In the Fullness of Time

It’s been an emotional three-day baseball season so far.  Spring always gets me–there is something about the newness of things that can catalyze morbid self-reflection if I let it.  So I do my best to remember that things happen one day at a time and not in seasons.  Every morning’s a new chance.  But it’s tough sometimes.

The other day I drove by our old house.  That’s actually where the original Woodshed was.  It was a literal shed of sorts; this little blue loft with just enough space for a squat rack.  I started training people there, one at a time.  We’d do pullups off the loft, about nine million workouts based around a single 45-lb dumbbell, and eventually the CrossFit workout “Grace,” over and over again.  I got to know people in that little shed, and I got to know myself better.

However, when we sold that house we sold it to a contractor.  And in the course of updating and renovating, he took the shed down.  I wasn’t prepared to see that, and I wasn’t prepared for how that would make me feel.

“Everything dies, baby, that’s a fact”–Springsteen

It’s a weird thing; the stuff we do now isn’t about the building, but the building was the stuff I did for a while.  I had to work around it, in it, through it.  It was the building block, and now it’s gone.

Then again, yesterday my son came home and told me he wanted to run laps around our yard.  This level of industry is somewhat anomalous, so I asked him why.  “I want to be like you and mommy,” he said.  I wasn’t prepared for how that would make me feel.  I watched him run around our yard, next to our new shed.

This afternoon I sat in my garage training one of my clients.  He’s an awesome kid, and he looked at me while I was sitting on the bench in front of our banner and next to the punching bag and said “that’s such a great picture!”  Then he asked me if he could take a picture like that with my phone.  He gave me a new catchphrase too–“always the hammer, never the nail.”  After he and his mom left I sat and thought for a while, and I thought I ought to write something like this, in the cool of an April afternoon.

“Maybe everything that dies someday comes back”–Springsteen

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