Between the Lines

A quiet tribute to something I already miss: yoga in the park. The lessons ended early this year—cut short by a stubborn stretch of bad weather—but what they gave me lingered.

Each morning, I’d leave the house around 6:30 a.m., walking toward the park with a mix of purpose and calm. I arrived early, just in time to claim a good spot for my mat—ideally where sun and shade met in soft negotiation. Too much sun made the poses harder; too much shade, and something was lost.

That balance became a metaphor.

There, I met new instructors and kind strangers who shared the silence. And I fell in love with the simplicity of it all: bird songs replacing playlists, cool grass under my toes, the gentle surrender of the closing child’s pose as the city slowly woke up around us.

This practice, outdoors and unplanned, became a small summer gift. I’ll continue in October with these new instructors when classes move indoors for winter—but part of me will still be lying under the trees, breathing in the morning light.