Pre-Labor Day

Tomorrow is Labor Day.  For what will you be laboring?  (sigh) A celebration of the American worker? Huh.  The significance seems wasted today on summer swimsuit blowouts or a huge sale on mattresses (with a free box spring).  

I have no idea what tomorrow will bring-- more emotional labor, for sure.  For today, I've devised a short-term escape from my little suburban life.  I'm seeking refuge at my parent's house a few hours away.  The kids are eating ice cream sandwiches, watching movies, and playing Minecraft.  This afternoon, we will swim with my nephew, brother, and sister-in-law. This is vacation time for me.

It's strange to look back at times I've either scheduled without my husband or he wasn't able to make the event.  I am typically less stressed out.  Two years ago, when my grandmother died, I traveled with my parents and brother to Maine.  It was a short, weekend trip to the northeast.  We drove and reminisced and it was a spectacular visit. (I know I sound insensitive to the event, but she'd been dead and cremated for 2 months already) My family stopped at a mom and pop shop for lobster rolls. We were entertained by the antics of my dad's inbred relatives (yes, yes I admit they are my relatives too).   My brother and I got wasted in an underground bar near our hotel.  I flew home completely hungover.  Good times.

Then there are the weekends I've spent with friends.  We register for 15k races. We run 9 plus miles.  We then spend the remainder of the weekend eating great food and shopping.  There are no chats about men or children.  We just laugh and enjoy a slice of freedom.

It's not my original thought, no -- but, the loveliest times are when everything is fun and relaxed.  Life should be about being happy and feeling safe.  There should be little stress.  That is an ideal life.  No, none of us live the ideal life. I get that.  But shouldn't we allow ourselves to recognize these patterns of discord?  If we are already laboring in our factory life, shouldn't our time at home be labor free?  It should be.  It needs to be.

Letting go

It's my first weekend of freedom.  I've decided to let go and see what happens.  However, it's Saturday and I had to teach my obligatory bi-monthly yoga class this morning.  Freedom had to wait.

There were the regular yogis, my neurotic neighbor, an Indian couple who always come late and then search for an open spot, the two pseudo-flexible, middle-aged women who never want me to adjust them, the mother and daughter, and twenty or so other new faces.

I had prepared a speech on letting go.  Class is never meant to reflect my own personal issues, but somehow, this one was more relatable than the others.  I gave a quick rundown on why it's important to use a block. Lengthen the spine.  Create space. Have a grounding point. Check out my visual representation. I gave them all towels to help engage their leg muscles.  I gave a lot today.  It was a day of service.

I didn't let on that I was, in turn, letting go myself.  I am letting go of this class, this gym.  I have a lot stirred up in my life right now and I know when it is time to move on.  I have reached a place where I can wholeheartedly do it without any regret.  This goes for not only my service to this gym, but to other places in my life.

We are daily in the process of letting go of things. We just don't pay mindful attention to the action itself.  We throw away things.  We send emails.  We hang up the phone.  All of these simple things happen and life still moves on.  I had been holding onto a lot that doesn't suit my life any longer.  It's like my closet stuffed with dresses I no longer wear or shoes that don't fit quite right, but I cling to them anyway.  Why?  Once those things are discarded, the world doesn't stop turning.  Life goes on and perhaps we feel a sense of freedom.  This weekend begins that freedom.  I empowered my students with the knowledge of the how and why to leg go. I empower myself to be decisive and driven by the true nature of who I am-- rather than the idea of pleasing the world or holding on to past feelings.  The past is just that.  

Minding what matters

It's still morning and I've had my coffee.  I've read the paper/checked my e-mail/shuttled the kids to school.  I'm back in bed now.  I want to sleep away the day.  There's part of me that wants to order takeout and watch movies.  This is not the day.  Maybe tomorrow.  I have three classes to teach--to inspire others to work hard.

A few years ago, when my marital troubles had hit their peak, I remember moments such as this.  I would be dealing with the anxiety and overwhelming nature of our relationship and had to put it all aside for that hour or two.  I always loathed those instructors who came in the room and emptied their personal fluff, their dirty laundry, during class.  People pay to be entertained and be happy and be light.  They don't pay to feel sorry for you. If I taught the class with any sense of sadness or emotional unrest, I knew the class would suffer along with me.

A funny thing would happen-- I'd leave my issues at the door and I'd determine that it was possible for me to could give them everything for that hour. Those were some of my best, most focused classes. It was liberating -- a testament that the mind can be freed from the depressing/anxiety-riddled nature of real life struggle.  Instead of drudgery, the class became my little window of normalcy.

I'm hoping I can capture that same feeling today.  I'd much rather be here in a contemplative state, writing, eating, hoping, or maybe just pulling these covers over my head.

Change

Change is inevitable.

I stood at the edge of my relationship this week and decided to lean into the fall.  It was different than the usual way I go about things.  But this was something I had felt coming for a long time -- certainly months....no, definitely years.  Change. The worst part of it is not how it affects us, but rather how it affects our family.

There have been lots of "I almost" "I was just about" "I was going to" "I finally" statements thrown in my direction.  This is nothing new.  It's part of the dance that has become so familiar-- a glimmer of hope in the distance that looks pretty from afar, but it never gets closer. It never becomes a tangible thing I can hold or feel or rely upon.  It is this cloud of future statements that has blurred everything and played into my desire to see positive outcomes come from negative situations.

Change is inevitable, yes.  I expect this weekend will be tough.  We will be hammering out the details of separating. We will be discussing logistics of school and work and timeframes. A lot of decisions.  I am thinking ahead to what I really want.

This morning, I told my mom about all of what's transpired this week.  First off, I confessed I quit working for one of the health clubs.  I've taught classes there for 7 years.  The vibe has changed. Really, I never cared for the big box gym concept.  It's not worth my stress and anxiety every week.  My children hate going and sitting in the chaotic, windowless room they designate as a holding pen for the kids.

Then I told her about my discussions of separating.  Gasp. She is always, for better or worse, supportive.  She commented that our family has observed the landscape of the marriage over the years and understands.  Sometimes they (mom, dad, brother, sis-in-law) just laugh at the situations they've witnessed.  Sometimes, the ones who never say anything, say a lot.  There has always been an undercurrent of concern.

Change. I saw it from a distance.  I ignored the inevitability, the signs, the gut feelings.  I can't ignore it any longer.  I have said and done too much to look back.  

First Day

Yesterday was Day 1.  As I walked to my classroom, the first place I'd ever teach academically, this was my view.  It was a poetic moment-- one of those emotions that movies attempt to capture about real life, but never quite can. Well, maybe some are moved,  but it is different for everyone.

This light reminded me of white plantation shutters and morning -- how fresh and beautiful it feels at that time of day.  I could hear soft music and smell coffee.  It's where we all feel at our best.  The light floods the house and surrounds me.  As the day wears on, nothing looks as it did when I woke up, when I felt the warmth of a new day.  Mornings never get old or repetitive for me.

I prepared heavily for this day. I had folders and pens and a syllabus.  I brought gum and snacks.  I had even rehearsed some of the inspiring sentiments for the class.  But, most inspiring of it all was this lighted path in the hallway.  It stood for something, many things, to me.  All at once I felt grateful and inspired. It was steeped with metaphors-- surely some I have yet to completely understand.

There are many who go through life feeling as if they couldn't take care of themselves or don't have the confidence to speak up or change their existence to something better, more fulfilling.  Not me.  Not this life.  Living is for beautiful mornings on days like this.  It is the knowing that it exists especially for me,  it can be felt and remembered, even when it's no longer morning.  It is more than a dream.  

Nights are for the Young

I haven't written in a couple of days.  There are so many ongoing, competing stories in my life.  There are the ones I've created, there are the mythical beasts that others must slay, and there are the ones that just happen to appear through sheer living.  I can't discuss most of them.

There is always the one about last night though. I attended the surprise birthday of one of my closest friends. Her husband rented a limo to drive us downtown.  Though I'm usually asleep by 10:30, I managed to stay out with her until the bars closed.  Oh, we all had fun--especially her. It was a departure from our suburban life. But, oh, what a scene.

I thought had done my homework. I asked some of my younger coworkers at the gym where to go. They are all puppies anyway.  I confessed to them that it had been about ten years since I'd ventured into the downtown nightlife scene.  They threw out some names, two or three of which I mentally noted.

Yes, the scene has completely changed in the last ten years and not just because I'm ten years older.  There was this one upscale place I vaguely remembered from years past.  We went there first.  There's a steep hardwood staircase leading to a elaborately decorated loft bar.  It's covered with dark velveteen benches and scrollwork in the darkly stained oak.  The place was the same.  The ambiance had completely changed.  Inside no one was dressed for the evening.  There were hobo tourists from far away lands.  There were girls with what looked like stockings over their dark voluptuous curves, with glittered toes and plastic flip flops.  I saw sunglasses and ridiculous hats and smoke from hookahs. And I can stand some loud music, but the bass rang my ear drums to the point I was sure permanent damage was inevitable.

This was not the scene of a decade prior.

And good god, the DJ had ADD.  We'd hear 20 seconds of one song, start to move with the recognizable hit, and then it would change into something else, moving in no particular direction, in no concrete genre.  It was a mess --a musical train wreck.

And everyone was young. If they weren't young, they were creepy.

Nights are now for the young. Nights like that are now unrecognizable to me.    

Pain in the Neck

I'm working on a new narrative of an enchanting moment with my housecleaner.  Narratives take time and even though I started crafting it yesterday, it's not even close to being posted.  It will have to wait another day (or two).

I'm in incredible pain this morning.  Pain in my neck.  Something shifted when I was pre-cleaning in preparation for Luz to do her best effort and my neck started aching.  What's this about?  Dare I mutter it? It is, perhaps, due to all of the yoga I've been doing over the past month or two.

Yes, therapeutic yoga, alignment yoga is only good for you when you know EXACTLY how to do it.  That means you properly warm up your front body, side body, back body before getting into more intense postures.  With trainings, we warm up, we sit down, we get up, we try a posture, we do an adjustment, we sit down.  It's like catholic calisthenics. So there's no genuine warm up.  The room is warm and that's about all that's going for us.

Neck and back pain is the worst.  Ibuprofen for the inflammation. Ice pack wrapped in a red handkerchief.  Biofreeze lotion gooped up at the base of my hairline.  This morning the pain shifted from the middle of my cervical spine and is now settling to the left side. (sigh)

Ironically, I do all sorts of pretzel-like things with my body.  I work the side crow and shoulder stands and binds.  But when I think back to times I've felt pain, it's always happened during the mundane housework/daily moments.  I hurt my back last year when I reached underneath the shopping cart for a package of toilet paper.  I hurt my neck while picking up my clutter around the house.  Oh, there's a lesson in there somewhere. You can figure it out.      

Because Women Eventually Become Lesbians

-

"the women friends"  gustav klimt

"....because all women eventually become lesbians."

"What?"
That was my reaction to the statement from my friend.  I asked for clarification.

My gut reaction was to exclaim,  "I don't feel romantically linked to my girlfriends, even if I do call them my "girlfriends."

I gather what he meant is that we (women) form these intimate relationships with each other which manifest themselves in the form of book clubs, brunches, running groups, etc.  It is perceived that we feed off the dismantling of our fellow gal's relationship or we advise another on options for appropriate punishment her child. It is assumed that we weave tales of discontent in regular bitch sessions about men....about boys, maybe.  I imagine men think we tell girlfriends our darkest secrets, share all of our favorite sexual positions, and readily divulge the length and girth of our spouse's penis.

All of that would certainly breed a high level insecurity.

It's not like that.  Well, maybe on occasion, but not ALL the time.

Kristen Houghton puts is this way:

Women's close friendships are hardly uncharted territory. We have been relying on each other for centuries. There's a reason women and men split into two distinct groups at social functions and it isn't dictated by the antiquated rules of Victorian society when men shared brandy and cigars in one room while women drank their sherry in another. Men need the companionship and bravado of other males; women need the intense nurturing of female friendship. And nurture each other we do. The most powerful female executive still nurtures and cares for her friends.  source

Over the years, I have established an incredibly diverse set of girlfriends that have become a vital support system for me and I for them. When one goes through rough times, the outsider's view can be critical to getting the reality check necessary.  It is, however, a double-edged sword.  As an outsider, it may be hard to see anything other than the side that's being presented to them... with emotion, with fervor.

This is not to say that an emotive relationship/friendship is restricted to just my female compadres. Nope.  In my "sewing circle" there's a handful of boys who give me advice and do not hold back.  Even moreso, I value that I'm the kind of girl (who is a thinking, feeling being that can empathize and help bring friends a sense of peace) that the boys call when there's trouble.

Human beings are social creatures. And as the article "Girl Talk" describes:

Although we no longer face the same dangers or lead the same harsh lives as our Stone Age ancestors, all the same bonding instincts are still in place, and friendship is still a vital part of our lives - perhaps increasingly so in this age of urban alienation and anomie...  source

 We are not burgeoning lesbians ready to cut the men from our lives.  Certainly some have a tendency to overshare.  It's the nature of women to lean and some lean harder than others.  We are emotionally open to a fault.  It's just important for me, for us, to know how to share, but be "man" enough to make our own life decisions.

Peaks and Valleys

Last time I saw my therapist, I apologized to her.  In the moment, I seized on an empathic need to apologize for what I felt was a failure to stay assertive and strong.  She looked at me, seeing my frustration and sadness, and told me that everyone's life, including her own, goes through peaks and valleys.  We can't expect it to stay on the upswing.

The past six months, maybe more, have been a lot of compromises-- an undercurrent of telling myself, maybe today will be different. Maybe it will always be this way and I just need to find a way to survive.  I admit to friends and sometimes complete strangers that I've been taking an antidepressant.  I share that it was, at some stage in my relationship, critical for me to do so to stay grounded and reassured of my strength.  I'm sure that message may have caused an internal jolt to some.  I'm not sure why I felt the need to share it. Perhaps it was an abstract internal cry to listen to my Self.

I've found that the more I get into to my life's work of wanting to help people through yoga therapy or through exercise or through connecting them to the writing process, the more I realize I have to work out my own demons.  Those little buggers are standing between me completely realizing my calling.  My energy is all mucked up with things that don't really serve me anymore.  Old survival skills.  Rotted out defense mechanisms.  A crusty lack of self confidence.  

My practice (yoga, meditation, mindfulness, introspection) identifies all of this and peels back the layers to what truly matters.  There's something bright and shiny underneath all that and it's beginning to show through.  

Last night I confessed, "I'm just exhausted.  I'm tired of feeling guilty about everything I do or want to do."   

Authentic me coming out, breaking through.

Self-Improvement

I sparingly consume processed foods.  I use coconut oil as my moisturizer. I drink plenty of water to hydrate.  I avoid sugar and gluten. All of these things I try to do, all these pure things, and yet, I still have a certain level of synthetic to me.  

If it’s vacation/swimsuit season, I’ll chemically tint my skin tone a few shades.  After all, tan fat is aesthetically more pleasing than than pale fat.  If I’ve had too many Starbucks lattes, I’ll whiten my teeth.  I’ve been known to throw in a couple clip-on hair extensions. Oh, and then there’s the occasional Botox injection. Yes, I’m not even in my forties and I’ve dabbled in Botox.  They hooked me young. When you’re in your thirties, they call it “a preventative measure.”

I’ve been accused that I was doing all of this in order to be attractive to others (read: someone other than who I’m with). In fact, I’m doing all of this for my self. My self tells me that it’s possible that I could look a shade better than the status quo self.  Since I’m not transforming into a slice and dice, "lift this and tuck that" kind of person, a healthy level of self improvement seems acceptable. 

I have broken my nose a couple of times.  I have parts of me that need some lifting or pulling.  My genetic predisposition is one of wrinkles, pale skin, freckles, cellulite and visible vein structures.  This is what it’s like to be human— to have lived adventures, to have given birth, to have gained and lost, to have too much sun or not enough. Our bodies reveal our lives like the numerous roads we’ve traveled.  That gives new meaning to the phrase, “he was a weathered fellow."

As much as I practice yoga and preach a health-filled lifestyle, there are some things I don’t want to give up.  It doesn’t mean it’s a desperate attempt to reclaim my youth or make myself desirable to others.  It’s about living right there on the edge between self-improvement and not falling into the pit of vanity.  

It's What's for Dinner

I'm finally home for the day. I just finished eating the healthiest thing I could find on the menu -- a baked slab of salmon on a big bed of spinach, accompanied by red onions and soft cheese (that I can only assume was of the goat variety). There was a bacon vinaigrette dressing, but I ordered it on the side so I could sparingly use it to moisten the overcooked fish.

I had met my family for dinner at one of the large chain places I've grown to dislike.  For the record, I never had a taste for these commercialized restaurants.  I don't trust what most places pass off as acceptable replacements for wholesome food.  However, my other half does not cook and eventually someone (me) needs a break.  Jesus, he doesn't even grill.  What man doesn't grill? Isn't that some rite of passage?  It seems so strange to me.

Our Friday and sometimes Saturday evenings are my nights off and his night to "cook." His version of cooking is to find a coupon for a local joint, wait until after the early bird diners have left, and find the most convenient place for a family dinner. This inevitably becomes the weekend drill where we toss around the names of big-named, low price, get-a-heap-for-your-dollar places that one could see at every exit on their way from here to the Georgia line--places like Olive Garden, Smoky Bones, Longhorn, Outback, Cracker Barrel, you get the picture.

Actually, a new place opened up near my yoga studio.  It's not one of the main chains, but it is similar in this americanized restaurant conceptual ideal.  When it comes to this "ideal" there are a few consistent standards:
- It's REALLY bright!!!!
- There must be at least one television.
- The music is loud enough that the person you're dining with has to raise their voice to an audible level.
-The furniture is minimalist and so is the decor.
 There are other common denominators, but for the purposes of this observation, I'm just naming a few.

What strikes me is just how impersonal these restaurants feel and moreover, how overloaded my senses are when I walk through the door. And forget trying to have a conversation.  My eyes are drawn away from my dining compadre and straight to the television.  I have to yell over the music.  I'm forced to belly up to some industrial-looking table, on a wobbly brushed steel barstool, waiting for terribly bland or over-salted food.  The natural light is typically shafted for some artificial spots that light my face in such a terrible fashion (i.e. you can clearly see I've broken my nose twice by way of beam of the overhead bulb).  Who looks good being lit from straight above?  

I want dark spaces with ambiance.  I want food that isn't cookie cutter or bought in hopes that it can pass for edible.  I want soft music playing and I want to speak at a normal volume. I hear these places exist.  I bet they don't have coupons or discounts or early bird specials. If you take me, I promise not to order the most expensive thing on the menu.  I'm not that kind of girl.

It's Another Day

Dilbert may be my source of office humor, but rarely has it produced a true philosophical gem to share and absorb.  Today was the day.  I swiped this one straight from this morning's paper.

All too often our minds are so busy being upset or feeling wronged in some way that we don't realize that really, the environment in which we are a part is basically the same.  No one is chasing us.  The electricity still works.  The sun still wakes us through those beautiful white plantation shutters.  Good days and bad days, as Dilbert's confidant says, are only in our mind.

There's a science behind why our brain has been trained to focus on the negative.  It's purely part of our reptilian brain's defense -- it's our way to ensure our survival.  These aspects of our neurological network still exist within us.  Studies, however, have proven that we can affect this old, outdated circuitry and rewire ourselves to be more content.  Mindfulness is a big part of that.  Mindfulness takes us out of the idea of anxiety (which typically involves worrying about the future) and depression (focusing on what we've done in the past).  In the moment, we are not being chased.  We can address what's right in front of us, rather than what may be coming along in the future.  And no matter how hard we might want to, we cannot change the past.

Some are, as I understand now, beyond the point of upset or negative.  This is usually when the system, the body, has been completely wiped out of it's seratonin. Perhaps it's producing more cortisol with the rigors of a busy work schedule, no help, no vacation, no end in sight.  There is stress beyond reckoning.  There is the feeling of being pinned down to an endless Groundhog Day.

When I find myself there, I go back to my practice.  Maybe my hip joint is too inflamed to practice yoga, but I breathe.  I sit, and I breathe and I try not to think.  I look at the day one hour at a time.  There is no one chasing me.  I have food and a place to sleep.  I have aches and pains, but they won't ruin me.  I remember that I have love.  It may be an incredibly stressful time, but I live for knowing that there is always love.

Boys and Men, Girls and Women

Working in an academic environment, I am frequently helping young men (and women) with papers and assignments.  There have been a handful of uncomfortable conversations with boys that I felt, well, should've never stepped over the line of tutor/student.  I had to take them aside and set them straight. It ended there. I may have even suggested a classmate who may better suit their fancy. I know. I know, so weird, but true.  My other half has even gone so far to say it's not a good place for me to be, since it may open me up to plenty of opportunities to cheat on him.

Oh if he only knew--there is no need to worry about the boys.  Boys are like puppies.  They are cute and silly.  They have yet to grow into fully understanding the world.  They are impressionable.  Those qualities could be quite attractive to some women.  Not me.  I can admire their cuteness, their vulnerability, their lack of worldliness, but there is a difference between admiring it and desiring it.  I wouldn't want to teach them anything.  Really, I don't want them looking at me and seeing my age as I feel its slow progression, the deterioration that seems to happen daily.  Sure, I workout, I eat right, I do yoga --- but I know I don't look like I'm in my twenties anymore.  Most of these boys are still in their teens.  They still eat whatever they want and then some. Their eyes are bright, their bodies strong and smooth.  Not for me.  Not for me.

Of course, it is the way of the world that it's opposite for men.  They want someone to keep them young.  They want to guide, to show and tell, to explore the world through fresh eyes and perspective.  They want to regain their youth.  There is nothing wrong with this.  Obviously biology has crafted us in such a way to keep us wanting to procreate with the best possible option--the younger, the more fertile, the healthier one.  But more often, perhaps it is this:

The reasons older men chase younger women have less to do with sex and everything to do with a profound desire to reassure ourselves that we've still got "it." "It" isn't just physical attractiveness; "it" is the whole masculine package of youth, vitality, and, above all else,possibility. It's not that women our own age are less attractive, it's that they lack the culturally-based power to reassure our fragile, aging egos that we are still hot and hip and filled with potential. Inspiring desire in women young enough to be our daughters becomes the most potent of all anti-aging remedies, particularly when we can show off our much younger dates to our peers. The famous little red sports car reveals only the size of our bank account; attracting a girl barely out of her teens (or, if we're in our fifties, barely out of her twenties) validates the enduring power of our youthful appeal - source

I can't judge what women or men find attractive.  It may be little people or farm animals or big hairy fat women.  It's all a personal preference.  For me, it is certainly not the boys.  

Poolside

The summer heat wasn’t quite here yet, but it was warm enough that as I sat on the pool deck with him, I was feeling flushed.  It was one of those typical first days of June.  The kids are relishing the simple pleasures of sleeping late and carelessly bounding across freshly manicured lawns with the dogs trailing behind them.  The parents aren’t so exhausted yet that they’ve begun to spike their pink lemonade with shades of rum or vodka.  

This was at the edge of our pool.  The pool had been recently resurfaced and replenished by my fastidious husband just in time for visitors. It was a pleasant temperature. In front of us, the boys jumped fearlessly into the deep end like two explorers embarking on a competitive mission to destroy the older assembly of siblings perched on the steps of the shallow end. Jacques Cousteau.  Émile Gagnan.  The battle for the pool had begun. 

The humidity was strong and my pale skin was feeling overexposed. He had come out of the shade to rest along the poolside with me, between the deep and shallow end, my one foot dangling in next to his two. He had a smaller build and a deeper skin tone, even when I stared at his opaque limbs through water’s reflection. It occurred to me that he could probably sit poolside for hours and feel confident that he’d be the same deep chestnut color. I would be a reddish glaze of aloe.

 

We sipped on glasses of sun tea and watched the children play.  My husband was away at his day job.  His wife had left him here with the children while she went shopping for some new outfit.  There was very little conversation as we tuned into the laughter and activity in the water.  

He took off his shirt and dove into the pool.  The kids swirled around him like sharks and I felt a jolt of merry adventure.  He smiled and laughed and I smiled back at him and all the sudden, I felt like one of the kids.  All four kids piled themselves on a quickly plummeting raft.  I sunk my feet deeper into the pool and took the one side while he took the other.  We splashed and played Marco Polo.  We hoisted the younger ones on our shoulders and barreled toward each other in a pleasant game of Chicken. 

“Want another tea?” I asked him.

“Sure. I’ll keep an eye on the kids,” he replied.

I grabbed a towel, smoothed back my hair, and grabbed the pitcher from the counter.  He opened the sliding glass door to pop his head in,

“You know, I feel this…..energy between us” he said in some staggered, broken english.

“Oh?” I said, surprised and somewhat curious.

“My wife.  Well,” he sighed, “we don’t have that, what I feel when you’re around,” he continued, “she doesn’t like to be physical.”

I could see his expression change.  All at once he moved from being one of the kids to being something else.  Behind him, the kids splashed. His son was calling him back to the pool, throwing a ball at his father’s ankles – beckoning him to return to the fun, the childhood games we play.  He stood half in the patio, dripping wet, halfway through the sliding door. 

“You know, it doesn’t have to mean anything.  I could just take this…. energy that we have and bring it back to my wife.”

I had our two glasses of sun tea in my hands. I reminded myself to breathe. His chest was dripping water on the kitchen tile.  I couldn’t help but stare at the puddle.   I walked back towards the pool, towards him. The humidity from the open sliding door had already started to permeate the house.  I pressed the tea into his hand, standing there silent looking into his dark and foreign eyes.  He had stolen this moment.  I was basking in childhood pleasures and he wanted something from me to take back to his marriage. 

I could feel the puddle at my feet as I slid the door shut. His eyes turned back to the pool. He held his tea with one hand, grabbed the ball with the other, and joined the kids.

Crossroads

I’m not sure this could be defined as a crisis or a crossroads.  Whatever it is, it’s got ahold of me and it won’t let go.  A conversation with a close friend steered me towards this idea that I may just be dabbling in changing my life path toward more of existentialist view of being. Surely this is what I've been drifting towards the past few years, as I explore where I've been mentally, physically, and emotionally.  Spirit has taken over and shown me in various ways signs of change that I am just now beginning to understand. 

As I fight to reclaim which direction my life flows, I often wonder how much we're influenced by how we are socialized.  

"...early in childhood, the young mind is quickly influenced with prior meanings and systematically colonized with belief systems handed down from other generations, our parents, society, religion, the media, etc." source

If we choose to continue to let these influences overtake who we might become, if we are unable or unwilling to detach from the meanings others have given us, then can we still grow into knowing our “selves" or will we become stagnant, falling into the same patterns of the social norms our families and communities have built for us?    What do I know?  

I do know that I’ve been challenged lately to answer the question, “What has changed in you to make you so disgruntled?”  What exactly have I come to find to be so frustrating and all consuming? 

It takes a lot of work to move from our comfort zones and the embedded habits that feed our complacency.  

I don’t know anything.  I know that I’ve got a lot of things to think about.  But for now, I guess I’ll keep these in mind:

Daily Affirmations from John Tsilimparis's article:

I will accept that I will be forever changing and creating myself and that I will never be a "fixed" or foregone conclusion.

I will use mindfulness and active awareness skills to make conscious meaning out of life's experiences. I do have some control over my thoughts, feelings and actions.

I will take full responsibility for all the circumstances in my life by doing what I can to make them better today. There is no one to blame anymore.

I will be more aware of the choices I make today and accept that I alone, am the author of my destiny.

I will remember who I am in relation to others and be an authentic separate individual. I will differentiate myself from others and let them experience the uniqueness of who I am.

I will use the rest of my time in this life wisely and accept that the prospect of death is a concept that actually helps me live life more fully.

source

Inside My Self

Another weekend spent in yoga training. After over 180 hours of intensive teacher training, this one was somehow different. It was the first time since starting (in March) that I felt like I left the studio Sunday afternoon changed from when I had started Saturday morning.  Sure, over the months there have been subtle differences and some epiphanies, but nothing life-changing.

I pride myself on being the kind of teacher who can be creatively informative, who has a sense of humor, and who brings a large helping of encouragement to all of the classes I teach.  I can create classes that have levity and flow--but there's been an inexplicable disconnect.

This weekend pointed me to a gap in my ability to lead.  What unfolded for me is this: I learned that in order to truly help others, as we assisted others in various yoga postures, we must have compassion; compassion really begins with ourselves.  In essence, you must be able to assist yourself, have compassion for yourself, before you can fully extend that compassion to others.

And for a moment I stepped outside of myself and tried to feel compassion for a woman who is strong, who is caring, who is wise and who loves deeply. As I looked further,  I saw someone who has rarely felt safe, who is sensitive, who wants to please even if it means making sacrifices.  I saw someone who didn't grow up knowing where the boundary lines should be placed, who was, in a lot of ways, still a little girl.  And I was happy and sad for her all at the once--sad for the things she endured, but happy she had become so strong and so loving despite any pain.

I realized we are all like this. My life path is no different, not better or worse than any other human being.  I realized we all come with our preconceived notions, the lies we tell ourselves, the truths we refuse to face, the inevitability of injuries, hurt, and fear. We bring all of this to our practice.  Those I teach are no different, no better or worse. We are all practicing in the best way we know with what we have been given.  

And if I weren't so good at compartmentalizing my emotions, I probably would've gone home and cried.

I went in thinking this weekend was about learning to bring mindfulness to an aspect of asana to elevate someone's practice, but when I left I found I had elevated my own.

You are a Free Agent

"What many people need to understand, I think, is that we are all free agents.  We can do whatever we want at any time.  A relationship, loving or not, is based on that free agency." 

I was having a candid discussion with a friend who explained relationships as this: a free agency.  I lifted the quote above from our conversation. I gave it some thought.

My friend isn't really into sports, so perhaps it wasn't the best choice for an analogy.

To some degree, one can say we are all free agents. Marriage, however, comes with stipulations that tend to supersede this concept -- this idea that one does not have a contractual obligation to behave any certain way.

Besides, those of us who are parents cannot abide by the idea that we are not responsible to any party for our actions.  We are all free agents until we have children for whom we are obligated to acknowledge and promise care and create boundaries (at least those of us who want to be good parents).

But I'm getting off-topic. This idea of free agents, I think, was proposed to mean that it's important to realize that there are other ways people wish to live....other than our own.  Perhaps we should be more accepting of those ways. Or moreso, one should live the way they wish to live and expect that a significant other will either find it acceptable.... or not.

Let's be real. I am a sloppy mess of a girl who may just leave my shoes next to the bed. Maybe my panties too. Oh, and a stack of books/magazines/last week's mail.  I may also want the air conditioning set at 77 instead of 79 degrees.  I may leave dishes in the sink overnight without worry.  I may even forget to turn a light off.  What I wish I had done during the early period of my married life is promote my own faults as they should be-- acceptable.  My attitude should've been more "take it or leave it." This would have, perhaps, prevented me from ever getting married in the first place.  Or maybe my now husband would've said, "Oh, I can live with that."  (If you knew him, you'd know he'd never say that) 

Instead, I tried to bend to the whims and the constant criticism of my other half.  This could only end badly.  I take full responsibility for my lack of a backbone.

Ultimately we end up chasing our tails in relationships that aren't fully accepting of the other's imperfections.  Or like me, you may end up saying "yes" more than you should have.  Then one day you'll wish you really were a bona-fide free agent, even if it means you're going to be out of work or in need of a new contract. Better to be free than bound to someone else's ideals.

Meet the Teacher

Today we meet the teachers for the forthcoming school year.  It will, however, be a short and sweet meeting, since the official meet and greet overlaps with the two hours of exercise class I teach on Friday mornings.  We'll be driving straight there to make it on time.  I'm sure my crotch sweat will make the best impression.

Our school has a "system" by which you can request specific teachers based on the child's behavioral or mental needs. This is not a "system" that is advertised to the parents. Parents find out through the grapevine.  It's a total farce.  The form specifically states you are NOT to request a teacher by name.  However, everyone does.  It is typically composed in some form of, "My child, Jenny Smith, is a very sensitive child who would excel in a classroom with a teacher who is caring, patient, and has great methodologies in reading comprehension like Ms. Callahan."

As the school year comes to a close, parents (who've not been in the front office all year) start filing in whispering, inquiring for "the form."  The receptionist always knows.  She stops the parents mid-sentence with a smile and a nod and hands them the lilac colored application.  The parent looks surprised and relieved, and then rushes for the door.  

Room mothers spend most of the official academic year with their ears to the walls of other classrooms, trying to figure out where to place their babies for the following school year.  I can't say I'm much different.  I may not be the room mom, but I know the power of having one of the better teachers.

Requesting for this forthcoming year was difficult. I had not spent as many hours at school. There is a new principal in power. There weren't as many stand out choices.  For the record, there are very few BAD teachers where my children go to school.  So for me it comes down to trying to avoid who's not made my grade. This is clearly subjective.

Some find this practice of requesting to be pretty controversial. After all, growing up we all suffered through bad teachers.  It's part of childhood.  Every year I tell myself this and resolve to roll the dice-- let my children get what they get.  Then, at the last minute, I slink into to the front office and snag a couple of lilac-colored forms just in case I change my mind.  I usually do.    

Time to Get Away

Upon my return from the kids' last hurrah before their summer ends, I've come to the obvious conclusion that there are various types of vacation:  

-There are the ones that those of us who are parents book with the kids in mind.  
-There are the ones we go to get lost or explore.  
-There are the ones that we take to relax.  

My vacation time with the kids is only successful when I practice being a kid myself.  If I try to go in my parental role, I’m not enjoying myself.  There’s something about seeing things from the lens of a child that makes even just camping out in the backyard an exciting event. There can't be a whole lot of schedules or rules to follow.  There's just the in the moment fun. 

I've been online several times this summer to find a vacation to take by myself.  I'm a mother. I'm a wife.  I get that those roles play a huge part in what types of getaways are "allowed."  

Screw that idea.  I want to get away. Far away.  I have looked up yoga retreats. I have looked up going by myself to NYC. There are museums and cafes that I yearn to visit.  There are lists of fantasy places I want to explore in distant lands.  

I have booked nothing. My family thinks I'm crazy. This is not a concept easily grasped by those who live and breathe vacations as played out by cruise lines and theme parks and the Vegas strip.  That is not my idea of vacation.  That is the anti-vacation.

To travel is to live.  I don't want material things.  I just want to see the world and I'm not afraid of going alone.     

A Social "Like"

Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.- Oscar Wilde

I've been on a self-prescribed long hiatus from social media. I said adieu to Facebook in 2012.  My 'friends’ asked me on weekly intervals if I missed it.  Actually, I felt it was quite liberating.  I told them so. 

Yes, there are benefits to being connected.  I missed seeing photos or videos of my little nephew at events as they happened.  I missed knowing who was where, or that perhaps, I was just two doors down from one of my friend’s happy hour get together. I may have even missed a few birthday or anniversary notices.  A funny thing happens though when you’re not on social media.  If people know you’re not there, they send updates to your email or phone anyway.  My mom kept me up-to-date on my ‘friends’ and family.  My real friends texted me with the latest news.  So even though I wasn’t connected, I somehow managed.  

Ask yourself, who posts terrible selfies? And if someone tags you in a photo, do you not “untag” yourself?  The way we represent ourselves online is just that.  We are, as Oscar Wilde describes, other people. We are not who we’ve become in social media.  

I learned this lesson firsthand from an ex-friend of mine. She would post some amazing anecdotes and inspiring insights about life.  She had built an online empire based solely on how she wanted to be represented.  All of her ‘friends’ could look at her life and collectively exhale a romanticized sigh at the beauty of it all.  But in reality, her life was nothing like her Facebook.  She may have told you that she’d be at the beach/movie/bar/yoga class that day, but in the end, she’d never show up.  Oh, and if she did, she was at least an hour late.  She posted photos of her family, but in reality, she spent a lot of time away from them.  She made empty promises to her sons.  She had another life with another guy or two or three or four.  She had in theory, the best intentions to do everything, all the time, but it rarely worked out the way it was posted. 

Real life happens in the now, in the spaces we occupy where we are actually present.  The concept of not just our social media lives, but all of the world’s history falls into the same category of it being someone else’s account of what happened.  History is, after all, just the words “his” and “story” fused together.  

With time, I’ve slowly increased my time back on Facebook.  I’ve opened a different account which only includes a handful of friends and of course my family.  I am only there to post “likes” or comment on their pages, really.  Oh, of course I’ll share pictures of my children out there. But I try to keep from posting my own “selfies"  as much as possible. 

My thoughts and opinions are better shared here, in anonymity. 

My life is not meant to be mimicked.  My passions are beyond words. 

Thank you, Mr. Wilde, for putting it so well.   

The Pale One Under the Umbrella

I'm not built for the dog days of summer.  It's afternoon and I'm already begging and bribing my kids to come upstairs and out of the heat.  I even smuggled in various surprises to lure them back upstairs, knowing just how much they hate to cease their playful sand and pool time.

I don't really mind being outside.  I just prefer to be outside under more preferable conditions-- specifically under the coverage of trees with a soft breeze coming off the water.  Desert-like exposure to the sun, scorching my soles, doesn't seem conducive to my very pale skin.  So when in a tropical climate, I live underneath the beach umbrella in sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat.  Oh and these poor kids.  It doesn't matter how much I lather them in sunscreen, make them wear swimshirts, force them to wear hats/sunglasses/etc., they still manage to get red and the freckles multiply across their cheeks.

We are that family -- the family that makes their kids wait 20 minutes until the sunscreen soaks into their skin before they go out and definitely before they get in the water.  Who does that?

Oh yes, it is necessary. No one ever reads that part of the sunscreen instructions in miniature print on the side of the bottle.

see this link

To Be a Kid Again

source

Today I'll be retreating from my usual grown-up responsibilities and doing what matters most -- enjoying life.  It's the last week of summer vacation for my two children. I've reached the end of my tutoring gig this semester and I've got a handful of days this week where I'm not teaching yoga or dance classes. 

The kids and I have scheduled a mini-vacation with my brother and his family at the beach.  It's nothing fancy.  It's the simplest kind of fun.  

This morning it begins. I've decided to eat like a kid for breakfast--maybe Frosted Flakes with strawberry milk.  Then, we will gather up all our stuffed animals and jam them into a suitcase to come with us, so none of them get lonely.  We will try to take the goldfish to the beach, but then decide he won't like the saltwater.   We will check into the hotel and jump from one bed to the other because there are crocodiles snapping at our ankles.  We'll put on our sunglasses and hats and pretend to spy on the other hotel guests, then we'll take turns pressing all of the elevator buttons.  We'll call down to the front desk with silly voices and ask request them to bring us something random, like clean undies or a case of green slime.  We will race down the stairs to the beach, jumping in the pool on the way, screaming and laughing as we tear across the sand to build ourselves not a sandcastle, but an entire metropolis for our lego guys.  We'll bury them alive and then dig them out.  We will hold hands and jump over the surf until we all fall in the water in exhaustion.  We'll wait until the very last minute to pee and have to go in the waves as we giggle and drift with the tides.

We'll do all of this today.  And tomorrow? It's another adventure.    

A Room with a View

 image source

The more room you give yourself to express your inner thoughts and feelings, the more room there is for your wisdom to emerge. - Marianne Williamson

"I'm glad you've gotten some free time. Seems like you've earned a little breather. It's fascinating that you are spending your free time writing! Ever the intellectual. What are you writing?" she texted. 


And again in person, during our lunch break, she inquired again.  

I told her I've been encouraged to write daily and that one of the best ways to accomplish that is by committing myself to a daily blog post.  I explained in quite some detail how it was meant to be a narrative --that writing would be a way of finding my own voice. I explained that it was quite different than the bland, "I woke up. I ate breakfast. I brushed my teeth and went to work."  I gushed how much closer I observe the world for possible blog post ideas.  Maybe it's an article.  Maybe it's art. Maybe it's something that happened to me and I'm describing it in a way that is new, fresh, inventive, or touching.  

I also told her I'd give her the link sometime to check it out. I haven't yet, but I just might.  

If there's anyone I don't mind reading my thoughts, real or aggrandized, it would be this friend.  After all, she willingly took me up on this intensive 270 hour yoga training. That, in itself, is quite a commitment to spend an extraordinary amount of time with another person. On top of all that, she takes my classes. And regularly we surprise each other with little thoughtful things.  My kids look forward to little Amazon Prime packages of children's books that show up on our doorstep from her family to ours.  It's a beautiful relationship/friendship that I'm not sure how I can keep up sometimes.  But that's the beauty of it.  It never feels as if we are trying to outdo each other with thoughtfulness.  

But this is not about her, although it could be.  

It's about how surprised I was that I had responded to her simple questions with a myriad of reasons why I need this outlet. Yes, it's a way to refine the craft of writing. But it's so much more.

"So the goal is to write a book someday?" she asked.

"Of course," I responded.  

I have a book idea in the works and an opening scene almost complete.  Just this week a short story emerged from a strange and creepy experience.  I dare say that none of that would've come to mind if I hadn't been much more diligent and feeling a great desire to write down, create a grounding place for my thoughts.  

This is what this blog has become.  It's a little room with a view.  Everyone's got one in their mind's eye.  It's just whether or not they choose to write it down the way they see it.  It's whether or not they want to share it with the world.  There is something in the sharing that makes it become something more than just a passing thought.