Persimmon

Yoga is one of those things that you must discover for yourself. I dragged my friend L to Golden Bridge this morning and while I was swooning and jellified and communing with my Higher Power, I could sense that she had half an eye open and was surveying the room. (She did have most impressive Breath of Fire though). There is no doubt in my mind when I'm in that room, surrounded by the tankas, the flowers, the sacred music, the old wooden floors and red brick walls, the women in their white cotton, that I'm meant to be there. I feel safe and calm and without irony. L on the other hand is a reporter, and as such, she questions everything, including the authenticity of the spirituality of the kundalini yoga class. Love her. At the end while we were relaxing and supposed to be breathing into the third eye, all I could think of was that sweet, cardamom-mified yoga tea that was going to greet me on the way out. A man at the beginning of the class stood alone in the middle of the room, while groups of women chatted and stretched and settled in around him, and lit by a beautiful beam of sunshine from the skylight, bit into a big fat ripe persimmon. I drove home with a mission to wrest the last Thanksgiving persimmon from the fruit bowl and devour it.