"No feeling is final," wrote Rilke, and for these simple, four words, I express gratitude to yet another man I have never met. You see, I have exhausted myself with grief again, and it feels like more of a workout than this morning's yoga practice, which was both strong and strangely opening. I don't know…
Marichasana D is my Nemisis
I know it's coming. This isn't like turbulence on a plane that can come out of nowhere, despite the pilot's pre-flight discussion of the air conditions and the weather. This isn't like the way the weather shifts and buckles in the summer or in the winter, tolerable one day, painful the next. This is always…
Everyone Loves a Yoga Teacher
Everyone loves a yoga teacher, especially one decked out in lululemon because some of those clothes aren’t really made for practice; I can attest to that. Trying on top after top only to end up with a veritable assortment of sports bras better made for a kinky night in despite the company’s rather non-yogic vision…
Walk the Line…Or Not
Ashtanga is a different journey everyday, although the path is the same, akin to my walk to the same studio, every morning. Yet there are nuances to this road, one day it rains and Washington Square Park has a dreary splendour, punctuated by residents walking their dogs and the occasional flash of color from a…
“I Want to Hold Your Hand”
The cool air near to the floor might be kissing my palms, but I still feel the ghost of fingers entwined like that chainlink fence I'll be walking past, if I choose to pause, sip my coffee and remember how that moment would have befit a cigarette, before I continue to walk uptown to start the…
Ashtanga
Last night's wine hadn't finished working its way through my system, but I had the wisdom, then, to eat enough and stop when I'd drank enough. Interrupted sleep had me slightly unsteady on my feet, my chest tight with some unidentified emotion that had no weight, yet pulled taught. Breathing, doing, moving hadn't shifted it; the…
Time's Thievish Progress 