Yesterday I drove to yoga class in Middleburg, Virginia. It was a beautiful fall day. Along the way, I noticed that nothing had changed. Sixty years ago, the road, the open country-side, the cows in the pond, the birds heading south for the winter were all there, just like in 1948 when driving along in my father's Nash Rambler.
The trip yesterday took me back. And then I arrived at the yoga studio. It was on the third floor of the Community Center where I had once taken dance classes, the same space, the same kind of day some forty years ago when I was thirty-something.