My life has been a flurry of activity the last few days. Not exactly in tune with the meditative fellow that I see myself as. But it’s good.
First there was SunFest. I wanted to dance. There were times after my tendon transfer surgery in 2003 that I thought I’d never dance again. Last Sunday, though, I threw my body around for three hours, spaced out over the afternoon and evening. Fast dancing, usually surrounded by more than a hundred other revellers. I occasionally thought of my right foot. “Bruce, you’re putting too much pressure on it with all your gyrating! There’s a screw in that foot, you know. If you don’t stop, you won’t be able to walk in five years.” Or … “Bruce, you’re going golfing tomorrow. You’d better forget dancing at the 10:00 pm show, and rest up. Otherwise you won’t survive eighteen holes of walking.” Such a small, squeaky voice.
I danced at the last show, once more to the group “Five Alarm Funk”. Go ankle, go! I gave ‘er, joyously, and then limped to Hugo, my Honda CRV. The next day was hot and humid on the links and the whole body suffered. As for my golf swing, it was a thing of … (something). But I love Tarandowah – the rolling fairways, the deep bunkers, the tall fescue grass in the rough. Despite my pain, I knew I was home.
Yesterday I limped, but I still went out to lunch with a friend, and to dinner with another. Weeks ago, I had e-mailed all sorts of folks, asking them out for a meal, since I wouldn’t see them again until January. I’m now in the home stretch of social engagements, with my estimated time of liftoff for the west being next Tuesday. I’ve loved the conversations. I’m certainly not tired of people, but I’m tired.
All good things, these dancings and golfings and yappings. They make me happy. Even my feet are singing a wee little bit.