Angela Farmer in Nepal, 1985: photo credit here.
Angela Farmer has done it again. A yoga teacher who focuses on the feminine aspects of darkness, mystery, and cycles in her work, Angela considers her classes to be not a workout but a "work-in." At least, this is according to the luminous talk I listened to last week. Maybe her bio says it better when she writes: "For me, Yoga is a journey each day down into my underworld - not knowing what I shall find..."
She has a British accent, a Dutch husband, and lives in Greece. I could listen to this woman for days. See below for my crazed notes scribbled while her words piped into my headphones.
I have this (totally not original) theory that people like children so much because they remind us of the children within ourselves; they bring us into the present in ways that by-pass years of therapy and meditation; they are still blazing in the gorgeous God/starlight that is within us all, but without the accumulated samskaras and dross that keep the rest of us from seeing that light sometimes. It is also true, however, that such presence is available at all times, to everyone, and I am sort of fascinated by this truth right now. My days wobble and contract and blossom so wildly lately, and what is true one day is not true the next.
I had to stop reading The First Wives Club because - speaking of dross - it started to suck. Perhaps you already knew this, though. Note to self: finish consuming creative work before wading into public discussion of it!
I have picked up The House on First Street: My New Orleans Story, by Julia Reed after delighting in her 2014 effort, But Mama Always Put Vodka In Her Sangria! This earlier book of Reed's is saving my mind, one hijinks-stuffed page at a time. A columnist for Garden & Gun (a Southern lifestyle magazine that is more about the gardens than the guns, I swear), Reed's work is gossipy and glib, erudite and glitzy, and generally makes me feel closer to home. She also wrote for Vogue and Newsweek, jobs that put her firmly in my mind with other writers who successfully bridge North-South culture divide; writers like Roy Blount, Jr., Jane Borden, my dad, etc., who feed me when I am underexposed to loveable, crazy people and the kind of everyday glamor that sometimes only people in the south can pull off.
Speaking of everyday glamor, my mom is coming to visit and it is my birthday this week! I plan on bathing properly, eating well, and fitting in an exotic errand or two while we have trustworthy childcare close at hand. I'll report back soon! Unless it's all a disaster - then I'll just post a picture of Sam.