8am Ashram

The gong of the townhall clock ringing the hour. It is 8 am. On a Sunday. This is my meditation gong.

The water rushing down tile steps reminiscing Moorish architecture is my singing bowl. Stimulating in me longing for exotic places. I allow the fantasy to live for minutes before the chanting of pigeons and corvids returns me to my repose. My shavasana. My sound-bath.

No need to pay. No need to seek a yogi or an ashram. This is my ashram. A simple garden and urban oasis linked visually and audibly to the true paradise gardens, the oases of Iran. The canals gently rippling in the light breeze and though the fountain does not yet breathe the memory is enough.

This is a calm joy. An early joy. Soon to be transmitted by the rushing joy of frolicking children. Miraging their own fantasies about the spiking water as they dash amongst its palm like pillars. It is their oasis too and they my yogis in the pursuit of joy.