Things are not as they appear. I am not sitting on a wheelchair, but a throne. The dining-room table is a gathering place and that futon couch, when open is a big flat yoga mat. And so, I park my Power Chair by that flat futon and grab my walker. I pull myself up and do some standing exercises. Seated on the edge of the futon, I’m ready to go down and the music starts. Grabbing my left leg, I roll backwards as if going on a dive with an oxygen tank on my back. I am diving off the side of a boat, while The Clash Rocks the Casbah. Music is a part of my yoga routine and I play it loud. On my back and knees up, the flat of my feet pressing down on the futon. Waves of Hey Rosetta splash over me. Swinging knees to the left, I loosen my lower spine. Swing knees to the right and breathe in deep with Jenn Grant. Pull one knee into my chest and extend the other. Switch to The Weakerthans. When Billy Bragg calls, I’ll stretch my arms long over my head and stretch my toes in the opposite direction. And wish I had a river to skate away on as I turn onto my stomach and stretch again. Rest my head on my hands, I breathe in and exhale. I smile with pleasure, because movement mixed with music is like swimming. Position myself in a cobra, while ‘The Decemberists sing to make me better. Lie flat and breathe deeply, as if floating downstream, because Tomorrow Never Knows.
Photo credit: A detail of a cathedral, Il Duomo in Milan, Italy, taken by Rita Kindl Myers (1993).