Driving into the city yesterday made me inexplicably angry. The traffic and the closeness and the people, oh my god, the people everywhere, like maggots crawling on a corpse. I read an article once that claimed anything one does for 30 days or more becomes a habit, and now, 90 days of self quarantine, safer-at-home, making trips only to the grocery and the dentist and the hardware store, I wear my habit like a devoted sister of the order. I felt the call always. Even in childhood, I could entertain myself all day sitting under a tree with a book or riding my bike on the quiet streets of a fresh 1970s’ subdivision or hypnotized by the scene out my bedroom window. Always there was a book, or a bike, or a window, but not much else was necessary. I don’t think I’m an introvert. Titles like that force us into false extremes, but like most things, it’s a spectrum that we all travel along as we see fit. I’ve been a social being at times, mostly in my 20s and 30s, those days when I was expanding, on the hunt for a career or a family of choice, but now I have returned to my original state. I have lost my elasticity. And though I pray that every ill effect of this time be swiftly and safely brought to a close, I also give thanks to this season that brought me back inside myself, and I leave the city to the young. © 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved
Brick wall whitewashed to look new old. Worn floors refinished, wood polished, shining. Mats a safe six feet apart in this, our first class in the yoga studio since being forced into solitary practice seven weeks ago. Faint acoustic music from the Bluetooth. Benign renditions of a change to come and my sweet lord. Diffused patchouli mist tussles with the alcohol in homemade hand sanitizer. The instructor tells us when to breathe. I was in India when the pandemic took over the world. One day Holi, slapping powdered color on friends and strangers alike, rubbing it into their hair, more intimate in the playfulness than we would be otherwise. Bollywood bass lines thumping the speakers. Colors running in rivers of sweat. The next day, weighing options. Can we get back into the States? I don’t want to leave a thousand kindnesses. The drumming of the Shiva temple in the morning. An entire nation of incense and marigolds. Breathing, rhythmic, human yoga. Inhale, she says, arms above your head. Exhale, fall into forward bend, and we comply, an army of six following field commands in unison. The tips of my fingers feel the hardness of the thin-matted floor. In the position’s hold I think of the flower market in Jaipur, mounds of marigolds, like walking through the clouds of a Hindu heaven, fighting the urge to jump into one, the petals cushioning the fall.
© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved