Safe and Fun

A handful of years ago, my husband and I decided to go to one of those marriage workshops. We registered last minute, found grandparents to babysit, and headed to the ballroom of some downtown hotel.  There were many types of couples present -- those who were newly married, those who had been married over a few decades, those who weren't married any longer, but were still trying to work it out.  I knew we fit in there somewhere, somehow.

I was desperate for him to understand me both in the present moment and to accept my past.  There was also the desire for me to find reasons to believe we were supposed to be together, even if reconciliation seemed like a pipe dream.  We experienced various breakdowns and breakthroughs a couple would expect while spending clearly what we could've frittered away on a luxurious weekend.  My husband made a point of muttering that comment several times over the weekend. Still, I gave him props for going through with it, even when his heart was in no position to be completely open.  

What stuck with me most was one of those quotes/statements the facilitator made on the last day:  People want two things in a relationship--- to feel safe and to have fun.

How true.  When we don't feel safe in a relationship, we stop communicating effectively.  There are some of us (sensitive types like me) who would rather just not say how we're feeling than be judged or attacked or criticized.  Safety equals the ability to be free and open.  When we're fearful of the reaction of our mate, we aren't in a position to love.  We retreat into survival mode.  And when I say "we," I certainly mean "I" -- perhaps I'm just to afraid to say it.  (I'm working on recovering from years of being criticized)  You cannot love someone that you fear. At least, I never could work those two emotions at the same time.

At the end of it all (and it is the end) I never felt safe.  I told him the other night that, in many ways,  I felt violated.  My journals had been rifled through, my conversations secretly taped, my phone tracked both legally and illegally, my email account and web browser had been hacked, there are more examples but....all in the name of "love?"  No, this was because of his fear that I would do something.  Funny

 I live with quite an open-minded view of the world, but hypercriticism, defending myself, or having to walk on eggshells will put me back into survival mode-- a stagnant place to be in a marriage. Letting go seems like a much better option, even if it means uprooting everything.

Stronger than I think.

I've attempted to squeeze in a little more yoga exposure these past couple of weeks by taking classes (other than my teacher training and my own yoga practice).  Each class has its personality --  Some channel their inner drill sergeant (so not zen), while others are more playful/mellow.  Still others use the biomechanical cues or perhaps the sanskrit terminology.  In short, what type of instructor you get ranges just as much as the type of yoga you practice: Ashtanga, Vinyasa, Hatha, Bikram, and so on.

I've admittedly avoided one instructor for quite some time -- not because he isn't any good.  He is direct, always en pointe, very structured but chill.  His classes may not be as spiritually-based as I would like, but it's always apparent he's put a lot of thought into his sequencing and his class goal.

I've avoided his class because it's incredibly challenging.  He kicks my ass.

I do other things to kick my ass.  I force myself to run a few miles.  I teach back to back classes at least once a week.  I jump rope until my calves burn and my shoulders ache. However, I want my yoga practice to give me more than just some challenging balance pose or intense inversion. I don't want to expend too much energy on the outward expression.  I'd rather be focusing inward.

Last weekend was D's (the instructor) birthday.  I felt compelled to go, yet, extremely hesitant. I'm not strong enough.  I'm not worthy of the type of practice that he provides.  But we have always supported each other in our yogic and fitness endeavors. We've worked together.  We're social media friends.  We've gone to the same studio, the same courses in college, loads of the same trainings -- both academic and otherwise -- so I went. And I survived.

Like most things, I had built up anxiety over a 1 hour class. This class we practiced handstands.  I learned a better technique.  I had a better handstand than I'd ever practiced on my own. Hell yeah.  My yoga friend, R, reminded me just how long it'd been since I'd taken D's class.  It was over a year ago--before I started yoga teacher training and before I was capable of inversions and side crows and crane postures. R reminded me just how strong I am now.

Insert life metaphor here, right?  You know it's the truth.  We succumb to anxiety over things that we can, in this moment, confront and overcome.  We think it's easier/better to just to be held to our limitations.  Be motivated to kick your own ass, even when you think you can't do it.

You can't write your way out

I've been horrible about keeping up with the good habit of writing every day. Writing has collapsed along with my other daily habits like eating healthy and meditating.  I've been reminded that these are the sorts of times and situations, times of conflict/heartache/confusion versus clarity -- that make for good writing.  Inspiration rarely comes when the children are well-behaved or when everything is going the way that was expected. Perhaps it's my way to escape the shock of impending change.  It's typical of the way I was socialized to want to just compartmentalize the painful or disorienting emotions I'm feeling.  I'm an absolute mess.

There are lots of enablers in my life who would say, "Jesus, you've got so much going on right now.  It's acceptable that you don't have time to write." Maybe those were the voices I let get in the way.  Writing is cathartic.  A good writer is made by first being a bad writer; then practice and a good dose of healthy criticism may make that person a better writer. I've been told my writing has improved since starting this blog.  Maybe it has? I'm not so sure.  Like everything else we humans do, we go through periods of extreme enlightenment or improvement, followed by the mundane or mediocre; or even worse, we suck at it again and must start over.

The same could be said for anything, including relationships.  We start out with minor glitches, but somehow the love or maybe just the general attraction for the other person seems to overshadow the missteps or questionable moments.  There are two steps forward and then we stumble backward, only to start once again. It's a strange dance that I'm having a hard time following-- the progression and regression. No relationship is a known, choreographed routine. Each one brings different challenges. With my marriage, I've been falling and failing for a long time.  I've made some incredible progress along with contributing to its ruin, to a point where my other half will never see this relationship as 'normal.'  It was never normal to begin with.
 
I've been accused of so much lately that I can't quite figure out how I'm being so misrepresented or maybe, just maybe, how I'm misrepresenting myself. My husband made it very clear that when I was done, I should just tell him.  I told him.  The telling created a seismic shift in his behavior toward me and our children.  The shift, however, was born out of a crisis and is a shallow attempt to undo the years of challenge and an inflexibility that only the most laid back person could tolerate.  On the surface, things look like they've improved, but there's an undercurrent that still lies beneath it all that hasn't changed, that I'm afraid cannot change.  

Fiction is more fun than truth...

I'm posting something I've written, only to escape reality as I live in this flurry of emotions that cannot truly be described in words.   Why not write about something imagined -- that describes a place and time other than my own life?

It was the beginning of fall. The Charles River drew foggy with the seasons changing of the guard.  In the morning light, my head was just as opaque as the weather. I had written off my chances of being any part of this city, so I spent the prior evening tangled up with my couch and a bottle of Pinot Noir. Boston woke with an understated energy-- a vibration that those who were keen enough to observe could feel. Most mornings I could look out my window at the Charles and see the rowers gliding underneath the Longfellow Bridge.  I watched runners pace along its shores in pairs; their breath suspended around them.  On most days—nearly every day—the weather drove the mood of the city.   In spring, the energy is high with flowers dotting the walkways and birds cramming the shores scavenging for breakfast.  The winter months are dead and the sleet blankets commuters with doubtful, sour looks.  Every morning, I observe these seasonal emotions change on the residents of Beantown as I sip my morning coffee from my brownstone window. 

It was 8:13 in the morning when I first glanced at her from afar.  Charlotte’s waves of auburn hair seemed to dance as it was tousled by the chilly Boston air.   Her long green peacoat cocooned around her tiny, freckled body--or what I would have assumed with her fair complexion, would be freckled.  As I stood at my window, I caught myself smiling; something that, for me, didn’t spontaneously happen very often. I noted the time I saw her and then spent the remainder of my day wondering what caused such a stir in my soul that I would incredulously have an emotional reaction to the sight of an absolute stranger.

 Against my better judgment, I left my building at 8:10 the next morning. I shuffled carefully around piles of leaves swept aside by building manager, Carl. He leaned against the brick covered columns between my townhome and the sidewalk, grinning sheepishly at me. Carl carried a lost, sunken look in his yellowed eyes and slumped forward when he stood. His mouth was set in a half-gaping slack and words seemed to tumble out carelessly into the blustery weather.

"You's an early bird this morning, eh? Seems like I never see you in daylight hours."

His utterance curiously struck me, but I was in such a hurry I mumbled something about the weather and kept my eyes in the forward direction of the Charles.  I wasn't sure what I planned on doing when I saw her pas-- if she passed by the river at all.  But as I walked towards Memorial Drive, I replayed the cadence of her steps and the liveliness of her curls in the wind.

All the Good

In times of crisis, all the good things you should do for yourself are always the last things your mind and body really want to do.  You're in a storm of complex changes but you need to eat healthy, get enough rest, make time for the gym, read spiritually uplifting passages, stay organized, and of course, you still need to write.

In these hideous moments, all you really want to do is let everything go.  Forget the mindfulness and the evening meditations.  Forgo what you've envisioned as your life's work.  Just close your eyes and try to shake everything off. Good or bad. Drink heavily.  Say things that you'll regret later.  Spend frivolously.  What is the saying? What goes up must come down. Just let it fall a little harder with no regret.

I wish I could be that way.  Just let the wave throw my scales off balance and into another state of being, but it won't. I can't.  I may be struggling with the writing and perhaps the eating healthy, but I haven't given up on doing all the good things. Maybe not all good all the time, but I still remind myself that I should be.

Tonight, I will run a few miles.  I will try to be patient and present.  One of my closest friends said it best:

Keep your chin up.  You are an extraordinary woman, beautiful, smart, kind, and as we say: much stronger than you think you are.  Soon, this will be behind you, and all the sorrow will have carved out a place in your should for coming joy.

I hope she is right.  I believe she will be.  Soon.

Teaching Zen

It's Week 3 of the semester. I've been advised that my class will start to lose momentum/interest at this point. Oh hell. The first time acquiring materials and practicing with the class are both arduous and empowering.

Part of me feels like I'm responsible for keeping them entertained--like some cross between a trained monkey and a comedienne.  Perhaps I'm not responsible, but I keep on telling them that what I want to see is not perfect writing proficiency.  What I want to see is improvement.  I want them practicing what they've just learned.

I spend probably too much of my time thinking about all of this-- how to coax them to a breakthrough in their understanding of grammar and writing. If nothing else, I want them to know it's okay. Yes, there's a syllabus, homework, quizzes, writings -- but mostly, there should be progress.  This is what I tell them. Often. I don't want any of them to feel alone or discouraged.  I tell them to just show up, whether they know what they're doing, whether they've done the homework, whether they really absorb the material.  It's about showing up.  Isn't that what most of life is about?

There was a quiz today.  It's hard not to be hypercritical of my teaching/lecturing skills after seeing some of their scores.  Of course, the ones who show up late to class most days have the best grades.  WTF?  None of it makes any sense to me.  Then, I remind myself that teaching is an organic process. This is my first time -- and I'll adjust everything the next time to a (hopefully) better result.

A Freshman/Senior

Spending more time on campus makes me realize that I had a very unique college experience.  As a junior in high school, I discovered some trap door escape route to college.  Sure, I had friends who took dual enrollment courses through local offerings.  No, this was different.  This was moving to a college campus hours away from home, living in a dormitory, secretly/officially still a senior in high school, but living like a freshman in college.  In fact, I was still considered enrolled at the high school.  This was no G.E.D. program.  At the end of the academic year, I still walked with my high school graduating class. It was a parallel life.

It was, like I said, some trap door escape from my little suburban city.  I looked at a couple of schools with this "program;" however, I ended up at a private college in West Palm Beach.  I believe they were sponsored by the baptist church, but certainly tried to seem nondenominational.  So, as my fellow seniors started their exciting last year at the top of the class, I was packing my white Honda Civic hatchback for freshman orientation.

There were spanish stuccoed, high-rise dormitories on campus filled with the upper crust christian kids with loaded parents.  That wasn't me, thank god.  A block or two away was my dorm -- along with a hundred or so other girls--all of us heathens for sure.  It was a renovated old motel on the inter coastal, adjacent to the Norton museum of art.  The location was phenomenal even if it the accommodations were rather cramped.  I roomed with five other girls in a two bedroom apartment.  Four nestled into a larger bedroom while two more bunked in a separate room with an adjacent bath.  We had a common living area and kitchen.  I don't recall using any of the "amenities" of our dorm -- not even the pool.  Since it was a little private christian college and we were freshman, there was of course a resident den mother-type who'd come check on us every night--the evening roll call.  If we were leaving campus for the weekend, we signed out in the lobby and stated where we'd be headed.  I assume they thought we'd tell them truthfully where we were going.

I was seventeen, very soon to be eighteen, when my unofficial college career began.  I could walk to the downtown Palm Beach scene, the local bars and nightlife.  I periodically went on dates with wealthy, highly dysfunctional men who offered me a tour of their houses.  There was one who, on our first and only date, wanted to play doctor with me.  Crazy.  He was crazy. I was crazy, no...I was naive.... more naive than I am now.

I worked in Palm Beach at various interesting places.  I was a nanny for a couple of attorneys.  I worked as a valet for the performing arts center where I parked and fetched the Bentleys, Jaguars, and antique cars of the aristocrats. I saved up over a thousand dollars and bought a ticket to Santa Barbara, CA.  I explained to my parents I was heading west during Spring Break and staying with some friend I'd met on the internet....back when the internet was a safe place. Ha.  Oh, I was young and in that place where I felt I could do anything.  Part of me still feels that way.  I have very few regrets even in the sometimes dangerous, certainly carefree path I've taken. I look at others who live such sheltered, restricted lives and wonder how they do it.  I don't know any other way but to be wild and adventurous.  

First Impressions

Studies like this one from the Association of Psychological Science tell us, “Like it or not, judgments based on facial appearance play a powerful role in how we treat others, and how we get treated. Psychologists have long known that attractive people get better outcomes in practically all walks of life. People with “mature” faces receive more severe judicial outcomes than “baby-faced” people. And having a face that looks competent (as opposed to trustworthy or likeable) may matter a lot in whether a person gets elected to public office.” - source

It’s a tough line to walk. At all my various jobs-- group exercise, college courses,  tutoring-- I am front and center... and so is my appearance. Without fail, if I go to work without makeup, there are comments regarding how tired I look. (( I don’t have the heart to tell them that I am in a constant state of tired. )) I conceal it with various creams and potions, or perhaps some light reflecting serum to disguise the genetic dark circles I inherited from my father. 

Yesterday, makeup (and perhaps the recent Botox treatment) made me look ten years younger.  I was sampling a coworker’s bifocals and an associate commented something about me being in my late 20’s…that I had a long way to go before needing reading glasses.  My thoughtful friend in the room pointed out that I was MUCH older than that. (sigh)  I wasn’t allowed to enjoy even a moment of being mistaken for a younger version of myself.  

It’s all relative. 

I don’t mind what I see when I look in the mirror, with or without makeup.  Yet society and science both tell us that a judgment is instantaneously formulated.  Part of me could care less how I look to others, but my desire to be the “best me” is twofold. 

When I feel like I “look good,” something happens.  I automatically feel better.  It may be just slightly or it may be exponential.  This holds true especially when I know I’m sick or depressed.  If I dress up or make an effort, the world is a less cruel place.  

Secondly, I know the power of putting my best foot forward means there may be opportunities that, when looking like you don’t care about yourself/like you’re just managing to breathe, you’re less likely to be engaging or (gasp) interesting to others. 

You can't argue with me.  Attractive people have better odds in life.  It's human nature.  It's also my perfect excuse to buy more expensive serums ....and maybe keep Botoxing. Oh, yes... there is a fine line with that too.     

Connecting to Spirit

There was a lot of discussion of spirit this weekend.  It is connected to our 7th Chakra -- our crown chakra that is our direct line to spirit.

This particular topic is what drew me to this studio, to this teacher years ago.  I was in search of connecting to that part of me which, for the most part, has remained elusive.  I've blogged about it before, I'm sure.  

Lately, I've been rather nervous as to how to put together my thoughts, my reasoning for why I feel the way I do. What makes me want to make such sweeping changes in my life, even if it means having to let go of people or things that are sources of comfort?  That moment of clarity came through our discussion of the 7th Chakra.  

Years ago, when I was invited to this studio to practice yoga, I began to understand within myself that there is a way of living a spirit-filled life without being "religious."  I come from a Methodist (protestant) background, had a rather good church life/youth group/family experience, and always yearned for an authentic connection to a higher source.  I wasn't, however, sold on the idea of Christianity.

In this particular spiritually-based yoga practice, not only was I working the physical self, I left with a message to apply to my spiritual self.  Maybe it was M's thoughts on authenticity, or on equanimity, or a myriad of other applicable thoughts that were woven into the class, into the selection, the progression of postures.  Whatever it was, it spoke to a part of my being that had been starved.

But just as that journey began, I got major pushback from my husband.  My once or twice a week evening yoga class became an issue -- it was either too far away or it was too expensive or it didn't work for balancing our kids with his workout and my yoga schedule.  Yet, I'd come home and share the wisdom I'd learned.  It was the start of something that I just couldn't let go, but for months, perhaps a year or more, I felt guilty for going, for feeding this part of myself.   Then I returned.  It was a return to what I felt to be true for following a path of self-care.

There are numerous moments over the last few years that I've had this sense of being closer to my most authentic self.  On a whim, I randomly picked up a book that just so happened to be required reading for my yoga teacher training.  

There are all these signs -- all of these teachings that gently tap me on the shoulder -- telling me in one way or the other to be courageous, to be authentic, to be free.  If we make choices closer to growing in our spiritual path, it's impossible to turn back.  When we are courageous, we experience freedom.  When we make choices out of fear, we experience pain.

There is so much more to say.  There's no doubt I'll be choosing courage over fear.

Touring the House

Though I don't have any desire to look back at all of my blog posts so far, I do see a trend with my latest entries.  If this blog was my home and I was giving you a tour, it seems I've just led you into the messiest, most chaotic room here.

There are other rooms of course.  There are my children's rooms -- and although they are messy, they are colorful caricatures of life and full of unconditional love. There is my office; highly disorganized, yet there is an obvious sense that I genuinely care about my yoga practice, my students, and the little imprint/legacy I envision leaving when I depart this world.

My bed is one of my favorite places.  I nap here.  I dream.  I pull the covers over my head and listen to my breath.  My bed is my safe place.  We all need a safe place. There are few safe places in my home, which is why... oh Jesus, here I go again.

I was chatting with a friend yesterday complaining that my blog has become too melodramatic. There are beautiful things going on in my life.  I have all 20 students who show up for class and seem willing to learn.  I have people who tell me daily just how sweet, thoughtful, and well-behaved my children are when I'm not around to guide their manners.  I have so much more than most in this world -- the essentials -- food, transportation, a house with a pool, a quiet neighborhood, a short ride to work/school/shopping.  Beyond that, there is always love.  I have loads of that both to give and that I receive.  If nothing else, I have love.

Timeless Love

Sunday, June 27, 1920
 My dearest Darling,
             Just came back from taking Mother to Blockton and Harry handed me your letter.  I was more than pleased as I had not heard from you since Tuesday.  Was afraid you might be sick.  Don’t get all excited about getting a wedding announcement from me, because I have only met one girl I can say that I really care for, and she is away out west. Wyoming, I think? Do you know her?
            Anyway, I will put this one in a business envelope as you say that pleases you better, and that’s just what I want to do.

This is the start of a letter to my great grandmother from my great grandmother in the 1920s. He was a teacher and so was she. They met at school. He lived in Bedford, Iowa.  She was away in Wyoming--though I'm not sure exactly why. They couldn't be together, so they wrote each other constantly.  They loved from a distance and they loved hard. Oh, I was sucked in from the moment I saw the envelope. 

My mother has been holding onto their love letters for, well, forever and decided to share them with me this weekend while I visited.  Mom didn't know what she was doing to me.  As if I needed yet another sign that a love like this really does exist and is timeless.  Some of it could easily pass for a love letter from present time, excluding some of the "swell" and "dandy" word choices.  

I immediately transcribed the whole thing word for word. My mother was frantically searching for the rest of the letters and I pleaded with her to stop looking.  I could easily get wrapped up in my relatives' love story. This is not a good time.  It would just add to my .....  Let them be lost for now.