Must’ve been 2007 when I first spent some deeply personal moments with Sam, who gave me permission to write this story. A student in my roll and release workshop, we connected at Deep, now Yoga Shala. We had already become acquainted on the dance floor.

Stillness in December has been an acquired taste. My southern California childhood, a year round adventure land, offered no pause for the cold or inclement. I’ve lived up north fifty plus years, but vividly recall when winter’s creep beneath my collar set off tendrils of warmth-craving. Prolonged fog would nestle under my skin and push me on edge.

I kitchen puttered all day Wednesday, making all the things, totally taking pleasure in the comfort, the ritual, the predictability of prepping Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve done this So Many Times.

It was autumn ’72 when I graduated from UCSF medical school, clutching a degree in physical therapy, pretty much clueless about the journey to come. It would be another thirty years before persistent dabbling in yoga and dance would begin to fully inform this chosen vocation. I had no idea that the nature of this work was evolutionary. No notion that it might look different fifty years down the road.

I can actually conjure up that buttery smell of hot cinnamon. The smell of fluden wafted into every corner of that green weathered farmhouse. When grandma baked, she was forever low humming and as she pulled steaming pastry from the oven, she always warned me to let it cool.

Beyond the boundaries of our own skin, the news ticker from the mundane to the cataclysmic is loud and continual. Each to our own, we titrate the current events that shape our world. Some of us have only the capacity to be porous to the immediacy of our home base. Maybe absorb happenings in the local community or near geography. Attend to places tangible, breathable, adjacent. Know thyself. Shields are a necessary strategy at any point in our lives.

Just back from 3,000 miles of road tripping. Time decelerated, created a gap and, in so doing, shifted me. Hours of dreaming out the window, quiet canyons for miles, sweeping sky, snow strewn summits.

I love my far-flung wide reach of a newsletter. Maybe you are a reader. This when-whimsy-strikes blog spurns me to spout on wide-ranging fancy-tickling topics. But this is different; sometimes I just want to connect with those of you I’ve personally served as patients and yoga students over the last 20 years.

Early memory: I’m at the gas station with mom as she fills up our car. She grumbles about how this chore is such a waste of time. This hurry up, no time to waste way of life was a strong undercurrent in my childhood. I learned from a couple of masters.

In the northern hemisphere, autumn waits in the wings. I’m a big fan of markers that have been tracked by humans for millennia. They connect to something enduring about the human experience. Throughout time, fascination with the sun’s trajectory has connected us.

This morning I set out on my morning walk and, for the first time since my fall 7 weeks ago, I chose the path leading me right to The Spot. See ominous picture above. I willed myself to purposefully breathe. Slowly. So I could feel. The cramp in the pit of my belly. The catch in my throat. The ramp of my pulse. The way those very sensations translated in my heart. Intense dread. Panic tinged with a whiff of shame.

First, perhaps, an update. Three weeks since the sidewalk sprawl and healing is some kinda miracle in motion. There’s still sharp pain moving certain ways, end of day ache. Using a splint on/off because I can feel how immobility makes it worse. Gentle movement in all available pain free range as my skilled right hand treats the fascial binding ‘tween the two long forearm bones. Learning so much first hand! Elbow to fingertips is a non-weight bearing version of knee to toes. In this past week healing has included creative single-handed camping AND total immersion in breath. Breath…that’s what I really want to write about today.

The phrase “loose, long and strong” emerged toward the end of my clinic days, a catchy descriptor for teaching patients how to follow through with healing movement at home. Twenty-five years down the road it still fits for what I’m up to. In fact, the perfection of it totally guides rehab of my left arm. Six weeks now and well on its way.

One moment: upright human being out for early morning walk. Next moment: pathetic creature sprawled on sidewalk. Just like that. One more lesson (as if needed) on how change happens lickety-split. I lay there, a ball of woe, gathering my wits along with the self-esteem splattered on the concrete.

She described every detail of her right foot pain. The way in 2020 it commenced in conjunction with the lockdown. Which she dealt with by taking extraordinarily long neighborhood strolls. Her right heel, with no specific injury, began to be painful seemingly out of nowhere. Soon it was unbearable even to walk around the house. She did a course of physical therapy and then saw a podiatrist. To no avail.

I considered several juicy options to mark the momentous wheel turn at birthday fifty. Ultimately I chose what scared me most. And began to own up to a lifetime of consistently fear-driven selection. Adrenaline junkie? Thrill seeker? Crazy woman? Well…maybe. In light of my precarious childhood, you’d guess I’d be a big fan of safety. But my soul, in its maturity, knows how incredibly instructive living on the brink is.

Each month Spotlight, a monthly publication of 5Rhythms Global, introduces teachers to dancers around the world. While in West Virginia I connected with Jenelle, a southern California teacher who creates this feature. She asked if I might contribute an essay for the July issue on the theme of gratitude. Well, you know me…I love to write…so I said yes, of course.

“I feel you feeling me.”

Thomas Hubl

This simple quote nails it. When I feel you the same instant I sense being felt by you…well, that is intimacy. Which is a crucial building block for experiencing safe relationships.

Touching home base just this one day before I depart once again. I feel drawn to the page, chock full of expression that begs emptying. Bathing at Harbin Hot Springs echoes, first time teaching there since the 2015 fire. Moving in me. The pools survived the fire and they offer me so much solace.

On Saturday night I fell into the photograph rabbit hole, precious images archiving what it looked like to be a young family. This greased the wheels for many tears on a Mother’s Day that skirted outside the bounds of Hallmark.