Block

In my yoga class this morning, the teacher asked us to hold a block between our legs, and then do a few poses that we would ordinarily do without it. A few chair poses, a sun salutation, and a few other things. It felt unusual. It felt difficult. It felt challenging.

It felt a lot like walking around every day, missing Sammy.

I've heard it described as a pebble in your shoe or a brick in your pocket.
Grief.

It's a constant awareness of something that's just-not-quite-right. Something off. Something that weighs me down a little, or makes it hard to execute a "move" that I would have, once upon a time, been able to do with a little bit more grace. It's knowing that no matter what I do, it's not the same. It's not the way it used to be.

After a while, we put the blocks down. The next move felt lighter, different. But it was still changed. The block had changed how I did the pose. Just that short time with a new thought pattern...and I was different.

I can't imagine ever putting this down. I can't imagine the day when the ache won't be so big.
And I can't even imagine that I will ever be fully the same. I will always be different, changed, adjusted....I might even look the same on the outside.

But the block is always there.

Oh, Sammy. I miss you so much.

317 days since we kissed him goodbye
One year ago, we carved pumpkins and Sammy felt well.
Two years ago, we eye-bombed the hospital, in what became our signature move.
Continuing the fight against pediatric cancer every day. 

Carving pumpkins last year, October 2013

In the hospital, October, 2012

Carving at pumpkin fest in 2011

October 2011

October 2009, making a face "like a pumpkin," he said