Today's yoga was in the backyard of a mid-size, neighborhood home.
It wasn't just any backyard, however, but that of Smalltown America, on an archetypal Main Street (which was, coincidentally, right on the town's Main Street). Lying on a sleepy, tree-lined two-lane non-highway, the bed-and-breakfast of my overnight was every bit something from another time. The doorkey I was issued was of the classical skeleton variety, requiring a full, three-sixty turn. The home had a proper, walk-in cellar. A cinderblock outbuilding marked the property's perimeter, the kind now commonly plastered with old tin signs from Coca-Cola and Pepsi and gas companies that have long since rebranded. The place was, like the town it lay in, anachronistically quaint, and in all the right ways. I liked it, and, also, I liked its backyard, where I yoga'd on a grassy little knoll overlooking an intersection where a stoplight blinked and the area's workers passed in commute.
This locale didn't much help my serenity addiction. I need to get back in Kalki and do some Wal-Marting ...
No comments:
Post a Comment