Friday, July 24, 2009

yoga houses and meditating on shoes

Yoga is the study of the architecture of my home, the scaffolding, the inhabitant.

“There is no home, unless we find it in ourselves.”



In church, fancy shoes were worn-
scuff-free shoes, bejeweled shoes, high-heeled shoes teetering toward heaven.
I felt bare wood between my fingers holding the back of the pew in front of me
as I slipped off one shoe at a time,
shinking in height next to my Grandmother,
who was apparently trying to reach God with large hats.

At the mosque down the street from my apartment,
men take off their work boots in favor of socks or thin sandals to bow down toward the East River.
sometimes spilling out of the mosque and onto the steet itself,
fabric knees kissing pavement again and again.

In the meditation hall,
my socks scuff in walking meditation,
rolling through bones and pressure points,
stilling the mind-
God, where do you want me to go?
And how should I get there?
In motorcycle boots, red-high stilletos, bare toes?
I follow white Kenneth Cole cottoned heels moving slowly in front of me.
Toe, heel, heel, toe.

On the spongy yoga mat,
my barest of feet grip and release,
leaving small prayer prints as unique as our own inner language.
My toes polished, or not.
Sometimes they go upside down, standing on air.

God must have ears bigger than my downstairs neighbor,
to hear all the heel clicking and toe padding and sock scuffing.
All those barefoot intentions and well-heeled thoughts.