Slept in til 5:15 when the Editor whispered me the time. Twilight and bird sounds were filtering through the large open windows to the porch—both for the first time since late last fall. Oops! Light out? Oh…, it’s not really late.
Feet to floor, enjoy the feeling of having calf muscles for the first four steps: the way they pull at the attachment, a crescent-suture around the curve of the heel. Sip water in the kitchen, where the smell of warmed-over paint—the aromatic sign of summer inside this place—is back, just slightly. Nauli, trying to rustle off the weird sleepfulness that means it’s Monday.
Torpor. The Monday effect: regardless of what combination of sleep, hiking, asana, kriya and (always exhausting) esoteric shit happens inside the weekend, ever since I quit taking a flow class Saturday mornings Mondays have been special. The universal Monday lag that continues all the way in to the first hour or so of practice. Preparation for aging, I take it.
Pick up email because I’m a little worried about a friend who has been struck by love and talking to me (of all people?) about how women supposedly relate. (Why do humans fall in love?) No word from the thunderstruck inspired one, but something from my 9:00 private: Husband is sick, can we reschedule?
Thank you yes! I mean…, Fine if you must. I try to respond neutrally so as not to congratulate anyone for skipping practice just because I’d rather work a bit less today. But I feel thankful and go talk to the E in his sleep for a minute before I trip out the door.
Shakira’s on the Latin pop station and her Honduras- roadtrip- reminiscent warbling suits me fine, so I don’t switch to the cheesy blues-pop that’s waiting in the stereo for the drive down Santa Monica Blvd. It’s actually a little too light out by 5:55 for my taste, and when I pass the hospital construction zone the crew is mostly across the street and disappeared into the recesses of the site. Them off to work, and me too late for the grins they usually give as I stop for their long parade through the crosswalk, when they remind me silently that ashtanga is anything but work. Tomorrow, up a little earlier to catch those two edges: the dawn and the more-serious-than-me 6:00 crew.
At practice, the Monday effect is in full force, especially for those who yesterday practiced led with the one who passed through and treated us with that weird conspiration ritual, complete with a lot of extended hail-Patthabi chaturangas. I light a candle in front of some brass statue, and at least it’s still dark enough for 15 minutes of ganesh shadow-dancing on the wall.
By the time that effect wears off I am still creaking through the Bs, eluded by ujjayi, and interrupted by the pesky thought that even a morning like this is beautiful… and is something I might want to read about years from now if I ever bother to archive the owl.
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