It occurred to me, as I allowed my hips and arms to find their most comfortable version of “the child’s pose” at a restorative yoga class last night, that I haven’t been very nice to my body lately.

Self Care vs. Frenetic Masochism

I thought the theme of all this activity these past few months was “self care.” I thought the hours at the gym and the hikes in pursuit of beautiful mountain views were me releasing all that pent up energy from my five years as a caregiver, prioritizing others’ needs over my own.

Once Isaac started kindergarten in September and I was free to spend 28 more hours a week doing whatever I wanted, I used that time to be active. Finally I was free to do all the physical things a full-time parent finds impossible. Finally it was all about me.

But my shins are covered in bruises (despite the shin pads I wear at kickboxing) and maybe, just maybe, my body would appreciate some gentle stretches too. Wearing fleece-lined sweat pants. With candles, even.

Hallelujah

Tamela the Yogi played K.D. Lang’s “Hallelujah” during the “open heart” stretch.

That was the first song during our slide show at Brock’s memorial service. 

Here’s the thing: I’m not a spiritual person, in any way. Both Brock and I believe(d) that life ends at death, and there is no after-life existence in any form.

But.

My DJ B-Rock loved music and I hear his/our special songs all the time. 

Maybe that’s inevitable, since there were so many special songs in our 11.5 years together. And we loved our mainstream classics, which tend to be played on the mainstream classic Sirius channels I listen to in the car, and on the radio stations in the stores I shop in.

It comforts me when I hear these songs. It doesn’t matter if Brock is magically DJ-ing them from the afterlife or not. They remind me of him and of our life together, and that usually makes me smile.

Sometimes the right song will play exactly when I need to hear it.

So there I was at the yoga class, realizing that maybe I need to incorporate some gentle body care into my life, and “Hallelujah” starts to play. Which:

1. reminds me of Brock, specifically of his memorial service / death, which makes me sad, and
2. I realize I never listen to that song voluntarily, or any slow song, these days — it’s all about our Spotify dance party playlists, to fill our house with energy, and then:
3. I see it’s not just slow songs I’m missing in my life, but also slow moments. Our couch faces the Rockies and the Columbia River wetlands, and yet I’ve sat down to enjoy the view less than five times since we moved in mid-September.

Too Much Yang, Not Enough Yin

I’ve filled my new life here with activity, and I’m pushing my body hard. The other night I beat the shit out of a punching bag at kickboxing, and wanted more despite the bruised shins. My climbing shoes are as uncomfortable as they’re supposed to be. I found new armpit muscles while showering this weekend. (I only know they aren’t tumours because they’re symmetrical.) 

Now I think I might need some yin to balance out the yang I’ve been revelling in. Even if that’s just some quiet time on my couch, or an “open heart” yoga pose on the floor after Isaac’s bedtime. A new playlist with my favourite slow songs, to balance out the dance parties.

Balance. The older I get, the more I learn how important that is. And how it’s up to each of us to recognize what’s missing, seek out and incorporate that balance for ourselves.

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