On Love and Being Open
Today they announced that they would be cancelling “The Open”, the sport’s world’s ancient tradition of hitting balls into tiny holes while wearing pot holders for hats. This means little to me except that it’s one more glaringly obvious sign that we aren’t getting out of this situation any time soon. Old white men everywhere would have surely held onto the oldest, most boring, tradition in recreation if they were able.
“The Open” is just one in a string of sports cancellations, all of which serve as shocking headlines for when the rich and elite pull the plug on multi-billion dollar enterprises in the name of this virus. It was a big day when they cancelled the NBA in early March, and then that was quickly followed by cancellations of the MLB, NCAA, NHL, QRX, TUV, WX, Y&Z.
It’s mind blowing to think about all the things that have been cancelled, adjusted, shifted, rescheduled, over the past month. For example, I, and everyone else, had my hair appointment cancelled. Before everyone panics, I think I’m going to be okay because I”ve always had a kind of Janis Joplin vibe anyway.
In most states, school is cancelled and therefore so is the sanity of every parent.
It might seem trivial, but any sort of grand celebrations for National Piñata Day are cancelled. Pants are cancelled. Sleep is cancelled. Diets are cancelled.
One of my best friend’s had round two of her cancer surgery cancelled. My little sister had her entire job temporarily cancelled. It turns out that people don’t need anyone to board their dogs when they are stuck at home cuddling with their dogs. It turns out when your job is cancelled, your health insurance is also cancelled. All of this is almost as terrible as the fact that Justin Bieber’s concert tour is cancelled.
I’m just kidding. I’m honestly completely shocked that Justin Bieber, as a human, hasn’t already been cancelled.
Hugs are cancelled. Meetings that could have been an email are cancelled. Getting my favorite pulled pork sandwich with a $3.50 well during happy hour at the local dive bar on a Friday night are cancelled.
Fuck, the whole economy is cancelled.
I was thinking about all of these things, and feeling very overwhelmed, as I was lying on my yoga mat, obviously skipping the crow pose. If anything should be cancelled, it honestly should be the crow pose. I was trying to “notice my breath” but all that I was “noticing” is that I breathe like Maggie Smith in YaYa Sisterhood. It’s not very easy to relax when your brain is full of exponential lines, bell curves and death projections. I’m not a trained yogi, but I’m pretty sure math and death is the opposite of savasana.
After 15 minutes of half-assed yoga, I finally fell out of a sun salutation and Isaiah’s deep voice told me I should lie with my feet flat and my arms wide. Isaiah, of course, is my virtual yoga instructor, and now my best friend because I’m in quarantine. He told me to spend a few moments lying there, with my arms and my heart open.
I wasn’t feeling very “open” with everything around me closed, but since Isaiah was the only person that had spoken to me today, and he literally has a voice like melted cheese falling off of a slice of pizza, I was inclined to do anything he told me to do. I let his voice crumble over me like a warm cookie, and sunk into my yoga mat.
I imagined “being open”.
An open heart.
An open mind.
Whiskey wasn’t cancelled.
Sunday mornings on Google Hangouts with my people wasn’t cancelled.
My hair wasn’t cancelled, even if it is a lot of re-runs these days.
Reading wasn’t cancelled, and neither was writing.
If you asked me, pants were in fact cancelled, but that should be celebrated.
And technically, my friend’s surgery wasn’t cancelled but rescheduled.
I breathed in with my arms and my heart open, feeling grateful she was healthy enough to have her surgery rescheduled.
And, quite honestly, grateful that Justin Bieber was cancelled.