At 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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
She had gotten fat and a little despondent. That was entirely our fault.
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.
I was present with my dying dog.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Forces of Nature, Part II
The 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.
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.
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!"
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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!"
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.
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?
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.
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.
Forces of Nature, Part I
There 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.
We got the kids up at 4 am and made it on to our 6 am flight with no trouble.
And then we sat.
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.
Matt and I, in separate areas of the plane, texted each other on our phones. “Fuch,” he mistyped.
“Do you mean Holy Mother of Shit This Really Sucks?” I typed back.
“Yes.”
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!
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.
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.
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.
We got the kids up at 4 am and made it on to our 6 am flight with no trouble.
And then we sat.
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.
Matt and I, in separate areas of the plane, texted each other on our phones. “Fuch,” he mistyped.
“Do you mean Holy Mother of Shit This Really Sucks?” I typed back.
“Yes.”
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!
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Snow on Roses
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.
"H-hello?"
"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.)
"Yes..."
"You must come take a picture off da roses," he pointed toward my side yard. "Der is snow on your roses!"
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.
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.
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.
"Vould you like me to take it for you?"
"Sure," I said. I handed him my camera. He took it, placed a foot up on the side wall, and took it.
"I have been out here already taking pictures. I didn't vant you to miss it."
"Well, thank you," I said. "I appreciate that."
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.
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.
Maybe he'll point something else out that I've failed to notice.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Signs of Devotion in Las Vegas
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
So this time I did.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Hitting 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.
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.
"Keep looking at your friend as you fold forward and bow to them," said Jane.
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.
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.
"Give this pose to your friend," Jane said. "Shine your heart out across the room."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Hi, Mommy!" she said brightly. "I'm going poo! Can you wipe my butt?"
Reverence. Yes.
I stepped into the bathroom and reached for a Wet Wipe.
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.
"Keep looking at your friend as you fold forward and bow to them," said Jane.
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.
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.
"Give this pose to your friend," Jane said. "Shine your heart out across the room."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Hi, Mommy!" she said brightly. "I'm going poo! Can you wipe my butt?"
Reverence. Yes.
I stepped into the bathroom and reached for a Wet Wipe.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
This Just In
The 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.
See, I'm so ahead of the curve.
See, I'm so ahead of the curve.
Monday, October 13, 2008
A Light Subject Before Bed
Last night while we played a game called "guess how much I love you," my 4-year-old said,
"I love you so much that when you die, I want to die, too."
I said, "I want you to live a long and happy life, even if I die."
She said, "But wouldn't it be better if we can be together and talk in Heaven?"
This girl is heavy. I could only smile at that sentiment, and say gently, "We don't know when that will happen."
Suddenly her face changed, crumpled, and she grabbed my hand. "I don't want to die!"
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.
"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.
You've got to have nerves of steel to do this job.
"I love you so much that when you die, I want to die, too."
I said, "I want you to live a long and happy life, even if I die."
She said, "But wouldn't it be better if we can be together and talk in Heaven?"
This girl is heavy. I could only smile at that sentiment, and say gently, "We don't know when that will happen."
Suddenly her face changed, crumpled, and she grabbed my hand. "I don't want to die!"
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.
"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.
You've got to have nerves of steel to do this job.
Long Thoughts
I 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I left feeling unfulfilled.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I left feeling unfulfilled.
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.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Mothers' 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.
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.
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."
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?
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.
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.
The mothers raise the children. The mothers make their children a priority.
Even when they are governor of Washington State.
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.
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."
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?
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.
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.
The mothers raise the children. The mothers make their children a priority.
Even when they are governor of Washington State.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Exalted Daughter
From Sept. 5
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.
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 us like she apparently did with other guests, because that would be annoying.
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.
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.
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.
This feels like progress.
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.
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 us like she apparently did with other guests, because that would be annoying.
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.
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.
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.
This feels like progress.
On the Island with Mom
Earlier this summer, my mom called me and bitched that we never get any time together. “There’s always a kid on your lap,” she said. “They won’t let you talk on the phone. And then, every time you come to my house, you wander off and take a fuckin’ nap.”
“Well, I’m tired,” I said.
“Too bad,” she wailed. “Make some time for me.”
These moments for authentic relating between me and my mom only come about once every five years. So while there were a lot of things I could have said, like “I don’t visit often because you depress me ,” or “your house smells like a bar,” I decided to make this moment of genuine talk work to our advantage.
We made plans to go away for a weekend together. To a cabin in the woods. On an island. I questioned the intelligence of this over and over, but stayed with the plan because it felt right. I wanted to seize the chance to have a real conversation with my mom. I could sense that she really needed time away from her life. I wanted to make that happen for her. I also wanted to chance to change our pattern, which goes something like this: she reaches out in a rare moment of vulnerability, I try to rescue her. She professes a desire for a different kind of life, I encourage it, offer to pay for it, give her inspirational books, and believe it might actually happen.
Dysfunctional people and addicts are not known for their ability to manifest their true desires. In fact, they are not known for even being able to contact their true desires. They lost that skill a long time ago, or maybe never even got the chance to develop it. And, it must be said, self-reflection gets in the way of cocktail hour. So it is with my poor mother. After Part I of the pattern passes, inevitably, Part II arrives: the same old BS. And the daughter, who has been so devoted and giving (and superior and judgmental), despairs and hates her mother again and stops calling.
It’s a fine line to tread for someone who loves an addict or a very injured soul. How does one make space for a self-destructive loved-one without falling into what may be an old habit of Rescue and Reform? Anyone who has grown up in a dysfunctional/alcoholic family knows what a dead end that is. (Or if you haven’t figured that out yet, please give yourself a much-deserved gift and call your local Al-Anon chapter.)
So I told myself that I would not try to fix her this time. I have finally come to believe that I truly do not know what is best for her. I only know what’s best for me. I told myself that she and I would spend time together, but I would keep certain boundaries.
1. I would do what I wanted to do regardless of her level of sobriety or inability to get off her ass.
2. I would not tell her what to do with her life.
3. I would remember that she is in pain that I can’t begin to understand.
4. I would take care of myself.
5. I would expect nothing.
My report to you, Reader, is forthcoming.
“Well, I’m tired,” I said.
“Too bad,” she wailed. “Make some time for me.”
These moments for authentic relating between me and my mom only come about once every five years. So while there were a lot of things I could have said, like “I don’t visit often because you depress me ,” or “your house smells like a bar,” I decided to make this moment of genuine talk work to our advantage.
We made plans to go away for a weekend together. To a cabin in the woods. On an island. I questioned the intelligence of this over and over, but stayed with the plan because it felt right. I wanted to seize the chance to have a real conversation with my mom. I could sense that she really needed time away from her life. I wanted to make that happen for her. I also wanted to chance to change our pattern, which goes something like this: she reaches out in a rare moment of vulnerability, I try to rescue her. She professes a desire for a different kind of life, I encourage it, offer to pay for it, give her inspirational books, and believe it might actually happen.
Dysfunctional people and addicts are not known for their ability to manifest their true desires. In fact, they are not known for even being able to contact their true desires. They lost that skill a long time ago, or maybe never even got the chance to develop it. And, it must be said, self-reflection gets in the way of cocktail hour. So it is with my poor mother. After Part I of the pattern passes, inevitably, Part II arrives: the same old BS. And the daughter, who has been so devoted and giving (and superior and judgmental), despairs and hates her mother again and stops calling.
It’s a fine line to tread for someone who loves an addict or a very injured soul. How does one make space for a self-destructive loved-one without falling into what may be an old habit of Rescue and Reform? Anyone who has grown up in a dysfunctional/alcoholic family knows what a dead end that is. (Or if you haven’t figured that out yet, please give yourself a much-deserved gift and call your local Al-Anon chapter.)
So I told myself that I would not try to fix her this time. I have finally come to believe that I truly do not know what is best for her. I only know what’s best for me. I told myself that she and I would spend time together, but I would keep certain boundaries.
1. I would do what I wanted to do regardless of her level of sobriety or inability to get off her ass.
2. I would not tell her what to do with her life.
3. I would remember that she is in pain that I can’t begin to understand.
4. I would take care of myself.
5. I would expect nothing.
My report to you, Reader, is forthcoming.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
One Thing at a Time
The day I wrote the previous post, I’d woken up feeling like I was coming down with a virus. I cancelled dates and asked my husband to stay home a little later and help out with the kids before he left for work. I called the sitter. I did everything I’ve learned how to do when the flu is coming on.
Only it turned out not to be the flu. It turned out that my brain had the flu, or my soul, or whatever it is that gets “depressed” during these episodes. As I understood over the course of the morning that I was sick in the head and not the body, I told myself there was only one thing I could do to get through the day:
(Reader, are you sitting down?)
Do only one thing at a time.
“Do one…thing…at a time?” you parents might be asking. “But what about the…and the…?” I know. How can you possibly make the kids lunch while not talking on the phone? How can you get them dressed without also doing a load of laundry? And what about all that time you spend going to the bathroom and eating? There are hundreds of questions from the kids that will have to go unanswered while you’re behind the closed door! And if you don’t read the newspaper over breakfast (while also checking e-mail and ferrying food and drink from kitchen to table and letting the dog in and out 14 times), then whenever will you?
Well, some days are just about survival.
I’ve tried other means of survival during mental crises, usually with a different twist, like: no chores before breakfast. No reading the newspaper or being online while the children are at the table. I thought this one simple rule, doing one thing at a time, would streamline the day.
I recruited Jonah and Audrey to help. I sat them down on the window seat in the dining room and made my intentions very clear.
“I am playing an important game today,” I explained. “Since I’m feeling sick and yucky, I’m going to only do one thing at a time. So if you ask me for something, and I’m doing something else, I’m going to ask you to wait until I’m done.”
“Why?” asked Jonah.
“Because this will keep me relaxed and help me get better sooner. And I probably won’t yell as much.”
They were down with it. Having my “game” as the reason why I didn’t cater to their whims all day was a wonderful thing for my mind to fall back on. Normally, I’d have despaired that my kids would NEVER let me get any peace, and they were spoiled, and in my grandma’s day they’d have already been wacked upside the head with a wooden hairbrush. I reminded myself that, oh right, I was trying something different today. And I reminded the kids that. And they were fine with it.
Doing one thing at a time turned out to be a meditation of sorts. It didn’t nourish me the way sitting meditation does, but it kept me from committing what my teacher calls, “unskillful behavior.” Doing one thing at a time, I was always present and I could always handle what was happening.
The downside was that I stayed up late folding laundry, cleaning the kitchen and writing. I couldn’t bear for those things to go undone. Some things took longer. But I was calm.
Is this kind of behavior really possible in modern life?
What if we tried? How different would our days be?
Only it turned out not to be the flu. It turned out that my brain had the flu, or my soul, or whatever it is that gets “depressed” during these episodes. As I understood over the course of the morning that I was sick in the head and not the body, I told myself there was only one thing I could do to get through the day:
(Reader, are you sitting down?)
Do only one thing at a time.
“Do one…thing…at a time?” you parents might be asking. “But what about the…and the…?” I know. How can you possibly make the kids lunch while not talking on the phone? How can you get them dressed without also doing a load of laundry? And what about all that time you spend going to the bathroom and eating? There are hundreds of questions from the kids that will have to go unanswered while you’re behind the closed door! And if you don’t read the newspaper over breakfast (while also checking e-mail and ferrying food and drink from kitchen to table and letting the dog in and out 14 times), then whenever will you?
Well, some days are just about survival.
I’ve tried other means of survival during mental crises, usually with a different twist, like: no chores before breakfast. No reading the newspaper or being online while the children are at the table. I thought this one simple rule, doing one thing at a time, would streamline the day.
I recruited Jonah and Audrey to help. I sat them down on the window seat in the dining room and made my intentions very clear.
“I am playing an important game today,” I explained. “Since I’m feeling sick and yucky, I’m going to only do one thing at a time. So if you ask me for something, and I’m doing something else, I’m going to ask you to wait until I’m done.”
“Why?” asked Jonah.
“Because this will keep me relaxed and help me get better sooner. And I probably won’t yell as much.”
They were down with it. Having my “game” as the reason why I didn’t cater to their whims all day was a wonderful thing for my mind to fall back on. Normally, I’d have despaired that my kids would NEVER let me get any peace, and they were spoiled, and in my grandma’s day they’d have already been wacked upside the head with a wooden hairbrush. I reminded myself that, oh right, I was trying something different today. And I reminded the kids that. And they were fine with it.
Doing one thing at a time turned out to be a meditation of sorts. It didn’t nourish me the way sitting meditation does, but it kept me from committing what my teacher calls, “unskillful behavior.” Doing one thing at a time, I was always present and I could always handle what was happening.
The downside was that I stayed up late folding laundry, cleaning the kitchen and writing. I couldn’t bear for those things to go undone. Some things took longer. But I was calm.
Is this kind of behavior really possible in modern life?
What if we tried? How different would our days be?
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Oh, Crap
I am not well. My irritation is pure PMS (thank you , my dear friend Sara, for setting me straight that no, everyone is not purposefully being an asshole just to make my life miserable), but the heaviness gathering in my belly and my great desire to be wrapped in fuzzy blankets at all times is something else.
Feeling like – being – an instrument controlled by nerve receptors and hormone leakings makes me question the point of anything. I feel like nothing more than a highly-refined reptile. I wonder if this descent into the mental life of a snake is partly to blame for all the crying we depressed people do. We're flooded with inexplicable grief, like someone dear to us died. We lost something essential that kept us warm. We lost something that kept us human.
All I can hold onto right now is what the yogis discovered – a system that expands and liberates even the most stubborn, infantile, unworkable minds. They found an opening to the beating heart of the universe. I have to have faith that they were onto something. Otherwise, I should just unhinge my jaw, swallow a whole mouse and then go sit on a warm rock for the rest of my life.
Feeling like – being – an instrument controlled by nerve receptors and hormone leakings makes me question the point of anything. I feel like nothing more than a highly-refined reptile. I wonder if this descent into the mental life of a snake is partly to blame for all the crying we depressed people do. We're flooded with inexplicable grief, like someone dear to us died. We lost something essential that kept us warm. We lost something that kept us human.
All I can hold onto right now is what the yogis discovered – a system that expands and liberates even the most stubborn, infantile, unworkable minds. They found an opening to the beating heart of the universe. I have to have faith that they were onto something. Otherwise, I should just unhinge my jaw, swallow a whole mouse and then go sit on a warm rock for the rest of my life.
What I Can't Resist
I’m playing a game with myself where I try not to get carried away by my moods all day long. Right now I’m in a foul mood and thinking all kinds of uncharitable thoughts about my family, nuclear and extended, so I’ve escaped to my bedroom to observe this quietly.
Moodiness and negative thinking are so familiar to me that they feel like coming home. “Come to Mama,” they seem to say. “We’re the ones who really understand you.” Their pull is often irresistible, like the smell of cinnamon rolls baking at Pike Place Market. Follow that smell! You know you want to. It seems to promise comfort, or at least the kind of comfort that falling back into an old pattern brings for awhile.
My ego wants me to believe that things are always other people’s fault. That way it can feel superior and separate, which are its primary goals. It wants me to believe that I am the hardest working member of this family and I have every right to throw tantrums.
But that is all a story. Pema Chodron talks about how we all have a storyline about ourselves that we like to follow. We wake up every day and our egos kick into gear, recreating that story, which leads us by the nose because we think that’s all we are: some story. Today my story goes something like this: I am so much more together than half the people in this family and it’s really a shame that I have to put up with their incompetence.
Now that I’m sitting here observing my thoughts, they are losing their bite. They actually sound goofy. None of the storylines I’m creating right now are even true. So what next? What am I supposed to do with my addled mind and my bad mood?
I guess look at the mood. Say yes to its existence. Hi, here you are again. Let the irritation, indignation – whatever emotional maelstrom my ego has dreamed up to protect itself – dissipate.
Failing that, I will look at design magazines until I have to go downstairs and clean the kitchen.
Moodiness and negative thinking are so familiar to me that they feel like coming home. “Come to Mama,” they seem to say. “We’re the ones who really understand you.” Their pull is often irresistible, like the smell of cinnamon rolls baking at Pike Place Market. Follow that smell! You know you want to. It seems to promise comfort, or at least the kind of comfort that falling back into an old pattern brings for awhile.
My ego wants me to believe that things are always other people’s fault. That way it can feel superior and separate, which are its primary goals. It wants me to believe that I am the hardest working member of this family and I have every right to throw tantrums.
But that is all a story. Pema Chodron talks about how we all have a storyline about ourselves that we like to follow. We wake up every day and our egos kick into gear, recreating that story, which leads us by the nose because we think that’s all we are: some story. Today my story goes something like this: I am so much more together than half the people in this family and it’s really a shame that I have to put up with their incompetence.
Now that I’m sitting here observing my thoughts, they are losing their bite. They actually sound goofy. None of the storylines I’m creating right now are even true. So what next? What am I supposed to do with my addled mind and my bad mood?
I guess look at the mood. Say yes to its existence. Hi, here you are again. Let the irritation, indignation – whatever emotional maelstrom my ego has dreamed up to protect itself – dissipate.
Failing that, I will look at design magazines until I have to go downstairs and clean the kitchen.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Does That Come with Fries for My Kids?
(Disclaimer: this post is about a diet for a healthy brain. I include it only because I know some of you, gentle readers, are burdened with the affliction of depression and anxiety and parenthood, often all at the same time, and so this post just might hold some interest for you. Others of you may find this topic incredibly dull and for that, I apologize and ask you to check back soon.)
In the past, I have waited until reaching crisis points before I'd deal with the signs of depression. Then my treatments involved talk therapy and pharmaceuticals. Now that I have discovered the great joy of living in my body (that pesky thing I never paid much attention to as a younger person), I am going to try a new tactic: treatment of the body to balance the chemicals of the brain.
Yoga has gotten me to this point. To complement it, I’m officially on The Antidepressant Diet, designed by my naturopath, Amy Fasig, ND. The diet-for-mental-health involves a change in my daily garbage-disposal eating habits. As you can probably guess, this means moving away from all the foods and drinks I go toward when I'm down, have PMS, am ovulating, mad at my husband, or ready to murder the children.
Goodbye:
• Sugar
• Caffeine
• Hooch
• Wheat
• Rice
• Excessive dairy
Hello:
• Cod liver oil
• 14 capsules worth of herbal supplements per day
• Leafy greens
• “Ancient grains” such as quinoa, spelt, and amaranth
• Food every three hours, like an infant
• Protein with every meal
• Animal protein at least once a day
I am supposed to increase yoga, walking and meditation. I am supposed to cultivate earth and fire elements. It turns out that, in ayurvedic language, I have a vata imbalance. (Ayurveda is an ancient Indian medical practice.) This means, in not too uncertain terms, that I’m an AIRHEAD. See, I knew that, but it was nice to have it confirmed by a professional.
The animal protein thing will be interesting. I learned to cook at fourteen, when I believed that Meat is Murder and announced to my family that I would no longer be eating any of that chicken-fried steak. The animals had rights, too. Anyway, I had never liked the mouth-feel of animal fat. I had always secretly slipped my bacon into a paper towel in my lap to blot it before eating when I was a kid. (This may sound like the beginnings of an eating disorder, but I don’t have that kind of capacity for self-denial, so I was okay.)
My mom rolled her eyes and told me I’d better learn how to cook, because she didn’t intend to run a short-order café out of her kitchen. So Molly Katzen of the Moosewood cookbooks became my Julia Child. I enjoyed discovering things like pesto and exotic pilafs, and torturing my asshole stepdad by stinking up the house with fried falafel. He, in turn, enjoyed gagging at the sight of my hippie/other culture food and torturing me with Karen Carpenter references at the dinner table. Those were good times.
Anyway, I haven’t been a real vegetarian for years. Chicken was the gateway food back into the life of an omnivore sometime after college, and then when I got pregnant with Jonah I acted on my body’s deep need for swine. I ate salami, bacon, and ham. But the vegetarian cooking background means that I’ve never properly learned to buy or prepare meat. I don’t know a T-bone from a pork butt. And I still can’t stand the taste or smell of beef and lamb. Given my druthers, I’d eat mostly vegetarian food forever. It’s what I am used to.
But I’ve got my eyes on the prize, which is drug-free mental health. So, when my husband brought home some organic, grass-fed beef jerky, I ate a piece. Reader, it was delicious. I’m sorry, but it just tasted good. Apparently I have a taste for cured meats. If I want to get well, I’m going to have to go with that.
The biggest impediments in my quest for balanced blood sugar are my kids. I know there are people who swear they’ve raised their children on seaweed and barley water from day one, and that their six-year-old would rather eat steamed tofu than mac-and-cheese any old time, but I can’t make those claims. My kids enjoy a limited selection of sushi, but they do turn their noses up at a steaming plate of quinoa-and-chard. So what’s a girl to do? It already takes more time in the kitchen to prepare “whole foods” (i.e. things that don’t come in packets). And not only do I refuse to make separate meals for my kids, I don’t want them eating so much of the bread, sugar, dairy and chicken nuggets that have become the staple of the American childhood. Look what it does to me, their mother! And God knows my girl doesn’t need anything that will increase her mood swings. She's only three, but she usually acts like a fifteen-year-old girl on the rag, bless her heart.
So. I will continue to serve the quinoa and the fresh veggies. Sometimes I grate cheese over it for my kids and bribe them with ice cream. It’s a balance, you know. They get a few bites of ancient grains into their system and a shred or two of fresh vegetables, and then they get rewarded with a flood of heart-clogging cream and blood-sugar-spiking "evaporated cane juice." At least they didn’t eat a plate of fish sticks and the ice cream. And maybe they’ll develop new habits? Or just start eating out of fear of starvation?
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Cranky Pregnant Yoga Snob
It is the week of Seafair, and whenever the Blue Angels come to Seattle, I remember the time when I was pregnant with my second kid and trying to find a few minutes of peace in a prenatal yoga class. The Blue Angels, as they screamed over the neighborhoods ringing Lake Washington, made this hard for me. So did my substitute teacher.
I wrote this post after that class:
Yoga class is supposed to be a place for me to learn about how to practice compassion and emotional equanimity. When I’m not pregnant and can attend the classes of my favorite teacher, Denise Benitez, I learn to practice compassion by watching her. She has been practicing yoga for thirty years, teaching for around twenty. In class, it’s easy to ape her attitude, naturally follow where she leads me. She reminds me that I don’t need to control everything, at least in that room, and shows me how to practice compassion for myself.
I don’t usually have to practice compassion for others in yoga class. Everybody takes care of themselves there. We know the routine. We turn inward. In a good class, you can just focus on your practice. A good teacher relieves you from the responsibility of taking care of her.
Today I took a prenatal yoga class with a teacher who was not good. She subs for my favorite prenatal teacher. Unfortunately for me, this teacher is also a doula and often has to attend births. Which means here comes Maia [not her real name], fresh-faced, busty, clear-eyed, and brainless. Maia reads aloud too much from books. She talks too much during meditation. She speaks in what someone must’ve told her is a soothing voice, but really makes me feel like I’m a kindergartener rather than a 33-year-old pregnant lady trying to get some goddamn spiritual fulfillment.
I have taken classes from Maia before (when my real teacher was out), and find that I turn them into something counterproductive. Instead of releasing tension, I fixate on everything that’s “wrong” with the class. It doesn’t take long for me to actually become hostile. Soon I’m in a state where there really is no way Maia could guide me into any sort of spiritual awareness, because I’m just going through the motions; I arranged for child care, drove and paid my drop-in fee to be there. I’ll be damned if I’m leaving.
Today I was in the agitated state I feel in firelogs pose (in which you sit with your shins stacked on top of one another), pretty much for an hour and fifteen minutes. I didn’t feel the need to practice compassion for myself. I had so much compassion for myself that I felt I deserved a better teacher, right now, and an air-conditioned studio, and the banishment of Blue Angels fighter jets from Seafair for the rest of eternity.
I composed a letter of complaint about Maia in my mind: "She is a lovely girl, I’m sure, but she clearly has no idea what she’s doing. Kindly get rid of her so I can have a nicer prenatal yoga experience. Yours truly, Cranky Pregnant Yoga Snob."
Really, what could one say? I knew she was a beginning teacher. She told us so, and also I recognize some of the New Teacher hallmarks, because I have displayed them myself in countless middle school English classes. Hadn't I wanted compassion from my students when I was struggling? I recalled how hard I had worked as a new teacher. How much I wanted to do everything right. How impossible it was for me to do very much at all right, because I was young and clueless and inexperienced. But damn, my heart was there.
And so, I had to admit, as I rolled onto all fours, was Maia’s.
I decided to abandon my mental letter of complaint. I settled into my modified pigeon pose and just focused on releasing all the tension in my hips. Afterward, Maia led us into what she called “vocalizing,” which was really a way to practice making the unattractive noises we would make while riding the waves of labor. This, I could use. I gave into it.
“Aahhhhhh,” I moaned. And with that came notion that this class was a chance for me to practice compassion for someone else when I didn’t feel like it. I did not relish the opportunity like I thought a good yogi should: The day was bleeding hot (no A/C, another thing to add to the letter of complaint), the Blue Angels were screaming right overhead, I had heartburn and my toes were cramping. If anyone deserved an hour of pure self-compassion, it was me.
But that was not on the day’s agenda.
So I dropped the attitude and kept breathing.
I wrote this post after that class:
Yoga class is supposed to be a place for me to learn about how to practice compassion and emotional equanimity. When I’m not pregnant and can attend the classes of my favorite teacher, Denise Benitez, I learn to practice compassion by watching her. She has been practicing yoga for thirty years, teaching for around twenty. In class, it’s easy to ape her attitude, naturally follow where she leads me. She reminds me that I don’t need to control everything, at least in that room, and shows me how to practice compassion for myself.
I don’t usually have to practice compassion for others in yoga class. Everybody takes care of themselves there. We know the routine. We turn inward. In a good class, you can just focus on your practice. A good teacher relieves you from the responsibility of taking care of her.
Today I took a prenatal yoga class with a teacher who was not good. She subs for my favorite prenatal teacher. Unfortunately for me, this teacher is also a doula and often has to attend births. Which means here comes Maia [not her real name], fresh-faced, busty, clear-eyed, and brainless. Maia reads aloud too much from books. She talks too much during meditation. She speaks in what someone must’ve told her is a soothing voice, but really makes me feel like I’m a kindergartener rather than a 33-year-old pregnant lady trying to get some goddamn spiritual fulfillment.
I have taken classes from Maia before (when my real teacher was out), and find that I turn them into something counterproductive. Instead of releasing tension, I fixate on everything that’s “wrong” with the class. It doesn’t take long for me to actually become hostile. Soon I’m in a state where there really is no way Maia could guide me into any sort of spiritual awareness, because I’m just going through the motions; I arranged for child care, drove and paid my drop-in fee to be there. I’ll be damned if I’m leaving.
Today I was in the agitated state I feel in firelogs pose (in which you sit with your shins stacked on top of one another), pretty much for an hour and fifteen minutes. I didn’t feel the need to practice compassion for myself. I had so much compassion for myself that I felt I deserved a better teacher, right now, and an air-conditioned studio, and the banishment of Blue Angels fighter jets from Seafair for the rest of eternity.
I composed a letter of complaint about Maia in my mind: "She is a lovely girl, I’m sure, but she clearly has no idea what she’s doing. Kindly get rid of her so I can have a nicer prenatal yoga experience. Yours truly, Cranky Pregnant Yoga Snob."
Really, what could one say? I knew she was a beginning teacher. She told us so, and also I recognize some of the New Teacher hallmarks, because I have displayed them myself in countless middle school English classes. Hadn't I wanted compassion from my students when I was struggling? I recalled how hard I had worked as a new teacher. How much I wanted to do everything right. How impossible it was for me to do very much at all right, because I was young and clueless and inexperienced. But damn, my heart was there.
And so, I had to admit, as I rolled onto all fours, was Maia’s.
I decided to abandon my mental letter of complaint. I settled into my modified pigeon pose and just focused on releasing all the tension in my hips. Afterward, Maia led us into what she called “vocalizing,” which was really a way to practice making the unattractive noises we would make while riding the waves of labor. This, I could use. I gave into it.
“Aahhhhhh,” I moaned. And with that came notion that this class was a chance for me to practice compassion for someone else when I didn’t feel like it. I did not relish the opportunity like I thought a good yogi should: The day was bleeding hot (no A/C, another thing to add to the letter of complaint), the Blue Angels were screaming right overhead, I had heartburn and my toes were cramping. If anyone deserved an hour of pure self-compassion, it was me.
But that was not on the day’s agenda.
So I dropped the attitude and kept breathing.
Monday, July 28, 2008
"Good For You, Honey!"
Have you ever wondered about the responses you get when you tell people you're a stay-at-home mom? I have come to believe these responses say so much about the person giving them, and so little about you.
For example, there's the fierce, "Good for you! That is so awesome!" which always makes me suspect the person I am talking to thinks I'm a right-wing homeschooler (I am not), or that I am doing something righteous (I am not). I often feel the person is about to embark upon a long speech about the selfishness of women these days, how they don't understand that what a child needs is his mother, etc., etc. My response: a small smile. (An interesting aside: most of the people who give me this particular response are men.)
Another one I get is this: "How fun! You're so lucky to have that option." I believe this person wishes he/she had that option, or that his/her parents had that option. If they asked (which most people don't) I would tell them that part of the reason I am a SAHM is because my mom never was and I always wished she could be. So I understand this response, but I also think it could be very wrong when applied to someone else. Like, someone who doesn't really have the "choice" whether or not to stay home with the kids for whatever reason. My response: a small smile.
When people find out that I used to be an English teacher, they will sometimes ask, "Do you think you'll go back when the kids are older?" My response: Hell, no. When they're older they'll be playing with matches and sipping off my liquor bottles after school. (Well, at least my daughter and her friends will be while my son is at the chess club meeting.)
Here's one that I heard recently, from three or four moms: "Oh, God! I could never do that. One week I had to stay home with my kid because he had the flu and I almost killed myself. I was so bored. I mean, hats off to you, but..."
One of these women also complained that even though she and her husband both had important jobs, his always trumped hers because he's a doctor. She was totally over it. "So I'm the one who has to come home early if the kid is sick because some patient tried to commit suicide. Like I care!" I don't think she meant to be callous, but her point was taken. It gets old when your life is always the one being shunted aside "for the children."
For my part, I don't like the "Good for you, Honey!" response because what the person giving it doesn't understand is that I'm commitment-averse and I hate working for a living. I am a much more productive member of society now that I am raising kids and gardening and cooking and being a good friend and sending flowers to my grandma and teaching the odd yoga class than I EVER was as someone's paid employee. Some people might think I am a loser for this reason (my ex-boyfriend's smirking face comes to mind). Maybe I haven't lived up to my potential. I'm not sure what kind of potential that might be, but I've a feeling being a 7th grade English teacher wasn't it.
This is my potential right now.
Good for me.
(And another thing. How do these "good for you honey" people know that I'm not a big old princess who hires out 60 hours of childcare a week so I can play tennis and paint my nails? Hmmm? Is it the pasty skin and scraggly fingernails that give it away?)
For example, there's the fierce, "Good for you! That is so awesome!" which always makes me suspect the person I am talking to thinks I'm a right-wing homeschooler (I am not), or that I am doing something righteous (I am not). I often feel the person is about to embark upon a long speech about the selfishness of women these days, how they don't understand that what a child needs is his mother, etc., etc. My response: a small smile. (An interesting aside: most of the people who give me this particular response are men.)
Another one I get is this: "How fun! You're so lucky to have that option." I believe this person wishes he/she had that option, or that his/her parents had that option. If they asked (which most people don't) I would tell them that part of the reason I am a SAHM is because my mom never was and I always wished she could be. So I understand this response, but I also think it could be very wrong when applied to someone else. Like, someone who doesn't really have the "choice" whether or not to stay home with the kids for whatever reason. My response: a small smile.
When people find out that I used to be an English teacher, they will sometimes ask, "Do you think you'll go back when the kids are older?" My response: Hell, no. When they're older they'll be playing with matches and sipping off my liquor bottles after school. (Well, at least my daughter and her friends will be while my son is at the chess club meeting.)
Here's one that I heard recently, from three or four moms: "Oh, God! I could never do that. One week I had to stay home with my kid because he had the flu and I almost killed myself. I was so bored. I mean, hats off to you, but..."
One of these women also complained that even though she and her husband both had important jobs, his always trumped hers because he's a doctor. She was totally over it. "So I'm the one who has to come home early if the kid is sick because some patient tried to commit suicide. Like I care!" I don't think she meant to be callous, but her point was taken. It gets old when your life is always the one being shunted aside "for the children."
For my part, I don't like the "Good for you, Honey!" response because what the person giving it doesn't understand is that I'm commitment-averse and I hate working for a living. I am a much more productive member of society now that I am raising kids and gardening and cooking and being a good friend and sending flowers to my grandma and teaching the odd yoga class than I EVER was as someone's paid employee. Some people might think I am a loser for this reason (my ex-boyfriend's smirking face comes to mind). Maybe I haven't lived up to my potential. I'm not sure what kind of potential that might be, but I've a feeling being a 7th grade English teacher wasn't it.
This is my potential right now.
Good for me.
(And another thing. How do these "good for you honey" people know that I'm not a big old princess who hires out 60 hours of childcare a week so I can play tennis and paint my nails? Hmmm? Is it the pasty skin and scraggly fingernails that give it away?)
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
What's the Real Altitude?
After giving it a lot of thought - say, about ten years - I finally went to a naturopathic doctor. Enough was enough with the meds, already. I could handle them making me stupid, but I could NOT handle them making me fatter. I've been very patient with this over the last two years, but really, I want to wear my old clothes again.
I sat on a padded Ikea chair in the naturopath's waiting room and tackled her multi-page intake form. What were my bowel movements like? Had I ever been raped? How often did I drink and had I ever been treated for it? All easy to answer. Then came this one:
How would I describe my general emotional state?
Well, I'm here about depression, right? So hadn't I better write some word that describes me at my worst? Like, "spent" or "overwhelmed" or "seething with rage"?
The truth was that another, very different word had immediately sprung to mind. But I didn't trust it. Yet if it wasn't that word, then what word would it be?
"First thought, best thought," says my teacher, Denise. All right , I thought. And I wrote the word "contentment."
Immediately I left my body and viewed this scene from somewhere in the upper corner of the calm, purple, wellness-center-themed room. Ok, I said, let's get this straight. You're a not-actually-fat person seeing a specialist to get off meds for your depression because they make you fat and stupid. Yet you write that your general emotional state is "contentment." Are you really content? Are you really having a problem?
I came back to my body and said to that voice, in the nicest possible way, "Oh, do shut up." Then I finished filling out the forms.
So, contentment. This is a huge milestone. This is a revelation. Nay, a revolution! A revolution has taken place inside my mind! Thank God for all the yoga, the meditation, the loving husband, the children, my good friends, the flowers blooming in my garden, the blue sky, all the suffering that is now GONE!
Or maybe it's just the meds.
I sat on a padded Ikea chair in the naturopath's waiting room and tackled her multi-page intake form. What were my bowel movements like? Had I ever been raped? How often did I drink and had I ever been treated for it? All easy to answer. Then came this one:
How would I describe my general emotional state?
Well, I'm here about depression, right? So hadn't I better write some word that describes me at my worst? Like, "spent" or "overwhelmed" or "seething with rage"?
The truth was that another, very different word had immediately sprung to mind. But I didn't trust it. Yet if it wasn't that word, then what word would it be?
"First thought, best thought," says my teacher, Denise. All right , I thought. And I wrote the word "contentment."
Immediately I left my body and viewed this scene from somewhere in the upper corner of the calm, purple, wellness-center-themed room. Ok, I said, let's get this straight. You're a not-actually-fat person seeing a specialist to get off meds for your depression because they make you fat and stupid. Yet you write that your general emotional state is "contentment." Are you really content? Are you really having a problem?
I came back to my body and said to that voice, in the nicest possible way, "Oh, do shut up." Then I finished filling out the forms.
So, contentment. This is a huge milestone. This is a revelation. Nay, a revolution! A revolution has taken place inside my mind! Thank God for all the yoga, the meditation, the loving husband, the children, my good friends, the flowers blooming in my garden, the blue sky, all the suffering that is now GONE!
Or maybe it's just the meds.
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