Phyllis Schieber Author

Women's Fiction by Phyllis Schieber

Reading, Writing, That Yoga Stuff Works, and Another Birthday

When I was a girl, one of my favorite things to do was to arrange a plate of cheese and crackers and get cozy on my bed with a book. I always felt incredibly happy at those times. I read all the time. I read with the deep, delicious thirst of an open heart (That Yoga Stuff really Works). I read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Marjorie Morningstar,  War and Peace, A Death in the Family, and so on and so on. I remember the books. I remember the pleasure of going to the library (we never owned any books except for a set of The World Book Encyclopedia. My dad was real proud of that set of encyclopedias.)  and choosing my three books. In the summer you could take out an unlimited number of books. I went with a shopping cart. When I came home, I would look over my new stash with genuine pleasure. I loved the careworn feel of an old book, but I loved the clean pages and the shiny covers of the new books even more. I was always happy when I was reading. Always. I don’t have one bad memory associated with reading. I still love to read. I love the way some words are strung together to create something so perfect, you can just see it in your mind’s eye and feel it in your gut. There’s so much power in words. I know that as a reader and as a writer. Now I bring my yoga to my reading and to my writing. Today, in my yoga class, my teacher opened with the following question: How does your heart feel today?  She told us to ask ourselves what we felt we needed at that moment and asked us to dedicate our practice to meeting that need. My heart felt as though it needed a lot this morning. I’ve been feeling sort of weepy all week and while I can’t imagine it could, maybe my mood has something to do with my birthday. I don’t have parents anymore, and it’s really only your parents who really and truly care about your birthday as much as you pretend not to care. M y dad used to come home from work in the early hours of the morning. But on the morning of my birthday, he always came home with flowers. I would pretend to be asleep as I watched him arrange everything on my dresser–the flowers, the gift, the mushy card he would sign in his beautiful handwriting. My mother would sing in her dreadful, off-key voice, but I was always secretly pleased. They would fuss over me something fierce. Birthdays are an opportunity to reflect. Which brings me to yoga again… by the end of my class this morning, I felt strong and focused. I had taken my practice with an open heart. I tried not to be distracted by what anyone else was doing, focusing instead on bringing intention to my poses, listening to my teacher’s instructions, taking them seriously. So this is the bottom line: That yoga stuff really works.


February 7, 2010 - Posted by | Uncategorized | , , ,

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