women’s hair is pulled back tight and they wear lipstick and mascara and earrings. Their suits hang in the change rooms: supermen and wonderwomen. They leave sharpened, ready for their day to begin. I cherish a hope that this morning peace they hold in their hearts will make them kinder accountants and bankers, more understanding real estate agents. I told Stanzi this once.
She shook her head. ‘No chance. Hitler did a mean downward dog and he didn’t start to mellow till he got to Stalingrad.’
I’m almost positive Hitler didn’t practise yoga, but there’s no use correcting Stanzi when she thinks she’s being funny.
When I was a teenager and first learning yoga, my teacher always started the class with a chant. We beginners sat on blankets or bolsters in our best attempt at legs crossed and said the words along with her, clear and loud, earnest like a spell. Only it wasn’t a spell. It was Sanskrit, and none of us knew what it meant. Sometimes in those beginning classes, I imagined all those serious people struggling to perfect their yoga and chanting:
two beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onions on a sesame seed bun
in Sanskrit. Chanting still makes me want to smile, but I don’t laugh out loud in class anymore.
After the class, my muscles sit better on my bones and my head balances high of its own accord but that foreign feeling in my abdomen remains. I wrap myself up in layers and as I walk up the hill in the dawn light, I see a cloud of seagulls swoop along the beach and settle in the carpark. It’s heartening. Even though birds are utterly free, they choose to flock. They prefer to be with their kind. There’s a sense of connection, I guess. An invisible thread. The birds rise again as one, soar over the road and start to squabble over a box of chips spilt in the gutter. I notice a gull standing on one leg; her other is hooked under her, toes hanging loose and wobbling as she balances. She hops towards a chip and loses it to a more agile friend. I wonder how a bird can survive such an injury, and whether she had it from birth. Then I see it: the glisten of a filament. She has fishing line wrapped tight around her claw. It is close to severed.
And there is nothing I can do. If I approach she will fly away, if I grab the dangling line I will make the injury worse. We humans fuck everything up, everything. I look at the seagull and it’s all I can do not to cry so I keep walking. The birds scatter, even the damaged one. The person responsible for that fishing line: karma better not forget about them. Stanzi would tell me to get a grip. I remember as a child spending ages every morning choosing which shoes I would wear and then worrying all day about the poor ones left behind in the cupboard, about how dejected they must feel having been passed over. Forsaken. I tried explaining it to Stanzi but she thought I was joking.
The tram is on time and as we go by, Luna Park smiles at me and I feel better. I smile back. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, you can usually find something to make you smile. You just have to look for a sign.
At work, the roller door is already up. Craig is on time even though Sandra is in Daylesford for the weekend. He looks like he’s slept. His hair is smoothed down and he’s even shaved, a bit. He looks good with a little growth. Whiskers help him keep a sense of mystery about the line of his jaw. He is frowning like a little boy pretending to be grown up. The shop key hangs around his neck attached to a lanyard so everyone can see he’s the trusted one. It’s very cute. He’s checking the change in the till and has the order books spread across the counter.
‘We’re out of garlic tablets.’ He doesn’t look up.
‘How? We got a delivery last week.’
I don’t know who sells so much garlic. Perhaps it’s Kylie. I always tell her: garlic in a tablet is great to kickstart the immune system but for chronic conditions, she should focus on the
She shook her head. ‘No chance. Hitler did a mean downward dog and he didn’t start to mellow till he got to Stalingrad.’
I’m almost positive Hitler didn’t practise yoga, but there’s no use correcting Stanzi when she thinks she’s being funny.
When I was a teenager and first learning yoga, my teacher always started the class with a chant. We beginners sat on blankets or bolsters in our best attempt at legs crossed and said the words along with her, clear and loud, earnest like a spell. Only it wasn’t a spell. It was Sanskrit, and none of us knew what it meant. Sometimes in those beginning classes, I imagined all those serious people struggling to perfect their yoga and chanting:
two beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onions on a sesame seed bun
in Sanskrit. Chanting still makes me want to smile, but I don’t laugh out loud in class anymore.
After the class, my muscles sit better on my bones and my head balances high of its own accord but that foreign feeling in my abdomen remains. I wrap myself up in layers and as I walk up the hill in the dawn light, I see a cloud of seagulls swoop along the beach and settle in the carpark. It’s heartening. Even though birds are utterly free, they choose to flock. They prefer to be with their kind. There’s a sense of connection, I guess. An invisible thread. The birds rise again as one, soar over the road and start to squabble over a box of chips spilt in the gutter. I notice a gull standing on one leg; her other is hooked under her, toes hanging loose and wobbling as she balances. She hops towards a chip and loses it to a more agile friend. I wonder how a bird can survive such an injury, and whether she had it from birth. Then I see it: the glisten of a filament. She has fishing line wrapped tight around her claw. It is close to severed.
And there is nothing I can do. If I approach she will fly away, if I grab the dangling line I will make the injury worse. We humans fuck everything up, everything. I look at the seagull and it’s all I can do not to cry so I keep walking. The birds scatter, even the damaged one. The person responsible for that fishing line: karma better not forget about them. Stanzi would tell me to get a grip. I remember as a child spending ages every morning choosing which shoes I would wear and then worrying all day about the poor ones left behind in the cupboard, about how dejected they must feel having been passed over. Forsaken. I tried explaining it to Stanzi but she thought I was joking.
The tram is on time and as we go by, Luna Park smiles at me and I feel better. I smile back. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, you can usually find something to make you smile. You just have to look for a sign.
At work, the roller door is already up. Craig is on time even though Sandra is in Daylesford for the weekend. He looks like he’s slept. His hair is smoothed down and he’s even shaved, a bit. He looks good with a little growth. Whiskers help him keep a sense of mystery about the line of his jaw. He is frowning like a little boy pretending to be grown up. The shop key hangs around his neck attached to a lanyard so everyone can see he’s the trusted one. It’s very cute. He’s checking the change in the till and has the order books spread across the counter.
‘We’re out of garlic tablets.’ He doesn’t look up.
‘How? We got a delivery last week.’
I don’t know who sells so much garlic. Perhaps it’s Kylie. I always tell her: garlic in a tablet is great to kickstart the immune system but for chronic conditions, she should focus on the
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