Challenge Interupted?

Trying not to. But it is a challenge.

DAY 4
I got up and thought about what I needed to do for the rest of the day, and when I'd be able to do yoga. My first thought - I should have gotten up an hour early. I was scheduled to play tennis, had to run over to Prospect Park for the rescheduled Pioneer picnic, and then work on the boat for the last two sails.

Things seemed to be working out when David called to work for me during the 4-6 sail, and Dan had already offered to work the 7-9. I thought I may be able to leave the picnic early and make the 5:30 restorative class. Then my mom called.

Mr. Fagan had died. Mr. Fagan was one of my parents' closest friends who had suffered from Prostate Cancer for nearly 6 years. He was the first to die from what has been referred to as the "Irish Mafia", the group of people that have been in and around my life for as long as I can remember. I told my parents that I wanted to go to the funeral, which was on Tuesday.

I really wanted to go home and be alone, but felt that I needed to stay at the picnic. In hindsight I should have just left. Hours later, I did enjoy the fireworks though. After the fireworks, I went home, and did one of the shortened versions on the yoga DVD. Although it was not a concentrated effort, I was glad to continue on the challenge.

DAY 5
I had decided the night before that I would get up early and do my practice in the morning. Since I had to head up to the compound right after work, and didn't quite get up early enough to head to the 7:30 class at the studio, I did one of the programs on the DVD. I got through the day, and headed up to Grand Central for the Hudson Line to Peekskill. Since I don't have a car, I had to head upstate to meet up with my parents. The funeral was the next day in Colts Neck, NJ at 9AM, and there was no way my parents were going to come into the city to pick me up before headed out to Jersey - the traffic was probably going to be a nightmare anyway.

DAY 6
I'm awakened from a banal dream where I'm on Pioneer during a crew meeting signing up for sails by a knock on my childhood bedroom door. Its my dad, telling me that it was time to get up. It was 5:30. It takes me a couple of minutes to get up, get to the bathroom, and jump in the shower. I had realized the night before that I forget to pack my bag of toiletries; I had nothing with me, but at least there was a new toothbrush in the bathroom that I could use.

As we were getting ready to leave to house, both my parents mentioned how they were having a really hard time dealing with his death. They knew this day was coming, but it was still somewhat of a shock. There is always the hope that something will work out, some drug will be discovered, somehow the person will beat it. Mr. Fagan is the sixth person I've known in the last eight years who was diagnosed with cancer - 2 of them prostate, 1 brain, 1 melanoma, 1 pancreas, and 1 a rare form of abdominal cancer. Other than my cousin's wife who had the pancreatic cancer, they had all either gone into remission or had stabilized and seemed like they had a chance. They have all succumed to the disease, two of them in one week back in 2003. Its awful having to decide who's funeral you're going to go to - the one in New York for your old boss or the one in Denver for a very good college friend.

The Irish Mafia were the group of people that we grew up with in New Jersey before we moved to New York in 1980, and Mr. Fagan and his wife Ita were my favorite parents out of the group of my parents' friends. Most of the Mafia were from Ireland, some of them - like my father - had married an American. There was a core group of four couples, and all these couples had at least three kids, and we were mostly within eight years of each other, with most of us settling within a four year age difference. Between my family and the Fagan's, there was my sister Erin, then Brian, then me, then Erris, then Tara, my younger sister. A couple of years later the Fagans had another daughter, Orla. We all grew up together, our fathers belonged to the Friendly Sons of the Shillelagh, and we learned Irish step dancing.

After we moved to New York, my parents remained close to the Jersey crowd, and we would continue to go down there on weekends for all sorts of festivities. In recent years, the men had joined the Sons of St. Patrick, and both Mr. Fagan and my father have been honored by this group.

After the funeral, the family hosted a brunch at the same hotel that my sisters and I had thrown my parents a party for their 40th wedding anniversary, which is the last time I saw most of the Mafia back in 2004. Although my family had moved to New York nearly 30 years before this, my parents' close friends were still centered around this Irish community in New Jersey, and we decided to invite these people to celebrate my parents dedication to each other. Even outside of the core group of four families, there are many more people that are a part of this group. I was reminded of how close this group remains as I was speaking to friends of my parents, and its truly an amazing bond of friendship these people have formed, mostly due to having a culture in common. This group lost a vital member this week.

After the brunch, my parents drove me home into the city. I felt that I needed to do something to get my mind off of the events of the day, so I looked up the yoga schedule. There was an open and restorative class at 4:30. Fantastic. It was just what I needed.

DAY 7
Back to work. At least it was snack day. I was going to go to a yogaCORE class at 8PM, but once I was home, I really didn't feel like leaving again. I did the full practice from the DVD. I really need to work on that preparation for forearm stand.

I feel like I'm making some progress. Although my legs are still really tight - don't know how much that can really improve - I am starting to get the Sanskrit names for the poses.