After a month’s hiatus I went back to yoga tonight. March was a busy month for me–my Mondays were otherwise occupied. There was the Pogues show at the 9:30 club, my trip to the desert, a migraine and then the project deadline I needed to crunch on because I couldn’t sit still all day. But today I was back.
As I headed down in the elevator in my workout clothes, a colleague looked at me with admiration. “Going to yoga?” she asked. “Yeah” I said in a voice that was weak and less than enthusiastic. She looked at me quizzically. So I explained. Four week not on the mat, my butt will be so beat, its going to hurt, I just got to slog through the first class back blah blah blah. “But just think,” she said trying her best to encourage me “How virtuous you will feel when you are done!”
I do a lot that I don’t want to do for the virtuous feeling I will get when I am done. I was raised to be a results oriented girl. And its true, all too often I catch myself being caught in the middle of doing something to get to the other side. Slog through the day to get to the ending where you get to hug your boy. Get the laundry done so you can look fabulous and clean. Eat the healthy vegetables to get to the dessert. Its a lot of work this passing through.
On the mat, my butt did get kicked. Big time. I feel like every week I don’t do yoga sets me back two or three weeks. My body complained, ached, wobbled and gave up. I tried desperately to stay in the moment the now when I felt miserable instead of the time in the distant future 30 minutes hence when I would feel virtuous. I watch myself feel uncomfortable and tried to just be aware and present to all that was coming up for me. And a lot of it was about wanting to hit the fast forward button.
I am that girl who when the book gets too suspenseful sneaks ahead to the last page–just to see. I am the one who can never wait to hear the ending to a story. When my mother in law and I used to watch novelas I would get obsessed, dying to know what will happen tomorrow or the next day. If I was watching one in the US that she had already seen in Mexico I would call her and beg her to tell me the ending. Yesterday I watched the Caps game that I had taped from the night before (For all you non-hockey fans–It is a Cinderella story right out of Hollywood. It makes this girl sigh and swoon…) I had to force myself NOT to fast forward to the final score. I felt I would be able to enjoy the game more if I just knew how it ended. But I knew that wasn’t true, really. I asked Max to hide the remote.
There are lots of little adventures percolating in my life. Small things–not big ones. But I am wondering–Where will they take me? I am curious. I am excited. Thankfully I am not anxious or worried. I know it will turn out exactly as it should but I want to know–HOW? I want to wrap my arms around that glorious conclusion so I can just look forward to it. Its a joyous feeling of not being able to wait until Christmas morning, I wish there was a crystal ball I could peer into to see how I will be surprised. I just can’t wait.
But wait I must. And like yoga tonight–its causing a bit of ummm….therapeutic irritation. As I play out all the scenarios in my place I am missing that sweet feeling of being simply somewhere between here and there. And someday, when its all said and done, I will wonder what it was like to be here. And the only thing I will have to say for myself is that I should have paid better attention.
So as I move into “down dog” for what seems like the 100th time, my calves and hamstrings on fire, I practice staying here. Not moving into the next phase. Not rushing ahead to find out the ending, but breathing in and letting the story unfold, slowly. At an excruciatingly slow pace.
Sometimes I feel as though I am slowly coming apart at the seams. Dissolving almost, like a sandcastle being knocked over by the waves. Bit by bit, being washed away.
Single motherhood can do that. So can chronic pain or heartache. After years of standing strong, sometimes I long for permission to just let it all go–to fall apart and give in.
Lately I feel it happening alot–these slow motion melt downs. I feel I have no reserves. That I am spent. Exhausted. Empty. Easily pushed around by life’s winds. I feel I am just so easy to knock down.
It could be the January grey and the bitter cold that seeps into my toes and stays there. It could be the constant on again, off again migraines this winter. It could be car who’s engine siezed up this morning. It could be the rollercoaster of my finances. It could be the colds that are sweeping in one after the other–different little viruses who are lining up to line my throat.
It could simply be that I feel as though I am moving in slow slow motion while the rest of the world zooms by on hyperspeed.
It could be any or all of these things that knock me out of balance and leave me there to slowly fall apart, grain of sand by grain of sand.
It crept up on me again this feeling–the slow unravel. As the day upfolded it occured to me that life is happening too fast, that I can’t keep up, that it is all slipping away from me. That I am trying to run on fumes and am failing.
I wanted to run away and crawl into bed and not get up. To sleep a long sweet sleep. Instead, I went to yoga.
I came into the conference room we use as our studio. My teacher was sitting cross legged on her mat meditating. The class had yet to assemble. So I unrolled my mat, the tears started rolling gently down my cheeks. Tears that would have been so hard to explain if anyone had asked me why. It was simply the feeling of blowing away that had me all undone.
A few minutes later, it was time to set our intention for class. “I need to feel the earth under my feet. I need to feel solid. I need to feel grounded and strong.”
It is always amazing to me how yoga and breathing and moving my body can set me right. It never fails to surprise me.
Class was challenging today. My legs shoke through each of the standing poses. These bold triangular moves–they make me feel so solid and strong–a warrior princess. But today, these moves I love were unusually difficult.
As I sunk into the poses I became aware of how gauzy and insubstantial I had felt all day. I realized I hadn’t been connected to my strength, that my breathing was shallow. So I sunk into those poses and I breathed. I felt my feet touch the ground and root there. With each deepening stretch, each breath, each shift back into downward dog, I grew back into myself. I knit myself together.
I left the class feeling no less tired, no less annoyed with the migraines and the car and the bills. But I felt the scales had tipped back into balance.
The substance of me is weighty-I am a granite boulder not a mound of sand. These problems are not mighty waves–they are simply raindrops. They may run along my face, they may even shape me some but they will not wash me away.
This past Saturday my dear friend Renee’s daughter became a Bat Mitzvah.
Renee has been one of the strong and steady people in our lives–there for Max and I in a quiet but ever present way. When I was struggling through the first few weeks of motherhood, Renee invited me to her house and fed me gourmet meals, enticing me to get out of my pajamas and back into the world of the living. In the horrible months right after Juan moved out she invited us to her house and fed us. We sat at her Passover table and breathed through the prayers, the questions, the stories and she held my hand under the table each time my breath got shaky. Just a few months ago when we went to a wedding in Massachussetts and I wanted to stay up and dance all night, it was Renee who bundled Max up and took him to bed, who read him stories so that I could experience joy. Renee has been a friend who has been a witness to the most poignant moments in our life.
I was so charmed and touched when Renee invited us to this special day for her youngest girl. This was not a huge gathering and I felt honored to be included. When she handed me the invitation back in November I immediately said yes.
I started thinking ahead to that day–What would I wear? What lovely gift would we bring her precious child? My head was spinning so far into the future–thinking of this day. My future-focused head was busy with all the preparations.
So where was I on Saturday? I was nowhere. Nowhere to be seen.
For the last several months I have been so focused on the future–whats coming next, hopping over hurdles and fast forwarding onto the next blissful event: my party, the holidays, some trips I have planned , my wonderful new year and how it would surely play out all flowery and blossomy. No sooner was I in a moment, was I immediately planning what joyful thing would happen next, next, next!
While my head was dreaming of the future, I have done a terrible job of keeping track of the present. Alot has fallen by the wayside. The past couple of months, insurance claims have not been submitted. A bill or two has been paid late. I got a bad cold and slept not nearly enough.
And then the Bat Mitzvah. I lost the invitation in a car that needed to be cleaned. I got mixed up on the date. I asked Renee but didn’t listen carefully, didn’t write it down right away, had moved on to the next item on my to do list. I wrote it in my calendar wrong. I told myself it was next Saturday. In the future…like everything else in my life. Happening sometime soon.
I was so far ahead of myself, I didn’t question why Renee was out of work last week instead of this one. I just assumed she was taking advantage of the end of a short work week to make preparations final. I kept plowing ahead, unaware, unattentive. No pause. No breath. Instead of being now here–I was nowhere.
And I missed it. I missed sweet Hannah’s ceremony. I missed the party my dear friend had so carefully planned. The special event she had called us to attend. She had asked me to be present–to be a witness to the magic of her girl growing up. And I was nowhere.
Sometimes the Universe just has to hit me over the head with a very heavy club.
Last week, the amazing Jena wrote this post about the difference between nowhere and now here being a simple small space, pause, a breath, a moment to be present. In this post she quotes Sue Monk Kidd’s Firstlight:
Someone pointed out to me that the words now, here, and nowhere have the same arrangement of letters, but differ when a small space is inserted. Likewise a fine space separates us from experiencing our life as nowhere or now here.
Attentiveness is entering fully the moment you are currently in, no matter how hassling or mundane, and simply being present with it.
“Ah yes” I said. The words resonated with me. They made sense. They settled into my heart even while my head was spinning-on fast forward ever still. Skipping the pause. I missed it even as I got it.
This morning, before the sun rose, before I realized my mistake, before another friend told me that I had missed the blessed event, I was taking a long walk, a walk I am now taking most mornings. This long walk is part of my plan to get to a healthy weight. The last few times this walk has been an exercise in speedwalking into the future. I walk and I immediately start praising myself for getting up so so early and think I proud I will feel when I have done it all week! I start thinking about how come spring how healthy and strong I will be! I walk and I am thinking about bathing suits and feeling good in them again, about sitting in pools and jacuzzis, about sexy little sundresses.
I caught myself this morning–half way into the walk–when I realized I didn’t even notice much of what I had seen, had missed the birds, the change in the sky. Somewhere out of the buzz that was in my brain, Jena’s words, Sue Monk Kidd’s words stopped me cold in my tracks.
Now here…nowhere…Now here.
One fine space. A pause. A breath.
What had I missed on my walk while I was focused on how beautiful the future would be? I thought about how I couldn’t get that bit back. Those moments where I was lost in planning a future that may or may play out–those precious moments were gone.
I thought back to a time when life was falling apart. When being present, when living in the now wasn’t a choice. It was the only way to survive. In the days and weeks after Juan announced he was leaving, in the months after he had moved out I was anchored in the present because it was all I could take. When I allowed myself to think of our past, I fell apart on the spot, tears flowing, the grief of all we had lost overwhelming. When I started to think of the future, of the next hour, next week, next month without him I was so terrified, so paralyzed I couldn’t breathe. The only thing I could do was get through this minute in front of me, this breath, now the next one, and the one after that. It was a gift that came from the pain, this mindfulness, this practice. But it is one I have packed away, like a forgotten wedding present. A once cherished treasure now shoved over to the side in the chaos of life.
Last night, as I was logging on to check my email, Max came and sat on my lap. “Mama,” he said “Read to me.” “In a minute babe…Mom’s just got to do this one thing.” His answer was strong and clear. “No mom…NOW. I am tired.” Yes. In a few minutes he would be asleep. The moment to read would be gone. The email could keep. “OK” I said, much to his surprise. He was emboldened.
“Mom, you are on the computer too much. You need to stop. You need to be with me. Now. I am grounding you from the computer–at least while I am awake.” “Yes” I said. “That would be fine”. From the mouths of babes…
Tonight at yoga class, as if to drive it home, my teacher was guiding us through an opening meditation. Before asking us to set our intentions she asked us to be aware of the thoughts, the plans, the worries that were buzzing around our brains. She invited us to put them in a box in the hall and to be present. To be in the now. To be here.
And I did. I finally did. I was there through each uncomfortable stretch, through each difficult balance, through each impossibly difficult move to build core strength. And when my mind began to wander I reminded myself that each breath was a chance to begin again.
Each breath calling me out of nowhere and into the now here.
one of many amazing Cairns built by the multi-talented Eric on our labor day camping trip in West Virginia
Monday night and I am back to the mat. Back to yoga. As though she read my mind, as though she can look right into what I needed, my teacher says, “Tonight we are going to work on our balance”.
As a former ballet dancer I should be masterful at the balancing poses. But that was a long time ago and my body has shifted and changed. Fighting the old body/muscle memory that is no longer relevant now that I have a bit of padding, now that my shape is decidedly more maternal, always means that the balancing poses are an exercise in “shift, adjust breathe….shift, adjust, breathe.”
Monday my teacher threw in a doozy. She had us get into Tree Pose facing the wall. “Easy-peasy” I smuggly thought to myself. I am always best able to find my balance facing the wall. I can find a spot right in front of my nose and then just glare at it. But then, my sweet teacher threw us for a loop. She had us close our eyes. I immediately lost all sense of balance. I had to put my foot down, I had to open my eyes, I had to wiggle alot. I fell out of the pose again and again. Try as I might it all fell apart in the dark.
Balance is a tricky thing.
I am working on finding balance in my life outside of yoga too. I have the job, so big and wonderful it could take over ever minute of every hour if I let it. I have the son with a heart and needs so big that he could take over every second of every day if he could. I have the house which needs sweeping, decluttering, and fixing, the bills that need paying. Oh and I have the things I like to do to make my heart breathe and sing, writing, practicing my guitar, sitting with a good friend and a cup of tea or glass of wine and telling stories. The friends, the family, the loved ones who need bits of our time, the things we need and want to do to help build our community.
Having all these things is a blessing, I know.But holding them all in the air without them tumbling down on my head is a challenge–a challenge that seems often impossible. A challenge that seems as unlikely as balancing a heavy stone upright on a tiny tiny point.
Max is having a tough week. I decide to focus on him. Work is not getting enough time or attention, things fall through the cracks. I shift, adjust, breathe…
I am working late, bringing work home, trying to catch up on or actually hit a deadline on time. Max feels left out, he is crawling on my lap, he is hitting the delete key as I try and write and drawing all over my notes. He is begging me to cuddle him, lay down with him, sing him a song, tell him a story. I shift, adjust and breathe…
I am feeling so exhausted, so used up, so tired of being dutiful. I schedule a series of mama’s nights out where I stay up late and dance. Now I can barely keep my eyes open.
My search for balance often feels more like swinging on a pendulum than finding a resting point where all the impossibly heavy hangs perfectly in alignment.
The yoga teacher is not giving up on us–on this experiment. Blinded by this exercise we fall out of poses again and again. Without a reference point to gaze at, all of us, even the more accomplished students are struggling a bit.
She urges us to search within for the balance point, to find it not on the wall but inside. She urges us to trust our inner knowing of our own body, what parts are heavier, what parts are lighter, where we are stronger and weaker and find the balance on our own. To close our eyes and trust we will find it. And then, after failed try after failed try I find it–there…I stay only a second or two but it is there however briefly. I am an amazing tree, strong, upright and balanced.
I leave class vowing to take this lesson into my life. To do more closing of my eyes and trusting that I can find it, the place where it all hangs together perfectly. Yes, its true, I have that knowledge deep inside if I can only trust myself and listen long enough to hear it.
There are many things I cherish about this job I have. One of the small, but precious perks is the subsidized Monday night yoga class–right here in my office–just downstairs. It makes it possible for me to get to the mat. No excuses.
Today was an impossibly hard class. Lots of work on the core muscles. Last week we were all about stretching our heart centers. (I loved that class) This week we were all about making them strong (not to mention our legs, backs and arms). I have to admit when I rolled off my mat to move my body up to sit at the end of the class I felt a bit wobbly and shaken.
Every time we moved into a pose, I would think “wow this is hard”. By breath #3 I would begin to feel my whole body begin to shake. By breath #4 I would think “I can’t possibly do this anymore. I don’t think I can make it.” I would be tempted to come out of the pose one breath early, or to cheat or wiggle. There were a few points when I was even tempted to sneak out of class and call it a night. But instead, I just took one more breath–I told myself all I need to do is breathe again and try to stay, however painful it may be. And then just when I thought I would lose it, it was over. And we would move on, to another challenging, but different pose. And it would start again. Everytime I thought it was all going to fall apart and that I would topple on the floor in a wobbly heap I would take one more breath and I could stay until we finally could shift.
I have noticed that really when my world feels like its collapsing, when my whole foundation starts to shake, I tend to want to stop what I am doing, change position, head for the hills, quit, leave. Yeah, some weeks are a little bit like my yoga class. Remembering to take one more breath, if and when I can do it can make all the difference.
Max has been in a tough place. He has been needy, so needy but not in a cuddly way. He tests my patience over and over again. He tests the limits. He seems to want to test how much I love him, whether I will forgive him. He regresses with behavior that we haven’t seen in years. He feels so sad and out of control and angry that Juan and I aren’t going to be together. He blames me and pushes me away. He clings. He pushes. I am exhausted and my heart aches for him. Breathe…change.
I have been in a tough place. The good news is that for the first time I really feel as though I have let go of my grief over loss of Juan. But with that grief comes another realization. In letting go of the grief, in letting the ghost of that relationship, I am now standing a bit more naked and vulnerable. Grief is a very powerful shield with the power to keep you safe from the pain of rejection, the pain of loss. With it gone I feel a bit raw. A bit wobbly. A bit off balance. Inhale…exhale…
There has been the advice from so many well-meaning friends, friends who care deeply about Max and I. They speak from a place of observing, not knowing what it is like to sit where we sit. I try hard to hear what they have to say through the eyes of their concern for us, but reflecting back on how the words played off my own fear, it feels a little like judgement, a little like exasperation. It burns a bit. I want to react, to run away, to leave this place, this impossible difficult stretch, this uncomfortable uncomfortable place but instead I close my eyes and breathe. Just one more breath…
There is the jealousy that bubbles up in me when my happily married friends try to empathize with single motherhood and I know that they can’t. Their sweet attempts to relate to our day-to-day completely miss the point of our experience. They have a partner to share the burden with, their children don’t know the pain of abandonment, at night when their ass is whooped from the hard work of parenting, they can lay down their head in the arms of their beloved and feel restored. I am so happy that they have what they have but sometimes the jealously makes me feel so uncomfortable I want to run for the exit. Instead I breathe–one more breath and it passes.
There is the reality that when mechanical systems break down it all happens at once. There was broken pipe in the basement that flooded our rec room, pooling up around the piano and the big screen TV. There was the hot water heater who’s pilot went out for the first time since Juan left. The flat tire on the car. The oil leaking from the engine. The brake light that won’t work. All things that are so out of the realm of my knowledge. Things that make me need to strain my already tired brain. Things that make me scared. But I take one more breath, reach for the wall to get a little support, and then…I shift.
There was the week of migraines just when I needed to be at the top of my game at work. The pain that would not even go away with the heaviest of drugs. The echo of the headache that stayed behind my eye even when I was feeling at my best. Inhale…yes…exhale.
Tonight during class I did one last backbend and then we came down into Savasana pose, the corpse pose. Tonight I really understood why it is called the corpse pose. I felt so beaten down as I lay there, sore and tired. I had pushed myself to my limit. Every bit of my body ached.
After meditation, I rolled up my mat. Tonight I will sleep well. I know deep in my soul that tomorrow my heart and body will be a tiny bit stronger, even if I won’t quite be able to perceive it, even if my legs and back still complain about the storm we just went through. Tonight I can just rest in the knowledge that it all eventually passes.
I breathed right through it and its over. It always just takes one more breath.
