...back to yoga.
Nearly a month had passed. Here I am again, asking myself if I can be so yoga committed given... the state of existence.
I email back and forth with my sister in Sweden. In my mind, I am where I was the day I found my father had died. Nothing has shifted for me. I still think of him and Warsaw in one breath. When will I go back to it all? When? I wish I could take those steps soon. I do everything in life quickly. I don't wait, I don't hold back. Still, everything about him is (and has been, for decades now) out of my hands. He'd laugh at that. Or would he?
And if I go back for him now, this season, this year, is there any reason to go back after? This is, to me, the great imponderable.
In the meantime, the cold spell in Madison continues.
I talk to my mom. I wonder if I should be in California in the near future? I know it's been only a month, but it seems eons ago.
In the late afternoon Ed and I go to Menards -- a local home improvement store. We look at discounted planters for the pathway leading to the farmhouse. We examine them this way, that way. Yes, they'll do. Not too long ago, I would have insisted on clay pots that conjure up images of crumbling Italian villas in the northern regions of that country. But now, I just want containers that'll hold flowers.
In the evening I roast veggies, toss salads and scramble eggs.
It's our thrown together supper of foods -- only I make too much of everything. Ed looks at me curiously but I have no answers. There are foods, there is a stove, so I cook.
After, I listen to Bruch (and Beethoven and, well, Chopin). Music of this sort never answer questions for me but it opens up the airways and allows me to think. And that, I suppose, is a good thing.
