As I ready myself for Summer’s freer schedule being swapped out for Fall’s more rigorous pace, what I’m really lamenting — besides not having picked a single bowl of blackberries this year! — is how many favourite photos and stories from June’s travels haven’t made it to the blog. The one above, for example, taken just above the Pantheon in Rome, me fumbling to grab my camera out of my bag quickly enough to catch this dramatic column of black and white, topped by the cardinal-designating beanie, as its ecclestical wearer strode with powerful grace up the street.
I suspect my sense of loss, of the quickly fading opportunities that Summer takes away with her, was part of the alarming burst of tears that overwhelmed me in Shavasana Saturday morning. My first class in three weeks, thanks to wave after wave after wave of family visits and births and baby-snuggling and granddaughter-playing. Undoubtedly, part of the release those hot tears arose from was muscular — running is a good way to let go of stress, but it tends to crank my muscles tighter and tighter, and without yoga or Pilates or some disciplined stretching at home, the torque reaches a nearly audible level.
The heat pricked my eyes once or twice during class, but it wasn’t until my newly-elongated back settled into my yoga mat in the final Shavasana that I felt tears form. One rolled from my right eye, then another from my left. I tried to ignore them, to concentrate on my breathing, but they didn’t stop, and finally I had to wipe them away. And they kept coming, and I kept trying to wipe discreetly, and I had to shift my breathing to my mouth because my nose was clogging up, and I could feel my chest wanting to get involved as a tentative potential sob shaped itself.
Frightening as this was — who likes to cry, unexpectedly, in a room full of people (albeit reasonably enlightened and supportive ones, albeit most of them prone, eyes closed) — the moment reminded me of the tensions that impact my body, even as I keep moving, responding to all the external cues in my world. The external cues may come from beloved sources and attending to them may bring me joy in return for the energy they demand, but the internal will not be ignored forever.
I’m trying to figure out how to take that Learned-Once-Again message into the next few weeks. Trying to figure out how to fit the right kind of Me Time into a month whose days are already well marked up on the dayplanner. Not just trying to get to, but prioritizing yoga classes before my body gets uncomfortable enough to slow me right down in its own stealthy way, before the tears burst out in places less manageable than Shavasana pose at the end of a class . . . .
Sorting through travel photos, writing about them, writing connections between here now and there, then, this is one of the kinds of Me Time that satisfies me. You were wondering, were you, how I’d circle back to justify the photo, what a cardinal on a Roman street might have to do with a grandmother crying on a yoga mat in a small West Coast city. Just as much as this man below does, striding equally powerfully, gracefully, up a street in Paris’ 13th arrondissement one hot June morning. This one I snapped the year before last, and I was reminded of the image as soon as I looked at the cardinal on the computer screen. Connections. Connections made by me. Random, perhaps. Even erratic. But somehow affirming me, the connector, the viewing eyes, the same eyes cleansed by those alarming tears. . . 
And since these photos skew rather patriarchal, here’s another one, taken within days of the one above, but this time, if I remember correctly, in Paris 12th arrondissement, another very hot day, but look at that beautiful dappled shade, and the gorgeous colours of this woman carrying her plastic bag full of laundry. . . .
In a world with more time — more Summer, perhaps? — I’d put this post aside for further editing, shape it into coherence more convincingly. As it is, rather than watch it languish in that sad folder of Drafts Forever, I pass it over for your perusal. I’ll be curious to read your comments, but have no particular questions to invite them today. Meanwhile, enjoy your Labour Day!
I relate to your malaise, though there's not so much distinction between my summer and winter schedules. There's something about Labour Day weekend that really draws a line in the sand. And I loved your description of "the torque reach(ing) a nearly audible level". I totally get that.
Yes, I sense you are a kindred spirit in the torque factor! Curious to know if you ever/still experience the tears during Shavasana. . . .Saturday's was the most prolonged and dramatic for me, but it's far from the first time that's happened.
As you often do, you hit a familiar note – something about summer, something about tears (which have been unexpectedly seeping through with me as well; I'm just hoping it's not a sign of undesirable brain function changes), and of course, something about Paris. I am glad you didn't send this post to the wrong folder – thanks for your bravery.
Sorry to hear about your tears — I hope they turn out to be useful, as I think mine were. and thanks for the kind words!
It's been a long time since I had that kind of experience. I've always treasured that, being brought unexpectedly to tears, because it's such a reminder of being human.
This kind of tears is something I've learned to associate with, although not expect from, yoga. The first time it happened, I was truly alarmed, so unbidden was it and arising from no known sadness. I've learned that it's not uncommon and that the physical holds memory of the emotional and the mental more even than I would have thought. And yes, the humanity of it. . .
So enjoy your thoughts, and look forward to reading them. There is something sad in the seasonal transitions. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks, Laurie. Much as I enjoy September's energy, I always feel another year older at the end of summer, much more than I do on my birthday.
It seems perfectly natural to me, this unwinding and the release of muscles and spirit along with the accompanying tears. You remind me, although I am moving so much better, that my muscles are still pretty tightly wound and I need to start stretching, perhaps return to yoga, at which I was only a beginner. I wonder if my teacher has returned to work after her own health issues, I trust her to guide me back.
I love your photos of solitary walkers, your musings on the loss of summer, the release of words with their powerful memory and yearning.
Oh, I hope your teacher is there when you are ready to get back to yoga. That trust is so important, isn't it? I have one or two at the studio that I really count on. . .
I haven't been reading blogs very regularly lately, but I stopped by this evening and wanted to say that your post really resonated with me. I, too, have cried in Savasana a time or too and have recently felt the loss of summer and me time (and feeling of balance) that marks the start of the school year. I hope you are able to carve out and enjoy some satisfying me time during the fall term. Hugs to you.
Thanks for chiming in, Ray. I've missed your posting, and wondered how you're doing, although I can see from Daily Mile that you're doing well, building back your running base again. It's somehow comforting to know there are others who experience the same waves…
JFYI – the top of the page should now say "THREE delightful granddaughters" instead of "TWO delightful granddaughters", N'est-ce pas?
You're very alert! Yes, I thought of that the other day, but need to find a few minutes to fiddle with the template without worries of crashing the whole site. Soon, soon, I hope.
BTW – Looove your blog!
Thanks! Same Anonymous as 2:37 September 4?