I remember a moment just like this years ago: Oregon coast, feet-in-the-sand. Out of the blue, a notion to sell the physical therapy clinic. It dawned all over me. A need to bust out of confinement, something expansive demanding space for expression. Eventually the sale came to pass.

Stories.  I find myself telling stories these days.  A sign of aging, perhaps.  Yet history has value.

We began June 2020.  Now it’s been happening seven consecutive seasons. Dancing in fertile farmland adjacent to the Sacramento River.  Nearly every Sunday.

Let’s talk about all things foam roller. This inventive tool slipped into my life in 1992, introduced by a PT who worked in my clinic. Absolutely love at first sight, such a potent creative memorable chapter.

“What are you selling?” Inquiry numero uno from business consultant folks. I went through professional overhaul twice in fifteen years at Dreizler Physical Therapy. The second time, a creative staff nailed it. “Providing expert hands on care and individualized home exercise prescription.” Everything just naturally flowed out of that mission. So I get the value of being clear in messaging.

Decisions. Daily. We weigh desire against risk. Calculate probability in the face of longing. Concern for safety rides in direct opposition to our acute yearning. You would think by now we’d be incredibly skilled at judgment calls.

I've rolled around on the floor enjoying this same view periodically over twenty years. There is something so child-like nourishing about tumbling around on the ground...no matter what the view.

Breathe, move, change. Years ago this came to me as a personal mantra. From time to time, these three words make an appearance in writing.

I kept gazing at the glossy magazine picture of a Sacramento orthopedic surgeon. His son, who is taking over his practice, stood at his side. Me and this man go way back clinically. His son and mine were in Little League together. On a whim, I rang him up and we reminisced. At 71, he is retiring…but only from the rigors of surgery.

The soil of childhood can conceal roots that suckle our souls. When we recognize those inspirational head-over-heels moments, when we appreciate a natural surrender to full on engagement, we are actively tracking those roots.

The soil of childhood can conceal roots that suckle our souls. When we recognize those inspirational head-over-heels moments, when we appreciate a natural surrender to full on engagement, we are actively tracking those roots.

So much conversation these days about cultural polarization. Red states and blue. Big pharma and science. Vax and unvax. Righteousness abounds.

spirit inhabits us in memory as well, an imprint of those who came before. All day last Friday I was so clearly remembering a moment I shared with Gabrielle in 2008. It was the final day of my teacher training and we were both leaving Westerbeke when our paths crossed.

The deep cold snap last week scrapped a 3 day camping trip. I can do rugged…but a 40 degree high is not conducive to anything. So I woke Monday morning to an empty to-do list. My current schedule is a pale shadow of what it used to be.

A body rests face down on my treatment table and my hands, butterfly wings, rest upon the flare of ribs. I sense our breath in tandem gently pressing my way south---right, left, right, left.

It’s our first act as we exit the womb. An inhale. New, fresh, born into possibility. Arising. And then there is our departing gesture: the exhale. A dissolve, a let go into mini-death. Passing away. Arising and passing away. So brief, that precious time we have allotted between birth and death. Take a breath in and pause. Feel that sweetness.

The hula hoop craze seared its way into my seven year old memory. Everyone had one and when I wasn’t roller skating that plastic was circling my hips endlessly. I played with this toy on and off through the years and as an adult, cursed/blessed with a more analytical mind, I became intrigued with clockwise vs. counter-clockwise. I found that everyone has a strong preference for directionality when it comes to circling the hips.

Remember spring 2020? We entered this strange chapter at the Equinox, realities of life as we knew temporarily ending at the same time that signs of life renewing itself were blooming all around us. Now it is Equinox again.

Can you feel your precious feet on the floor? The weight falling into heels. Sensitive to the empty space in the dome of the arch. Plump nesting ball of foot. Each teeny earth contact point of ten toe pads. Being grounded in these trying times…so many ways to practice.

Do you know confused? This tizzy of frustrating paralysis? Have you ever watched yourself generate flimsy excuses about why you’re feeling stuck? I know this place and last week, muddled to the max