English: 19th Century Mysore Painting of Goddess Saraswati. National Gallery of Modern Art, Jaipur House, New Delhi Durgada Krishnappa
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It is a year since I moved to the Cape from Colorado.  As I took a walk this morning, I thought about the year ahead, and the year after that.  I am in the process of applying for grants and jobs.  I am on the threshold of a new book, and if I can afford it, I could stay here for two more years.  That is the guideline of the residency I am on.  I spent much of my first sixth months mourning my life near the mountains, but now I am more accustomed to a solitude that comes with losing my yoga sangha.  There are sanghas here, and I will explore there.  Mysore practice is every day practice (with exceptions), side by side fellowship, a place that does not require conversation, because conversation is better after practice.  Everything is better after practice, unless of course practice leaves you too tired to do anything else.  Then the practice wasn’t really practice, I think.

So, without Mysore practice, I–well, what do I do?  I have DVD’s, I have a mat, so why is it so difficult to practice on my own?  Is it because the practice was as much about spirituality and asana and community?  That community made it better, and indeed, made it possible?

But I did not mean to write about ashtanga.  I meant to write about home, about the need to plan a garden, about the need to not be on the move year after year, or planning a year in advance.  October is grant month.  November is job application month.  Winter will bring work, but one is always working when one is working on a book.  It is what sustains a person who writes, the secret world of imagination, where one can compose in one’s head, or heart, or have a reason to spend hours at the keyboard.  Typing.  Not typing.

Another year here beyond this year would not be bad.  It would allow for continuance.  A year to write, and return to teaching in another place the following year is not so bad either.  Each comes with its own set of problems.  A friend calls these years without a job “gap years.”  A gap year is a time to explore the place one is in, and for me, write my heart, as if I am on a fellowship.  A horse snorts in the distance.  Why is it that horses are so wise?  Why is it the world is so wise?

Autumn beckons.  There is promise in the air.  Reflection and color, and all of it.

Related articles

• Tasting Mysore in London. (elephantjournal.com)