. Actually it was hailing.

The sound of hail on a rooftop is brutal. You feel as if things will break, things like the roof, the windows. I probably should have returned to the independent and had a snack. But other people were driving, so I did too. I used my wipers, I used the defrost with the heat and AC on full blast, I made a left turn barely able to see. That was when the lightning began. The safest place in a storm, I told myself, is a car. At some point I blasted Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” which happened to be on the radio. I never crank up the volume; what better time than in a raging hailstorm?

I got to the driveway, My doormat was covered with hail and fresh green leaves. It looked like a deconstructed mojito. I put the lasagna fixings away. In two hours, the sun came out. I opened the windows. May looked back.

cape cod

Cape cod is my new destination.  I’m trying to imagine the beach, the figures in the early morning leaning against buildings in town as I make my way to get morning coffee.  How will I know which cafe will stay option all year?  Which will welcome my laptop, my need for quiet and company?  The winter light, the early morning misty pink sunrises and the dark heavy red sunsets, the golden hour of late afternoon which has the painterly light sought by so many.  The dunes, the beach rugosa, the winding paths through the salt flats.  I last lived there in 87.  Nearly a quarter century ago.  I’m no longer that skinny bewildered girl hidden by a mass of hair.

I’ll get a puppy.  I might get a kitten.  I will leave behind all my furniture, take my books and clothes and pots and pans and start again.  At fifty, I’ll start again, near the water at first light.

the step after the next one

boat from dreamtime

and without coffee

Yesterday I had a perfect day.  It is May, and clouds are gathering now to tease with rain that most likely won’t fall.  Yet I did water the garden…

In my quiet nook of the woods, waking refreshed after a few days struggle with flu, I had my first day of no-work at my disposal.  The best part was that I did not realize this until mid-day.  No need to correct anything, grade anything, get there on time for anything.  No need to plan out next year’s syllabus, again and again and again.

I planted four small dianthus, two petunias, and the beautiful white trailing flower whose name I’ve forgotten.  I knocked small holes out of the bottom of two old clay amphoras to create planters for more petunias.  The breeze has been delightful, softening the 80 degree weather.  Oh, that is a nice typeset back there, the way the zero is slightly smaller than the eight.

I thought to finally unleash the patio umbrella which weathered the winter, but did not get far.  Several angry bees came storming out, so I abandoned that project. Are they actually nesting there?  No matter.  I retreated back in, took a long walk later, debated over a this or that problem.

Decided nothing.

This morning I made the decision.

A perfect day.

pink poppy by dan/freedigitalphotos.net

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