26 July 2015


I sweated profusely tonight during my hour of Yoga practice though I felt rather strong throughout—my downward facing dog was respectable and I executed the unfamiliar (to me!) starfish passably. Of course, no matter what pose I take I never look like the 30- something young women whose knees don’t bend when the knees are not supposed to bend, whose forward fold from the divides the body exactly into upper and lower halves; and their Warrior Two poses does honor to the warriors who give their name to the pose. This is not to mention the grace in their flip-dogs and chadarangas.
            But at least during the hour’s practice I didn’t have the absolute need to fall into child’s pose as some kind of surrender. I maintained consistently by postures, well, for the most part, dropping only occasionally onto one knee when my upper torso wouldn’t (and couldn’t) sustain the weight. But I always the hour’s practice leave standing just a bit straighter.

            Anyway, as I said, tonight’s yoga caused me to sweat and my shirt became wet, and I thought to myself, well, I don’t care because outside the weather remains above 80 degrees and I will not chill. And then, as if a heavy gray cloud passed before sun I felt a shadow cross my consciousness and a sudden heaviness weigh down through my body. It was the hint that soon when I left practice the night would have fallen, the weather would have turned cold, and I would have need first of a jacket and then a sweatshirt and jacket to keep away the chill. I do not like the change to winter, but I love the cycle of seasons. Summer heat takes on a different tone when it followed by winter cold. This is what Thoreau used to organize Walden: the natural and wonderful passage of the seasons.


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