My right leg was cradled in a yoga band stretching straight into the air, toes pointed toward the sky. I snickered about it. “This is the highest stretch I’ve ever completed!” Well, only because I was settled, back on the floor, in a hotel room high in a skyscraper overlooking Park Avenue.
“Funny, how things work out.” I laughed to myself.
Here I was, doing yoga in an effort to strengthen the core of my body while on a trip to strengthen my true core. I was there to spend personal time with members of my family and it felt good to be getting some kinks worked out after sitting for hours while traveling.
When I turned my phone on a few minutes earlier after landing at the airport, the messages began to pop and I spent the entire cab ride to the hotel talking business.
“What do you do?” the driver asked me between calls.
It was a common question and one that I’ve heard hundreds, or maybe even thousands of times, throughout the years. But this time, I thought about his question in more detail than ever before.
We are, too often, identified, selectively, as who we are while we’re working to make money. Since I wasn’t there to make money on this particular trip, a changed answer formed inside my head.
“I’m really a husband, father, brother, friend and gentleman rancher!” I said to myself.
Then my phone tinkled another notice. It was a call from my surgeon’s office.
“Who do you have as a support system?” a feminine voice asked.
“Three cows, one pony and a fluffy Welsh Corgi,” I replied with the other, “changed” answer still whirling in my head.
“Do you have any humans to support you?” she retorted good-naturedly.
I was about to give her the answer she was looking for. Then my mind drifted into remembering a hand written note, enveloped in robin’s-egg-blue, sitting on my desk at home. It was lovingly written to me by one of my daughters right before I went into the hospital three years ago. Just feeling those warm words of caring and encouragement again brought tears to my eyes.
“Support? Yes! I have human support!” I told her.
When the call clicked to an end, the words of Marcus clicked on, just as I was arriving for my stay at the hotel.
“In times of trouble, remember who you are!” Marcus once counseled me.
Not long after my arrival, with Marcus’ words still echoing in my mind, my right leg was cradled in a yoga ban, stretching straight into the air, with toes pointed toward the sky. I was strengthening the core of my body. I was also there to strengthen my true core, to remember who I am.
Lynn Butterfield is a resident of Erda and a managing broker for a real estate company.