Halfway, He Said With A Smile

I am going to do yoga tonight, which means I will embarrass myself once again in front of a few svelte twenty-thirtysomethings as they gracefully lift themselves, like mere feathers on a breeze, off the floor while barely standing on one athletically-bent leg, while I collapse in a sweaty pile, panting, and cursing years of carelessly-ingested cheesecake and roast beef. Apparently I have not yet aged sufficiently to understand that I will never be young again, and am willing to spend a few shekels to at least partially further harbor that illusion. Any cursory inspection of my physical being will tell you otherwise, of course, but it is either the curse or privilege of Baby-Boomers in the early part of the 21st century to believe, against all reason and evidence to the contrary, that they will live forever. As such, I'm trying to be consistent with my culture and follow in lockstep, blinders firmly in place, as we march like lemmings to the onrushing Cliff humming Dylan's "Forever Young." Happy idiots, indeed, as we struggle for the legal tender.

At 58 years old, I see things through different lenses. 3X readers, to be precise, but that’s not what I mean. My second grandson was born a couple of years ago to my eldest son and his wife… So now, there are amongst us two healthy, sweet-tempered little boys whose long fingers no doubt presage world-class piano or guitar players, or possibly, as my son insists, professional quarterbacks. I shall naturally surrender this outcome to the Creator and my son’s desire to sire his very own NFL line-up.

For me, however, lying on a smelly, black rubber yoga mat, watching an instructor bend herself into a pretzel (I, on the other hand, am more reminiscent of soggy foccacia bread), for me, the view is different. The sight of my son holding his son is an undimming promise of continuance, of enormous blessing from what, for lack of a better word, I call God. It's a gentle kiss of love and forgiveness that whispers tantilizingly of future years, new generations of babies with names I’ll never know, all running off, laughing, in a thousand million directions, just barely within earshot, like an old memory after too much wine, of lives yet unlived but still there, held like small yellow flowers in the eager grasp of a young hand. My father’s face suddenly swims into view, lined and saddened by years of unspoken grief, his life snatched away prematurely by alcohol, a vibrant personality changed and twisted by chemistry, his lion’s heart bowed by disappointment, his gentle warrior’s spirit weakened by the cruelty of too many betrayals. Yet, he says quietly, here is hope. Here, once again, is love. Why, my son, do you weep?

Suddenly, I cannot see. There are angels everywhere.