when she walked into the room, it was impossible not to notice her. her presence, not just physical, took up more than the space she occupied, bursting out in every direction around her like a live wire in a pool of water. she, my friend, was electric. electric and tall; tall beyond reason. to say she walked, though, would be an understatement as she more appeared or apparated into physicality with a jolt or a burst as if lightening. to be honest, i never really saw her move.
as it happened she just so happened upon me like a monsoon, all of a sudden and out of nowhere and long gone before i proverbially knew what hit me. she left me frightened. with a dry mouth, i glanced around to see if anyone noticed – did they see her? – only to realize i was alone.
i met her again one day transitioning from downward dog into extended cobra – just a snippet of her in the studio mirror. enough to cause a catch in my breath, in my heart beat, to entirely lose my ujjayi. how long had she been there? she was by far the most intriguing person i’d ever seen – both in her abruptness and her transience. i wanted to know her more. more well. better.
in the meditative state that is the evening walk from one’s car to the front door, between methodical fumbling of keys to doors of memory houses, i met her again. it was as if i’d followed her, beauty, to arundahti’s lair and caught her napping or reading or looking in the mirror. i’d found her – just above the bridge of my upturned nose and slightly to the right or left, below the errant curl tangling with my outermost eyelash, she winked back at me. my own proverbially proverbial sasha m. fierce.
love always, sarah.
from Arundahti Roy’s The Cost of Living