You know how when something is coming to an end, everything starts to feel significant?
Well, that being said, this actually is significant. It's Shiloh's last day in the city, and we started it with yoga in Times Square. We kicked away a stray cigarette butt and shoo-ed a cockroach (it is New York City, after all), and spread out our mats.
It was a good class, and the teacher was great, though she was uncomfortably earnest and kept saying things like use the energy of your powerhouse to feel gratitude for all your support. But then she mentioned the ground under us, calling us to notice it supporting us. And, though my wrists ached and I was being particularly cynical this morning, I did think about it. I thought about the ground under my shoulder blades, under my head, under my hips and heels. It would be too cliche to say that I could feel the pulse of the city through it, but it would be untrue to say that I didn't feel it alive under my upturned hands. And I lay there, in Times Square, at 7:30 on the morning of the summer solstice, with Shiloh on the mat next to me, and wondered at how quiet the world seemed.