Yoga on the Bay with Crabs and Old Men

This morning I need to leave.  It’s urgent.  I tell Ross I will see him later.  He asks where I am going and I simply say, “Out”.       

     I need to be out.  Out of doors, outside of the walls.  I find the perfect spot, I think.  I take the stairs so I can sit up above.  Up high,  where I can watch what is happening way below me.  

Up and out.  Here is where the air is breathable. 

     Soft murmurings of the others who are here don’t disturb me, but comfort in an odd way.  

     The man in jeans is engrossed in his book.    I am so curious to know what he is reading.     

     The two couples seated across the way nibble their bagels and sip coffee from their paper cups. They gleefully chat about what a nice spot this is.  I silently agree.

     The street painters in their neon orange shirts stop by,waiting, I guess, for the yellow and white lines to dry.   

        

     The ladies arrive with their mats. They say hello as if I am one of them.   And I am I guess, just not really. 

        "Thirteen to drop in,” the instructor says,  describing the cost of the session.

     They start by taking their shoes off, and sit cross-legged on their pink, blue, purple and lime green mats.

     There are eight and the instructor is nine.   She plugs her portable player in.  The music is so soft that I can barely hear it. I hear flutes, though, I think.

     Kristen, the others call her,  speaks as softly as the calming flute music.

     A woman struggles to climb the steps, the ninth and last one to join.  She is not slim like the others, but as she gets into position and joins in she is as flexible as the others.

     Uh oh, downward dog.  It’s the only yoga instruction I am familiar with.  The less than slim woman says she can’t do the dog.  The instructor says, “Yes you can" and shows her how.

   Sh uh, sh uh, sh uh,  the yogis say.  I figure out that I can pretend to play with my phone and secretly take their pic. 

  

   

  I turn my attention to the picture window view of the bay behind me.  The water does really glisten with tiny sunlit wave top gems. 

 I am entertained by all of the activity down on the dock.   

 Boaters launch their crafts and then sail on by. 

Crabbers patiently wait for their cages to fill up.  

 Loungers relax under their brightly colored chair umbrellas. 

     I observe that each and every person stops along the way to spend a few minutes gazing out over the water.  I wonder what compels us to do that.  Are the answers out there?

     I hear the old men talking somewhere down below.  I can’t see them, but I can hear their gravely
 old-man laughing sounds as they tease each other.  “You talk like an old man”, one old man says to the other.

     The yogis are finished and they are not quiet now.  They gather in pairs and threes to chat.  As they head down the stairs they greet the old men below. 

     I’m going to miss the flutes and the soft speaking instructor when the yogis leave. 

     

     I felt almost invisible sitting in my corner.    And I realize this feeling is one with which I am very familiar.  I am a listener and an observer.

    

So perhaps this is what my blog will become.  I will travel around with my laptop and perch, like the gulls, and just watch what happens.

I have created a page for Anna's Diary.  It can be found under the Tab titled Anna's Diary.

I have posted all of the entries to date there, starting with January 1, 1929.

Here are yesterday and today's entries from Anna’s Diary:
Wed. July 10, 1929
Home Corinne still here.  I went to see her mother.  Had a talk.  Put and Charlie came over.  Made sandwiches in kitchen for them.  Very warm.
Thursday, July 11, 1929
Went to MRs.s Nap at 10:30 a.m. Drove Mr. Nap away to farm in Stockton, NJ.  Wargner’s farm for his health.  Returned at night about 11:30. Overnight at Mrs. Nap.