My wife said “This is my husband, ‘Tom.’” The sun shoneover my head. A man as tall as I but whose hair were perfectlycoiffed might intimidate, but not I—I am not so many thingsthat others might assume—not a workaholic, not into yoga,not merely a poet, not a red-blooded American, notan iconoclast, not a proselytizer, not a know-it-all,maybe not even particularly spiritual, just full of beans,just having ideas without the experiences that wouldmake them seem ridiculous, and not perfectly coiffed—but this isn’t only about me. I said “Here I will begin mytea ceremony,” for I had brought out from the dining rooma paper cup with hot tea and the bag still in it. And I satcross legged on the plastic chair. Soon these friendly womenwhom I had joined would go together into a large bare roomto practice yoga, and I would continue to sit cross leggedon the plastic lawn chair at a round glass tablewith a large umbrella furled about its pole. My postureshould not be construed to have a definite meaning—except to impress the women, for I had tried to make it seemthat coming to a yoga retreat with my wife and notpracticing yoga was not all that strange; I havemy writing book, my copy of The I Ching, and my cupof tea, which would grow stronger as it cooled.