My Inspiration for Yoga: My Dad

Well, it’s my first blog entry ever. I’ve been hashing this idea over for a while, and my journey has brought me to this place in front of my computer on the eve of Snowcopalypse, the biggest snowstorm of 2010 in the Washington DC Metro area. In front of me is my reason (one of the reasons) for me being right here in this moment. Tearfully, I don’t know where to start, but I will begin with what I see. A picture of my Dad and me.

My father, Harold L. Howard, Sr. never gave up on his hearts desire to have a daughter. I’m so glad he didn’t. At the lovely age of 57, he welcomed me. The product of second marriages for both parents, “the last of the Mohicans” as he often referred to me as, came into being. Our relationship was wrought with the joys and pains of the father-daughter relationship and if you’ve been fortunate enough to experience that relationship – then enough said. He was a government employee, retired by the time I was in elementary school and my mother a DC Public School Teacher for more than 30 years.

At the age of 9, my father took up the hobby of golf. Not that popular amongst the African American set at the time. For more than 50 years he was an Amateur Radio Operator, with the call letters, W3JZW. I spent many an afternoon sitting on his lap and talking with Ham Operators from all over the world, and he even spoke with the space shuttle. He spent hours soldering wires and tinkering with his signal strength (we would receive numerous courtesy calls from neighbors whom heard his conversations over their television sets and telephones…) Nonetheless, he experienced no greater joy than to follow his passions. It was a blessing to watch him follow his heart.

Never driven by money, and having never graduated from secondary school (blacks were not allowed to complete school in his era) he took an active interest in the educational and extra curricular pursuits of my siblings and I. His daily dose of the Washington Post and network local news at 6 PM were part of his daily routine, as well as walking any number of dogs owned at any given time.

My fathers' pride and joy was having a home that was paid for, and a whip (sports car) usually something non-mainstream (think Renault) in the driveway. He was also civically involved, and took pride in our Prince George’s County neighborhood. He loved taking daily walks, animals, fried southern cooking (of his own making), garlic and onions (there was always a clove on the dining room table), being outside during humid DC summers and in the winter time sitting by the fire watching (to my chagrin) the Dallas Cowboys. Often referred to by my friends with younger parents as “my grandfather”, my father could match any of the younger set with his interests and activities, not to mention overall good health which he enjoyed long into his 80’s.

My father passed away in 2000, a year after witnessing my wedding and the purchase of my first home. Through the years prior to his death, I had the opportunity and often considered relocating, but couldn’t bear to leave him as his health began to decline. Many adults regret this decision, because death is a part of life, and life must go on. However, I never feel this regret because my Dad spent so much of his life waiting for and being there for me. I could think of no better way to spend my 20’s then to be somewhere near him. Though painful to see Dads' health decline, it allowed me to come full circle in our relationship. When he left his earthly home, I thought I’d come to terms with his impact on me in my life. It hasn’t been until now, just over 9 years later as I write this blog that I know why things are happening for me the way they are, and why there is no turning back.

After all, I have had no greater influence in my life when it comes to fearlessly pursing my path than the example my father lived. Am I afraid sometimes? Yes. Do I worry about finances? Heck yea! However, I’ve never been happier. This brings me to the beginning of the documentation of my journey, via the gateway of yoga.