I pedaled back from yoga in a light rain/mist. The temperature hovered at 40ish degrees all morning, which made the dampness cut straight through my layers, my gloves, my shoes and socks.
But somehow, even this morning, when it was a bit colder, my brain a bit foggier, I still managed to spread my wings as I sailed down Forrest Avenue, greeting the day, greeting the moment, and greeting the city.
The flu seems to have struck most of the United States while I was away. People drop like flies, entire families get it, most of my office fell ill, and people at the gym are getting it, too, unfortunately. I feel like I somehow have immunity from the sun or something, having spent so much time in the dry summertime down South, Southern Hemisphere south.
The flu got to the teacher who usually teaches the Tuesday noontime class at the gym, too. As a substitute was the instructor I just met before going on my trip who exposed me to her giant quartz singing bowl. The one that cracked me open about a month ago.
I commented on it, remembering how I just let go last time, the vibrations taking over my head and heart, bringing me to tears. She smiled warmly at me, and then guided the class through a slow, opening flow with twists and backbends.
As we found savasana, I felt a calmness move across my eyes and face. She started swirling the bowl, it’s vibrations getting louder and stronger, encompassing my entire body, all of the class, deafening any outside sounds. While I felt my eyes flutter, instead of choking up, I felt totally at peace. Behind my eyes, I could see so clearly.
After class, I suited up in my awkwardly pieced together rain outfit, bright yellow and blue gloves, cycling cap, green jacket, pink helmet, and pedaled back through the light rain to my office.
There, I was greeted by a bouquet of sunflowers and irises, with a note:
“Big love from warmer climbs.”