The Eskimo apparently have more than 18 words for snow. I wonder if there’s a culture somewhere on the planet that has more than 18 words for sweat? It really got cooking in the shala this morning. My sweat was swampy, febrile. It felt so slimy that I fought the urge to recoil every time I reached across to wrap or bind my hands.

My hands would slide across a slick patch of skin—on my shins, on my triceps—and I'd think, "Who's leg is this? Who's arm is this?"

Tim’s back tomorrow from a two-week vacation-workshop. I wager he’ll forego the usual full pranayama session for kirtan. But that’s just a hunch.

I’ve modified my practice a bit in anticipation of traveling to India—baddha konasana A, B, C, and increased breaths in uth pluthi.

I’ve evened out a bit now that I’m in Mysore limbo. With no departure date more concrete than “a few weeks from now,” all I could do was put my head down and sink back into the work and practice routine.

The trip has once again become an abstraction, a nebulous, far-off event that feels like it’ll never happen. Which is, believe it or not, for the better. It makes the remaining time much more manageable. Because I know the trip is going to sneak up on me faster than I can imagine.