cheer’s to life
I am amazed by this young girl’s zest for life. Then again, even without knowing anything about her, her ever-engaging smile makes total sense. After all, I think it is those who have bumped up against death (be it their own or someone very close to them) who learn first that life is precious and worthy of drinking in each and every moment.
Every moment of every day is deserving of such appreciation for what it is. It is life and we get to live it…if we so choose. Those not-so-fun moments are there to teach us something — like it or not. I’m not saying that we have to enjoy them. I’m simply pointing out that it is the not-so-beautiful moments in life that make the other moments what they are: beautiful and fantastic.
Cheers to life: Live it. Breathe it. Love it!
Standing up Straight
Over the weekend, I took one of three of Desirée Rumbaugh’s amazing workshops being held at the yoga studio. It was titled “Stand up Straight” but, although the description said nothing of the sort, somehow I made the leap to spinal alignment and immediately signed up. It wasn’t until I was in the parking lot, 45 minutes prior to the start, that I read the description again. The was no mention of the spine OR alignment in the description. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and made that leap of faith that, of the three workshops, this was the one I belonged in.
Desirée’s story is one of tragedy and loss followed by an intense mission to reclaim her joy and life’s purpose. Simply meeting her, and seeing her vibrancy and strength, is inspiring. Hearing her speak, is ten times more powerful — if not more.
The workshop itself was jam packed in content and yogis lined up in three long rows with no more than 2-3 inches between each of the mats. It was tight but it worked. In fact, the close knit arrangement seemed to bring us all together even more than usual, which is saying a lot.
From the physical to the spiritual and emotional lessons, Desirée validated the reason I’d come. On the physical side, she directed us to access our core strength for a more grounded and stable pose. The spiritual and emotional lesson, was one of utilizing our inner strength, or life-force, to “stand up straight” and face the challenges that are put before us. With that, came the more subtle invitation to spread the joy to others once we have found the ease in life in much the same way as Desirée has done.
We are mighty
…tired. Mighty but tired after the first week of practice in full pads.
These “junior midgets” the biggest and baddest (read: oldest) on the fields.
As I sit in the shade watching them do their thing, I glance over to the far right hand corner of the fields. Here the “mighty mites” run around in their mini-sized pads. The contrast in size and experience is tremendous.
This, being YaYa’s last year of Pop Warner football and middle school, is certainly a year to cherish. As I sit back and observe, I think back to the year we first joined the pack. It was YaYa’s first year of tackle, his first year of private school, and we where just 1 year past the passing of his father.
emotional flooding
Occasionally, a flood of emotions rolls in from out of nowhere and knocks you down. Such was the case yesterday evening, though the sadness began creeping its way in along with the back pain that showed up just after lunch. Reminding me that I ought to have left my desk for a least a short walk, jolts of fire shot down my left leg every time I adjusted my position in my chair. By the time I was finally leaving for the day, I was knee deep in pain of every sort. The root cause, or etiology, staring me in the face.
Earlier in the day, I glanced at the calendar, preparing to turn it to the next month. July 31st was Dad’s birthday; I think he would have been 72 years old. The melancholy I was feeling was different than what everyone on FB might have guessed I was feeling. Their attempts to reassure me only served to make me shake my head. They didn’t know. How could they? I’ve only shared this stuff with you.
Sure, I was feeling grief and loss, but not for an inability to celebrate with him. He was never into that. At least not with his children. The grief I was feeling was for the loss of ever having a chance to get to know that man I called “Dad.”
The few memories from childhood of hanging out with Daddy seem to have gathered cobwebs of conflicting images that aren’t particularly pleasant. Rather than entertain these unpleasant images, I’ve let all everything become buried. Apparently, daughters are not supposed to do that on their father’s birthdays. Evidently, it is our duty to dust off the cobwebs at least once a year.