Here Are the Steeples

The Olympic Mountains were in focus as though carved with a razor.   It was that clear.  Whenever the sky is blue here, to me it’s a blinding New Blue, one I don’t remember having seen before.  On this Saturday morning, the bright New Blue above the Olympics was muted by the deep smoky blue of the Puget Sound.

It was my first time experiencing this view from the downtown Sculpture Park.  Why I never made it here since it was completed four years ago, I don’t know.  We had supported its development, but have yet to find our family name etched in the donor railing along the water.

It was still before the downtown weekend bustle, so there was only the occasional ship horn and faint hum of scant traffic.  Against the silence, with no distraction from the other senses, the view was made even more majestic.

I walked the wide zig-zag path for twenty minutes while waiting for my yoga partners.  We were trying out the summer yoga at the Park, and I had come early to find parking and take a walk.

I had company on my stroll.  A few people looked like regulars – headphone walkers and park bench readers.  An addict, coming down from something that morning, followed me with huge glazed eyes as I walked by.  I may have been worried had I thought I looked to him like anything more than an apparition.  He lumbered and weaved around the trees with the weight of the night and his condition, then eventually disappeared from the park.

Up ahead I tried inconspicuously to watch as a man dabbed a woman’s mouth with a handkerchief.  She was in a wheelchair, gazing out at the view with a face that was presumably and sadly subdued by a stroke.  The man was about her age, so I assumed it was her husband that lovingly brought her to feel the sun on her skin and take in this beautiful day.  I imagined their many years of marriage, years when she could smile at her children and had boundless energy to care for everyone but herself.

Of course this made me cry, but I made it past them before I did.  I heard the slow crunching of the white gravel as the wheelchair was pushed up the hill behind me.  How quickly and profoundly one’s perspective and emotion can change.

When I got to the sunny amphitheater where the class was to take place, the instructor had arrived and helpers were setting up the speakers for her microphone.  I chose a spot and stood imposingly so that my small frame made it known that me and my three places were not to be messed with.

A steady trickle of lithe bodies found their way to the open spaces on the broad grassy steps of the amphitheater.  Soon every spot was filled to form a colorful cascade of limber students.  Our river of poses flowed evenly and in perfect unison.  The instructor likened us to a field of flowers because of the bright yoga outfits.  And how could we not bloom under so many sun salutations?

There was something liberating about doing yoga in a location so public and abundantly bright, yet within the protection of a hundred yoga siblings.  It’s a different experience than the one in a private, low-lit studio.  More exciting maybe, in a way that raises your heart rate without raising your insecurity.

Near the end of the class, we could choose our own inversion or final pose.  I relished these last few minutes in a shoulder stand.

With my legs extended straight into the air, I looked up to see my lacquered toes against the New Blue.  Like ten steeples painted pink, they reached skyward while I prayed in the church below.  As I do in every yoga class, I expressed gratitude for the things I have, but also for just being there at all.

On this particular morning, in the warm open air, next to my good friend, having taken the walk I had, felt the things I’d felt, I was especially grateful.  A pretty view is nice, but having the time and ability to envision what you’re thankful for is magnificent.