Wednesday was the first day of the beginning of my summer. My last class was Monday, and Tuesday I was busy in a long departmental meeting. Yes, I’m giving exams today and next Monday, and then grading until the grading is done. But. Wednesday felt like a break, a change from my usual semester routine.
I woke up naturally, without my alarm. Headed straight for my espresso maker, then settled onto the grayish-green loveseat at the front window of my living room. After coffee and puzzles (Wordle, Connections, first pass at Spelling Bee), I moved to the orange bolster on my yoga mat. There I meditated for 10 minutes on “be simple and easy” with Joseph Goldstein on my Ten Percent Happier app. After the meditation, I did a combination of morning no-sweat yoga video by Bad Yogi and some sun salutations. It all felt good and just what I wanted and needed.
Now that I’m coasting into summer, I’ll be shifting my habits to include reading, writing, research and course development, and also to more movement and the joy those movements bring. This put me in mind of a poem by Sarah LeTourneau, whose Meditation for a Bicyclist poem I shared with you all last year.
Here’s her poem, Morning Yoga in the Tuscan Countryside. It expresses some of the same joy I’m already starting to feel about warmth, colors, movement, and breath. I hope you enjoy it.
This is your studio:
the blue-sky ceiling, a floor of dew-drenched grass,
the mid-May sun for your lighting and heat.
Walls don’t exist here; everywhere you look,
cypress trees stand as still as Buddha statues,
rosebushes burst into red, pink, and white stars, and—
straight ahead, over the green sea of hills—
the towers of San Gimignano rise,
proud sentries of this town for a thousand years.
You unroll your mat in this spot for that very reason
and face not the front but sideways,
so you can take in the view as you begin with gentle stretches.
Seated twists give you other glimpses:
the terra-cotta roofs of farmhouses and villas,
rows upon rows of vineyards and olive trees,
the placid pond near the agriturismo’s fence.
Soon, you flow into cat-cows, low lunges, high lunges,
reaching tall each time you salute the sun,
murmuring your thanks as you fold down,
and pausing a few seconds longer than intended
whenever your eyes meet the towers in the distance.
And even though you’ve been breathing this whole time,
this is when you b r e a t h e—
above and below, into and beyond,
as if your bones have taught themselves
how to inhale and exhale, absorbing
the ancient centro storico and the verdant landscape
the way chlorophyll absorbs light.
And just when you think the countryside
has little else to feed you, you settle into savasana,
and as you lie on your back, the land gifts you
the perfume of roses, jasmine, and lemon trees,
and the music of birds chattering, roosters boasting,
cows greeting the morning, bees and flies humming,
and you swear you are still moving,
because how can you remain motionless
when this world is beckoning you to awaken?
Sara Letourneau is a poet as well as the book coach, editor, and writing workshop instructor at Heart of the Story Editorial & Coaching Services. Her poetry has received first place in the Blue Institute’s Words on Water contest and has appeared in Full Mood Mag, Living Crue, Arlington Literary Journal, Mass Poetry’s Poem of the Moment and Hard Work of Hope, Muddy River Poetry Review, Soul-Lit, Amethyst Review, and Constellations, among others. Her manuscript for her first full-length poetry collection is on submission. You can learn more about working with Sara and read more of her work at https://heartofthestoryeditorial.com/.
