My first day of teaching requires that I go to the yoga studio for a pre-workshop sound check and technical run-through. I plan to do this early, knowing that anything that can go wrong with technical stuff usually does.
It’s summer, and Bay Area foothills, valleys,and shorelines are swimming with cyclists. Not that avid cyclists don’t ride all year come rain or shine, but those few really sunny, warm, perfect days are so darn seductive to us fog dwellers.
It’s summer in San Francisco, which means you are probably wearing earmuffs, a scarf, and three sweaters. Your body is contracting, your mood is a bit depressed, and you’re craving a hot chai latte, not watermelon. As soon as you reach your hot yoga class, your mood starts to shift.
Mrs. Rubel’s 1963 pink Cadillac took up an entire school block when parked. Mrs. Rubel’s laugh took up an entire playground. Mrs. Rubel was to fourth graders what the Dalai Lama is to baby boomers. She was the island of refuge between the stern Mrs.