Pranayama

I see the early morning from the terrace of my home- the sky has split into two. On one side, the sun is a ball of fury, angered by the encroaching hoard of black clouds, and on the other, it is as if night has returned, like a jealous lover, to make sure of my fidelity. And when I shut my eyes, it is hard not to imagine myself as a single dot on this panoramic, skyscape- a single point into which all imaginary lines from the things in front of me vanish- in art words, a one point perspective.

I close my eyes, legs folded, back straight. Breathe in by one count, breathe out by two, I am training myself. Be still, be still, be still.

But, instead I think- if the sun can dry my laundry in an afternoon, why can’t it dry this nimbostratus? I refuse to think of physics, air currents, and calculations of densities. Perhaps these clouds are not close enough? Size, weight, and intensity seem to have no relevance if proximity is taken out of the equation. Funny, how nothing is ever solved from afar. Even the mighty sun cannot touch a rain cloud from its position in the sky. 

My thumb touches the tip of my index finger, as I settle down again, but I can barely feel it there. Eyes shut. Breathe in by two counts, breathe out by four. The desire to open my eyes rises inside me again. Be still, be still, be still. 

The sky is now, in small part, a feathered sea, but mostly a dark, deep, endless, void, gathering momentum, eating its way from the horizon, all the way across to me. I can’t see the sun any longer; instead, a brilliant line of gold crests a solitary, lingering cloud, like a crown. That too, is quickly swallowed up by the field of black. The air is cool, electric, slightly dangerous. I feel my heart in my chest; a steady pulse, and it is growing louder. The breeze picks up speed; I hear the scratching sound of dried leaves as they scrape across the roof floor, and a random white paper napkin left behind from a long-forgotten dinner flies by. I have an impulse to catch it, but then I don’t. It somehow fits this scene.

Breathe in by four counts, breathe out by eight. Breathe in by four counts, breathe out by eight.

I do not even pretend to shut my eyes now. How can I miss this, this celestial battle, this hostile take-over of the sun, this epic invasion made up of fire, water, and air?

I feel it before I can see it. A tiny tap, and then another; made cold by the wind. Rain, glorious rain, with the scent of the wet earth riding on its back. I stand still and just feel it. These invisible lines of water seem to have somehow found me, from their home in the clouds, to this place, at this particular time, to the me that is present at this moment. 

Later, I will say, this is my perspective on the storm, my one point perspective- but for now, I simply breathe in and breathe out.

Us

I work in silence, with my eyes closed,

in a cool purple hued breeze

a time for sleeping flowers, just before the dawn. 

I work with whispers and stillness,

With long afternoons and even later nights,

in spaces that cast long shadows. 

I work with time as it blows; like the wind-

sometimes rough, sometimes short. 

But you,

You work with the bright morning sun. 

And at noon, when nothing casts a shadow.

You work with your digits and dashes 

With straight lines in open spaces,

meandering only to off-set a closed door

-but only after banging on it first. 

For you time begins and ends.

And wild flowers only exist when they yawn wide. 

For My Baby

Saturday Morning