The other day, I was sitting in a sauna with thick steam floating around. I could hardly see my hands. If I were reading a story about Sherlock Holmes regarding a foggy day in London Town, the sauna would make London look like a bright and sunny day in comparison.

A foggy day in London Town.

My primary care physician must have gotten tired of me complaining about my sore joints and stiffness. He told me to get into a regime of saunas. His father told me to exercise every day for twenty minutes, which I have done. His father was my cardiologist years ago, and I exercise nearly every day for thirty minutes. Therefore, I will follow both my cardiologist and my primary care doctor.

This month, I spent fifteen minutes in a foggy sauna, cooled off in a hot tub for ten minutes, and returned to the foggy sauna for a final five minutes. I generally feel an improvement, but when I am on the floor wrestling with Ginger, my Irish Setter, I still look like some old man trying to stand up. That is a humiliating feeling.

There is a psychological advantage to both saunas. There isn’t much you can do beyond sweating in both saunas other than to think. As the fog encircled me, I thought about my last essay. I realized that I got my grandfather’s message of love and care nearly eight decades after he made a snowman for me. Ironically, I retrieved that message because I send similar messages to care, especially to youngsters. I don’t know most of those children and won’t see them again. However, that doesn’t stop me.

In that essay, I mentioned A Ngal Lay and children I flipped at Set Set Yo. The chances of A Ngal Lay or the kids I flipped ever being together again are extremely remote. And that hurts me deep inside.

A Ngal Lay has this picture done by my friend Than Tun Oo, which hangs in her home. She passes by it dozens of times each day. I wonder what she thinks about that painting. At that time, she wasn’t quite a year old.

This photo sits on my desk when some old guy and an infant first met and attempted to process what was happening. I also see that encounter dozens of times daily. It haunts me. This week, my family in Myanmar will receive a wire transfer of funds to assist them during the civil war in their country. A part of that will go to A Ngal Lay and her family.

In the deep recesses of A Ngal Lay’s brain is stored some sort of memory, which she can’t retrieve. The same is true of me and the snowman. While we can recall those critically important memories, we still can, in some strange way, get the message that someone cared.

Bo Bo Gyi, ဘိုးဘိုးကြီး, means honored or hallowed grandfather. Bo Bo Gyi is a Buddhist nat. Nats are seen as guardian spirits. Nats appear to be human but are actually spirits or avatars. Bo Bo Gyi appears to be an elderly man carrying a cane due to his age. He also is an alchemist and can turn ordinary metal into gold. He also protects locals from wrongdoers or accidents. Essentially, he is an overly protective grandfather.

It seems to me that each of us needs to become a Bo Bo Gyi. We need to reach out to others who need love and care. We need to send especially youngsters. Begin with merely smiling at a child. Pretend that you are a duck and quack at some toddler. Each of us has the opportunity of sending messages to others. This goes back to my mantra. It is giving that we get.