Rounding a corner

For four days in a row, I don’t vary my routine, though it finally creeps up past an hour. This lack of variation is witless, but it suggests a kind of doggedness which at least means I’ll get through it. On day three, two tears leak out of my sad head as I settle into virasana. Regret that I have lost my teacher, and my way somewhat. I don’t want a teacher in Essex or London. I don’t understand them. I should be doing therapeutic and recovery poses, but I can’t remember which ones. I want my American teacher back. Poor me. But it’s all relative, suffering. Somewhere in the midst of my illness, Eva-Lynn’s nephew in Seattle, a lovely sweet boy, has died of a fever. I am not thinking straight. I got a long fever, and Royston, little RJ, disappeared. My mind still has cobwebs in it.

Back to the mat, I think, trying not to think, back to the mat.

But the tears are perhaps the end of my illness, and I recover rapidly after that. I have rounded a corner.

The next day, I can be found doing my exuberant adho mukha virksasanas, handstands, in the kitchen. The wall is brown where my dirty heels have touched it.