Delivered

Yoga does some weird stuff to my brain as well as to my body.

During relaxation tonight, on completion of the session, I lay on my mat and had the strangest sense of blowing a tiny bubble, like the kind you make from washing up liquid. It stayed close to my lips, as if attached, while I breathed and emptied my mind. I had the distinct feeling of the bubble growing larger, windows of the room reflected in pastels on its elastic surface until, with one last effortless puff, I entered the bubble, suspended in its own atmosphere, no gravity, like floating or flying. I was a tiny person inside this bubble. Me looking in at me. Very strange but incredibly soothing and peaceful. As awareness was brought back to the room I was gently delivered from the bubble which just vanished.

It sounds very ‘new-age’ or as if I was on something. But I’m too practical to be an old hippy and I wasn’t ‘on’ anything.

It was a pretty amazing place to be.

I felt wobbly after my delivery but the sense of it is still with me.

I wrote this as soon as I arrived home.

Barely parted pout to puff a tiny silent bubble shimmering invisibly so microscopic in its non-appearance just a touch of pink and palest blues reflected windows on its stretching skin slow expanding with each exhalation larger growing still attached at source as breaths fill deeper and begin the sinking into centre of a universe unseen elastic in its welcoming invitation to a deeper breath sufficient to expel the self into the globe now grown resumed the womb umbilically connected by a barely parted pout and puffs expanding to accomodate I’m inside out no pressure from lost gravity awaiting with each further in and out for bubble to returm my breath upon the rest and in completion then deliver me

 

Mind Strokes

stroked invisibilty, masseuse of mindless faltering assuage, permawarmth in comfort, tenuous the link between still present turn of page, a momentary lapse will see adrift the day and cosy fluff in brain begets the hour ponderous, each motion, movement slowing, eyes succumbing, stills the time, and all the while life beats and strains of happy chatter lick ice cream and giggle softly up above while this mother smiles inside and does allow a body’s need to slip away, a corner turning, urging come and rest the day is done, the beat goes on, slow tempoed now, the rat-tat-tat to rhythmic breathing, holding on determination, letting go, mere slip the cord, peruse the otherworld amid goodnight, stroked key.