One of my favorite places to be as a child was snuggled between my parents in the wee small hours of the morning. Whether it was the disturbing images of insects and bugs or more sinister phantom figures gliding through the hallways, the not-infrequent nightmares of my youth occasionally afforded a panicked insistence on joining my parents in bed and waking to Dad’s internal alarm clock before the sun was even out.
Their room was dim with the shades pulled, and the dim gray light only allowed for shadows and silhouettes. Still, I can remember my father next to me as he opened his day with several leg stretches before he got out of bed. He never spoke about this, never explained the purpose or reason. Maybe he didn’t want to disturb my supposed sleep. In subsequent years, I would see yoga and fitness instructors advising to do the same stretches to begin their practice.
My Dad would lift one leg up, point it at the ceiling, then slowly cross and lower it over the opposite side of his body, repeating the same motion for the other leg. He would then bring each to his chest and hold them there for a moment. This was how he entered the world each day – movements and preparations in dark, so when he got up he was agile and able to move. It must have worked as he lived for a long time, during which much of the time he got around well. Only in the last few years did that deteriorate.
At night is when I do my stretches in bed. Following Dad’s same routine, it’s a way to relax the body and muscles for a comfortable slumber. When I have time and think of it, I’ll try to begin the day in the same manner, though I’m usually rushing up and out of bed as I press the snooze button for the third and final time.
These are the mundane motions of middle age. As long as there are good memories to go along with them, I’m ok with all of it.
