March 21- Home Again, My Love

I am back in Boston. Yesterday’s wet snow sticks to the boughs of city trees and power lines.  As I write, the chai is bubbling on the stove.  The tea, the spices, the jaggery, all brought from India.  Now it’s almond milk instead of the cow’s gift from Shakti Agro Farm outside of Mysore.  Some things that enter my body must stay familiar for just a minute here.  Some rituals must remain undisturbed, even as the ground shivers beneath me.  My head is still ringing, and I am meditating on how far my astral body might be from my gross body today.  The elements of air and space oscillating.

The chai is done and the color is wrong.  I miss some things of India, already, though I was so ready to come back here. It is some twisted love affair.  I am always plotting our next meeting, though never sure why.  Just drawn by some seed that craves the smelly and sacred waters of India.  Craves a unique rain of color, smell, and ever-present sound.  Like any love affair, there is also diesel, poop, and profanity backstage.

The brightest thing out my window is a red automobile.  The only thing moving is a squirrel.  This is the ripest of moments, homecoming.  The bliss of travel I seek: new eyes, new ears, new tongue, new life.  It can be like this every day, but I travel for 24 hours, scrunched and rumpled to find this simple sense of renewal.  This complete juxtaposition of cultural climates that reminds: none of it’s real, babe.

Where am I?  What happened? And most of all, Who Am I?

Yoga, you brought me here, to this place.  And I trust you will bring me along to so many others.  Yes, I know when I walk into the yoga room you will be waiting there to welcome me, as always, my love.