For some reason on this particular day I didn’t bother to put on the normal stretchy pants and fitted top that accompanied my yoga practice. I opted for the fashion of ‘au naturel’ instead of streamlining spandex. It was a whim. I wasn’t what one would consider a nudist. I didn’t have to be naked in my home, nor was I one to seek out clothing-optional events. I had never been to a nude beach. For some reason on that day, however, I decided to practice yoga without clothes. I was alone in my New York apartment. It was the middle of the afternoon. The blinds were closed and I was alone – my mat, my breath, my body and all her imperfections. I sat, closed my eyes, and stilled my thoughts. The impulse for movement arose that lead me into a simple cat-and-cow movement on my hands and knees – arching and flexing my spine with each inhale and exhale – eyes closed. I stretched my way back into downward-facing dog. I was naked.
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