Barefoot ramblings of a geek dad

I am an Oxford educated mathematician. I set myself the challenge of calculating precisely how much we need in life. How much we need to be safe? To have our needs covered? To live a life free or worry? It should be a simple enough calculation...... And the answer is:

My body was born by the Irish Sea.  A Celtic sea. Beautiful and kind in the love of the sun. Unforgiving with white-tipped intensity when threatened. A sea that is always moving. Flowing. Looking for the next adventure. Caressing a calm port. Laughing at the wind. Driven as the rain. Never settled. Never controlled. Looking longingly at the stable mountains. Knowing it will forever crave the peace of their untamed permanence. Knowing that stillness will never be part of its nature. Satisfying itself with stolen moments on the sand. Stolen moments of connection. Stolen momentary stillness between washing in and then washing out. Its whispered loving heartbeat. Laughing children playing in its shallows. Whooping sailors surfing off its crests. Longing for a life with them. Knowing their friendship will be a fleeting shared moment on its unending journey. Learning to celebrate what has been, not mourn what was lost. Meditating on the serenity it has ...

It is a funny thing. 6 months ago I'd have said I was experienced at yoga. After all I've been practicing for years.  Never a week has gone by without my trying to bend my aching limbs back into life. To 'recover' from my running by inflicting a different type of demand on aging ligaments and knot ridden muscles. This year I committed to daily practice. Little did I know the impact this would have on my life. The team at YoyoSno ( www.yoyosno.com ) kicked things off in style. So much so I'm already booked in to kick off next year the same way. My yoga took a dramatic change in direction on my return from the retreat. After years of focusing on the Ashtanga and Viniyasa forms of yoga I have now moved to Viniyoga (originally developed by Tirumalai Krishnamacharya and brought to us via his son T. K. V. Desikachar). Under the instruction of Zoe at  www.yogaleicester.co.uk I have had to learn to discard much of what I thought I knew.  Slowing...

With a son who is about to turn 18, a daughter about to turn 16 and a stepson who seems to be catching them up despite his 11 years, I have been giving some thought to what I wish I’d known when I was a younger man. I’ve learned lots of lessons, all the hard way. What would this limping, scarred old man say to his 21 year old self? What lessons will I pass onto my three? ----------------------------------------------------- Ignore health fads. The only health advice you ever need is to eat well, exercise often and always make time to listen to great music that makes you dance around the lounge, on your own, like a total loon.  Invest in your mind, body and soul. It’s the friend you’ll know the longest .  Ignore what anyone else wants for your life, despite their best intentions they’ll make you waste it. You are beautifully and perfectly made for a reason. Find it and live it without apology. You are enough . You don’t have to prove anything to any...

Skiing, for me, was like Vimto Bon Bons. I used to love Vimto Bon Bons. I can’t recall a more exciting and fulfilling taste sensation than the first time I popped one of the addictive little sweets into my mouth, trusting the enthusiastic recommendation of my kids. The second didn’t have quite the same impact, but was still a tasty treat. By the end of the packet I was still popping the Vimtos at an unhealthy rate but now the pleasure had turned to pain. A pain I was pushing through boldly despite having lost any sense of enjoyment. So it was with skiing. As a younger man I utterly loved the sport. I ticked off reds and blacks with a fearless hunger and sought out any opportunity or excuse for a trip to the Alps. Skiing was a part of me; right up until the point I took a big fall. In a silly moment of catching an edge, I hit the ground hard. Not enough to do permanent physical damage but hard enough to knock any passion for skiing out of my heart. Skiing and I said...

I have an addiction to biscuits. Some people can open a packet of Hobnobs, have one and then put the rest away for another day. Even the dark chocolate ones. What is wrong with these people. Rachie, my amazing wife, will store treats in a cupboard for days and weeks (hidden from me). Nibbling on the odd biscuit when the fancy takes her. I, on the other hand, take considerable pride in my ability to transform a full packet of chocolate loveliness into nothing more than a crumpled wrapper in a single evening. Supported only by the steamy promise of a cup of tea. The truth is I simply can't help myself. The first biscuit tastes utterly perfect. There simply aren't the words in the English language to portray the impact that first bite has on my taste buds. My mouth is watering now at the very idea of it. The second biscuit tastes good and follows soon after. By the middle of the pack the enjoyment has largely gone though. Something deep in my lizar...