In late May of 2005, on my first full day in America after a decade away in Donegal’s cool and rainy climate I stood outside of my hotel room in the Nebraska sun with my former college art professor. I was wearing a short-sleeved cotton blouse and cotton trousers. I remember how those clothes felt strange to me. Too light. Too feathery and thin against my skin. But as we walked to Richard’s car across the blacktopped parking lot at ten o’clock in the morning the sun began to penetrate. It began to heat my blood and wrap around my bones. I felt my body melt and become limber. My damp and moldy joints began to flex. For the first time in ten years I felt warm. Warm through and through.
Today is one of those breezy and blue Northern California days that beg a person to come outside to play. And while I’m not so much in the mood for playing – despite Rosie the Labradoodle’s persistent attempts – I am in the mood to feel warmth wrap around my bones. I’m in the mood to be still. I’m in the mood to close my eyes and experience the change of temperature on my skin as the clouds roll over the sun.
I’ll practice yoga today, but not on the mat. Today I’ll find my yoga practice in the sound of a kid practicing violin a few doors down, the shouting squawk of two blue jays in the plum tree and the persistent hum of traffic on Homer Street.
While life spins around me, today my body, my heart and my spirit will stay still.