Ouray Yoga™

The National Protrait Gallery This is my fourth time in London. I have been to this metropolis twice as much as New York or DC. Coming to London is a comfort station, a hometown of sorts. John’s parents are from rural areas outside of the City, and so our experience is like the family coming to the fold. We did not intend to take in the tourist sights; however, the first day we went to the National Portrait Gallery . Primarily, we needed/wanted a clean bathroom, and why not see some greats! Cezanne, Renoir, and a favorite: “Sunflowers” by Van Gogh.  The last time I was in NY, I had the fortune of seeing “The Starry Night.” I am a toss-up fan between Cezanne and Van Gogh. Regardless, I could see all and with space. The beautiful part of Covid travel is the lack of crowds, it was glorious to have The Gallery with more than enough breathing room to appreciate the art from a proper distance. Just as we arrived, my daughter came down with a sinus infection. Living in the dorms, the Brits ca

All grand stories should start in the middle All grand stories should start in the middle, amid the action and excitement, but my travails start at the beginning. To travel to England, you must get a negative PCR Covid test within 72 hours of departure. I did everything right, but as the US complicates all things electronic, my test was not ready when I arrived at 6am to fly out of Montrose, CO to Denver and then on to DC, then on to Gatwick. See, here is the problem, the 72 hour window is from our time leaving DC. I lost twelve hours of testing time just on our launch. Then, I am subject to the Doctor's office hours, etc. Suffice, I was down to forty-eight hours turnaround. John’s came in at 5:30am, mine had yet to load. Ah, the spoils of life. I could not board on my extended ticket through to England. We had to interrupt my business-class fare, and buy a new ticket — a hopper to Denver and hope my test results came in, and were negative. As we boarded, my email dinged “negative”

  My World I sent my son off to war today. Not war, but my heart cried this morning. He and his father are going on a Great Basin motorcycle ride -- 2000 miles. My son is only sixteen. When I hugged him goodbye, and stifled my tears, I could feel his acne skin through his t-shirt, and his veal muscles flexing back a hug. Is this remotely what a mother feels when forced to send her son off to war? To the World, he is insignificant; but to me, he is a significant part of my world. “No!” I would yell when he would slam a door with his little fingers. I taught him that fire burns, and jumps from too high of a height will hurt, or break bones. This is what experience has taught me.  If a child survives childhood, life span dramatically increases. Between prehistoric times and up to the 1900s medical revolution, there was a thirty percent mortality rate in infants and children; average life expectancy was age thirty-five. Life span; however, was seventy-years-old. If you lived to see age thi