I don’t know if it’s the therapy of dreams, the passage of time, but no matter how miserable you are when you fall asleep, you wake up feeling just a little lighter. Well, today wasn’t one of those days. I woke up with the feeling of a vice clamped onto my temples and a wolverine in my stomach. I managed to get out of bed with one simple purpose – take Tylenol - then go back to bed. Too lazy to rub the gunk out of my eyes, I found my mother topless, sitting lotus style in the center of the living room floor with her morning coffee steaming away in a nearby mug. Pamela Jensen was an eccentric. She was an art curator, a painter, a poet, a nude yoga practitioner (and teacher), spoke three languages, and let her salt and pepper hair grow wild and long. It was pinned up in a bun at the top of her head, letting the power of ‘tits out yoga’ work its full magic. I stopped dead in my tracks.
