Self Practice and Grief
When I got to Goa, I felt anonymous again. In Mysore, I felt like everyone had heard. I was the ashtangi who got hate crime’d in the face after his house burned down. I wanted to be the tall pretty one. Or the smart one. But for now, I was very much the tragic one. Luckily, Rolf wasn’t watching the news. I was just one more 6’3 drop back for him to do. And he was happy to oblige– quietly sharing lite bits here and there in my ear about…
