And the sun comes out today.  It has rained so much this spring, to the point of flooding in some areas.  Just absolutely poured cats and dogs.  After several days of it the sun has finally come out.  The garden of course loves the rain, it is a veritable jungle.  It has also brought out something that I am allergic to. 

I went to yoga today as I always do, the teacher who is also my dear friend and my oldest friend whom at the age of 70 is a spry and lively man.  He did a pranayama at the start of class, usually something reserved for the end of class on Fridays.  I dislike pranayama.  I do not know why but I do.  I sit at the Zen Center and I am okay with monitoring my breathing.  I used Lamaze 18 years ago when giving birth to my daughter.  But the pranayama is not my thing at all.  I tried it today – I look at it as being like one of those foods you dislike as a child and you keep trying it in the plan that one day you will like it.  Pranayama is like lima beans; I just don’t like it no matter how often I try it.  But it is not as icky distasteful to me as liver. 

I find myself in this place, it is a bit unusual for me.  A place of infinite patience, and yet of no patience.  Of enlightened mind with a feeling of deep deep ignorance.  A place of love and compassion, with some serious anger mixed in.  This is the place I breathe in and out of. 

I am in Loews and it is remarkable…I am alone, dressed in black sweats, a navy shirt, a bandana over my unwashed hair and a pair of well worn flip flops.  A lone woman carrying a bag of grout and tools.  Several men shopping alone say hello to me.  I find my eyes sliding off to the side once they have walked by me….I am not used to getting attention from a man when I am not perfect…I ask for help with drill bits…why they went away and the drill stayed a big mysterious question I have no answers to.  Instead of shooing me off to the drill bits as the woman at Michaels shooed me off to find the art supplies that I buy for one of my students every summer, he stops and talks to me at length, smiling and making lots of eye contact, extending the explanation for a long time.  It was the same last week at the dealership.  The two men talking to me, one walking me to my car.  I don’t get it.  Was it because I told them I changed the starter by myself?  That when they suggested it was the battery I said no, but maybe the neutral safety switch? 

Who knows.  I just smile and continue about my business.  Lifting 80 pounds of charcoal by myself.  Grouting the floor by myself.  Fixing the car with help from someone with tools.  In my old beat up clothes and my bandana, unwashed and makeup free, all natural.  This is the real me.

Honey Bee with Milkweed 2009