Burning Funk

I love James Taylor’s R-rated version of Steamroller Blues.  He is so in his zone you can taste his ooze as his soul motor rides out those electrifying words in a poem of grunts and hums.  It gets behind my navel and waits to pounce like a cat.

 Well I’m a cement mixer for you baby, a churning urn of burning funk.

I am such when I:

• Nail a yoga pose and let the breath lead me.
• Make it up the hill by Grace Church on the route by the Y.
• Own my backbone

• See this.

• Do this

Today I cried before breakfast.  I ran 4 silly hilly miles at a laughable pace.  No churning or burning funk there.  Just a little throw-up threatening in my throat as I climbed up the hill near Grace Church.  I went to a little music café to pick up a latte to drown my sorrows before work.  I waited and watched Keith Urban sing the most beautiful soulful song on the big screen TV in this wonderful little muffin mecca.  The whole thing made me cry.  The words.  His sweat.  His closed eye lids as he chirped out the words we all love to hear.  I don’t even like country music but today it brought me to tears.  I blinked them back as the barista passed my potion to me.  He looked at me funny and I said I was fine there was something wrong with my stomach.

It was the churning urn of burning funk.  Brought on by an Australian hunk with a guitar.  Can happen really anytime, Anywhere.  Let it burn. 

Any funk in your life today?