Rumble In the Crumble
Top of the roller coaster, lofty-eyed view of miniature life below, God above, just heartbeats prior to the great dive, the total plummet. And in that moment there is sharp and clean clarity, yoga breath gird your guts, and try not to grit your teeth too hard. Give yourself over to the generational narrative as a polka dot of energy bouncing through the eternal vortex embodied as a Jewish woman.
I remember this in a deeply non-verbal internal region: we’ve been here before. I try to open up to what is next I know that pain lies in resistance. I practice poses that encourage the unclenching of my butt cheeks, and everything in me that is hanging onto the moment for life.
Flow with the energy, open up to the non-verbal region, resist the occupational hazard, nay the imperative to put it into words. Get up, do yoga, pray and meditate, prepare and present practical, free-flowing English lessons. Check my social media feed, feel all the feelings: dismay, rage, fear, and defiance. My grandfather was right, after all.
But there are also collections of bright bouncing polka dots of light. Taken together its more spectacular than a fully lit concert, giving energy that’s just as alive, electric, and positive.
I renounce my claims of being a Writer. And there is beauty in the cracking. The craqueluring when the fine lines give way to deep fissures. I’ve returned to my chewy ginger molasses cookies several times. The design process has been refined, due to the addition of black pepper into the mix which serves to amplify the snap of the ginger. I incorporate it into the craggy topping of a seasonally relevant apple/pear combination.
We did yoga in my unfurnished living room, on the Persian rug underneath its redwood beams. We stood in Tree facing the portrait of leaves outside, at the top of the liminal chute between Turning and Shedding.
It felt frivolous and bubbleheaded to be celebrating a birthday when my family in Israel are calculating existential realities. What do you say to a mom whose kids haven’t been in school in a month, hours spent in a safe room, reigning in their wild young baby animal energy? We dedicated our practice to them, Kundalini fire breath shooting across the globe, transmitting prana and light from the comfort of our yoga mats.
I’ve been here before, not as Rachel Harkham in the late 20th and early 21st Century, maybe it was as Gluckel of Hamlin, or any of the other myriad pin-prick spirit dots that had the urge to embody it and preserve it in the great miasma for eternity.
This go-around I use flavors to channel the non-verbal primordial regions, a variation on an everlasting theme.
I’m experiencing a narrative whose embodiment feels generational. And its transmission is largely non-verbal. A struggle for anyone who lives for sentence construction.
I turned fifty, and decided to mark the occasion with a Yoga party. I splurged on the chocolate board and the cheese board for the bon vivant interlude. I got a tarot card reader just for fun, and I invited an assortment of Besties.
In order to prevent a major craqulelure- a craqueuring I sugges t arranged a Sunday yoga-in a@ ChezMoi on Sunday, gathered my nearest and dearest for some yoga practice followed by thoughtfully yum cheese and chocolate boards.
