Sensory Saturdays

I squint in the dark, hands groping for Phillip Lim’s.

can’t find them—how? they’re huge—so I make a grab for the mug of hot lemon water. Don’t need perfect eyesight to drink.

I squint again. It’s sour, a good kinda sour. My eyes adjust (as do my taste buds.)

One hour later I’m in  d o w n w a r d  dog,

(jump!)

chaturanga — h   o   l   d — cobra.

(jump!) hands under my feet

(exhale)

roll up — not slow enough because I’m impatient, hands to heart —

n a m a s t e .

No incense sticks, no chanting yogi, just me, myself and my beating heart. Love your body love your body love your body, it whispers. om namah shivaya. I bow to Shiva, I bow to my inner heart, in silence, in sweat, in Lycra, alone

… until Tracy Anderson fills the room. I vowed to make her and yoga my religion again. In abs we trust. (pulse for three, two, one… r e l e a s e .)

.   .   .

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