Adaptation

After Tracy's teacher training class last evening I retired to D's couch in the heart of Seattle's Phinney-wood nabe, then this morning made my way to the hospital which lies just a stone's throw from the seminal and trailblazing Northgate Mall (a dreadful place, best avoided by anyone possessing even pretenses of aesthetic sensibility) for my Yoga for Parkinson's class.

Getting old, as the saying goes, is not for sissies, and isn't my idea of fun, but beats the alternative.

And for all the collective suffering that walks into that room three days a week, this is a remarkably upbeat and positive group. It's a "support group" in the truest sense of that overused term, and fortunate in having a dedicated, serious, and conscientious instructor. I'm finding that I'm free to execute the asanas he calls out as I usually would, but taking care not to show off. Tim helps by coming around and correcting my form, for I have no illusions about being perfect at this stage of the game.

This is a very satisfying experience. It's a bonafide yoga class for real people with a common, real problem which provides the target, and the price is right.

Tarot card, "Il Vecchio," colored pencils on watercolor cardboard, by Dave Brice.

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