dead dads living in longmont

I turned 48 last week.

That’s how old my dad was when he died.

I keep thinking to myself -- that’s all he got.

48 years.

When my nephew was 3 years old, we were in North Boulder Park, rolling down that little grassy hill -- running back up to the top, and rolling down again.

When we had exhausted ourselves, we lay at the bottom of the hill on our backs, looking up at the clouds in the sky.

After a long period of quite, he said: 

“Where’s your dad?”

I explained that my dad had died a long time ago.

Of course the next question was “Where do people go when they die?”

I said something horribly lame, like: "Some people believe that the person who dies goes somewhere nice -- to a place that they love and that makes them happy."

Still gazing up at the sky, he said, “Ooooooooh. So your dad’s in Longmont."

He put his hands behind his head and let out a long, satisfied sigh.

The next year, when he was 4, he said — without any prompting from me — that he would be happy to make my next dance with me, but for this dance, we would definitely have to wear hats.

Speaking of dancing, want a Dance Mission?

K, here it is -- same as always and nothing fancy:

1. Put your soft pants on.
2. Find a comfortable place to be.
3. Sense your body in space, against the earth, carving into air.
4. Notice what you notice.
5. Where does that noticing take you? 
6. Follow that…your own curiosity.

Here’s some music to get your started.

I think my dad would have loved dancing like this.

With Warmth,
Joanna and The Agitators
sweetly agitating/persistently upending

Summer Dance Session starts on May 22nd.
Click here for more info.