I have been away. I have been on a beach writing. I have much to catch up with. The stories of Zipolite will not come at a usual pace, and most will not read like my more familiar “Trip Report” format. I’ll probably just use the material like salt and pepper sprinkled into my list of other free range wanderings. This is the first, a haphazard #1, in a series.
At About Sunrise:
DF has run off to a yoga class with a new acquaintance. I don’t follow instructions well. Keep me out of a ballroom dancing class. I stay behind to my own devices.
I take my sarong down to that gentle slope which falls to the waves, where they hit the beach.
The sarong sits in a bundle in the sand. I listen to the surf, eyes occasionally close.
I take notice of my thighs. They’re still tight from yesterday’s sprinting. I think that I’ll just let them rest, today. I read somewhere that that is best. Never do too much, without rest, at least at first.
Yoga is a simple state, just being, the body and here and now.
I squat and sit long enough to feel the burn run up my back, like a warm plate-like shell. Gently, I do a little twist and then a little more. My head moves, directing vision down to one end of the beach and then the other.
Waves pound, the sound is crashing thunder out there, but a surfer makes it into a curl. I quietly congratulate him. A grin appears from my perineum up. Kundalini rising.
I note that the feet are a bit sore, stiff and swollen. Running barefoot on a full tilt, mushing through the deep sand without showshoes, it is all …