It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything for this blog, so apologies to my throngs of followers. (Cue maniacal laughter and pointing. … Okay, let’s continue.) When I started, it was easy to tap out a post a week, especially since I’d had a backlog of pieces done before a friend with technology know-how taught me how to get the blog up and running.
Well, that lifestyle, plus the neurological drugs that keep this 10-year brain-injury survivor (WOOT WOOT!) seizure-free, got shaken up again this fall as my husband and I devoted ourselves to politics. A young U.S. House candidate once considered the longest of long shots now seemed to have a chance, and even though she wasn’t in our district, we gladly volunteered.
By his calculations (my numerical sense is kaput now) we canvassed nine times in four weeks, for about 500 doorbells rung. And that’s not even counting the 65 houses we visited on Election Day to ensure the vote got out. After a long nap, it was off to the candidate’s Returns Watch party, which turned into a victory party and kept me up way past my bedtime.
Exhilaration plus exhaustion equals zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
But by Thursday evening I was recovered enough to teach yoga to my veterans (yes, I call them “my veterans”) at the local VA. A neighbor was kind enough to drive me and my multiple bags of yoga equipment, since I’m no longer a driver myself. Because the building is sort of tucked away in a hidden plaza, and because it was too dark to see street signs, we got a bit lost… and I freaked.
It was a quiet freak-out, as freak-outs go, and my friend remained unaware and cheerful. I just kind of whimpered and then suggested we stop and get our bearings, though I don’t have bearings anymore. How many times have I been to this place and I still can’t direct anyone to it? I asked if she could turn off the talk radio, because I can’t filter out background noise anymore.
I’ve also come to depend on other people’s sense of direction or their car’s voice thingy that tells them where to turn. (Yes, I realize I should know the name of that thingy, but…why?)
When we arrived–in plenty of time, by the way–I told her that she had just seen the brain-injured side of me, the side my friends and neighbors rarely see. She was more than understanding. She gave me a hug and we talked for a few minutes more before she helped me in with my yoga blocks, straps and towels (in lieu of proper yoga blankets).
The class itself, for all my brain drama, was a joy. Confidentiality precludes me from giving details about the participants, who also come to the center for counseling. Let’s just say that I came with a plan for the session and ended up tailoring it to their needs. So it goes in all yoga classes.
At the end, the instructor typically closes the class with a few words of wisdom. This time, I hadn’t thought of what to say and admitted as much to my students. One of the regulars (it won’t be breaching confidentiality to say we’re both Libras) offered this: “We should always try to keep our lives in balance.”