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  • Abigail King

humble roots

My Slavic grandmother Veronika grew up poor. She walked miles to school on cold mornings across frozen farmland outside Bratislava with a hot potato in her coat pocket for warmth, I was told. As a child, I imagined her trodding heavily through a drab, icy, treeless steppe, where the people resembled potatoes (Veronika did not).


I've come to see yoga and meditation as a peeling away, as if we are onions with endless layers. Michele and I talked after yoga earlier this month of how we spend decades constructing identities, weaving narratives about ourselves and our lives only to reach a point where the more important work seems to be the unweaving. Releasing the stories, seeking a space beyond language.

Another way to think of it occurred to me after contemplating recent political events. I feel as though, like a potato, I have potentially infinite eyes. Each time another opens I think, aha, now I see! Only to learn later that I saw only a bit of the whole, as more eyes flutter to life.


Michele mentioned, with excitement, that over the weekend she'd caramelized an onion for the first time (breaking with the narrative I don't cook). She was astounded by the transformation.










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