Quiet

To write, one must first become quiet.

I use yoga and meditation to get still and listen. I have to have low noise level. Ambient noise is fine: the traffic driving by on the wet road, the pop of the heater, rain, my fingers clacking on the keyboard…that ever- present, buzzy, om sound.

I don’t always like what I hear.

Sometimes, in order to listen, I need to hear something that I would rather not, because solitude makes a person come square in the face of themselves. There is nowhere to hide when you are by yourself. No distractions. No outside influences.

My apartment is spare. I like it like this.

I have the bare necessities.

Not the bear necessities. J

Everything I need and nothing that I do not need.

My living room is a yoga space. Nothing but my mat and my altar.

I can just drop and do yoga whenever I feel like it. There is no excuse; it can just flow into my day, which means I do a little in the morning and the evening, at least. I get on my mat and just cruise where ever I feel; it’s my magic carpet.

I walk next door to go to work, where although I communicate with people all day, I am not required to “dress for success,” which for me means that I can wear jeans and a t-shirt all week or yoga pants, even my tye-dye ones, and no one calls me a “hippie” (except Keith, he does call me a hippie. He says that I have a hippie-chick-pad. There are no beads or black lights, I swear.)

I have beautiful views out of all of my windows. The energy in my place is so sweet.

Grateful. I am grateful.

Tomorrow, I venture out to a new yoga class (the teacher says she moved here from Texas, too, seven years ago), check out the library, maybe take a bus to the University and snoop around. I hear there is kirtin tomorrow night at a yoga studio in Arcata, where the University is located.

I’m going ‘sploring.

Namaste’ ya’ll.