Upward bow... up to a handstand, legs up... then slowly opening to full split... twist... up again... and slowly, slowly down into lotus.
I felt absolutely serene. I was aware of the sunshine, of the grass beneath me, of the breezes on my bare body, of the sounds of leaves and surf, but it was as if I was floating above them, outside of their world. I was incredibly aware of my heart beating, of the air flowing in and out of my lungs, of the position of every part of my body. Blissful, utter calm.
After a while, I opened my eyes to see him sitting on the porch. Seeing me coming back, he came down the steps with a glass in his hand. Kneeling, he gave me a quick kiss and handed it to me - iced peppermint tea, water beading on the sides. I took it from him and had a sip. Such a kindness . He must have finished his katas early.
"Oh," he said. "Forgot something." He got up, went back up to the veranda and fiddled briefly with our camera, which I now noticed was set up on a tripod.
"What are you filming?"
"Was filming." he corrected. "Your routine."
So he'd filmed 45 minutes of me doing yoga in the nude... Meh. I knew he wouldn't share it without asking me. And I had taken enough clips of him in what most people would describe as 'compromising' situations that I couldn't object. I was mildly curious, but too peaceful to deal with it now.
"Shower?" he asked gently.
I smiled. "Yes, please."
He helped me to my feet and we walked, my hand on his arm, up to the outdoor shower on the upstairs veranda.
With a frame of shiny, wrist-thick copper pipes, it was big enough for eight - not that we had that many people around here. Massive shower heads allowed monsoon-level water flow across the full area if we wished it. Standing in it, one could see our little slice of the Pacific Ocean over and between the palms. A bamboo privacy screen could be lowered on the water side if somebody sailed in close. Presumably it worked; Lord knows we never used it. Let them look.
He turned on the water in the centre, adjusted the temperature, waving his arm into the downfall, then offered me his hand and escorted me under it.
I walked in, let the flowing water run over me, then raised my face to the warm 'rain'. He'd installed two sets of soft web loops long before, just at the right height to support me in a standing position with my arms above my head. Nothing more kinky than a passenger strap on a city bus, they allowed me to stand upright to be washed without having to worry about balance; I could just enjoy.
I slipped my wrists through them and held onto the straps above. I lifted my face to the warm water and relaxed. For me, there's something about flowing water as primordial as there is about fire. People can sit for hours watching an open fire; some say we've been conditioned by 10,000 generations of keeping cave bears away. Most people, I think, feel the same way about warm water flowing gently over their bodies. I certainly do.
He waited patiently for a couple of minutes. There was no hurry; 12 hours a day of tropical sun solar fed a hot water tank the size of a politician's ego. Eventually, he turned the water off. I could hear him pumping soap onto his hands.
He started low for a change, washing my left foot, then up the calf, then the thigh. His thumbs brushed lightly against my labia before he started on my right leg. He lingered over my feet, knowing how much I liked his efforts there. I often wondered where he had learned to be so attentive.
