My alarm sounded. Confused, I turned it off and rolled over. Today is Sunday, the one day at The Island School when students and faculty alike take advantage of sleeping in. I was content nuzzling back into my pillows until I remembered: today was the day Griffin had asked me, or maybe convinced me, to lead yoga at the sandbar. I left my house in the dark noticing the silence of campus, the brilliance of the stars in the morning sky. Stepping into the boathouse I made out the silhouettes of students sitting with lifejackets as promised: 6:10 am and ready to go. We groggily filled two boats and headed out as the first glimpses of daylight shone through the clouds in the distance. The water was quiet, each movement of our boat breaking the steady silence of the sea. The pale pink of a sunrise reflected on the glassy surface as we all came to life. [slideshow]
We played for over an hour on the sandbar this morning. I was moved by the eagerness of over twenty teenagers to wake up so early for yoga. We had names for our movements and we focused our breath and we stretched out our souls. We toppled in the sand and then stayed very still. We moved together in rhythm through poses and strengthened our minds. Mostly, though, we played. We were on a tiny strip of sand in the middle of the sea. We could hear gulls singing as the water lapped against our tiny paradise. As we saluted the sun it rose, as it does every day bringing light and warmth to the sky. The beauty was immense. The joy could be felt. And the sand and sea were everywhere.