We are riding on a smoothly-paved road near a lake. The grass between us and the water is crisp and uniformly green…a park perhaps. The temperature is that perfect balance between hot and cold–no matter that we’ve been biking for some distance–i don’t feel even a hint of perspiration or fatigue. “We.” I am with friends–not sure who, but i sense their smiles and playful attitudes as we meander down the street. The sky is greyish but not gloomy–a uniform blanket of cloud diffuses the sunlight evenly throughout our field of vision.
Our bikes are older, as is the timeline. It may be somewhere between 1982 and 1986, and the bikes we are riding feel about 10 years old–mine might be that 1970’s dark brown with a couple tomato and marigold rings around the downtube. They a little clunky, heavy and fendered, but well maintained and performing well.
The road we pass takes us past a structure–not unlike a pole-barn–something you might see in a park, but usually with picnic tables underneath. This one, however, contains a large group of people engaged in yoga asana practice. Standing close together, they contort into poses that are familiar but not–variations i’ve never seen. The instructor calls positions one after another, in a very “flow-y” manner. Positions are held only long enough for the practitioners to chant (in sanskrit) the name of the pose, as though they were chanting “om”–and do so with perfect precision and harmonics–nothing short of angelsong. I cannot help but crane my neck around as we pass–I’ve already slowed myself down to elongate the experience.
Shortly thereafter i’m standing at the edge of the front yard of a ranch-style house down the street from the yoga practice–it looks very much like the one i grew up in on Hornbeam Drive in Longwood. Bikes are strewn around the yard and people are sitting on the grass, talking jovially, or tossing a frisbee. Everyone seems satisfied–or rather, happy.
I have a pillow wedged between my knees and i’m hugging it with my legs as though to afford myself a certain stability, and with a crouch i jump up into the air. And again. And again. Each successive jump is a little higher, each time i hang at the top of the arc a little longer, and each time i land as softly as a feather, barely bending the grass blades below.
On my last jump, i’m hanging at the top of the arc and it suddenly dawns on me that i can choose whether or not to stay in the air. My past experience tells me that after hanging at the top of the jump, i should begin to fall…and this is still in mind, but i am also working with a new understanding of a new moment.
I choose to remain in the air. And i do.
My mind wavers a bit, between confidently embracing this new understanding (and staying aloft, if not rising more) and the past experience, which wants to pollute my current understanding (and causes me to wobble in the air and perhaps descend a bit).
I said yes.