I hate it when I’m late to yoga. I whip into the parking lot, locate a spot (hopefully near the door), jump out and jog past the front desk. With the room dark and peaceful, and everyone halfway to their happy place, I tiptoe around bodies to grab a mat, find a spot and start relaxing. And swear that I’ll get there on time, next time.
As class wound down yesterday, the music transitioned into Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring and I was transported back into the past. The year: 1979. My dad is walking me down the aisle of a little Baptist Church and the music is Jesu, the guitar version. It was like I was there again. Strange how music does that.
Anyway, post-yoga I’m drinking coffee at Panera and contemplating the relentless passage of time. I can’t believe it’s really been thirty years since that trip to the altar. Alot of water under the bridge. I’ve moved to a different state, married again, become a mom, and now just this week became Facebook friends with that guitar player from my past. Circle of life stuff, I guess…
My parents just celebrated their 57th wedding anniversary. Fifty-seven years. Fifty-seven! I think it’s finally starting to hit my dad that he’s getting old. He’s going to be 80 on his next birthday but no doubt he’ll go out swinging. (A hammer, that is.)
His version of retirement has been to keep busy and he is the consummate handyman. My father is amazing, truly. They don’t make ’em like that anymore. Never met a broken thing (car, appliance, piece of pottery) that he couldn’t fix. I guess that growing up during the Great Depression made him permanently committed to the virtues of re-purposing others’ castoffs. Like the time he snagged an upholstered chair from our neighbor’s curb and planned to fix it up for Mother’s Day. Or the vacuum cleaner he found across the street last year. All it needed was a little cleaning, and it was good to go.
That way of thinking is mostly an anomaly now. Used to be, if it wasn’t broke you didn’t fix it. Nowadays even if it ain’t broke, but not the latest and greatest, it is mandatory upgrade time. It’s practically impossible to keep up with the speed of technology.
So for me, yoga three times a week is an hour of space carved out to stop and breathe; to take a vacation from the go-go-go. Which is why bolting into class late nearly defeats the purpose of being there in the first place.
But I’m getting better. Today I was almost on time.