Each morning the day lies like a fresh shirt on our bed; this incomparably fine, incomparably tightly woven fabric of pure prediction fits us perfectly. The happiness of the next twenty-four hours depends on our ability, on waking, to pick it up. -Walter Benjamin, One-Way Street and Other Writings, 1978

Good morning “Miss Mao Trying to Poise Herself at the Top of Lenin’s Head!”

I usually attend yoga every morning at 6:00am.  There’s a cool stillness in the early morning air.  And in this frenetic city of Los Angeles, I relish my silent block-and-a-half walk down the road to Moksha.  The streets are completely deserted.  Overhead, the many air conditioners perched on window ledges in 3rd and 4th story apartments hum softly.  On the corner, Lenin contemplates being balanced upon.  I figure myself a lonely sojourner, making my pilgrimage to the temple as a singular offering to the new day.

By the time I emerge from class at 7:30, La Brea is brimming with traffic.  Greeted by the honking horns of aggressive early morning commuters, I’m still wrapped in peace from savasana and blissfully unaware of what transpires on the walk back home.

This morning, I opted for Joe’s Moksha Flow class at 9:30.  At this hour the walk has changed much.  The city-ness of Los Angeles is articulating itself in the budding movement on the streets. I pad down Detroit avenue in flip flops, beginning to feel sweat pool between my elbow and my yoga mat.  Sprinklers lining the sidewalk burst to life in rainbows at my feet.  On the corner, a tired-looking woman sits on the hood of her car and yells at her cell phone in Spanish.  A young child emerges from a single-story walk-up with dad in hand.  He’s eating cheerios from a ziploc bag which reminds me that I’m hungry.

Posters plaster the way

I emerge from class an hour and a half later, as always a better person for it, to find that the street has transformed yet again.  At 11:00am an industrious culture is vibrating through my neighborhood!  People smile as they wash their cars, walk their dogs, shoulder groceries in reusable grocery bags.  I’m being greeted left and right and I wonder, mid-gait, if it’s because I’m carrying a yoga mat and a bright pink duffle-bag.  Perhaps they see that I too am industriously vibrating, a fitting conduit for the greater circuit of our productive little community.

I, myself, feel like a rockstar.  My heightened levels of endorphins and the zen-y mood that I’m in have me rolling down the street like a candidate on the campaign trail.  I’m bending down to coo and pet at toddlers and miniature greyhounds alike.  I’m wishing the mailman a good day and even making eye-contact with the homeless guy on the corner.  I‘m skipping the elevator and taking the stairs; bounding upwards graceful as a gazelle, salivating to thoughts of cheerios.


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