My Little Golden Book of Phobias

Last night Pat brought an incredible poem, spare and gorgeous. She is a soprano. And Martha's poem made me cry. I don't choke up when I read poetry. It was vivid and there was longing and loss and stained glass and ritual and Martha was wearing lavender and white, even her watch had a lavender band. Oh, I am so happy to be in such company. Rebecca was delightful, as usual, and she could probably open a restaurant. I would come and eat crunchy bread with tapanade, basil, tomatoes and goat cheese. And all the other things she makes for us. We missed Kelly and Laura.

Today in yoga, the teacher had a silent class, no talking. Every time we were to change position, he rang the bell. I had to keep looking at him to see what he was doing. We were all sitting cross legged and we were to bend over. A few people could actually put their foreheads on the floor, including the old lady beside me. Sheesh. But when we were doing shoulder stands, when she came down out of the pose, she ripped a very loud fart. It was beautiful. She may be able to bend in half but sphincter control, ha! I know I'm being petty but I don't care. The vinyasa lady from my very first class was there and she was ridiculous. Show-off. She did a head stand and some impossible thing tilting her body sky-ward while bending and balancing on her ELBOWS. And she didn't fart. Not once.