Last Wednesday, when we found out that my grandfather had only a few days to live, life got a little sharper. And a little sweeter.
My family gathered around him, and the memories of him came pouring out.
When we used to visit on Sundays, Papa used to buy a dozen mixed donuts and methodically cut them each into 8 pieces. He taught his five grandchildren how to slow down, how to really taste and appreciate.
In the years that he lived by the beach, Papa never missed a sunset. He created a moment for silence each evening — a seaside ritual that I’ll forever hold dear.
Papa was not always a serious, quiet man. My brother and I used to do headstands on the beach with him, and run figure 8s in the sand until we collapsed in laughter.
In his later years, Papa and I connected through yoga; together, we’d practice standing stretches and deep breathing.
Papa masterfully channeled his attention to one thing at a time. Whenever we were together, I knew that I would get his full attention. That presence empowered a sense of clarity and joy in the tiny moments of life. I can see his blue eyes flashing to say hello, his intent way of listening, his precise way of speaking, the exact way his hand moved to give the “Sláinte Mhath” toast.
Above all, I remember his depth of presence; to experience that kind of full-hearted presence is the greatest gift of all.
71-second neck stretch. Practice with me at the top of the page.
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