Superman Sam: 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.