When every act becomes an act of worship, you transcend both good and bad, even in this life. Therefore strive for yoga, which is the art of all work.
That winged host that soared about me one grey morning of war-time.
These memories, which are part of life- for we possess nothing certainly except the past- were always with me. Like the pigeons of St. Mark’s, they were everywhere, under my feet, singly, in pairs, in little honey-voiced congregations, nodding, strutting, winking, rolling the tender feathers of their necks, perching sometimes, if I stood still, on my shoulder or pecking a broken biscuit from between my lips; until, suddenly, the noon gun boomed and in a moment, with a flutter and sweep of wings, the pavement was bare and the whole sky above dark with a tumult of fowl.