My gentle kind yoga teacher suggests to the class that we can be lighthouses of peace to those around us. A lighthouse to our friends, to our community, to the world.
“Breathe in, ‘Om.’ ”
“Breathe out. ‘Shanti (peace).’ ”
In the early evening class, I find myself beaming.
Om, breathing in.
Shanti, breathing out.
“Use this in your daily life,” he says. “In traffic. In the dentist’s chair. Be a lighthouse.”
I float out of class, late spring raindrops fall like sugar dust on my airy head, breathing in, breathing…
OUCH. Continue reading
Some times I can feel my bones straining under the weight of my thoughts. And that’s wrong, all wrong, so I strain more in the down dog position, where my arms and wrists and shoulders take on the weight of my trunk.
My trunk. What a word for my body, which is pack full of multi-grain toast this morning, as well as three cups of hot green tea that have not found a way to warm my too-cold fingers as I type about my bones.
My bones. I imagine my bones are light as a skeleton, while the rest of me – my muscles, my blood, my skin – is too heavy for what lies within.
But the heaviest weight is definitely my thoughts. Continue reading
The outlook is bleak for millions of us as we peer outside our windows. We now live in a gray and white world.
I’m begging for some color. So I go inside to my imagination. Isn’t that the place we all should enter, when life becomes too monochromatic?
I want sun, no, I NEED sun like the birds and the bees and all the flowers (not) on the trees… Ah ha, I know what I’ll do. Continue reading
Before the snows begin, and the ice and sleet, I walk in my new neighborhood to become familiar with all of the dips and cracks in the sidewalks and the wooded paths nearby. On this chilly day, I wear a decades-old red LL Bean overcoat and even older soft black gloves that I didn’t need when living in the San Francisco bay area.
I grumble a bit, allowing some self-pity.
At “home,” I’d still be wearing shorts and a t-shirt.
At “home,” I’d need a baseball hat to protect my face from the gleaming sun.
As leaves crunch beneath my shoes, my gloved third finger discovers a small crunch in its tip. Is it a years-old crumb? A small pebble from long-ago? Continue reading
“I don’t feel old. I don’t feel anything until noon. Then it’s time for my nap.” Bob Hope
Boy, I wish I could nap.
I watch my guy on a soft slow Saturday afternoon, slumped on the large armchair in front of the window. If his eyes were open, he’d survey the soft fluffy clouds floating over the azure blue waters, and he’d note the gentle movement of the white sailboats as they lazed across the Bay.
But his head is leaned back and his mouth is open, releasing a sonorous hum of a snore every 30 seconds. Continue reading