On Friday, I set up a special (very expensive) private yoga session so I could learn how to do yoga without re-injuring my already bad back. Maybe this yoga teacher would help me learn to take better care of myself. When I got to her house — blue, on the ocean, a perfect garden — I had to root around in the back of my car for my yoga mat which had slowly unrolled during the last two years of non-use and was now smothered by stuff: my son’s lacrosse stick and scary looking helmet — he hates lacrosse; I have no idea where one stores lacrosse equipment during non-lacrosse season — a beach chair, some old clothes I keep meaning to give away, a snow shovel in case it suddenly turns into winter, dirt that had spilled from plants I bought in the spring, and a bag of my son’s art work from 4th grade that I had meant to frame, but which had now gotten ruined by the dirt from the plants. I yanked on the mat –why had I not gotten it out beforehand — and then I saw mysterious dark splotches –coffee? mud? dirt? Yoga mats can be unmanageable and when I tried to roll it up, it fell out onto the pavement. Then, my yoga clothes which I had clutched under my arm fell, along with my bag and my car keys. I wondered if the yoga teacher was watching. This was not how I imagine her other students arriving. They probably have yoga mat bags and their yoga clothes on already. Also, they are early. Not late. I was a metaphor, an emblem, for disorder. When I stumbled into her studio, she whisked me into a changing room and when I emerged, I noticed she had rolled my mat up and stored it in a corner. “You can use one of my mats,” she said. And I wished I was different. That my yoga mat had been stored in my yoga mat storage place. And that my son’s sports equipment was stored in his sports equipment place and that I had cleaned up the dirt that had spilled out of the plants’ pots, that I was the sort of person who took the time to clean up the dirt that had spilled in the trunk of the car. I resolved to change. And, on Saturday, I did throw some things out. But then I got overwhelmed thinking about the glove compartment that had some papers sticking out of it; you have to slam it very hard so it will stay shut. Then there were all of our closets. And, worst of all, my unfinished manuscript. I always feel its disorder. Wherever I go. Except, I guess this morning. I was in Maine, close to Canada, far away from the mess of the book, and I went for an early morning walk and saw a moose. It crossed the street right in front of me. It could have cared less that I was there. I stood still and for one split second, I forgot about everything except that enormous moose. Isn’t there an Elizabeth Bishop poem about a moose? I don’t see mooses very often in my life.