I’m hittin’ the Sweet Spot of Savasana ~ most amateur yogis recognize it; that moment when one feels as though they’ve merged into the One, that point where it seems Death wouldn’t matter, because when you’re dead you don’t give a rat’s hairy buttocks about the incessant traffic or the neighbor’s barking dog (oddly, I’m used to the roosters). So, again, I’m nearing that Sweet Spot when there’s a knock at the door that jars me to my panicked senses. Clearly, I’m not dead because I have to deal with that knock at the door. In fact, I’m not dead; I’m infuriated ~ the guy who knocked on the door, however, may be meeting his Maker. It was Dirk’s buddy . . . A perfect moment to practice Forgiveness. But I would digress and that’s not the point of this particular rant. There’s few times in my week I get to meditate. Seated meditation eludes me; I seemed to have lost the capacity to sit without fidgeting since having children (rather like that permanent affliction of catching a spill before it occurs or cutting someone else’s steak even if they’re adults). I rely on the moving meditation of yoga. And when I’m practicing asanas, I don’t want to be bothered. The phone is ignored (the phone retaliates by providing the slowest dial-up connection possible later). The soothing music is turned on, the mat laid and the candle lit on the altar. Then, in the words of the great Greta Garbot, “I vant to be alone!” (Yoga classes are fun, social and great for learning unfamiliar poses safely, but when it comes to the nitty-gritty of asana practice, solitude is the penultimate.) Dirk’s buddy will live to see another day. That is the extent of my practicing forgiveness. Let them walk away if even with an etheric limp.
Meanwhile, back at the barber shop (I’m nowhere near the ranch), Evan’s socks are nearing completion, I’m staring down the barrel of a Brownie’s camp-out this weekend, and, two days out of the chute, I have to bone up on my CPR. I’ll probably need it after teaching 18 girls how to knit (thankfully, not alone ~ teaching is NOT a solitary practice). I haven’t packed thing one. Bennie has only just begun practicing how to roll up her own sleeping bag. (In all honesty, we’ll probably just toss it in a large garbage bag and deal with it six months from now or in time for the next camp out ~ whichever comes first.) Enough of that; Evan’s socks look great, in my humble opinion. The heels are turned nicely, I’ve had my fun with the saucy blue colors on the shank by making different stripes on each sock and each toe will be different. Will his right toe prefer the lapis color or his left? Fodder for a future, photoless blog, I’m sure.
Thought For the Day: Let Corpse-posed yogis lie or suffer a gruesome, painful death.