Sixty

This model was drawn a week later and already looks more comfortable than the drawings from the week earlier, as though she's just hanging out on the page.

I recently was craving going to a yoga class but nothing felt like quite the right fit. Then I realized it was because the one I wanted to go to was my own. I dreaded teaching for a really long time, I thought you had to attain a certain perfect state before you could start teaching something, and I was so far from that.

But the class I was craving had tadasana at sunrise at the top of Mount Madonna, savasana over the rumble of the subway in New York City. It had rain falling on a wall made of glass bottles during a back bend in Oaxaca, a fall afternoon in Santa Fe where the study of the serratus anterior in my mind was suddenly felt in my body. It had the cold wood floors and rustle of trees in Vermont, the smell of Cuban food wafting through the windows in Chicago. It had teachers that were just beginning and ones who'd taught for thirty years. 

I realized that the only common thing in the class I was craving, besides all the yoga, was me. In "Steal Like An Artist," Austin Kleon writes that we are mash up of all our influences. Isamu Noguchi wrote, "We are a landscape of all we have seen."