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
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. Continue reading