Raw, adjective: 2. not having undergone processes of preparing, dressing, finishing, refining, or manufacture

On a beautiful (dare I say perfect?) Saturday afternoon in Northern California.  

Woke to gentle yoga with Amanda Giacomini at YogaToes Studio in Point Reyes (she's the master of soft-spoken ass-kickings, that one, combined with sweet sentiments and ancient philosophy), followed by a hike with my mister (most warm late-summer morning), and then a stop at the Inverness Public Library, which is perhaps the most charmingly twee of such public libraries that I've ever encountered (photos to come), complete with DVDs for watching and CDs for listening and a kind little old lady who sits behind the desk, followed by a squash-and-tomato-heavy farmer's market, followed by yoga at home on the mat in the Zen-empty studio that is our cottage, followed by sun on the front porch and reading Erich Schiffman's uber-legit Yoga: The Spirit and Practice of Moving Into Stillness, followed by hour-appropriate homemade cocktails (vodka and grapefruit at 4:30pm is completely permissable when you've just spent the last seven hours moving and grooving, right?), to be followed shortly by baseball and more sun and more quiet and quite possibly gluten-free pasta down the road and more cocktails and maybe a little Julie Delpy and maybe a little Gary Snyder and maybe a little wood-burning stove action, too.

Moments like this, you just wish you could bottle 'em up and keep 'em in your pocket and take a whiff every now and then when things seem "off." Of course they're never "off," they're always right on, but it takes a flash or two of October santosha sometimes to remind you that that sunlit space of contentment is always wherein we reside. It's just a matter of seeing it.

Love from a tired body and an open heart on this sunny autumn afternoon. All good, always, all ways.


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