Signs are funny, messages from the universe often overlooked. For months after my brothers sudden passing, in times I was coming a bit undone the song "Here Comes the Sun" would appear...on the car radio, in a television program, playing overhead at the grocery. It calmed me through grief and eventual acceptance, made me smile, faded as time began to heal. When my Dad died suddenly in January last year, the song returned.
I'm lucky to have eyes (and ears) open enough to receive it. The curse and the blessing of the soulful.
Last night, after a particularly moving hour of candlelight yoga, one of more gently aggressive stretching and opening of hips and heart that rough posing, I came to hard tears in final savasana (corpse pose). Couldn’t swallow away the burn in the back of the throat, my belly began to rise and fall too quickly. I was relieved to be in a mostly dark room, appreciative of the yogi who tapped into something core, but still awkward to share it.
And where did it come from?
The mostly sound proof yoga room spills out into the main gym, where music plays loudly over speakers.
"It's no surprise to me I am my own worst enemy. 'Cause every now and then I kick the living shit out of me."
No soothing George Harrison, mandolin-plucking love poem, but an ass slap needed none the less.