tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-274787862024-03-06T23:33:32.795-08:00The Path of the WarriorLady does yoga stuff and tries to triumph over depression.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.comBlogger144125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-54905977924012403762010-01-20T09:58:00.001-08:002010-01-20T10:32:51.813-08:00Last Post<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaV5fFpuFimPgg3jA-C1X3lfcIUQODl_PGkddMoBkBIVvxamXubGdEP07tIag1CZmT8MEyZx88P3NXtg_FdTktbslasCRNodTsw2YS8LTHfSTyc6eZGNC2W2xIjfRhcCZfBNJTxA/s1600-h/momandaudreyswing.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 268px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428887136756846738" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaV5fFpuFimPgg3jA-C1X3lfcIUQODl_PGkddMoBkBIVvxamXubGdEP07tIag1CZmT8MEyZx88P3NXtg_FdTktbslasCRNodTsw2YS8LTHfSTyc6eZGNC2W2xIjfRhcCZfBNJTxA/s400/momandaudreyswing.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Hello. It's been a long time. I've decided to post one final goodbye so that it's clear - this blog has run its course. I loved writing it, and loved the response I got for it. I will leave it up for as long as people keep sending me emails telling me they like the blog or the blog helps them in some way. That was the whole point of the blog.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />So much is different now. One huge difference between when I began writing and now is that the children are older. They are 5 and 7. Their lives have expanded beyond Mommy's breast (literally and figuratively). They can dress themselves, go to the bathroom by themselves, brush their own teeth, get themselves a glass of water. They even set and clear the table at dinner time. They are each other's best friend. And Jonah now reads. He will sit and read for long periods of time, while Audrey sits and draws fairy tales on pieces of paper, which she then gathers into "books." Thus, more space and queit is available in the family. Also, we've put both kids in a wonderful Waldorf school. This was one of the best decisions we have ever made as parents. The school feels like our co-parent and our safety net.<br /><br /><br />I am still at 30 mgs of citalopram, daily. This is a smidge less than I used to take, but life has thown us a new challenge (which is beyond the scope of this post to describe) and my naturopath and I have decided to leave well enough alone for awhile.<br /><br />All of my work and study and reasearch, not to mention experience, regarding women/mothers and mood issues, and spiritual work and study, nurtures my work as a prenatal and postnatal yoga instructor. I have actual classes at actual studios for which I get paid actual money. The schedule is not more than I can handle. Every Saturday morning begins my teaching cycle, and I am always grateful for it.<br /><p>Thank you to all my readers. Peace to you.</p><p>-Susie</p><p> </p><p> </p>susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-27926306093542284852009-08-16T08:48:00.000-07:002009-08-16T12:54:12.713-07:00Gun Shy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBzYE0Jhk-SfsBA3O0Ua-8YlxdgTpWKa2Nju9R7jPupJnM6ga3QmrNXtjBjTUiOZbhC7V8fam3gxzjF3Zejcx-X8QTzUyJIq8RJPnk8WnCHn65RLj-0z-jIUWbAK2oFbW_qKeMw/s1600-h/Summer+2009+063.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 268px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370649935157890594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBzYE0Jhk-SfsBA3O0Ua-8YlxdgTpWKa2Nju9R7jPupJnM6ga3QmrNXtjBjTUiOZbhC7V8fam3gxzjF3Zejcx-X8QTzUyJIq8RJPnk8WnCHn65RLj-0z-jIUWbAK2oFbW_qKeMw/s400/Summer+2009+063.JPG" /></a><br />Dear Readers, I am sorry. I have been remiss. I don't write, I don't call, I don't stop by unexpectedly with flowers. This, after all of your support and loyalty!<br /><br />The truth is that this story, or the blog-flavored part of it, may have run its course. While I planned to include the chronicle of a Mother of Two Going Off Meds and explore its universal themes of motherhood, spirituality and brain chemistry, The Eldest Magician* has other plans for me.<br /><br />I'm going to stay on meds.<br /><br />For the first time, I am too scared to even take the first steps of going off the medication. Life is so full, so rich, and I have come to believe (based on past experiences) that my staying medicated allows it to be so. I am pretty sure that the house of cards that Matt and I and the kids have going will collapse if I suddenly go off the rails.<br /><br />Let me back up a little. A couple weeks ago, I went on a backpacking trip with my good friend, Sara. We camped for four days on Shi Shi Beach, which is just below the Makah Indian reservation on the northwestiest tip of the Washington state. Shi Shi is a place of total wilderness. If you break a leg there, you're screwed. We captured and filtered our own water, kept a constant driftwood fire alive, and stared out across the ocean for four days.<br /><br />No kids. No computers. No cell phones.<br /><br />When we came back, as we finally had to do, I re-entered my regular life armed with a few new guidelines:<br /><br />1. Pull the wires out of my ass. Disconnect from the laptop. Start a paper calendar. Unplug more often.<br /><br />2. Stay on the meds. They make everything else possible.<br /><br /><br />Upon my return, I was crushed by everyone's needs. Even Matt's. He needs me to decide about dinner. He needs me to help him put things in boxes. I am the lynch pin of this family. I have raged and railed and fought against this ever since my first baby was born. Now I am trying to grow up and accept the fact that I matter in this family.<br /><br />Earlier in the summer, I felt more brave about exploring a meds-free life. Then, I didn't know that my hubs was going to have to take a long trip for work in the fall. (Picture me having a meltdown while my man is gone and I flushed all my pills.) Then I didn't feel the pressure of my kids entering a new school where a huge amount of parental involvement would be required. (You should know by now how much I loathe get-to-know-you potlucks and forced play dates with people I don't know, not to mention having to find a place in a new community.) Then, I thought my new diet would make everything better.<br /><br />The diet was an interesting experiment and I lost a little weight and I felt light and mostly happy. But I was still on the drugs, and now I really doubt that it's going to make me "better."<br /><br />Also, my man is a lot less willing to be my constant safety net than he was during the early years of our marriage. He needs to have his own periods of emotional precariousness without fearing that it will send me over the edge. My fragility made him feel unable to ever let his guard down. Do I need to say how unhealthy that is for a marriage?<br /><br />We depressed moms don't experience our depression in isolation. Our nuttiness cuts a wide swath through the family fabric. As an emotionally unstable twentysomething, the worst that happened is that I tortured my boyfriend and spent my lunch hours in the office stairwell crying. (No one ever took the stairs there. It was a perfect sanctuary.)Now, when I get pulled down to the doldrums, everyone suffers.<br /><br />And it's not just the checked-out, zombie side of depression that hurts the family. My angry outbursts and simmering rage (picture PMS as a daily occurrence)keep everyone unhappy. The last thing I want is for my kids to be afraid of me. Also the anxiety that always accompanies the rage and the sadness can be crippling and can overshadow everything else about me.<br /><br />It's a blast!<br /><br />As I write this, I am thinking of a hundred arguments against everything I am writing. For example, proper diet and exercise can make all the difference. An acquaintance of mine, who is a therapist and a longtime depression-sufferer, told me about all kinds of research out there that says 40 minutes of cardio per day can literally replace antidepressants. Can I do that? It takes so much time! But the kids will both be in school, so maybe I can...and what if it doesn't work and I go into a tailspin and the next drug I try doesn't work? (Depressed people tend to become increasingly drug-resistant the more they go on and off drugs.)<br /><br />I can talk myself up or down a hundred times a day. My action right now is to take no action.<br /><br />Who wants to argue with me?<br /><br />Somebody please argue with me!<br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">*"The Eldest Magician" is the name of a Godlike character in Rudyard Kipling's story, "The Crab That Played With the Sea." I read it to my kids last night.</span></em>susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-80955772066901684622009-07-12T20:22:00.001-07:002009-07-12T21:33:41.091-07:00Anyway, About My Transition...Yes, I posted about the meds thing and then promptly went off on some other tangents about relaxation and anger management. These are related in a holistic sense. But I meant to update you about what's happening meds-wise.<br /><br />My naturopath advised me to finish the cleanse before eliminating my antidepressants. This was disheartening to hear, as the cleanse is taking what feels like forever and I want to make my transition before the weather gets dark and gloomy. So I just keep reminding myself that I have to do this right, or I will never know if I really did this right. <br /><br />I have about two more weeks. I am on the last phase of eliminating potentially irritating foods. This week's irritating food to remove is anything in the nightshade family. That includes potatoes, tomatoes, bell peppers, eggplants and tobacco. Hot peppers and sweet potatoes are not actually in the same family, hence cleanse-legal for me. <br /><br />I take full advantage of everything that is cleanse-legal. That's probably why I haven't dropped any weight. (Again, not that it matters; I'm just sayin'.)Certainly my newest discovery, Coconut Bliss non-dairy, sugar-free frozen dessert, is keeping my weight, um, <em>stable</em>. It packs a walloping 209 calories per serving, 124 of them from fat. I also snack on a lot of nuts to replace my cheese-cracker habit. This is better for me because it trades empty carbs for protein, but you don't want to know how much FAT nuts are hinding in their innocent little bodies. And avocados? Lord, have mercy. <br /><br />The very last, superfatty-but-delicious legal food I want to tell you about is halvah. If you're Jewish, you know what it is. If you're not, here's the scoop: halvah is a flaky, dense, chewy stuff made from sesame seeds. You can buy it sweetened with honey or not sweetened at all and marbled with pure cocoa. It has the kind of mouth-feel you're looking for when you reach for a Butterfinger. In terms of avoiding a blood-sugar spike and crash, it's great. In terms of calories, well...let's just say a four-inch bar of it is on par with a piece of cake. <br /><br />Not drinking alcohol has to cancel some of those calories out, though. That is mostly fine, not drinking alcohol, a lot easier than I thought it would be. Just please don't somebody write me and say pot is a nightshade or that Percocet is derived from cow's milk. I will seriously weep. <br /><br />I really could go on for pages and pages about the diet and all I have learned from it, but I realize that not everyone has been obsessed with these things most of their lives like I have. So I'll spare you. (Feel free to use the comments section to share your own insights or ask questions, though. I really get a boner over this stuff.)<br /><br />After I'm done with the elimination, then I start adding things back to see what kind of reaction I have. If my original problem doesn't seem to get worse in this phase, then the doctor says we might have to look at a hormone imbalance. Now, eliminating a food would be much easier than playing around with hormones. However, if I do have some kind of imbalance, what great info to have when I try life meds-free. This is one of the reasons that I have stuck with the diet and not gone to a specialist to fix my original complaint. (This presented as a skin problem.) In naturopathic philosophy, It's All Related, Man. So let's find out what It is. <br /><br />Two weeks. Two weeks and I get to start cutting pills in half. <br /><br />Whatever happens, I'll still have my Dark Chocolate Coconut Bliss.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-46823388817624016732009-07-10T11:21:00.000-07:002009-07-10T12:22:13.563-07:00Make Way for the Crazy LadyYesterday my kids and my step-mother-in-law strolled through Boston Common in the sun. A vendor roasted peanuts. A young brunette woman stood in flip-flops and played her violin for change. We rode the Swan Boat around the pond as a young Bostonian frantically pedalled us. We found the bronze sculptures of the ducks from "Make Way for Ducklings." We sniffed the freshly cut grass and blooming trees. I felt that, if it weren't for the traffic, we could've been in another time altogether. We were one of a million families who have strolled along the curving paths of that grand park in the last century. <br /><br />Lost in my thoughts, I followed Gail as she led us toward Boyslton Street and our car. Jonah trailed behind. As we passed a low wall spread with a street artist's half-finished canvasses, I was only vaguely aware that Jonah had hopped upon the wall. He always hops upon walls in parks. I had glanced quickly at the guy's work - crude, amateurish, but he obviously worked hard to produce the dozens of boards that lay spread all over the wall and stacked against a wide, shade-giving tree. I wondered how he made out. I was about to joke to Gail that my artist brother-in-law probably had a low opinion of these artists who sell their work in parks, when I heard a man shout, "HEY!" and turned around to see a tall, greasy man stalking toward Jonah. "Get off of my stuff!" he shouted at Jonah. "You better watch out that you don't touch other people's stuff, or you'll go to hell early!" <br /><br />Was this guy kidding? I moved toward Jonah, who had already jumped off the wall and stood frozen. I folded Jonah in toward my body with my hand on his knobby spine and led him away from the crazy man. I did not even stop to look at the man's face. These things happen from time to time when you live in the city, and the golden rule is just to walk away. I would console Jonah as soon as we were out of this man's orbit.<br /><br />You never, ever provoke the crazy people.<br /><br />I looked at Gail. "He didn't step on the guy's paintings, did he?" I would've been shocked if he had, but if he had, I did want to at least apologize to the guy and be on our way.<br /><br />But.<br /><br />"No," said Gail. "He didn't even come close."<br /><br />I drew the children like ducklings under my mama wings and began walking away. "Jonah, please don't worry about this guy. You did not do anything wrong."<br /><br />"I know," Jonah said, shivering.<br /><br />"You should raise your children better!" the man called after us, still amped and indignant. "You need to teach them not to mess with other people's stuff, you know!" <br /><br />Without a thought, I reached behind me and held up my favorite hand signal to show the fellow my opinion of his parenting advice. It was dumb. It was crass. It was far from yogic.<br /><br />I got the response I expected.<br /><br />"Hey fuck you, Lady! You're going to hell early, too!"<br /><br />Everyone was silent as we walked away. The atmosphere still buzzed around us with baby strollers and little kids eating giant pretzels. We, however, were all sunk in our bad feeling about the man. I needed to say something to break the tension, to let the kids know that they were okay, that nobody had done anything wrong (except, secretly, me), that the man wasn't really mad at us, he was sick and probably couldn't help the things he said. Gail came to the rescue.<br /><br />"Sometimes when someone yells at us it's really hard not to let some of it get into your heart," she said. <br /><br />"Yeah, said Audrey quietly.<br /><br />I thought for the whole drive back to shady Belmont about why I had done what I had done. I have had other such incidents where my anger management was very weak or nonexistent, all of which I came to regret. In fact, what my husband and I joked morbidly about as my "rage" was one of the main things that led me to quit teaching school. I could not be trusted to handle things well when the rage took over. I didn't know how to change myself or fix the problem. Even with the children, I have these moments that are sheer tantrums. They typically come when I feel I've been insulted, kicked, or taken advantage of one too many times. <br /><br />I have some notions, thinking about it now, where this comes from. But I don't have the notion how to change. <br /><br />Someone gave me a little jokey notepad that says across the top, "I meditate, I drink green tea, and I still want to smack someone." There is a reason that person gave it to me. <br /><br />I am a flawed woman.<br /><br />But I do raise my children right.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-1037368265506744402009-07-08T08:50:00.001-07:002009-07-08T09:22:17.165-07:00Unexpected GraceAmong my friends with children, it is widely acknowledged that "vacations" to visit one's family are not vacations at all. This is usually the case for us when we fly to Boston to be with Matt's family. It's not that there's anything horrible happening, or that we have to sleep on dirty floors next to the cat box, it's just negotiating the days with tiny kids and their issues and equipment can feel like scaling the mountain of Sisyphus. Add to that a couple divorces, a variety of jealousies, and New England reserve. Tensions - kept under wrap in company, exploded behind closed doors - can run high.<br /><br />For whatever reason - the summer skies, the beauty of my father-in-law's rose garden spilling over with fluffy white blossoms, the Siamese cats who tolerate the children's attentions - everyone is relaxed. We spend our time drifing from the pool to the patio to the cool, open living room. We snack on the FIL's wife's phenomenal cooking. We lounge on the humongous Roche Borbois sofa and - readers, brace yourselves - we read.<br /><br />I have read an an entire novel in four days, much of it during daylight hours. Do I need to tell those of you with children what a rarity that is? I have even had time to write long, luscious entries in my journal. I believe the reading and the writing and the time all bond together to create a perfect mental environment for even more elevated reading and writing. And thinking long thoughts. <br /><br />This is Summer. This is Grace.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-29700635030655721212009-06-22T12:36:00.000-07:002009-06-22T13:27:21.202-07:00About the Blog...Hello, Friends. I think that I am almost done with the blog, but am hanging on just until I get to the point where I can chronicle my going-off-meds experience. I had hoped to be able to do this many months ago, but the fates did not allow it. I had to stay medicated. <br /><br />I feel it would be a fitting end to this blog if I successfully go off the meds and stay normal for awhile. It would be just as fitting if the experiment doesn't work and I, like millions of other depressives, need that daily chemical adjustment in the form of a pill. I am hoping for the former as an end to this public story.<br /><br />I have prepared my body. With the guidance of my naturopath, past research and some supplemental reading, I am on a Program. I do a level II yoga class twice a week. I do an exercise class called Body Balancing twice a week (this involves a lot of balancing on balls and isometric actions. I think soon I'll be able to crack a nut between my thighs). I try to walk for at least 30 minutes three times a week. And I meditate three times a week. <br /><br />I drink green tea daily, and no longer drink coffee, even the cheating half-decaf drip I was making at home for awhile. No black tea, neither, so no more chai latte indulgences. <br /><br />Some other things that are off-limits: processed sugar, wheat, baking soda and powder, processed soy, food additives like preservatives and fake colors, alcohol, and cigarettes. For the cleanse I'm currently on I will also go off dairy and nightshades for a time, but I won't be making that a regular part of my life. The rest of it, except maybe the leavening, I intend to stick with. I feel so good. <br /><br />All of this is in preparation to go off the meds. And to see if I have sensitivities to any of those foods. <br /><br />I let go of these things by degrees over the last month. Dairy may be harder to transition away from than coffee or alcohol, which is why I'm putting it off for another week. I can't deal.<br /><br />The amazing thing I'm discovering is how much there still is that I can eat. Now, I confess, I am one of those annoying people who really could eat brown rice and broccoli most nights of the week and be perfectly happy. As long as I can also eat my new favorite dessert: mascarpone cheese sweetened with honey, sprinkled with strawberries and slivered almonds. It's not a low-calorie food, but it is 100 times more healthful than a donut. Or a muffin. And I'm not in this to count calories.<br /><br />How I feel: Light. Energetic. Clear-headed. <br /><br />At first I felt confused and frustrated. The first week of the no sugar/no wheat part of the cleanse I nearly cried because I missed my favorite foods so much. What the hell kind of comfort does a salad give you? None! Giving up coffee again made me somewhat miserable for a couple of days. I felt sleepy and depressed. (It passed.) Giving up alcohol, though, has proved to be less difficult than I thought it would be. I miss the taste of wine, but I do not miss the way I felt and the thoughts I had after a couple of cocktails. Drinking always throws me into a somewhat dark tailspin, and <em>I don't need that</em>.<br /><br />My blood-sugar is stable because I'm not eating sugar or a bunch of high-glycemic-index carbs to send it shooting up and plunging down. I eat a little bit of protein every three hours. And I eat protein with every meal. I always have hard-boiled eggs and a pot of quinoa in the fridge. And bags of almonds. <br /><br />I must confess to you that I was hoping this would all result in me dropping a dress size. Hasn't happened. Which brings me back to one of the reasons I want to go off meds: weight gain. The weight gain was minor, about 7-10 pounds, and even though people tell me to get over myself, I really wish I was back to my pre-meds weight. (Some people gain a lot more. I am lucky.)<br /><br />I hope you will stick with me as I embark on the journey forward. Tomorrow I see my naturopath. It's my hope that she will tell me I can start cutting my pills into tiny pieces.<br /><br />I'll be reporting shortly.<em></em><em></em>susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-67486937196658511842009-05-24T16:10:00.000-07:002009-05-24T17:34:40.347-07:00Whenever, Wherever, HoweverIn my Baghavad Gita study group, my fellow yogis and I often struggle to find relevance between the practices recommended by Lord Krishna and the lives we lead. We sit on the carpeted floor of my bright attic and our faces contort with concentration, as if in trying to understand this book we are twisting our very brains. This can be too much, so often one or another of us will get up off the floor and wander over the refreshments table. (That person is often me.)<br /><br />"Look," said my teacher, Denise, one evening of particular group denseness. "These ancient texts were written for renunciates. We're all householders. We live regular lives. We don't live in monestaries."<br /><br />Sadly, no, we must take care of other people and lend our energies to things besides finding the exact location of our third eye point. And this can be a serious hindrance when one endeavors to create a meaningful meditation practice, for example.<br /><br />"Here's what one of my teachers told me," Denise continued. "If you have a busy life and you want to meditate, when should you do it? <em>Whenever you can.</em> Where should you do it? <em>Wherever you can.</em> How should you do it? <em>However you can</em>."<br /><br />I flashed on a mom I know from a mom and baby group a few years ago, who told me about the time she time she drove to Nordstrom for "that essential makeup item," on a Sunday, only to find that the store didn't open for another half hour. She chose to spend that time sitting in the parking garage meditating.<br /><br />Way to go. That's W.W.H. (whenever, wherever, however) in action. <br /><br />I did a similar thing recently while in the bathtub. I lay back, let my ears fill with water, and listened to the sound of my breath for some minutes. I called it meditation because I was able to let my mind float in one place for a bit. While my body bobbed and bumped up against the sides of the tub, I wasn't planning what article of clothing I would slip on after the bath was over, which shoes I would wear to walk to my daughter's preschool, or thinking about anything but the sound of breath reverberating deep in my watery ears. <br /><br />Later, I checked it off on the little spreadsheet I've made for myself to keep track of all the stuff I'm supposed to do to prepare for the upcoming Medication Renunciation. Hot bath AND meditation at the same time! Check!<br /><br />Is that cheating? <br /><br />Hey, W.W.H.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-54875662479121514532009-04-16T09:39:00.000-07:002009-04-16T10:06:45.255-07:00I Think I See the LightThis morning, as I'm going through my routine, I'm looking out at the blooming cherry tree in my yard and feeling sunbeams warm me briefly as I pass by windows. My daughter is being incredibly cute and cooperative, due mostly to the fact that she is on break from pre-school and has had loads of mommy time. <br /><br />We checked out "Free to Be You and Me" from the library - the book and the CD. Unlike every other child of the 70's, I did not grow up with this, so it's my first time being delighted by it. Audrey is addicted. She paged through the book while nibbling her cinnamon toast this morning. I asked if she wanted to hear the music.<br /><br />"No," she said. "Because if I hear it I will need to dance, and I'm not finished with my breakfast."<br /><br />We did a lot of dancing yesterday to FTBYAM. We practiced her ballet routine to it. I almost cried because she was so clearly loving dancing with me, and loving the music, and loving moving her body. Her joys and pleasures are so wonderful and basic - things that feel good, things that taste good, and love. Physical pleasure and heart pleasure. <br /><br />I think she's onto something. <br /><br />My husband said to me the other night, "We've lost our sense of humor. We're acting like life is one big chore to endure."<br /><br />He was right. I was impressed that he'd noticed. I hadn't noticed. All I knew was that I woke up every morning feeling like I'd been beaten up during the night. <br /><br />"We need to make sure to remember to have fun," he added. <br /><br />Again, he impressed me with his insight. <br /><br />"Right," I said. "Like...wait, how do we do that?"<br /><br />Well, slowing down this week has helped give a little space for that. And now that all of Jonah's assessments have been scheduled and are coming up quickly, and the school tuition has been paid and enrollment has been arranged, we can exhale.<br /><br />Spending that extra time with Audrey this week has also allowed me to see her charm rather than only her needs. For example, because we're having a slow morning, we've been able to laze around at the breakfast table and chat about planting some flowers today. I smiled about something and she grinned broadly and said,<br /><br />"I love your smile."<br /><br /><em>Take my hand and come with me where the children are free...</em>susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-32421248914912197602009-04-06T09:27:00.000-07:002009-04-06T10:28:29.591-07:00My BabySome loser on a train this weekend asked me if my son had "cleft palate." <br /><br />"No," I said. <br /><br />"Oh, well my mom has cleft palate and she has a lisp like him," he offered.<br /><br />"He just has a lisp," I said.<br /><br />We were on our way to the door. Jonah had been talking my ear off for most of our two-hour ride into Seattle. Because he's six, he talks loud enough for everyone to hear. And because he's...eccentric and totally adorable, folks respond to him. Usually people say nice things like, "My, what an inquisitive mind he has!" or, "He has so much to say!" or, "You've got a very special little boy." Most of the time my heart swells with warmth at how he draws people in. <br /><br />No one's ever offered the observation that he sounds like the bones in his face didn't grow together. Even though the guy didn't say, "Gosh, your kid seems kinda retarded," I flinched at the insinuation that sometime, somewhere, something had gone awry. <br /><br />It must be said that our friend with the cleft-palate mom had been offending me for the past hour by drinking and making his nine-year-old daughter give him kisses. Around men like that, my victimized inner child rises up with breath of fire and weapons of mass destruction. I truly felt if I'd had the chance I would've shoved this fellow off the moving train and the world would've been the better for it. <br /><br />Unfortunately, he was seated comfortably nowhere near the door. I kept walking.<br /><br />It's hard to say of this situation what hooked me more: the way the man behaved towards his daughter, or his thoughtless comment about Jonah - seeing that Jonah does have some kind of developmental issue and I'm trying to get used to that fact.<br /><br />Maybe I've just had a bad month. <br /><br />Has anyone ever said something about your kid that made you grow horns?susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-45376459058893512722009-03-20T16:38:00.000-07:002009-03-20T17:36:14.675-07:00I'll Take ItThis week, my grandmother shuffled off this mortal coil. She was 78, mean, and one of the people I have most adored in my life.<br /><br />I left Seattle and our whirlwind new life of doctor's and teacher's appointments, meetings with specialists and new diet regimens. My mother and I descended upon Grandma's double wide trailer in Onalaska, WA, to make some sense of what she'd left behind and feel if her spirit was still hanging around.<br /><br />It wasn't. (For this I was glad. It would be totally in her character to haunt a thirty-year-old trailer with nicotine-stained ceilings rather than move onto celestial bliss. If I had felt her there, I would have shouted at her to GET AN AFTERLIFE, ALREADY.)<br /><br />I unrolled flannel packets of tarnished silverware and marvelled at the daintiness and uselessness of the pieces. Grandma had packed away at least four silver sugar spoons. There was an olive spear. Seafood forks. Dozens of butter knives. A spoon made for easily scooping relish out of a jar and onto one's plate. At one point, I had unpacked half a drawer of silver and had it spread out over the dining room table in front of me in all of its anachronistic glory. <br /><br />"Why did she have all this shit?" I asked my mom. <br /><br />She looked up from Grandma's desk, where she was feeding fifteen-year-old power bills into the shredder. <br /><br />"Some of it was Ba Ba Bessie's and Grandma Gayle's and Grandpa Ralph's. Oh, Honey, she loved to hold a proper Christmas dinner. We had some big Christmas dinners when we were kids, with all the china and the crystal and the silver. She kept it all these years I guess because she was a pack rat. And no one else wanted it."<br /><br />I wanted it. I loved that she knew so much about the uses of curved bone plates, salt cellars, fish servers, pie servers, and cream pitchers. She could tell the difference between a mustard jar and a celery holder. She had, and used until very recently, crystal dishes made specifically for serving bunches of whole green onions. She enjoyed the gentility such items brought to a table, even to one's person; I know this because of the way she softened and brightened when she talked about them to me. Where she learned all of this is a mystery, but knowing about it, and amassing collections of it, brought dignity into her life.<br /><br />So, even though I have nowhere to put the silver, I packed it all in a paper shopping bag and loaded in into the back of my car. It's now sitting in a heap of dirty flannel on my kitchen island, awaiting silver polish. (Which of course I do not own.)<br /><br />Perhaps, since Grandma made us promise not to give her a funeral, I will hold a dinner in her honor.<br /><br />I'll use every last relish spoon.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-6845434083592654902009-03-07T10:11:00.000-08:002009-03-07T10:53:59.343-08:00Don't Even Think About ReflectingMonday brought the promise of Regular Life. School, carpool, yoga classes, teaching, cooking, maybe a few moments for reflection and writing...<br /><br />...and God said, <strong>HA</strong>!<br /><br />"I want to talk to you about Jonah," said my son's teacher one afternoon as I helped her tidy up the classroom. "There are some strong indicators that he may be on the autism spectrum."<br /><br />Really. I called a friend who has an autistic child, and she said, "No way."<br /><br />I spoke to Jonah's occupational therapist and she said, "No way."<br /><br />I called Jonah's pediatrician. The girl at the front desk didn't want to schedule an appointment. "Let me have her call you." <br /><br />Missed the call while talking to the occupational therapist. Oh, she'll be back next week. <br /><br />Interviewed with a Waldorf school for Jonah. Felt myself melt when their response to our report of Jonah's unique characteristics was this: "All of that is okay. That's what we support here. This is a healing program." <br /><br />Unable to control myself, I started to cry. <br /><br />"Here's a tissue," they said. <br /><br />I called the pediatrician again to schedule an in-office appointment. <br /><br />Now we wait to test our child. Is he okay? Is he not okay? What can we do to help him? Will switching to a more suitable school make the difference that we think it will? Will he ever learn to write properly? How could we have been managing this differently had we known there was a real problem and not just a "delay"? Is every day that he goes to his regular, chaotic, fast-paced school damaging him further?<br /><br />Shit, I need to go for a walk. Maybe I'll take the do-<br /><br />Nope. <br /><br />RRRRRING! Can you sub two classes for me today? RRRRING! Can you sub for me for four days on Whidbey Island? RRRRING! The doctor needs to reschedule that appointment. We need your help with the school auction. Can we meet after school with special ed teacher? <br /><br />Last night I crawled into the futon bed in the attic and cried until I fell asleep. I hated to do it. It smacked of the Old Depression Days, when this was my default behavior, but there was no way around it. I was saturated.<br /><br />Today I am reading a book called <em>The Out of Sync Child</em>, because a few people have floated the idea that Jonah may be coping with something called Sensory Processing Disorder. And I keep crying. If only we'd known earlier!<br /><br />When will we be able to find some clarity? My mind being what it is, I can't do anything properly right now. This morning I tried to load some dishes into the garbage. <br /><br />All I can do is say no to any requests that come into my life right now unless they have to do with schools and Jonah. I have to slow down. I have to watch my child carefully, give him extra tenderness and space to be himself. I have to hope that stuff will stop happening.<br /><br />'Cause I'm dealing with Emotional Integration Disorder.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-78008601751836152072009-03-07T09:56:00.000-08:002009-03-07T10:56:04.494-08:00Wham! Blam! Kapow!The day Ada died, I had two more hours of the Anusara workshop to do. Heaven knows I'm committed to my yoga, but there are limits. <br /><br />Still, one of my teachers had asked me to teach two of her classes that night. I'd said yes the day before, before I'd known that my dog was sick. <br /><br />So, at a certain point in the afternoon, I wiped my tears, squeezed into yoga clothes, and went to teach two classes.<br /><br />Teaching in the studio where I'd been a student for eleven years felt almost forbidden. I kept thinking, Is this allowed? Am I really supposed to be up here in the front of the room? Jake, one of the students in the second class (which had been my class for several years until recently), looked at me as he unrolled his mat and said, "Are you teaching tonight?" <br /><br />"Yep!" I said.<br /><br />Another student from the back of the room added, cautiously, "Have you done this before?"<br /><br />I laughed. "Yes."<br /> <br />I led the students safely through poses, I challenged their bodies, I cracked jokes and made references to the German yoga teacher I'd had in Mexico whose mantra was, "Hold za poose, doon't hold za breath." <br /><br />And then I went home and thought, Oh my God, I just taught at Seattle Yoga Arts! Oh, my God, my body is in such pain from the workshop! Oh my God, my poor dog is dead!<br /><br />I wanted to think about it all, to write about it all, but instead I fell dead sleep.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-92011046265249345932009-03-07T09:08:00.000-08:002009-03-07T09:34:50.314-08:00Goodnight, AdaMy dog didn't make it. She was doomed by a tumor that had ruptured. From the moment she had started acting sick, her little soul was already aiming for Dog Heaven. <br /><br />For a few days I kept the yellow quilt in a wad on the couch. It was the last thing she'd touched. It bristled with black dog hairs. I curled around it and squeezed it and tried to find a last drop of her life in it. I couldn't rouse myself to start putting her things away, even though her dog bed and plastic bags and toys still took up space in the back of the station wagon.<br /><br />Then one day, Jonah said, sadly, "Mommy, can we please put Ada's bowls away?"<br /><br />"Yes," I said, and immediately washed them and put them away.<br /><br />The way we move through hard times, no matter how much we may resist this, is little by little. After I washed the bowls, a few days later I washed her bed. Finally, after I began to feel silly about keeing it around, I washed the yellow quilt.<br /><br />Now Audrey is using it in her imaginary games of islands and castles and Peter Pan. Once, we stopped in the middle of playing and looked sadly at the quilt.<br /><br />"This was my baby blanket," I told Audrey. We gazed at the little cut-outs of blobby, star-shaped figures that my great-grandmother had sewn onto the yellow fabric thirty-something years ago. "But this is also the blanket we took Ada to the vet in when she got sick."<br /><br />"I miss Ada," Audrey said in a tiny voice. <br /><br />"Me, too." I lay down on the blanket and pressed my cheek against it. "I wonder if some little bit of her spirit is left in here."<br /><br />Audrey lay down, too. "I think I hear something," she said. <br /><br />"We miss you, Girl," I said into the blanket.<br /><br />"We love you, Ada," Audrey said into the blanket. <br /><br />Goodnight, Ada.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-86745346723812715702009-03-01T09:28:00.000-08:002009-03-07T09:56:27.109-08:00Forces of Nature, Part IIIAt six a.m. on the second morning of the John Friend workshop, I awoke to the sound of my dog falling down the stairs. The slip and crunch of claws and bone was unmistakable. With much wincing (ooh, the hamstrings, eesh, the triceps), I descended the stairs to find Ada, our agile and chipper border collie mix, limping aimlessly in the hall. She minced over to the living room, where she lay down between two pieces of furniture and commenced to breathe short, raspy breaths.<br /><br />Matt and I made arrangements for him to take Ada to the vet while I went to the morning Anusara workshop. Before I left, we wrapped Ada in a small yellow quilt and loaded her into the back of the station wagon. <br /><br />"I'll call you at the first break," I said to Matt, and took one last look at the dog. She was lying stiffly in the position we'd placed her. She looked terrible. This was really happening; I might be saying goodbye for the last time.<br /><br />At the workshop, our theme was gratitude for our teachers. We were supposed to be thinking of them and praying for them and remembering all they had done for us. Instead, I kept thinking of my dog. When John said, "Remember that time when you needed your teacher and she was there without judgment for you," I thought of Ada. <br /><br />I had complex feelings around my dog. I'd made a lot of my first parenting mistakes with her. I'd also never been so devoted to any living creature as I was to her in her early years. <br /><br />But children happened, and a new career happened, and a bigger house and more demands on my time and attention. Over time she really became the lowest person on the totem pole. And sometimes, worse than that, I saw her as a nuisance. We no longer had a lifestyle that supported the needs of a high-maintenance working dog. There simply wasn't space in our life for daily hour-long walks, frequent trips to the off-leash park, agility classes, etc. I felt sad for her, because her potential was being squandered. <br /><br />She had gotten fat and a little despondent. That was entirely our fault.<br /><br />But back to the yoga workshop. John was talking about the power of being present. "You must be present to win!" he said. All 200 of us laughed. I was present. <br /><br />I was present with my dying dog.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-42546739369342648742009-02-25T16:26:00.000-08:002009-03-07T09:47:44.033-08:00Forces of Nature, Part IIThe kind of yoga I practice is Anusara yoga, which was founded by a delightful goofball named John Friend. Whenever John Friend comes to town, all of my yoga friends go to his workshops. It's a no-brainer. For us, he's like the Pope. <br /><br />This year I scraped together the time and the courage to go. Nevermind that the first workshop started at 8 a.m. the morning after I'd just gotten back from Mexico at midnight. I knew I'd get there and ride the collective shakti until I woke up enough to ride my own. And then, maybe I'd explode with happiness.<br /><br />Two hundred men and women lined up their mats edge to edge in the great hall of the Nordic Heritage Museum. A full band played groovy Indian music on a stage. John, in shorts and sleeveless shirt, walked around, snapping his fingers to the drum, and saying things like, "Feels good!" <br /><br />All of my people were there. Blue-haired Rebecca, bald Davida, Adonis-like Robin, the lady I teach up in Edmonds every Thursday, Jodi, Kit, Anne, Megan, Dan, Will, Richard...and my beloved teachers, too. They walked around like goddesses, helping us perfect our poses. I saw demonstrations by a man named Adam, whose thighs were as big as my head and who could lift one leg nearly vertical while balancing on the other foot. (Between you and me, he looked like the happiest, most glowing, healthy person on the planet.) And then there were the musicians, who, when not playing an instrument, simply stood up on the stage and did their yoga, too. <br /><br />YES. These are my people, I thought. This is power and grace. This force I'm feeling is all strength and beauty! How shall I be a part of it? <br /><br />I raced home to bring food to my family. We'd been out of town for a week; the cupboards were bare. Then, after wolfing a bagel sandwich and chilling with the kids, I raced back to Ballard for another two-hours of intensity.<br /><br />That night, I nearly fell asleep while eating my dinner. I was so worn out, so physically tired and sore, I couldn't think. I could barely talk. I passed out in bed without the chance to process the day. Surely, there would be time for that tomorrow.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-29094636213502900122009-02-25T15:24:00.000-08:002009-03-07T09:43:26.874-08:00Ohhhh....MexicoGracias, Isla Mujeres. Te amo.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigUhKRnO1Kpqxk8XOrnRcXmLY1EJ8fMNdOA_H7NpJ4Iaf6y7egbC-iNDdnq_J999bgLwMXwzLf0EWnMF9sIpOvm3e0yVM_PoBmMo3USgh6majwl4_DpnDZ1BdXB9jKQjMtjz7s-g/s1600-h/DSCN0462.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigUhKRnO1Kpqxk8XOrnRcXmLY1EJ8fMNdOA_H7NpJ4Iaf6y7egbC-iNDdnq_J999bgLwMXwzLf0EWnMF9sIpOvm3e0yVM_PoBmMo3USgh6majwl4_DpnDZ1BdXB9jKQjMtjz7s-g/s400/DSCN0462.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306889486706693858" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYkKq3wfl0dLb_5cH4YkA11NNtQuZBkIydKmuLZYm5GznAfmB4F1GGzra6TFvizQuJ0IhiIZVMCvHShEH4EUb7WNxRkMCaCPN2tiT2PzF-OCShfj717rTfaKA0JWyAfWBuMB-PQ/s1600-h/DSCN0435.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicYkKq3wfl0dLb_5cH4YkA11NNtQuZBkIydKmuLZYm5GznAfmB4F1GGzra6TFvizQuJ0IhiIZVMCvHShEH4EUb7WNxRkMCaCPN2tiT2PzF-OCShfj717rTfaKA0JWyAfWBuMB-PQ/s400/DSCN0435.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306889254365019522" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6njCnlLpphr6t8br7QkclfmTXxLhvj9NIp7mw33NZYKoEk1nqr9ic8Q_ZEa36gWqjmDXMeCTHsuczcoOMsZyCVZXKS8V0x4D4AV4zHUrE1Ry2Pb4PcvptbTYRQpywExgV4gn1Q/s1600-h/DSCN0444.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6njCnlLpphr6t8br7QkclfmTXxLhvj9NIp7mw33NZYKoEk1nqr9ic8Q_ZEa36gWqjmDXMeCTHsuczcoOMsZyCVZXKS8V0x4D4AV4zHUrE1Ry2Pb4PcvptbTYRQpywExgV4gn1Q/s400/DSCN0444.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306881720257378114" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjttLE1v6cWoKZHd8NsM13xDnVEdCrJcqHqJWk_Q8QQ3aTtqPI5WgMJ7pgKEhCvsX38GyvFn_wibf4fS4UA2QY69x2hLdqljhBPsXdxYQBOSoeKqFX8CrQVPPLp7XyK8H-Ri4IUNA/s1600-h/DSCN0431.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjttLE1v6cWoKZHd8NsM13xDnVEdCrJcqHqJWk_Q8QQ3aTtqPI5WgMJ7pgKEhCvsX38GyvFn_wibf4fS4UA2QY69x2hLdqljhBPsXdxYQBOSoeKqFX8CrQVPPLp7XyK8H-Ri4IUNA/s400/DSCN0431.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306881141271879650" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEMShVdHuIx7tzYSx3x44iM6iNvizeR9VTvkJGC1QJQe59jvNzH4FyOKu1_NgsHbGOzYElvjJBagwDZ1EgFlHZZ5D_7TOGc7mNVTEBXkOYkM7X0okLmTEQ1ZAmq5yMgMaxCDRBw/s1600-h/DSCN0428.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEMShVdHuIx7tzYSx3x44iM6iNvizeR9VTvkJGC1QJQe59jvNzH4FyOKu1_NgsHbGOzYElvjJBagwDZ1EgFlHZZ5D_7TOGc7mNVTEBXkOYkM7X0okLmTEQ1ZAmq5yMgMaxCDRBw/s400/DSCN0428.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306880956157977074" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzSeA1Wmnnq5fOPXKSoED5BcgySvp1pKOCPVdxrNy1GFT5gvwWuGHCQPJbp_mm6c02qbYVZOHBWF69UWb5UlZB0VV2Y3axXy-t1rGcgOOQ-oU2GoKvd4A4QMDy5l2wNjOEvE9aw/s1600-h/DSCN0411.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzSeA1Wmnnq5fOPXKSoED5BcgySvp1pKOCPVdxrNy1GFT5gvwWuGHCQPJbp_mm6c02qbYVZOHBWF69UWb5UlZB0VV2Y3axXy-t1rGcgOOQ-oU2GoKvd4A4QMDy5l2wNjOEvE9aw/s400/DSCN0411.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306880497643845986" /></a>susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-85319457750331408912009-02-25T14:20:00.000-08:002009-03-07T09:39:41.951-08:00Forces of Nature, Part IThere is nothing that keeps a Northwesterner going in the early months of the calendar year like the promise of getting the hell out. Matt and I have made it a habit for the last three years to vacate the mud and moss of Seattle for at least one week during the crucial dark and rainy months of Seasonal Affective Disorder. We went to Mexico, Hawaii, and now Mexico again, this time the Caribbean side. It’s a long trip from here to there, and we had a dicey itinerary with nary a moment to lose between connecting flights in Salt Lake City. <br /><br />We got the kids up at 4 am and made it on to our 6 am flight with no trouble. <br /><br />And then we sat.<br /><br />There was a problem with the hydraulic fluid. Seems it was leaking. No one knew why. Oh, whoops, the hydraulic line was broken. This would be simple to fix, as soon as a new one could be located and…oh, yes, the nearest replacement part was in LA. Everything would be ship-shape in a mere three hours.<br /><br />Matt and I, in separate areas of the plane, texted each other on our phones. “Fuch,” he mistyped. <br /><br />“Do you mean Holy Mother of Shit This Really Sucks?” I typed back.<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />We deplaned. After Matt engaged in extensive conversations with Delta Airlines on his iPhone, it was determined that there were no seats left on any flights that day to Cancun from the western United States. Our best bet was to get on this flight to Salt Lake, whenever it left, and fly to Cancun the following day. But hey! We would get to spend a night in exotic downtown Salt Lake City, Utah!<br /><br />While all of this business was transpiring, I led the kids though several rounds of goofy sun salutations in the waiting area. It didn’t occur to me to be self-conscious. The more steeped in the yoga world I get, the more I forget that not everyone else is. In any case, the people around us were sunk in their own private dramas, complaining to relatives and Delta Airlines on their cell phones. I even let the kids crawl on me and under me while I did dog pose, just because we were on vacation and having to wait four hours for the next flight. <br /><br />We lived in the moment, moment to moment, all of that day, never knowing what would happen next, and never expecting what we hoped for to happen. It was a good strategy, especially with the children. We got on that plane, successfully made it to Salt Lake City, rode a shuttle to the crappy hotel the airline paid for, and then promptly enjoyed the indoor heated pool. The pool saved the day for the kids. <br /><br />While we walked back from the brew pub where we had dinner, the temperature dropped deeply. Both kids had melt downs. And the next morning brought a foot of new snow. Guess what that meant? Oh, a two-hour delay while we waited to get de-iced. At that point, we had been travelling for 28 hours and there was not yet any white sand between our toes. There was just a lot of white snow blowing around the runway. I felt we had been there, waiting, forever, and that we might always be there, dreaming of Mexico.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-11532746176267004972009-01-11T16:31:00.000-08:002009-01-11T16:32:54.656-08:00Snow on Roses<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxf45dpLzFy7t_WYGLZhz4h4lA37lx5OCBlJZqJVjCcMayJbG1n0Uto5nCIia-LxATrWeP37JQfi9KPooG-zcsaLjlvTc0Ih155LJy6PVkaamAJ8hK1Oz7QnRLfWA3_CPcxn1tog/s1600-h/Snow+Storm+%2708+001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxf45dpLzFy7t_WYGLZhz4h4lA37lx5OCBlJZqJVjCcMayJbG1n0Uto5nCIia-LxATrWeP37JQfi9KPooG-zcsaLjlvTc0Ih155LJy6PVkaamAJ8hK1Oz7QnRLfWA3_CPcxn1tog/s400/Snow+Storm+%2708+001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290198692783557842" /></a><br /><br /><br />I opened the front door to my elderly neighbor. He was wrapped in scarves and gloves and a hat, and some mighty expensive looking waterproof boots. <br /><br />"H-hello?"<br /><br />"Do you have a digital camera?" he asked. His accent is thick and charming, German or Danish or Swedish. (His name is Hans; I can't be too far off.)<br /><br />"Yes..."<br /><br />"You must come take a picture off da roses," he pointed toward my side yard. "Der is snow on your roses!"<br /><br />It was ten o'clock on a weekend morning. I wasn't dressed, the kids were running wild through the house, and well, it looked awfully cold out there. But I told him I'd be right out, threw on a sweater, grabbed my digital camera, and walked out the back door.<br /><br />Hans met me inside my backyard (he was feeling very at home here)and allowed me to help him down the snowy steps out to the sidewalk where my roses were, indeed, blooming under a blanket of fresh snow. <br /><br />He pointed to a jaunty clump. "Take a picture of dis one," he said. I did. "And take a picture of dis one, too," he said, pointing toward a lone, sad, rose drooping under the weight of a dollop of snow. I positioned the camera away from my body so I could see through the digital screen. Hans leaned in to get a look at my shot. He held my hand and moved it to where he thought it should be. <br /><br />"Vould you like me to take it for you?"<br /><br />"Sure," I said. I handed him my camera. He took it, placed a foot up on the side wall, and took it. <br /><br />"I have been out here already taking pictures. I didn't vant you to miss it."<br /><br />"Well, thank you," I said. "I appreciate that."<br /><br />And I did. It was nice to have someone pull me outside to look at something beautiful. I'm usually the one around here doing that, because I'm such a big sap. <br /><br />Hans and I stood around for a few more minutes, chewing the fat about my house and the people who lived here before we did. Then I got uncomfortably cold (it was snowing) and promised to invite him in sometime, but not today as I was a little embarrassed at still being in my pajamas. He smiled - his mouth was full of graying teeth - and he said he'd like that.<br /><br />Maybe he'll point something else out that I've failed to notice.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-50348598184594624252009-01-03T17:17:00.000-08:002009-01-11T16:02:25.470-08:00Signs of Devotion in Las Vegas<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtABZVfqoLmhoTnOgx7U9Q5n-ZeEWqbrEJOxt18c07H4vQmGc-0-YyybgUhIdtnCBq72Qv6p8axyI4K9koGx-Mot1mvDYpxdhaPUEVkb99P6r3A7JQpodYvKNU1ccI3lP_2T23hw/s1600-h/Las+vegas+015.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtABZVfqoLmhoTnOgx7U9Q5n-ZeEWqbrEJOxt18c07H4vQmGc-0-YyybgUhIdtnCBq72Qv6p8axyI4K9koGx-Mot1mvDYpxdhaPUEVkb99P6r3A7JQpodYvKNU1ccI3lP_2T23hw/s400/Las+vegas+015.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290190056960328642" /></a><br />Outside of Caesar's Palace, between a shopping mall entrance and a walkway over The Strip, sits an altar to the Buddha. It's easy to miss as it's tucked away behind some bushes, and also one's eye is automatically drawn to the 10-story faces of Donnie and Marie Osmond plastered to the side of The Flamingo hotel. Once I saw it, I grabbed Matt's sleeve and slowed down to study it.<br /><br />It's a place to pray in the middle of shopping and gambling and drinking. The 10 foot high, gold buddha, in full Thai headdress, sits with perfect equanimity in the center of a fenced square. Along the rails are kneelers, on which devotees can comfortably rest their knees and elbows while they pray. <br /><br />One young woman chose to forgo the kneelers and instead just hit the pavement. In her skirt, she pressed her knees, the tops of her feet, her forearms, and her forehead onto the dirty concrete. She stayed that way for awhile. Around her, other women knelt on the kneelers and held long sticks of incense in front of their faces. They bowed their dark heads and closed their eyes.<br /><br />"Praying for luck at the blackjack table," Matt whispered. I shrugged. Who knew what people prayed for? The altar offered a chance to dip into spiritual reverence, in a place that seems to revere mostly designer shoes, sex, and winning big. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)I itched to kneel down in front of the Buddha myself, as I see every place to pray as a universal invitation to offer myself up for a few moments. But I worried the people there might not appreciate an obvious interloper, even if I did exactly what they did. I was sure to commit some gaffe. So instead of metaphorically jumping into the hot tub uninvited, I gave a silent inward bow and took a few secret photos. <br /><br />Our next stop was The House of Blues for a Sunday gospel brunch. There, we ate shrimp and cheesy grits, bacon and sliced melon. We drank Bloody Marys. Then we watched a rousing, Praise-the-Lord gospel performance by a slick group from LA. Since it really was a performance and not a church service, I wondered how much Jesus would be a part of things. <br /><br />Well. Jesus' name was alive and well in The House of Blues. Witnesses raised their hands. People danced in the aisles. Those who knew the songs hollered along. I watched, in myself and some other people there, a confusing conflict take place. We were swept up. We wanted to ride on the river of Love. But oops, woops, Oh yeah, I don't actually believe Jesus Christ is my personal savior. Kinda forgot about that, and kinda forgot about all my Issues With the Church, and blah blah blah. Aw, screw it. When you think you feel divine love, stand up and say yeah. <br /><br />So this time I did.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-26801107828869545802008-12-05T21:15:00.000-08:002008-12-05T22:58:04.252-08:00Hitting the Earth with a Thud"Stand with your hands over your heart and look across the room to one of your friends," said Jane, one of my fellow yoga teacher trainees. She had arranged us, her peers, in a horseshoe shape around the edge of the studio. Typically, we're looking at the back of each other's hairdos; the most intimate moment we're going experience is our head coming a little too close to our neighbor's personal area in a wide-legged forward bend. <br /><br />I looked across the oak floor and was delighted to meet the eyes of one of my favorite yoga friends. It was so out of the ordinary to experience full-frontal eye contact in class! I held his blue gaze and grinned. <br /><br />"Keep looking at your friend as you fold forward and bow to them," said Jane. <br /><br />I looked, and looked, and bowed. I bowed to what I had learned of this person over the past two years of teacher training. I bowed to his light, his heart, his sadness, his beauty. <br /><br />Jane led us into exalted warrior pose. This involves a deep lunge and a decent backbend, with one hand pointing to the sky and the chest opening in triumph. I love this pose. I'm still not very good at it. I think I must look only somewhat exalted in the pose, like a maybe just an ambivalent warrior who aspires to someday be exalted. But today it was fine that I still can't bend back very far. This wasn't my pose anyway.<br /><br />"Give this pose to your friend," Jane said. "Shine your heart out across the room." <br /><br />I pictured my friend's typical exalted warrior: major backbend, heart looking at the sky, nose pointing at the wall behind him. Well, I thought, maybe this will be like a my-heart-to-his-diaphragm energy shine, but here goes. Zap. <br /><br />The room had gotten very quiet. I heard the breath of the women on either side of me. Jane led us into Warrior II. This is another deep lunge with the arms streaming out in front of and behind your body. I like doing this pose with my front palm up, like I'm offering something out to a little bird that may come land on me. Today I offered my effort to stay in the pose to my friend.<br /><br />This was great stuff. Not only was there all kinds of good, clean energy zapping all over the room, but I was most definitely not thinking about myself and my little worries. I wasn't even thinking that much about my usual irritations and pleasures in the poses. I was just giving it all up to my compatriot in reverence. <br /><br />What a new and unusual way to relate to another person! I'm used to other kinds of bowing. I know the worshipping kind, the "I'm not worthy" kind, and the "please love me" kind. Here, there was no psychological drama. Just hi, I'm bowing to you because you're wonderful.<br /><br />Later, as I stepped in through the side door of my house, the first thing I laid eyes on was my daughter sitting naked on the toilet. Bathroom door open, lights blazing, big grin on her face.<br /><br />"Hi, Mommy!" she said brightly. "I'm going poo! Can you wipe my butt?"<br /><br />Reverence. Yes.<br /><br />I stepped into the bathroom and reached for a Wet Wipe.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-70063779869007402112008-11-25T09:14:00.000-08:002008-11-25T09:16:20.402-08:00This Just InThe New York Times published an article on Sunday about a movement called "Slow Blogging." The idea is to actually reflect before posting. And to see how infrequently you can post before losing readers.<br /><br />See, I'm so ahead of the curve.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-41670641955105035382008-10-13T15:10:00.000-07:002008-10-13T15:26:34.731-07:00A Light Subject Before BedLast night while we played a game called "guess how much I love you," my 4-year-old said,<br /><br />"I love you so much that when you die, I want to die, too."<br /><br />I said, "I want you to live a long and happy life, even if I die."<br /><br />She said, "But wouldn't it be better if we can be together and talk in Heaven?"<br /><br />This girl is heavy. I could only smile at that sentiment, and say gently, "We don't know when that will happen."<br /><br />Suddenly her face changed, crumpled, and she grabbed my hand. "I don't want to die!"<br /><br />I wanted to hold her against my body and promise that I would never, ever let that happen. Instead, I walked her calmly to the bathroom and assembled her tooth brushing accouterments: red toothbrush, non-minty toothpaste, cup.<br /><br />"Most people don't die until they are very old," I said. Then her brother refused to move off the step stool in front of the sink, and that caused a brief row, and the death talk was left behind.<br /><br />You've got to have nerves of steel to do this job.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-77861955449718632802008-10-13T14:43:00.000-07:002008-10-13T15:09:53.563-07:00Long ThoughtsI entered Day One of my sixth yoga teacher training weekend feeling full of vitality and excitement. I was so excited to see all my people that I couldn't settle down to meditate.<br /><br />By the end, though, I felt disappointed. I hadn't finished my homework. I hadn't given the kind of thought to our reading that some people had. The level of studentship among some of my peers was putting me to shame. Of course, many of my peers are not raising small children. Maybe they can spend as long as they want following their yoga thoughts.<br /><br />Or their long thoughts in general. I read this idea somewhere, I think in an A.S. Byatt novel, about the near impossibility of pursuing long thoughts when one has little children. Long thoughts are cultivated over time. You piece something together, and build upon it, until it stretches out behind you and in front of you too far to see either end. Long thoughts are what I need in order to understand the Indian texts I'm reading, for sure, but long thoughts are also what keep me interested in life. They are what keep me feeling like myself. They are proof that my brain didn't slip out along with my placenta. <br /><br />In class, someone announced that a visiting scholar of Ayurvedic medicine would be speaking tonight about one of my as-yet untapped fascinations, kundalini. I was all wound up - I wanted to go. Towards the end of the 6 hour day, though, I realized that it would be difficult for everyone in my family if I went. And that I would end up feeling guilty and greedy. This was disappointing. I wanted to be unfettered to follow where my mind wanted to go, to learn more. But my life just isn't like that. <br /><br />In a last ditch effort to find a good reason to go beyond my own desire - some serendipity or synchronicity or kismet - I asked one of my yoga friends (one of those who put me to shame)if by chance he was going. He said no. So now it was up to me to be selfish and greedy or act with my family in mind.<br /><br />As I rolled up my mat I felt the pressures of what my family needed from me pressing behind my eyes, pressing against my forehead. It was all so complicated. I only wanted to learn. I only wanted to weave long thoughts. But - shit! The class had run long. I was already 15 minutes late relieving the babysitter. I wanted to stay and chit chat with my people. I wanted to be paid attention to by them. <br /><br />I left feeling unfulfilled.<br /><br />But then I came home to happy children. We snuggled on the mohair couch and read a long chapter book. When Matt came home, we took ourselves out to a neighborhood family Mexican restaurant. By the end of the night, I felt more fulfilled, but still saddened by my inability to work deeply on my yoga assignments.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-80759653178056719452008-10-10T08:25:00.000-07:002008-10-10T08:55:02.893-07:00Mothers' Political Hazards"She...spent Sundays in the kitchen cooking five meals to store in the freezer so the family could eat together during the week," says the Seattle Times this morning about Washington State governor Christine Gregoire. <br /><br />Gregoire has been governor for four years and before that held a little post known as State Attorney General. Oh, and before that, she had an amusing little job as Director of the Department of Ecology. <br /><br />Yet, the Seattle Times would like us to know, she never missed one of her daughter's high school soccer games. Says daughter Courtney, "We're close because Mom always made us priority."<br /><br />Excuse me, I know it is Ms. Gregoire who is up for re-election and not her husband, but I must ask: What was the husband's job that was so important that he was not the one cooking five meals on Sunday? King of the World? Was he also at the soccer games? Did he make the family a priority? <br /><br />I just have to ask, because if we don't ask that question, then we will never have a real, publicly-acknowledged answer to why more women do not rise to the highest positions of public office.<br /><br />Reading this article this morning, the answer is so black-and-white to me that I can't believe it's not addressed by the article's author, Andrew Garber. (Any guesses, readers?)I mean, ok, there are issues of self-esteem and gender-conditioning that begin in infancy. But, damn, we don't have a female president yet because most women bear children. And of those, most mothers are attached to male partners, who, all the research you care to quote will show, do not raise the children. <br /><br />The mothers raise the children. The mothers make their children a priority.<br /><br />Even when they are governor of Washington State.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27478786.post-1771322439149531362008-09-15T12:32:00.000-07:002008-09-15T12:39:44.496-07:00Exalted DaughterFrom Sept. 5<br /><br />My mom and I are staying in this midcentury modern house on a hillside overlooking an inlet. The deck is perfect and we’ve spent most of our time out there.<br /><br />When we got to the house I rolled out my yoga mat on the deck and did about 40 minutes of a practice. During this time, my mom sat on an Adirondack chair with a glass of Chardonnay, smoking and making snarky comments about things people had written in the guest book. The quality of handwriting was low. Previous guest had no taste because they wrote that they liked the décor. She sure hoped the house’s owner didn’t come by with ice cream and wine for <em>us</em> like she apparently did with <em>other</em> guests, because that would be <em>annoying</em>.<br /><br />Like that. Meanwhile, I continued my practice. I did my utmost to remain embodied while my mother bitched about the freezer not being turned on. I exhaled forcefully and moved my body into powerful poses to keep the flies of her discontent from landing on me. I was reminded of a cartoon by Ellen Forney (local cartoonist, illustrator, performer and yogini), in which a character stands next to her teacher, complaining about how commercial yoga has become. Meanwhile, her teacher does her poses and utters neutralizing rebuttals to the spewing student’s uncharitable arguments.<br /><br />Well, that was me and my mom this evening. I flashed on how I would draw this scene, how comical it would look. And, after awhile, it was comical. I was in this fierce Exalted Warrior pose, and she was still complaining about something. I thought, wow, how can a person look at someone doing Exalted Warrior and not be awed into silence? It’s a pose of great beauty and strength. When I see someone do it, I get a hit of energy. (In yoga, we call this a shakti, or force, transfer. ) And then I wondered if she was able to enjoy anything at all, or even feel the shakti or any powerful force when it’s being zapped her way.<br /><br />And then, finally, compassion. I continued my practice with great care for my joints and my muscles. In my standing poses, I gazed out at the majectic evergreens all around me. I did not follow the dramatic story line my mother was weaving. Instead, I felt empathy for her nervous heart. This is not to say that I didn’t wish she would shut up and get a life. It’s just that those sentiments petered out before gathering much flame. <br /><br />This feels like progress.susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00627575472955941912noreply@blogger.com2