The sun has already begun to descend over Randolph and the yoga studio seems especially soothing this evening: The windows are open and there’s a light rain pattering outside. As my body leans heavier into the floor, my head becomes lighter. The random thoughts in my brain dissolve, replaced by the singular sound of the rain hitting the pavement.
I listen to the gentle tapping for a few minutes, and then my attention moves further out to the cars passing on the road. I usually long for total silence in shavasana; but tonight I find the rhythmic hum of the traffic soothing. I’m drawn into the sound and begin to pay attention to tiny details: the speed of each passing car and the interval of time between them. I detect differences in the engines and imagine the string of cars– the heavy truck straining up the hill, the sports car whirring by, the parade of lumbering SUVs.
As I surrender to the soothing timbre of the passing cars, I lose sense of my physicality and my mind and memory transport me up the road. The first landmark is the miniature golf center with brightly painted animals. Then I pass the small white church with the cemetery behind it. A little farther, I see the metal railing that marks the stream where my friends and I used to search for tadpoles. Finally, I reach my destination: the narrow, tan clapboard house that sits at the edge of the street beside a wide dirt road. The large familiar white sign with sturdy posts stands tall at the intersection. It reads “Tucker’s Bungalows” in thick blue lettering above a red arrow pointing to the entrance of my grandparents’ summer cottage community.
My spirit enters the house directly into the small TV room. It passes through the narrow hallway into the kitchen, where Grandma stands by the sink talking quietly to Aunt Sara, the round woman with the gray bun and big smile. I sneak by unnoticed, quickly crossing the dining room in a diagonal path to the door that leads to the attic. I open it and climb the steep stairs to the top. My eyes scan the crowded space for the narrow window that faces the street. I find it, and in the dim light, I can make out the twin beds with the bureau between them –the one with the antique white finish and the gold curlicue lines painted on the drawers. My memory moves me to where I want to go – over to the beds, where I sit on one and sink down into the soft mattress. There’s a familiar mustiness, a smell that only belongs to this wonderful place. I untie my sneakers and throw them to the ground, and then pull the many covers back towards the end of the bed so I can fit my feet and knees underneath. As I lay my head on two fluffy pillows, I pull the blankets up and over my shoulders.
Just as I close my eyes, I hear footsteps laboring up the attic stairs, and I wait for Grandma to come. My eyes are still closed, but I sense that she is now right by my side. She doesn’t say anything, simply bends down to kiss me twice – once lightly on the cheek and again in her unique way, rubbing her small wrinkly nose gently back and forth against the sides of mine. “Just like the Eskimos,” she whispers. Grandma smoothes the blankets tightly around my small body and turns out the light. Once I hear her footsteps recede and then backtrack down the stairs, I settle in under the layers of blankets until I’m in a comfortable position. I feel relaxed, safe, and loved.
As I lie in bed and wait for sleep to come, I hear rain begin to drop gently on the pavement outside the house. The window in front of me is open a crack and I listen to the cars passing by - soothing, rhythmic, mesmerizing. I’m drawn into the sound and begin to pay attention to tiny details: the speed of each passing car and the interval of time between them. I detect differences in the engines and imagine the string of cars– the heavy truck straining up the hill, the sports car whirring by.
Every now and then, I hear a car stop and then turn slowly onto the road next to the house, the one that leads to Tucker’s Bungalow Colony. I hear the crunch of the tire treads across the pebbles as the car advances and then disappears behind the house. The familiar harmony of muffled sounds relaxes me and soon, they lull me to sleep in Grandma’s house.
I’m awakened by the Tibetan singing bowl reverberating against Kessiah’s wooden mallet. She taps the bowl three times, each ring progressively louder to gently ease us out of our restful state. I begin moving my fingers and toes and then raise my arms over my head and push energy down into my straightened legs and pointed toes. Turning my body to rest on one side, I tuck my hands under my head and feel the weight of my knees and hip against the floor.
I wish I could stay longer, but the next yoga class is already assembling outside. I move my body into a sitting position on my blanket. Eyes still closed, I inhale deeply and exhale slowly as I join the other voices in our final “Om.” I force my eyes open and kneel over my mat so I can roll it up. Yoga class has ended.
I practice yoga at Bright Heart Yoga in Randolph. Two miles up the road is where my grandparents, Sylvia and Harry Tucker, owned a bungalow colony in the 1950’s and 1960’s when Randolph was called Mt. Freedom and it was a community of summer resorts.
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