While I’m not lucky to live close to my family, I am lucky to have family that comes to visit me. Last week, as is becoming her May custom, my mom graced us with her presence for a few days.
Her visit was like a mini retreat for me, a break in the normal flow of things. A reminder that certain characteristics of myself (and my life) aren’t chosen, or random even, but have roots. Beginnings.
We downward dogged and shavasanaed. We lazed by the pool after a spin class/yoga/pedicure trio at the heavenly Rancho Valencia spa.
We walked on the beach, BBQ’d with friends, and shopped. We talked, over our favorite beverages, of family, work, faith and friendship—everyday conversations I sometimes forget how much I miss. Some things, only moms get.
I swam a little, but otherwise barely trained. I wanted to be with her as much as possible, a choice that meant staying up “late” (for a triathlete) followed by sleepy coffees on the patio always beat my best early-morning run plans.
This morning I ate the last piece of her homemade lemon-poppyseed loaf (she always bakes for us when she’s here, a wonderful compliment to my lack of training), and wished that the world was just a little bit smaller.
And then I promptly returned to trying to live big in the one we’ve got—just like she taught me to.