On the floor, on my yoga mat. Counting the burnt-out bulbs on the string of lights above me. Perhaps I will buy new ones for the studio – as a gift. However my count soon trails off – too many to easily track. My mind wanders.
The instructor speaks softly, comes along during savasana, and adjusts each of us. Touch is welcome to me; I have a hard time imagining someone not enjoying the pressure on the shoulders; firm hands on the neck. I settle into myself, my body.
My mind floats along – rehearsal in a few minutes. Ralph and Nels, home – cooking fried rice, gamboling with the cats (our two littlest kitties are off at the vet overnight, sadly).
My daughter and I, off to the theater. My car is cold; Phee and I balance a few costume pieces, a warm pan of homemade full-cream bread pudding, my purse, my water. On our short drive we play music and sing along and I pass through lights along the roadway. Winter is somber, a type of death, a cold stillness that even the cheeriest lights and holiday music cannot penetrate.
Rehearsal. Everyone is working hard. Tempers flare. Errands for the production; some small personal vendettas. Crowded dressing room and a familiarity with a few women. I am tired but so glad to be a part of this experience.
Home and it’s late; I commit to some small correspondence. We four finally retire to bed. My son up against my husband. The boy reaches his foot to me and I remove his sleepy little sock; this, then, was what he wanted. He sighs and returns back to position, curled up against his father.