Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

The Corpse Pose

To end the practice we come into relaxation – shavasana, the corpse pose. Make yourself comfortable and warm with extra clothing or blanket if necessary. Lie on your back with arms just away from you body, hands slightly curled and facing upwards, eyes gently closed...

Thank God – or rather the Eternal Spirit of Creative Energy – for that. My best and favourite pose, despite the problems. Well it’s nothing like the agony of that extended downward dog pose. Why does our beloved instructor (instructrix?) decide to wander around the room correcting the minor transgressions of newcomers while the rest of us are struggling to maintain the pose and suffering from the deadly leg trembles. I wouldn’t do that to a dog. Actually it’s me suffering from the deadly doggy leg trembles. I took a peek at the women and there wasn’t a tremble in sight, just the odd wobble. Oh my Eternal Spirit – the wobbles. I did more than wobble during the warrior pose. I started leaning like the Tower of Pisa, all in slow motion. Determined to right myself in slow motion. But I didn’t, did I. Just crumpled to the floor like one of those building demolition jobs. Even got a few titters from the newcomer ladies. At least the experienced ladies upheld yoga tradition and maintained a detached silence. Bet they were having a good old giggle on the inside, though. The only bloke in the group so I’m living up to expectations. But, hey, I can handle it – I think.

Breathing through the nose, deeply, steadily, easily, naturally – balancing and harmonising breath with mind, body, spirit... and so we produce prana or vital energy, an inner vital energy produced through the breath and bodily relaxation...

My ancient body and its old aching bones need all the relaxation they can get after that workout…oops, wrong expression – meant for the gym. At least my decrepit body’s pretty slim compared to most of the ladies who look like aircraft carriers to my sleek destroyer. So how come they’re so goddam supple, twisting and leveraging all over their mats. They might be seventy plus but they can get both arms behind their back – one over the shoulder – and link up fingers. No doubt due to years of hooking and unhooking bras. I always had difficulties mastering the unhooking facility in youthful days gone by. Now I have trouble zipping and unzipping my fly. They’re a pleasant bunch of dear old biddies, though – well most of them. So what‘s that make me? A he-biddie? A billy-biddie? An alpha-male biddie? Yep, that’s me, the alpha-male with his pride of lionesses, still king of the jungle.

Now completely relaxed, we draw attention to the body – the skin, the muscles, the joints, the limbs, the blood evenly flowing along with the breath…

Why am I suddenly feeling so smug? That’s right I outmaneuvered old hatchet-face with the incongruous name [like that word incongruous]. Greek sounding – Ariadne. Well Ariadne looked none-too-relaxed and at peace with the world when I beat her to our favourite possie next to the window. Usually she beats me to it but I arrived a few minutes early, didn’t I. Rolled out the mat just as she sashayed through the door, making a beeline to... Oh oh, there I am already in the lotus pose, eyes closed and a faint smile of Buddha-like enlightenment on my dial. Problem now is the lovely Ariadne will be setting her alarm minutes earlier next week to head me off which means I’ll have to get here earlier still, and then... Enough! Such pettiness. Let me just bask in this morning’s sweet victory.

Extinguish and remove all extraneous thoughts and concentrate the mind on the toes – flex and relax, flex and relax. Now the feet, the sole of the foot, the upper foot, the ankles, the lower legs, the knees, the left thigh, the right thigh, the buttocks – left buttock squeeze and release, right buttock squeeze and release...

Hmm… the thighs, the buttocks. Now why am I thinking about that sexy young thing who turned up for the first time this morning? Couldn’t be a day over sixty. Could pass for fifty. Sure she was one who giggled when I did my slow-motion toppling act. It was different from the others – a kind of sympathetic giggle, a kind of promising giggle. Oh yes, the thighs and the buttocks. Squeeze and release, squeeze and release.

Move your attention to the head. Relax the chin, the jaw, the lips, the tongue resting lightly between the floor and roof of the mouth…the nose, the ears.

The ears? Oh come on! Relax the jaw by all means. Amazing how the jaw gets all tight and tensed up. I must look like Dick Tracy even when I’m asleep and dreaming. But the ears? Give me a break. Maybe we could learn to wiggle them. How would the ear-wiggling practice translate into Sanskrit or whatever language they use in yoga-speak? Aunty Gert could arch one eyebrow at a time. Took years to perfect it, but by then she was chastely married and had no beaus to impress or discourage with her sophisticated hauteur [like that word hauteur].

And now we visualise with the mind’s eye a peaceful early morning scene. You are in a garden, a wild overgrown garden but a garden nevertheless. It is spring. The garden is blooming and alive with budding trees, blossoms and flowers: daffodils, daisies, buttercups…

Here comes the big challenge – how not to doze off. Our blessed instructor – dear lovable Jenny – is entering the poetic and spiritual phase of her monologue where we all become one with bountiful nature and our deepest innermost beings. And right on cue she’s reaching for her blessed mini-player and switching on the ethereal, angelic choir. Don’t think we’re supposed to hear the click but, dammit, I keep waiting for it. Well, Jenny’s no poet and the choir’s pure muzak – I’ve heard better at the local supermarket – but please eternal spirit let me concentrate my mind on this crap or anything else for that matter. Just don’t let me nod off, the ultimate embarrassment. Done it once before and... best not to relive the humiliation. It’s the snoring, the goddam snoring. I pray to you oh great eternal spirit, let me sleep for the odd nanosecond but let me not snore, oh compassionate one, let me not snore...

Your senses are alive to the vivid colours, to the murmur of bees, to the subtle perfumes...

... or fart. Oh yes, an ever-present predicament, even when fully awake. All those gut-stretching exercises. Speak of the devil... okay the crisis has passed. For the next ten minutes I hope. Now just stay awake for ten minutes.

You stroll down a pathway that leads to a pond on which there are flowering water lilies and reeds swaying in the gentle breeze. You gaze into the cool depths of the still pond and see reflected there not your mortal features but immemorial time itself. And you hear the murmur of the bees...

...The murmur of bees, the murmur of innumerable bees – That’s Tennyson. Hey, you really are a poet, Jenny. Yes, the murmur... the bees... the innumerable bees... all of them murmuring together... murmuring... murmuring... mmmm... zzzzzz…

...Murmuring... I’m murmuring. I can hear myself murmuring. I can hear myself snoring. Why am I lying on my mat on my back covered by a blanket when the others are in the lotus position ready to leave, ready to Om Shanti? Oh my gawd! Forsaken again by the eternal spirit. Now they’re Om Shantiing without me.

Thank you everyone for sharing this morning’s exploration of body, mind and spirit.

Here goes: Om Shanti?

Welcome back, Pete.

Make up for it dipstick.

Om shanti, Om shanti, Om shanti, shanti, shanti.