The conviviality I remembered from previous visits remains. I had feared that no one would want to sit next to the gray-haired lady. But gray-haired ladies predominate, at least until tomorrow, when a new class of teacher trainees arrives.
One thing I had forgotten. At almost any given moment, someone somewhere is chanting Om. And even if there’s a momentary lapse in the constant Oming, the ocean breeze soughs an Omish song. It can get confusing. In Sivananda yoga, you take a little rest, called savasana, or corpse pose, between sequences. To rouse you from your relaxation, the teacher Oms. Yesterday I couldn’t distinguished the teacher’s Om from the wind’s Om., and was constantly jumping up. I didn’t get a lot of rest. Today I put myself right at the front of the class, where I could tell the difference.