SATURDAYS AND MOONDAYS ALWAYS GET ME DOWN (ON MY MAT)

Thusday night's dream:

The yoga center held a big party across the street; the Beastie Boys were there, and plenty of handsome single male yogis and older wise women (one of whom actually ran the center). We were all smoking cigaretes. But I had to teach. The Beastie Boys came to my apartment (downstairs from the yoga center) and admired my track shoe collection in rainbow colors. I was supposed to teach at 10 but could not rouse myself from bed. My brother came, carrying my mother, and put her down on the bed. I was annoyed. Then I was worried about her, and got out of bed and fixed her pillow. Some women came to my door asking me if I was the teacher. The studio was enormous and a band was set up in back. It was the 80s band, The Producers. They still had the skinny black ties and keyboard-guitar. Guruji sat in front on a big, fancy chair. I touched his feet and said how happy I was to see him. Sharath said, Look how good he looks -- his skin is like a baby's; like your skin. And Guruji held my hand to his cheek and it was soft. His bald head was even softer. You teaching today? he asked. Yes. Why teaching Saturday? Oh, it's not ashtanga -- it's classical hatha yoga. Guruji nodded but seemed confused/disappoitned. Then the band started to play. Guruji got off his chair and started playing lead guitar. He had a huge smile on his face and was GOOD. I looked in my bag but could not find my camera.


Last night's dream:

I was trying to touch my feet in Kapotasana and my hands kept slipping. Whoever was helping me (Dharma? Guruji?) transmitted to me, without speaking, that I should slow my breath and stay a long time. They got my hands to my heels like it was nothing.


Today's dreamlike reality:

It was like I had someone else's body. Instead of the 60 year old who usually visits, it was someone ten years younger, ten pounds thinner and ten inches shorter. I did not touch my feet in Kapotasana (it's overrated anyway) but did have unusually good balance, esp. in Pinca and the seven headstands I shouldn't be doing. Perhaps it means nothing; I was next to the radiator after all.


And now:

I'm off to McHenry for good food, bad TV, and clean air. The younger nephew has tickets to tomorrow's Cubs game -- IN MILWAUKEE -- and hence our Easter practice takes place on Saturday. For the drive I have on cassette, from the library: The Tibetan Book of the Dead (read by Richard Gere) , The Road Less Traveled and Wherever You Go, There You Are. You know, to offset the overindulgence. I've also threatened to treat Dreyfus and Mrs. Dreyfus to a Level I yoga class tomrorow. This will be our first holiday with not one but two grandnieces; the new one, Gabriella Paige Dreyfus, and the terrible two-year-old who looks exactly like me, Lilayna Isabell Dreyfus. If nothing else, the Cacananda family is good at naming their children.