viparita dandasana

"Our bodies are the bow," I tell Sebastian and Liam on the way to school, "and Time the archer." I've gotten to one of those moments in working up a metaphor where it's not clear which way it's going to go. What's the arrow going to be?

Our village in England is an odd mix of a wealthy working-class population grafted onto a fishing community. No one fishes anymore, but there are lots of retired boatbuilders, and there are plenty of people stooped by age. I nod to some of my retiree friends who are buying newspapers at the Spar.

"Wish I was going to school," shouts an oldster. He was an artilleryman in the war long ago, and he's pretty deaf. We smile.

"At the end of our lives, Time releases the bow, and our spirits are shot heavenward," I tell the children, stepping over the fecal matter which seems to dog my footsteps wherever I go. I release the children into the playground, and they are off like a shot.

The metaphor is hokey, but back home I stay a little longer in viparita dandasana. The plan is to straighten the bow a bit, even if it hurts the metaphor.