Once a month, I’ve attended a Beginner’s Spanish event, mainly because the host chooses Latin American restaurants where, more than likely, the staff also speak Spanish. Besides, the social aspect of getting together with other people to eat good food and drinks, I like the idea of rebooting my Spanish-speaking ability.
Up until recently, I’ve relied on whatever smattering of Spanish I recall during these events. To “practice,” I’ve turned on the Latin American Spanish subtitles whenever I stream movies and series that have the option available. However, this last event has motivated me to level up my language acquisition.
We normally play a few games where we speak some Spanish. The rest of the time, we speak English. There’s always a range of Spanish-speaking ability among us, so English explanations are usually needed.
Despite my nonchalant approach to studying the language, I become amazingly competitive during these games. Especially for our version of the game Taboo. We are forbidden to say any part of the word or phrase we’re giving clues about in English, but the answer must be in Spanish.
During one round, my vocabulary escaped me. As one person gave the clue in English, I knew that she had described “ants.” I stated out loud that I couldn’t remember the word in Spanish. The guy beside me said, “hormigas.”
That wasn’t the only time that phenomenon occurred during the game. As a matter of fact, who knows if we would have tied if I could have recalled the words in Spanish. Perhaps he would have stepped up his game as well. Nonetheless, the next day, I started a free online Spanish course.
The daily lessons are up to 10 minutes long and designed to make the user feel like a winner by celebrating even the smallest wins. The nerd in me looks forward to these daily lessons. The enticement is baked into the cake. The real win is speaking more fluently at the next Beginner’s Spanish event.
I took a day trip to Pinehurst, NC to attend a 90-minute stretch and sip with one of my former instructors who’d taught chair, pole and stretch/flex classes. I’d brought one of my favorite chocolate candy bars to share. Turns out, the instructor had arranged a surprise birthday party for another instructor with plenty of chocolate choices.
This studio was less than a year old, shiny and new, and full of inspirational sayings, but none better than the aphorism that hung above the toilet.
Earlier, I’d attended a Beginner’s Spanish conversation lunch at an El Salvadoran restaurant. The host of that event joined me for this event. At one point, the instructor led us in a butterfly pose, where my friend burst out laughing and said, “¡Mariposa!”
I started laughing too because at a previous Beginner’s Spanish conversation lunch, she kept mistakenly saying “mariposa” for “seafood.” I told her to stop repeating the wrong word so I could say the correct word, “mariscos.”
At one point, the instructor gave the verbal cues to get into cow pose. Those of us who’d taken her stretch/flex class before mooed. The first timers laughed. Then, during the cat pose, the longtime students meowed.
Another fun moment was when Bell Biv DeVoe’s song, “Poison,” came on. The instructor and I hopped up from our mats to do the running man. As usual, no one else joined us. After half a minute, we returned to our mats as if nothing happened.
No day trip would be complete without a proper meal before hitting the road again. The instructor and a friend who I’d carpooled with went to a Thai restaurant. I didn’t realize how hungry I was, especially after eating a cupcake after class, but everything on the menu looked delicious.
Although my friend and I had gone out to eat many times before I’d never witness her ask so many questions prior to ordering food. Not as bad as Meg Ryan’s character in “When Harry Met Sally,” but a close second.
At one point during dinner, I had a sneezing fit. My instructor friend, leaned over and asked me in a low tone, “Are you allergic to white people?”
Doubly funny because she’s white herself.
Unlike going to the event, I was wide awake on the nearly hourlong drive back to Fayetteville. That energizing daytrip is how I want to live my happily ever after, which is how I now view my life since the richest people in the world have predicted AI is going to kill us all.
When Mom turned 55, she could have retired. Dad, on the other hand, retired from the Air Force, then retired from Civil Service, then bagged groceries for ten years because he’d worked all his life and needed something to do.
For my generation, the retirement age is at least 65, but even present-day 65 year olds are being enticed to work until they’re 67 or older. Or, they cannot afford to retire. At this rate, I figured I’d never retire or I’d die at my computer. Either way, I never dreamed my retirement would end with being taken out by technology.
Actually, I thought AI would replace me at work before retirement age. That may still come to fruition. As AI learns to do my job, I may be phased out prior to being “deactivated” from this world.
Until then, this is my happily ever after. I’ve carved out an interesting life for myself where I’ve balanced interesting work with invigorating exercise after work along with my ever-present juggle of creative projects.
In the background, the country continues to spin out of control and is increasingly more expensive. It’s a wonderful thing that with age, one becomes naturally less active as far as socializing is concerned. I can no longer afford that life.
Fortunately, I’ve never been the “need a new outfit/new pair of shoes” type of woman. Especially since I receive “hand-me up” clothes from my nieces. Some clothes still had the tags on them.
My goal, when the time arrives, is to move from living with my parents for the second time around to moving into a retirement community. I need to research what my financial target is. I’d briefly looked online at communities in Raleigh, but the people in the pictures looked much older. I’ll need a community that accepts adults in their mid-50s.
Homeownership may be unattainable for me, but I’m hoping I’ll find a suitable retirement community or perhaps I’ll need to explore places outside of the States. I’ve led my life like an adventure thus far. Why stop now?
I mark every birthday as a celebration of being alive and having survived yet another year of embracing creativity and joy amidst all the chaos the world has to offer. Different cultures of people view the numbers seven and eight as lucky. The product of those two numbers rule my birthday this year.
Wonderful luck foreshadowed my 2026 birthday when I looked at the calendar and noticed that my born day landed on Labor Day this year. An automatic day off.
For years, one of my birthday gifts to myself has been a day off. So the quintessential Virgo in me loved not having to use any PTO this time around.
I’ve also co-opted Dad’s idea of celebrating a “birthday month.” Unlike Dad, I don’t actually label every fun thing I do in September as my birthday celebration, but I also don’t think everything needs to happen on the actual day. There’s wisdom in spreading out the celebration, especially across the weekend.
Back when I lived in Austin during pre-COVID, I’d send out a birthday itinerary to friends for every birthday that ended in a “0” or “5,” foolishly designating those years as being more significant than the others. But let’s face it, on some level, there’s a reason to celebrate all things good, no matter how small.
Case in point, this past Thursday, I found a quarter in the parking lot on my way to dance class. The joy with which I picked up that quarter, one would have thought that I’d found much more money. Yet, ever since the great state of NC had refunded me $1, I’ve been on a mission to find the equivalent of a dollar just going about life. I’m not sure if it’s a sign of how desperate the times are economically, but since I’ve been on this micro-quest, that quarter was the most I’d found in one score, which raised my total to 47 cents for the year. (To read about how I spent that refunded $1 from the great state of NC, please read Tip That Motherf*****!)
For the past year or so, I’ve mostly confined my alcohol consumption to just Saturday and Sunday. I made an exception this past Friday night. Since a little red wine helps with concentration, I used that logic as I took an open book yoga final exam.
On Saturday mornings, I do my laundry for the week and go grocery shopping. I did the same with the addition of selecting a free birthday cake from the grocery store that I frequent. It was just as moist and delicious as it looks.
Later on Saturday, I gifted myself a high-end nice mani-pedi, complete with a 20-minute foot massage. I topped it off with a sparkling blue color, which had my birthstone, sapphire, in its name. That color may become yet another birthday tradition.
On Sunday, after my usual 60-min hot yoga class, I enjoyed a 60-min full body massage. Once again, the Virgo in me absolutely loved that the receptionist honored an expired $20 off coupon in addition to the usual gift of a $15 enhancement.
When I returned home, Mom, my sister and a neighbor had maneuvered Dad into the house and were attempting to affix the bed rail to the side of his bed. I welcomed Dad back home after being hospitalized and in rehab for over two months.
By the time my actually birthday rolled around, I’d slept in, then made breakfast for Dad and me. When I served Dad breakfast, I said, “Happy Labor Day!”
Dad just smiled, probably happier because breakfast was served rather than the holiday. Then, I asked him, “Do you remember what happened on this day 56 years ago?”
His first guess was “Easter.” I reminded him that I’d just wished him a Happy Labor Day. Then he guessed that it was either his birthday or my birthday. I laughed, reminding him that he was long past age 56, but at least he got the correct answer in 1.5 answers.
After breakfast, my sister and I did a labor of love for Mom. She had a decorative, wooden accent piece that was awkward and time-consuming to clean. As a matter of fact, the best way to clean it would be to burn it. A one and done solution. However, the second best way to clean it, is to take it outside and apply a wooden cleaner to it with a paintbrush. I convinced Mom to wait for a sunny day, so we could clean it in the morning and it could thoroughly dry.
Another birthday tradition, which I think I started for my 40th birthday, was wearing a tiara. I thought I’d keep that costume accessory for the rest of my life, but after this birthday, it’s time to retire ol’ girl and get another for the upcoming birthday.
Back in August I’d cashed in $30 worth of reward points from work to buy a two-piece bathing suit and swim trunks. Not only is such attire good for swimming, but also pole dancing and yoga. So far, I’ve worn those trunks to both pole class and yoga, but not to swim in. Yet, I love the versatility in such clothing for all the physical activities that I enjoy doing.
I saved the two-piece black and gold swimwear for my actual birthday. And what better way to celebrate one’s birthday than with a pole dancing class? Granted, this was my usual Monday night class, but a lifelong dream of mine is to spend as much of my waking time doing what I enjoy. Mission accomplished.
The next day I received a gift of fresh spices and a pair of earrings from a friend. Mom surprised me by not immediately asking what I was going to cook with those spices. I sprinkled a little from each jar into Dad and my breakfast eggs.
Two days later, I took Mom out to breakfast at a family-owned restaurant where neither one of us had ever been to before. I informed everyone that we were celebrating Mom’s 86th birthday.
Normally, Mom drinks ginger tea along with a smoothie for breakfast. She joined me with a large cup of green tea. We both employed a different utensil to keep our tea bags from floating. Not that this was a scientific experiment, but my knife produced a better seeping result than Mom’s spoon.
Mom ordered a Western omelet with grits and a homemade biscuit on the side.
Since I normally make an omelet-styled eggs for Dad and me every morning, I ordered a sausage egg and cheese biscuit with a side of potato and parmesan casserole. That biscuit was so big that I had to hold it at an angle to bite it, completely missing the entire top biscuit half, which I eventually removed.
Eating an open-faced biscuit helped me save room for the small stack of birthday pancakes the the chef brought out to both Mom and me. He warned us to make a wish and blow out the candle quickly, so the heat of the pancakes won’t melt too much of the candle.
Afterwards, Mom took a picture with the chef, whose family owned the restaurant.
Mom fussed over how nobody had better mess with her biscuit that I wrote her name on the to-go box in big letters. Proving that one could take the girl out of Cascade, but not the Cascade out of the girl, no matter what age!
Two days later, fourteen of us got together to celebrate Mom’s, my nephew’s, my sister’s sister-in-law, and my birthday at a steakhouse. Although I had a wonderful time, complete with delicious food and entertaining conversation, the post meal activity made my day: axe throwing!
I counted on the fact that my nephew would join me to continue our birthday celebration at another location. My nephew was so much better than me, that his handicaps were trying trick shots and knife throwing.
We were surprised when the knife stuck at the hilt rather than the blade.
Next time around, the knife, stuck as we’d expected it to do.
Of course, I had a photo celebration of my first of two bullseyes.
All in all, I won one game out of three only because my nephew was trying out trick shots, kill shots (where one had to proclaim “killshot,” then hit one of the two blue dots on the board or make a zero if the implement hit anywhere else) and knife throws. What I learned during this experience was that my mind and arms only have three games in them.
After the last game, I reminded my nephew that he hadn’t tried the double-axe throw yet.
Whenever I use precious paid time off (PTO), I make the most out of the day, like a quintessential Virgo. Since I’d taken a Friday off to attend Dad’s family reunion, I’d scheduled to get my car inspected at 8:15 AM. Plenty of time for the mechanics to perform a state inspection, then I could go grocery shopping before returning home to hit the road with my family.
That whole plan must’ve made the devil smile.
As usual, I had a backpack with my laptop and iPad to work on a few creative projects as I waited. The silver lining was having PLENTY of time to get a lot of things done. Even my concierge smiled as she broke the news to me: “Things can never be simple, can it?”
From there, she informed me that my car wouldn’t pass inspection unless they put four new tires on. In addition, they didn’t have the tires in stock, but could get them from someplace down the road within 15 minutes. My concierge knew that I’d planned to go out of town that morning and she worked hard to have everything ready by lunch time, a mere three hours later than I’d expected. At least everyone was ready to go by the time I arrived home.
Mom drove the first leg of the trip and my sister drove the last leg with me playing navigator while riding shotgun the entire way. We made good time until we hit the hotel lobby. A long line awaited.
Apparently, the hotel computers were down globally. Instead, they used analog technology, resulting in guests reporting to occupied rooms.
Our reservations for two rooms under my sister’s and mother’s names, magically turned into reservations under mom’s and my name. Despite the fact that our names appeared in two separate places, the room numbers were the same: 340.
At least the four of us shared a suite. A small consolation, but I had been looking forward to having a break from my nephew. Our temperament clash makes seeing one another during the holidays and other rare occasions ideal. Given our current long-term living arrangement, we’d already banked an entire lifetime’s worth of “holiday time” together.
By the time we returned downstairs, the extended family were in the throes of BINGO and I was hangry. Rarely do I eat dinner past 8 PM. Fortunately, the kitchen was still open. I enjoyed a cabbage-based Asian salad with sauteed shrimp. Only after I’d inhaled most of the dish did I remember the growing outbreak of explosive diarrhea linked to salad. But that was just iceberg lettuce, right?
Next morning, Mom, my sister and I went down for breakfast. Of course my nephew had slow-assed around, so we left him behind. Not to worry, finding his way to food was definitely one of his top three skills.
As we checked in for breakfast, the surname associated with our room number was incorrect. We informed the hotel employee of our last name and how many of us were in the suite. Too bad I hadn’t noted the name that she’d had on the printout because, later on, I couldn’t access Wi-Fi, given my surname and room number.
Nonetheless, we enjoyed breakfast, complete with reacquainting ourselves with relatives and in-laws. The last reunion on this side of the family was in 2017, which I hadn’t attended. Unlike previous reunions, I was far more determined to play an active role in documenting our history, thanks to the organization and longevity of Mom’s family reunions.
We reconvened after breakfast around 9:45 to load up on a tour bus, headed for DC. Before we exited the hotel parking lot, our bus driver, who doubled as the tour guide, started his informative talk.
A vast fountain of information, the tour guide/driver overflowed with historical narratives, jokes, facts, and stats all the while navigating expertly through highway traffic and narrow DC streets.
Our first stop was at the MLK carving where we took a series of group family photos. Then, we loaded back on the bus and dropped off family members who’d already purchased their tickets for the African American Museum.
The rest of us remained on the bus to eat a cold cut six-inch sub lunch while continuing our bus tour of historical sites. Normally, I would have busy-bodied myself with taking pictures and jotting down notes, but a professional photographer alleviated me of all that, so I truly enjoyed taking in the sights.
Hours later, we collected family members from the African American Museum and went to a reasonably priced and well-stocked souvenir shop that also had clean bathrooms. Technically, there was a bathroom stall on the bus, but we were also on the bus.
Everyone in my suite napped except for me. I relaxed by working on my digital illustrations while watching TV, then taking a shower.
We all changed into “cocktail attire,” a phrase that I defined for the fashionably confused as “dressy casual.”
We were among the first to arrive in the hotel banquet room. The DJ had already begun his first set of the evening. The hotel caterers put the final touches of the buffet together.
My cousin, who was the head organizer of the reunion and emcee, made some opening remarks, introducing the live saxophonist who started his set. Later, a kid-friendly comedian did nearly an hour long set, and throughout the event, there were raffle drawings. As has been scientifically proven many times, I didn’t win anything. One of my nieces won twice and one of my sisters won a gift card.
At one point, the emcee asked for one person at each round table to come up and answer a question from a list on the table. My family voluntold me to be the spokesperson.
I introduced myself. “Good evening. I am Teresa Roberson, the third and best daughter of Karl and Velma Roberson.” After making other humorous remarks I stated that I’d answer two questions, one from each list of questions found at our table.
For the family recipe that should be passed down, we voted that would be Mom’s potato salad, which was so delicious, whether she made the regular or vegan version.
For the second question about what I’d like for the younger generations to know about our family, I turned my “answer” into a call to action. I held up the half piece of paper that the questions were written on. “I’d like for the younger generation to know our family tree. So, my ask is for at least one person at each table to write down as much of the family tree on the back of this paper.”
I added that I know that no one would outright lie to my face, but if they waited until they returned home to jot down a family tree, they probably wouldn’t do it. I asked them to do it before leaving the banquet.
Out of six large round tables, I received four family trees. A wonderful turnout, given the fact that the organizer/emcee had already started an electronic effort, which she invited me to add to.
One of my aunts, who was also voluntold to be a table spokesperson, handed me her written family tree. She’d written her son’s last name, which should have been the same as mine, with a “t.” When I questioned her about the spelling variation, she told me that there was a long story behind the “t” being dropped from our surname.
In that moment, I knew that I’d start a podcast series for this side of the family, called “Discovering the ‘T’.” I’d started “Strange Family Folklore” in 2020 for Mom’s side of the family to capture that history. Now, I needed to capture Dad’s side of the family.
Proving once again, I can never wait to complete all the other creative projects I have going on before beginning a new one. In the spirit of striking the iron while it’s hot, I have to capture as much as I can before it’s too late.
For the 85th Strange family reunion, we made history by putting on a family play, based on the First Generation of Freeborn Stranges, all sired by my great grandfather, Jesse Strange and his first wife, Annie, and his second wife, Lucy.
All but one of the rehearsals were virtual. Unfortunately for me, the sound tech, the recorded sounds and music that I’d saved in an audio platform couldn’t be heard by most of the virtual participants.
At the one live rehearsal we had the night before the play, I couldn’t hear the sound coming out of the speakers. Yet, I’d figured out that if I placed the microphone on the left side of the laptop, the sound would come through the shelter’s speakers.
After that late-night rehearsal, I got it in my head that I needed to delete several things on my laptop in order to free up storage space. I have no idea why that activity seemed so urgent at the time, but of course, I did the inevitable.
As soon as I discovered that I’d accidentally deleted the play’s soundtrack, along with emptying the trash–since why would I stop at making merely one mistake around midnight–my mind when into a late-night overdrive.
I shared a hotel room with Mom, who although hard of hearing, could still hear well enough if I attempted to recreate the soundtrack. Most of the tracks were sound effect cues that I played from my phone to record directly into the audio platform on the laptop. Also, there was a song that I had to modify by recording myself whispering the names of the First Freeborn Generation of Stranges.
I relocated to the bathroom since acoustics tend to be better there than in a room. Besides, I escaped the sound of the hotel AC unit, which may have been wonderful to sleep to, but registered as noise pollution for my recordings.
The one good thing about having to redo the play soundtrack was drastically scaling back my ambitions. Prior to our live rehearsal, I’d had various sound cues for different parts of the play such as the first time we saw a certain character, the beginning of scenes and to punctuate dialogue. All of that went out the window.
I only kept a song that two dancers performed to, sound cues that the characters reacted to, music that went along with a poem and part of a song to indicate a dream.
The next evening, no one noticed that I’d redone the soundtrack. We all brought our best to the performance.
One of my cousins, who sat in the front, provided me with hand signals to indicate whether the sound was too loud or not loud enough. Unlike during the live rehearsal, I couldn’t merely place a microphone on the left hand side of my computer.
As a matter of fact, there were three microphones during the performance. One cordless mic that I wouldn’t dare use since I figured the battery would die at any moment since it had been used for the evening program. The other two mics were plugged in, but I couldn’t use one of them because every time I turned it on, it produced ear-piercing feedback distortion.
So, the narrator and I share the one good mic while some of the actors shared the cordless mic since many of them didn’t project loud enough for the entire audience to hear.
A week after the performance, my cousin who’d wrote, directed and starred in the play had a post-performance meeting. We shared a lot of useful feedback. I suggested having a stage manager, turning it into an animation and researching how much it costs to use the copyrighted song that was used throughout the play.
When another cousin suggested moving the play from its original location to a local church or some other enclosed place, several of us pointed out the power of doing the play at our family reunion shelter again since houses and our family church that the characters refer to can literally be seen from the shelter. Those were powerful moments that brought a smile to the audience’s faces.
Another cousin suggested that our family history could be a mini series, especially if we were going to do an animation.
Of course, many assumed that I would edit the video since I’d just shared the link with family members of my Ghana vacation documentary. Although that project turned out very well, I wasn’t trying to add more projects to the docket since I have a total of 15 hours of yoga instruction videos that I need to complete.
Once I thought about it, there was not too much I needed to do since only two people recorded the play. The only thing that I’d do, if possible, is intercut between the two views, add the sound cues that weren’t possible to play during the performance and add a title and end credits.
One thing we’re all optimistically waiting for is the writer-director to receive funding. As they say, “Have money, will travel.”
In this case, this creative project will go much further with more funding. The leif motif of the play was: when we all put our hands to the plow, there’s nothing that we cannot accomplish. Hopefully, this endeavor will be another example of that.
I’ve proudly told anyone who’d listen about my maternal side of the family meeting for many years consecutively, even virtually during COVID, since 1941.
Our reunion is a year younger than Mom. Adding to the specialness of the occasion, the former family reunion vice president, currently the president, had a special request for his older sister: write a play based on great grandfather Jesse Strange’s 12 children who were all born free and referred to as “The First Generation of Freeborn Stranges.”
Initially, she thought he was joking, but months later, he called her to see how the play was coming along.
Using our family book, Reflections of a Proud Strange Family, not only did she complete our first family play, but for most of the roles, she casted direct descendants of the first generation to play their ancestors.
The only time we had an opportunity to rehearse in real life on the stage where we’d eventually perform for the entire family was that Friday evening following our annual fish fry that kicks off the reunion events.
On Saturday morning, we had another first: family breakfast under the shelter, which included bacon, eggs, fried apples, biscuits, salmon cakes, fresh fruit mix and waffles.
I was one of the last people to get in the breakfast line. My first reunion miracle was that the buffet still had salmon cakes by the time I arrived.
After breakfast, kids and the young at heart enjoyed various field day activities.
Other adults and I enjoyed a Zen moment of coloring under the shelter.
My sister, who’s an art teacher, brought several different coloring page choices on card stock along with crayons, colored pencils and markers.
Normally, if I’m not digitally coloring, my next favorite is colored pencils.
However, when I saw that a box of specialty crayons, featuring different skin tones, I was enticed enough to blend several different skin tone colors together.
Funny thing about this year’s coloring station: we only had two legit under 18 kids approach the table.
Across the way, I saw my cousin’s wife, who was looking particularly “Michelle Obama” that morning. I took a picture with her and sent it out to my friends, telling them that the former first lady had visited my family reunion.
We regrouped at the hotel to prepare for the evening program. Since my sister and I were part of the nine family members who toured Ghana for two weeks, we wore our Ghanaian clothes. When Mom saw that we were posing for a picture, she jumped up out of her seat, fasted walked (for her) over to photobomb as if she belonged in the picture.
This sign displayed the theme:
My sisters’ family strolled up to the reunion after we did, sporting their Ghanaian attire.
After dinner everyone present who had vacationed to Ghana, posed behind me as I gave some brief words.
I knew better than to attempt to give a tour recap, which was why I created a short documentary about the trip.
My plan was to drop the link to the doc in a family chat where 19 of us regularly kept in contact. I asked everyone who received the link to pass it onto at least five other family members who weren’t on the chat.
We had our first board election since becoming an LLC. Most of the board members were returning with two new members, who are also the youngest members.
Again, Mom’s never met a camera she didn’t like. I’m sure the former board secretary didn’t mind.
For a few years, my quilting-enthusiast cousin had wanted to put a family quilt together. So, at last year’s reunion, she hosted a quilting square station where family members drew a representation of themselves or their family. She fleshed out the quilt by grabbing a few pictures off of a photography-enthusiast cousin’s website.
Finally, the family play.
Throughout the play, characters made references to nearby relatives’ houses, a nearby family church while representing the First, Second and Fourth Generation of Freeborn Stranges.
Needless to say, the play was a hit. Not only that, but it encouraged people to learn more Strange Family History!
The deluge began late evening on Thursday, threatening to drench everything for Friday’s Juneteenth celebration. Fortunately, by midday on Friday, the rain stopped and had only refreshed the free outdoor event for us to kick off African American liberation day.
Two days later, a confluence of celebrations occurred on Sunday: Father’s Day, Summer Solstice and International Yoga Day. The most important of these observations to me was Father’s Day.
I made a colorful, homemade card for Dad, using very large print to help his 88-year-old eyes to read. I essentially thanked him for 55 years of being a wonderful father. I also enjoyed serving up the waffles my sister had made for him the day before. That was an edible gift that kept giving throughout the week although some days, Dad wouldn’t remember having them for breakfast by dinnertime.
Most Sunday mornings, I’m in a heated yoga room, so that “observation” is more like a continuation of a healthy habit versus a yoga day celebration. Thank goodness I don’t only do yoga once a year. How other middle agers literally move about this world without regular stretching is beyond me.
As far as the Summer Solstice, I always like to think the sun’s shining favorably on me. Although not as good as getting another hour to the day, I spent the extra sunshine completing the storyboard for a documentary, which showed the highlights of my two-week Ghanaian vacation last year to share with extended family during the upcoming Strange Family Reunion.
Throughout the week, I woke up about 30 minutes earlier to work on the documentary and then a few hours after either dance or yoga class. I completed my goal on Wednesday night, then uploaded it and sent it out to some friends. To rave reviews.
One friend thought I should enter it into film festivals. Tempting but I’ve used two copyrighted songs and I’m not going to pay royalties; so, it’ll just be for private use and sharing among family and friends.
Another friend thought it was professionally done. Good to know since I was still reeling from the horrible job I’d done on my first yoga video. I used the voiceover feature in iMovie in the documentary, which I’d learned how to use in that ill-fated yoga video. No sex goddess voice this time around.
As a matter of fact, the whole reason I’d burned the candle at both ends was to meet the deadline of sharing the video link with extended family. Regardless of how many people actually take the time to watch, it’ll always be there for prosperity’s sake. Another repackaging of the most expensive vacation I’ve ever paid for.
So, I didn’t exactly honor nature on solstice day, but I used my time wisely and creatively, which was honoring my true nature.
Every year I attend a regional pole dancing competition, as an audience member, I learn something new.
The first year I attended, the biggest takeaway was that I didn’t need to lose 20 pounds to pole dance. I witnessed women who were much larger than me defying gravity, doing one pole trick after another.
The second year, I witnessed a woman nearly 10 years older than me taking first place in the artistic category because she’d practiced her storytelling pole dance routine for a year and had executed it flawlessly.
This year, once again, I witnessed another flawless routine in the artistic category. I’m not sure how the dancer placed, but her costuming wowed the entire audience. Especially me.
She entered the stage in iconic Little Red Ridinghood attire complete with a basket. At the first dramatic flair, she lost the cape, revealing a red wolf tail. Then, after completing a sensational pole trick, the wolf ears popped up.
At the end of the engaging routine, she crawled over to the basket, which sat between the spin and static poles, pulled out a crocheted heart, and with a flourish, did this…
The audience went nuts.
Her entire performance exemplified the artistic pole category. Within the limited time, her choreography and costume contributed to the narrative of Little Red’s transformation into Little Red Wolf.
As a storyteller myself, I especially admire how anyone can tell a story without saying a word. Moreover, she performed an incredible dance routine, including both static and spin poles.
I’ve been pole dancing for nearly four years and have finally developed my calluses. Who knows how many years I’ll take to be a fluid dancer.
One growing challenge is inflammation. As another older woman lamented, “They never told us when we were younger about all the aches when we got older.”
While I ride the supplement carousel, chasing after the moving target of declining estrogen levels, I’ll continue to dance, swim and do yoga. After all, regular movement is the key to being able to move.
I don’t envision competing in a pole competition, but there’s so much freedom and joy in the ability to move, especially creatively.
For this year’s Mother’s Day celebration, we treated Mom to a gospel musical where all the women and a lone man wore a hat AKA a “crown.”
As soon as we entered the theatre, I recognized my 5th grade teacher.
Not only was she one of my favorite teachers, but she was also one of Mom’s favorite teachers.
Over the years, Mom bragged about how wonderful my 5th grade teacher was such that a talkative, creative student like me always had something do after quickly finishing up the regular classwork.
My former teacher had no time to reminisce. She whisked us to our seats ASAP.
Even though the musical was the perfect non-materialistic gift, the theatre had offered its first Saturday matinee the week following Mother’s Day.
All that good singing and funny moments during the interwoven storylines put all of us in such a good mood. Even the weather cooperated.
Afterwards, we treated Mom to our favorite Italian restaurant downtown. Apparently, we enjoyed ourselves so much that neither my sister nor I bothered to snap a picture.
I wish we could have more entertaining moments like this. I know that some days, Mom feels overwhelmed with primary caregiver duties, even with a 48-hour/week team of attendants for Dad. Many a time, Mom has lamented that she thought her life would be different if she were blessed enough to live this long.
That’s what makes occasions such as these so special. We get to step outside the stressful chaos of our everyday lives. I hardly ever pass up the opportunity to gift an experience like this.
