The Singing Bowls

And when I began to feel better, on Saturday mornings I would wake up and treat myself to a large, fluffy pancake with butter and maple syrup, and go to the yoga class that was offered on campus.

I sat in the back row at first, timid, but by the end of my time at the clinic, I was a co-teacher, right beside the noble yogi.

It was the muscle memory of it all. The way my body remembered how to fit just so into Bow Pose, the delicious release of tension, the sumptuous and heady aroma of ylang-ylang from the essential oils the yogi imported.

Sometimes we’d just lay a long time in Savsana while he played the singing bowls, the singing bowls that would reverberate across the hollows of my tired ribcage and my timid little heart that had been wrecked.

I would rest then.