Dear H.Y.

I am writing this letter because it was one of those special things that we used to do since we were children.  With the advancement of technology, I know that it is way easier to text or email a quick message, but your stories were much more tangible when they were written in ink.  They were much more mysterious when I would have to turn the page to see the conclusion of your story written on the back.  Knowing that the ink from your pen travelled all those miles across Canada into my hands made your stories of love and drama and gossip that much juicier.

As we both get older, I keep remembering the things from our childhood because these are the little things that have helped me become who I am today.  I relish in the little moments that have brought us to where we are in our lives.  In a way, your letters connected my Toronto childhood to my BC adolescence. 

 

I remember the games of truth or dare we would challenge each other with.  I remember playing hide and go seek with our siblings.  I remember some of the parties our parents would have, Korean music blaring and the smell of whiskey next to the glass of Coke on the tables, and all the while, we would be playing in someone’s basement or bedroom. 

 

I remember our letters of boys that we would have crushes on because for the most part, both of us were pretty sure that we would marry each one.  And we knew they were THE ONE because they were cute, smart, athletic, mixed, musical, or tall.

I remember our letters during university and the boys were even better because they were cute, smart, athletic, mixed, musical, tall, AND in university! 

I remember our letters when we did actually meet THE ONE.  Wedding plans and mortgages and baby plans all in its gritty details – angst, stress and excitement in the changes in our lives.  Oh how our lives would change.

And finally, we have met the “men of our dreams” in our little baby boys.  More letters, this time of exhaustion and nervousness and joy.  And I feel like we are going through the whole cycle again: our crushes on our sons because they are cute, smart, athletic, mixed, musical or hopefully tall; our dreams of them one day in university or off to meet their special ONES to start new families and lives.

I write this to you today on your birthday, because in the 39ish years that we have known each other, I cherished every single one of those letters of friendship.

 

Sincerely,

 

Your Pen Pal

 

 

 

 

Hot Yoga

I open the door and walk in.  There is a thick heat that almost hits me like a brick wall.  I try to breathe in the air, but it is heavy and requires a deep inhale to suck it all in.  In this dimly lit room, there are a few bodies splayed out on mats.  A light melody plays above my head, but it is oh so quiet, as if the heat is smothering the sound from blasting over the speakers.  I choose an obscure corner, and lay out my mat. There is a message reflecting back to me on the mirrored wall:  I love my life.  Hmmm. I haven’t really thought about my life lately, but suddenly, I feel like I have to make a mental inventory in my head so that I could love my life.

 

I do have beautiful, healthy children.

I do have family nearby that love and support me.

I do feel strong and powerful for entering this room through the smothering heat.

 

And before I know it, the music is blasting.  A petite, tattooed woman in nothing but second skin spandex and a sports bra is yelling at me.  We are pumping our legs and humping our mats. We are bouncing on bricks and squeezing rubber balls between our thighs.  We are downward facing dogs.  We are bouncing bears.  We are posed like children. 

 

I am dripping in sweat, feeling light-headed, trying to practice 4 seconds of deep inhale breathing and trying to force out a deep 4 second exhale through my mouth.  I am fighting to stay alive in this 42°C hot box of a hell. Right now, I am NOT loving my life!

 

And finally, we are splayed back out on our mats with our towels and our clothes soaked through with our sweat.  Exhilarated or delirious from the heat, I’m not sure which one, I walk out the door with gratitude for having survived and finished this class.  Ecstatic at seeing my beautiful, healthy children again; and knowing my family is nearby to love and support me; and feeling strong and powerful for walking out of this room of smothering heat; I love my life.

 

Namaste.