I had a voice lesson last night in the privacy of my own home, and it was reminiscent of an excellent yoga class. Most of the same dynamics apply: learning how to relax, how to let the breath support you, how to sink down into the earth and yet bubble upwards at the same time, how to trust your body and let go of the ego's iron grip. And then, during the course of the lesson, some heretofore unheard bell-like tone will issue from my flesh and it feels like a miracle. "Where did that come from?"
Stop reading here if you're tired of my yakking about my dog.
OK, Coney has this new toy, a basic plush ball (in blue and white for Hanukah--really, it was on the "holiday toys" rack at Petco) with a squeak mechanism. He loves this thing, and it is the first non-rubber toy he's ever had that he hasn't destroyed within minutes. He is preserving this toy because he likes it. This has to be a sign of maturity, along with all the other signs of late. I don't know why, but I'm really moved by that.
I've been plunging headfirst into mysteries again. It is truly a vice, but I enjoy trying to figure out, y'know, whodunnit. The one I'm reading right now features a medical intuitive detective, and co-stars her energy-worker sidekicks. It's all in good fun.
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