The Lost Holiday

So where to begin? First off let me say I’ve always hated New Year’s resolutions and the year end wrap-ups (as evidenced by the fact that I am not getting this up until January 2^nd at the very earliest). Everything has a countdown: the 10 best songs, the 100 best movies, haircuts, ugliest dresses, best and worst baby names, the biggest events, etc. etc. and everyone is supposed to promise to be and do better than they are.

I don’t like wrap-ups and resolutions because it implies that somehow who you are and how you do things is so flawed you need to “fix it,” which is a recipe for disaster.  Making lists of all the bests and worsts of anything is pretty much saying the same thing.  And I’m utterly useless at both.  Follow-through has never been my strong suit (as evidenced by the fact that I am getting this up by January 2^nd at the earliest) and self reflection is a glass so muddled I don’t even think a case of Windex could get that girl clean.    

So I’m not going to do it now.  All I am going to say is this; you are fine the way you are.  You want to exercise more? Do it right now. Don’t do it for next year or for your reunion or wedding, just be in your day to day and stretch yourself out because right now is as good a time as any to do it.  

 I had a student this past training who said “I’m going to get a t-shirt made for myself that says ‘Discipline.  Because really, what the hell else am I gonna do’?”  And really that’s it.  If I were to offer up any resolution suggestions for the year (which I am not, because this is going up after the fact anyway)  it would be this: Dude, you are fine, just stick with it.

And the only 2010 wrap-up I'm gonna offer is an important lesson I've learned this year: Everything is a little bit of this and a little bit of that.

Stupidly simple I know, but not really.  Admitting that everything is imperfect flies in the face of my most beloved belief that someday I will find one answer. That what I’m doing is right in some universal way.  It’s been very hard to come to terms with the fact that there isn’t a lightening rod or that what I am doing isn’t an end unto itself but a process. 

And it’s been even harder to accept that this process comes with both good and bad.  That no matter what I choose it comes with what I didn’t choose.  Within every choice there is sacrifice and loss.  Sometimes the loss will be freely given, sometimes it’s mourned, but regardless, there is loss.  If we don’t acknowledge that loss, we suffer.  (Note I said “acknowledge” the loss.  This is not the same thing as focusing on it. I simply mean acknowledging that it exists in the first place.)   

Take the holidays. Until this year I have been an unapologetic Scrooge. I dread the holidays.  If you’d asked me before this year I would have said “because it’s all about money! Consume, consume, consume! It’s just this American excuse to rob everyone blind.”  But that’s not it.  The fact is I’ve always dreaded Christmas because I love it.  I’ve always loved it.  I love sitting down with my family for a big meal, the smell of the tree, the lights, the music, the cookies, the sweet simplicity of the Nativity story, the goofiness of Santa living at the top of the world with his band a merry little elves. Seriously, what’s not to love?  

Christmas in and of itself isn't flawed, but the fact that I wanted a Perfect Christmas is.  I wanted the claymation TV specials, department store window displays, commercials, and movie Christmas.  I wanted the horse-drawn sleigh to take me through the snow to the grandma's chalet in the woods where friends and family sit around the hearth singing. I wanted birds tying bows in my princess hair with sweetness, sprinkles, stars, sunshine, flowers and sparkles. 

But real-time Christmas has always been fraught with real-time problems and base humanity.  First there were the normal mishaps; the time my sisters and I almost set the house on fire playing with candles, the time we almost died in our sleep because my dad accidentally put smoldering embers in a plastic garbage bin, the time the dog ate an entire Pyrex dish of fudge – Pyrex and all.  Then there was the fact that my family was poor, and of course there was the fact that Christmas brought out the spooky in my dad.  As I got older the holidays were ear-marked by adult concerns; finding the funds for my own Christmas gifts, hurt feelings over gifts, over words, over a relative/boyfriend/spouse having to work, and of course the inevitable Huge Family Fight. All of which ruined my Perfect Christmas.  And because it was “never” what it “should” be, I sequestered Christmas to the part of my heart reserved for cleaning toilets. 

And yet, my love never really died. As I continued to insist that the holidays were ass, I was squirreling away a little bit of hope each year that this year I would get it right.  And the vicious cycle continued.

Of course Christmas is just one example of reaching for simple, neat solutions to shield myself from the pain of loss.  Moving away from home is another example.  Before this year, every time we’d go to Spokane I would be dismissive of it.  Not because I genuinely hated it, but because I loved it and didn’t know how to mourn the loss.  I have learned that there is no one right choice.  Moving back to New York has taught me this.  When we left California I was sad to leave my family. Living so far away from them is hard.  But, I love living in New York.  My life here is good.  But, it comes with loss. Likewise, if we’d stayed there would have been loss. And that’s the point.  Stay = loss.  Go = loss.  Before I would have tried to vilify the other to buoy the current, but when I do that I don’t offer space for sadness and that shuts me off from love which moves me even further away from friends, family and authentic experiences.

Plus, it doesn’t give me room to breathe. And I like breathing.

As per usual, the holidays this year were fraught with depressing moments of frustration. I was very happy to see the backside of them.  Likewise, I still feel a constant homesick and pine for some perfect balance between "here" and "there" where I can have it all. But, after a year of sitting with my discomfort, of allowing it to be a little bit of this and a little bit of that, when that wave of "this is the worst thing ever" comes over me I have found a kind of peace.  By just allowing it to be crappy, by trusting that crappy is as transitory as happy, I have found more peace in this one year than I have in twenty years of vilifying denial.

Plus, I breathe so much easier.  And I like breathing.  It's the one thing I intend to do more of this year.

Favorite Buddha Quote

Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.

The Inner Child

I attended a class awhile back where the teacher was talking about addiction in relation to the gunas. In yoga there are three states of being, or “gunas”: sattva, rajas, and tamas.  Sattva is purity, rajas is dim and tamas is dark. 

His hypothesis was that in order for someone to become addicted to something it has to be an acquired thing, that in our most sattvik state, we do not indulge in behaviors that make our souls dim or dark. Only when we are in a rajasik or tamasik state do we do things that are bad for us.  

He then went on to say “I mean you only have to look at kids to know what is good for you. It’s not that hard. Kids, well kids are pure right? They will always tell you if something is good or bad for you. You give a kid scotch and what do you think they will do? They will wrinkle their noses and spit it out, right?” 

Ah yes, the eternal “purity of children” speech. How many yoga classes have I been in where the teacher uses the impulsiveness of children as an example of our “true and blissful” state or, better yet, the lack of impulse control as an example of what we “should” do? Postulating that children intrinsically know good from bad/right from wrong because they are pure of heart is a trite idea. Believing that the only reason we adults make harmful choices  is because we had the audacity to grow up, to become tainted by our environment, time, experiences is, at it's most banal, absurdly simplistic. At it's most egregious, it is emotionally damaging and manipulative.  

First of all, no matter how adorable and fun kids are, they do not have that “pure” filter people fantasize about. Leave a bunch of kids to fend for themselves for a period of time and I promise you it will be way more Lord of the Flies then Never, Never Land. Being a kid is not simple. It’s hard. Every day is an organizational mess. It’s a constant struggle of learning new tools, impulse control, of being dependent upon, yet wanting to be independent of those who protect them. Their emotional lives make the Real Housewives look like a Zen masters.  They spend all their time trying to understand the world around them and learn new things all the while being frustrated by the constant stream of “no’s” and “don’t do that’s” and “be careful’s.” Sure, they appreciate the small things, they play with abandon, think the world is their oyster, but not because they are more spiritually realized than adults.  They do so because someone has their backs. A happy, healthy child is not an abandoned or neglected one.  A happy, healthy child has someone watching over him, taking care of his needs, helping him navigate the world.   

And this is not to say “Hey what about us grown-ups? Let’s give a shout out to the real hero here!” but merely to say that childhood is not an end unto itself. It is not something we are supposed to sustain or better yet, aspire to. Childhood is necessarily transient. It’s a tipping off point. The place where we get the tools we will use to go into the world and either support or destroy it. 

Second of all, when someone says “be more childlike” most often they aren’t fantasizing about the perfection of childhood, but rather cloaking sanctimoniousness.  Telling an alcoholic that “a kid will tell you that stuff is crap” separates those without suffering as “good" people who know better, from those who suffer as “bad" people who don’t. Even a little kid knows that stuff isn’t good for you. Why don’t you?

Suffering does not mean someone is good or bad, or lazy or stupid. It means he suffers. When we condemn pain as so simplistic that even a child could do better, what we are really saying is “be like me” or “do things my way.” There is no progress in that.  It only creates shame. 

But, shame is powerful.  It’s the Alpha Male of the emotional manipulation pack. Shame makes people feel dirty, worthless and awful.  They will do anything to avoid having it bear down on them. It creates fear. And fear begets obedience. People will follow the rules of the shamer implicitly.  The shamer, full of conviction and authority, has power to either validate or invalidate everyone around him.

The only problem is, no matter how much power shame wields, it doesn’t support authentic healing. Blind obedience out of fear of recrimination isn’t the same thing as someone saying “I do not want this in my life anymore. I choose a different path."

It’s hard to see human suffering.  It makes us uncomfortable.  It’s confusing and often disorienting. We’re confronted with our own limitations and our own lack of suffering. We’re intensely grateful not to be suffering, maybe even feel a little guilty that we’re not suffering. This may make us desperate to do something to make the uncomfortable situation go away. It’s so much harder to say “This pain you are carrying is terrible. This pain is confusing. But, this pain is not you. It’s not your punishment. It's not your fate. Let’s sit together and see if this faith, this practice, this place, this medication, etc. can help in some way alleviate your suffering.”  So instead we offer up easy answers wrapped up in greeting card slogans.

Sadly, the remedies to suffering often aren’t very easy. Simple in nature maybe, but in practice? Not so much. Barring fundamental injustices like lack of clean water, food, shelter, clothing and medical care, most causes of suffering are complexly human. They are a combination of life experiences, physical limitations, economic restrictions, genetics, etc. The remedies are going to be as varied as the people suffering.  The “correct” action is not just one thing, but a collection of tools and supplies tailored to meet the person’s needs. 

It’s like a house.  A newer house is going to need different attention then an older one.  If you want to strip and repaint the interior of a new home, you just get the supplies and do it. But, in an old home you have to take precautions. You have to seal off the room, wear specially designed protective gear and be meticulous about clean up after. In the end both homes get a new coat of paint but how they get it is very different.  

Rather than glorify one state of being, i.e. childhood, as something we need to sustain, or tell each other that we aren’t “doing it right” because the cure we found that worked so well for us isn’t producing the same results for someone else, why not create for grown-ups what we strive to do for our kids: safe, nurturing environments where we are free to explore, question and be ourselves.  

When we encourage each other and remain open to different ideas, we create environments where the healing goes from a promise to a possibility. And it's that possibility of being that lays the foundation for genuine, authentic change. It's that possibility that eases suffering. It may not always be the right fit, but it's active and participatory. It allows you to affect your own being, to remain flexible and interested in your own life. 

So, you take care of your house. Choose tools, materials and contractors that prop you up and make you the strongest, healthiest and most structurally sound person you can be within the framework you've got. 

Timing is Everything

I grew up in Spokane Washington. I really like it there. In many ways Spokane is perfect. It’s a combination between a desert and a forest; nice and woodsy, but dry. It’s small, but not too small, and pretty. The people are very, very nice. One of my best friends lives there. It’s a great place to raise kids. It’s relatively safe with lots of open space to roam free. The weather is temperate so even though the winters tend to be long and cold, the summers never stay too hot for too long and there is zero humidity. There are tons of outdoor activities. It’s a smallish city with a nice community feel and fairly well supported art scene. It is a very nice place to live.

So why don’t I live there? Because, I don’t fit in. Spokane, for all its benefits, is not my place. For as long as I can remember I was out of place in my hometown. I had vastly different political views, have never really enjoyed outdoor activities and I am always, always cold. When I was young, headstrong and outspoken I would rail against Spokane, calling it a conservative hick town, with little or no culture, blah, blah, blah - the kind of stuff you say when you’re desperately insecure and need to feel superior. But now I know that there isn’t anything more or less wrong with Spokane than there is with any other place in the world.

Yogis continually talk about being “present.” It is one of those elusive ideas that often gets translated as “accept the hand your dealt” or “find the silver lining in this crummy situation.” I am not a fan of this translation. I don’t believe anyone should accept a resignation in life. If your situation is out of hand, acceptance doesn't make it less so. It’s only by understanding who you are and how you work that you will get closer to touching Truth. Without this component, without understanding the landscape of your mind, you will always feel torn and confused. Yoga brings us closer to our authentic self not by teaching us how to resign ourselves to crummy situations, but by teaching us how to quiet the noise of constant recrimination and need. Once that happens we can hear and understand Truth and act accordingly.

Take my family's move to a California suburb for example. One of the nicest things about city living is the parks. Parks are communal property. In a place where very few of us have anything that resembles a yard, we go to parks to air out our kids. It’s a collective experience and a nice, neutralizing place. You go, have a brief chat, crack a few jokes and move on. Sometimes you meet people you really like and want to get to know more and sometimes you suffer the fool, but either way Park Time is interactive time.

This is not true in the suburbs. Suburban parks are largely viewed as extensions of people’s yards. As such, cross communication is kept to a minimum. Parents bring their children and toys to the park and expect to be left alone. They rarely want to talk and more often than not spend the bulk of their time either on their phones or avoiding eye contact with other adults.

In the city it is widely accepted that if you bring toys to the park they are going to be played with by all the other kids in the park. Not so in the suburbs. When we’d go to the playground my son would march up to some kid and say “Hi, my name is Jack. Do you want to be my friend?” which means “Hi, what have you got there? I am going to touch it now.” This did not translate into Suburban. In the city, when the child with the toy starts to protest, the parents usually say something like “Now Billy, remember it’s nice to share.” But in the suburbs, the parents would shoot us a look that said “Bring your own toys to the park you mongrels!” Then they would scoop up their kid and stuff and leave.

It was, among many, a sign that we were not in the right place for us.

As our year yawned on, our disillusionment with suburban life grew. Eventually a series of events gave us the opportunity to leave California. We spent many nights making lists. Weighing the pros and cons, discussing the options, obsessing over where we’d go next. The option of moving back to New York was on the list but it was fraught with problems. It’s far away. Our families would be mad. It was expensive. The economy is bad. How it would affect the kids. John asked me “will moving back make you happy?”

I threw up my hands and said “I don’t know! Probably not. But I still think we should do it!”

Then I remembered one of the most often quoted texts from the Bhaghavad Gita;

  “Better to do one’s own duty imperfectly

    than to do another man’s well;

    doing action intrinsic to his being

    a man avoids guilt.” (8:47)

In the Gita, Arjuna, a soldier on the precipice of a battle, is holding council with Lord Krishna. Arjuna is having a crisis of faith. When he looks across the battle field he sees his cousins and knows that if he participates in this war, he is going to have to kill them. He doesn’t want to do this. He is about to walk away from battle, but Krishna counsels him otherwise. He says;


   “If you fail to wage this war
    of scared duty,
    you will abandon your own duty
    and fame will only gain evil.
    People will tell
   of your undying shame,
   and for a man of honor
   shame is worse than death.

   The great chariot warriors will think
   you deserted in fear of battle;
   you will be despised by those you esteem.

   Your enemies will slander you,
   scorning your skill in so many unspeakable ways –
   could any suffering be worse?” (2:33 – 36)

Essentially what he is saying is “Snap out of it! You think this war is going to stop because you choose not to fight? You think this battle isn’t going to happen without you? The only person who suffers from your lack of participation is you. Your people will turn their backs on you, your soldiers will say you abandoned them; the other side will call you a wimp. How is that better than doing what you are meant to do?”

Harsh words from God. Because the setting is war, the Gita is often misunderstood as a pro-war treatise, which it’s not. The backdrop of war is neither here nor there, the story could take place in an open air market and the lesson would still be the same. It’s just that backdrop of war is nice and dramatic. It helps to illustrate how mightily we have to struggle against our inclination to give up and walk away versus hunker down and fight our battles. It is a parable on the work we all must do.

Whether it is parenting, teaching, deep contemplation or carpentry, the work is the thing not the worker. Winning or the losing the battle is immaterial. Arjuna is a soldier. Therefore, he must fight. He must participate in his life. Whether he lives or dies doesn’t matter. Whether he fights well or poorly doesn’t matter. What matters is that he participates in his life.

This is probably one of the hardest concepts for me to wrap my mind around. Being an American I was trained to believe that life should be easy. I am entitled to the pursuit of happiness. Happiness comes from consuming things that will make it possible for me to do as little work as possible, right? The concept that work, whether it is done spectacularly or mediocre, is a path to liberation is completely foreign to me.

And yet, here I am in this self-created tumultuous life. We relocated back to New York in the spring. I started my own little yoga biz. Additionally I manage an on-line database. My husband started his own business and is going back to school. Together we’re raising two small humans. My children are young, my business is young, my husband’s business is young and, for all intents and purposes, we are old. We are starting over when most people have settled down. Every day feels like a race against the clock. The clock is ticking, ticking, ticking it never stops ticking! And each day my children get taller, wiser and older. And every day I think “Hey pay attention! You are missing this!”

But in between those moments of doubt, worry and insanity are these wonderful ones where, for the first time in a long time, I am in step with my own rhythms. I am completely absorbed in what I am doing. My life is working at my pace. I am in the right place for me. I tried to make my life what thought I “should” live. I tried to convince myself that someone else’s life was the one I wanted, but I was miserable. So, here I am in a kooky life that defies common sense.

And I feel better.

Doing your dharma isn’t about finding bliss or being perpetually happy. Practicing presence of mind isn't about rolling over and accepting whatever comes your way as a cruel twist of fate. It’s about doing the work. It’s about learning the landscape of your mind and sticking with it when it’s awkward and hard and sucks. It's about being present so that you can monitor and then moderate your reactions and interactions and maintain equanimity. It's not finding the bright side of a bad situation or accepting that you are meant to suffer in some cosmic way, but accepting that you are in the driver's seat of your own mind.

And deciding that the route you choose to take is ultimately up to you.

The Acceptance Speech

“Just tell me what it is I should be doing and I will do it!” my mother exclaimed as we sat folding laundry. She looked at me pleadingly and through her tears said “whatever it is, just tell me what to do and I will do it! Just tell me what I need to do to make it stop.” Her pain was so raw. She was utterly defeated. I would do anything to stop that pain. I found myself saying “Yes, I will too! Whatever it is, please God, just help us!”

My father had deepened again. Like so many times over so many years, he’d gone from being medicated and somewhat normal to going off his meds and running amok on a manic high. Like so many times before, he was now being held in the psychiatric ward at Eastern Washington University for observation and treatment.

This time however, had been particularly gruesome. My dad had a tendency to run away. As his mania escalated, his grandiosity would transform into a plan that included walking to Zion and concluded with his stripping off all his worldly belongings (read: clothes) and getting picked up by local law enforcement. On most of these instances his strip tease was kept within the confines of the city and he was apprehended fairly quickly. But on this occasion he’d gone off grid and ended up wandering for three days barefoot in the farmlands outside of Spokane. He’d walked all the skin off the bottom of his feet and on the third night he sat, bleeding and naked on a hillside communing with “the light of God”. When the sun rose, he realized his holy light was a floodlight on the side of a barn and decided he probably needed to get help.

These scenarios were devastating for my mother. She desperately wanted to believe there was a cure for my dad’s illness. She wanted to get him back on his feet and back to his virile self. That the funny, quick-witted, athletic, handsome alpha male she fell in love with would one day return through the determination and devotion of her love. She felt that all she needed to do was the “rights”: the right job, the right medication, the right balance of hearth and home and my dad would become a functioning, supportive member of society again. She desperately clung to the faith that her love would concur his illness and that there would be an end to his disease.

I loved the promise of this simple solution for two reasons. One it meant that there would be an end to my dad’s illness and two that I could make it happen. In a house of chaos, I spent most of my time feeling tense and sad and confused. The fantasy of love, faith and devotion trumping all was sweet tonic that soothed the chaffing of weirdness, offered respite from the constant uncertainty and built protective walls against my confusion and discomfort. So I eagerly invested in my own form of wish fulfillment believing that if I my prayers were earnest enough, God would save me. Everything that made me uncomfortable was responded to with a stream of prayers and promises that I would remain good, dedicated and devoted if only God would protect me.

Because my truce with the Cosmos was founded on the inevitable not happening, it was a doomed and fragile thing. Anything could derail my absolution. Routines and order became my salvation. If I got through one day without chaos, I needed to replicate that day. Get up every day at the same time. Eat the same foods at the same time every day. Wear Monday’s clothes on Monday, Tuesday’s on Tuesdays, etc. Walk the same route to school. Walk the same way home. All transgressions, from fighting with my sisters to wanting my best friend’s doll, were potential grounds for nullification of the treaty. It was imperative that I not ask for things. When you do ask for something, apologize and don’t take it. Do not covet. When you do covet, thank God for all you have and apologize for being selfish. Be nice. When you are not nice, apologize, then be nice and pray for forgiveness. Do not think bad thoughts. When you do think bad thoughts, say you are sorry and pray for forgiveness. When chaos ensued I assumed I didn’t pray hard enough, I neglected some crucial part of the routine, wasn’t grateful enough or I wanted too much.

This constant vigilance and self condemnation became a pressure cooker for absolutism. Right and wrong became my only anchor. Everything was either black or white. I started to see myself as an arbiter of morality. I became hawkish, harsh and judgmental. Everyone was either good or bad. I developed a sharp tongue, gossiped freely and offered my opinion and advice whether asked for or not. I also developed a belief that I was working towards personal perfection. As if one day I would get everything right and would stop needing or wanting anything. I felt that each day I was working towards a more perfect physical existence in which I would need less sleep, less food, less stimulus and that at some point my physical body would just reach this zenith where it would hover in perfection for all time. It wasn’t until I was much, much, oh so much older, that it actually occurred to me that the physical body goes through cycles every day. I literally had not made the connection that the body’s need for nourishment, activity and rest is an every day occurrence. The simple realization that the sleep I collected the night before gets used up the next day was mind-blowing.

But that was after college. College actually made me worse. Through various twists of fate I’d landed a full scholarship at a small college in New York City. It was the chance of a lifetime for me. I’d always wanted to get away, to break free, spread my wings and explore the wider world. In my attempt to mask my understandable fears and insecurities, I became more outspoken, sanctimonious and hard. I joined “purpose” clubs and became an outspoken feminist, environmentalist, basically any -ist that allowed me to be proud and loud and generally obnoxious. My principles were both bitter and biting, laced with sarcasm and contempt for anyone who did not conform to my ideals. I never held back an opinion or a judgment on other people’s lives, believing that my clear vision and purposefulness surely trumped all their small mindedness. I also developed a “non-specific eating disorder”. I didn’t purge or starve (those things would be far too attention grabbing and weak-minded for me of course), but instead maintained a strict daily fat grams and caloric intake diet that would keep me thin, but never too skinny. When I could maintain this diet I felt victorious and happy. When I could not, I was devastated. Control was the name of the game. Keep my hunger under control, keep my desires in check, maintain my integrity, maintain my composure and above all, be principled. Be sanctimonious. Be above reproach.

It would take years before I realized how little my principled rigidity was not serving me. I started to lose friends. People started to avoid me and hide things from me. They stopped confiding in me. When I found out that my best friend was cheating on her boyfriend, her reason for not confiding in me was “because I knew you’d be mad at me.”

And she was right. I was mad. I was hopping mad! I was incensed that she couldn’t be more principled and make better choices and that she was wrong, wrong, wrong! But, I was also embarrassed. It was humiliating to me that someone I loved was choosing to withhold information from me because she was afraid I would be mean to her.

It finally occurred to me. I had a choice. I could either choose my principles or choose people. I couldn’t have both. If I wanted people in my life I had to accept them for what they were, not what I wanted them to be. We are flawed. We will never live up to the principles we aspire to. But, when we accept each other, warts and all, that’s when friendships, understanding and healing begins.

Likewise, it would take a near death experience before my dad accepted that he could not be cured of his bi-polar disorder. It was a part of him. In order for him to be a functioning individual, he needed to accept the fact that there was no end to his illness. He needed to work with his disease rather than against it. If he wanted a life worth living, he had to accept its limitations. When he finally accepted this he was able to open up to its possibilities, find peace, be truly forgiving and offer genuine loving care.

This is one of the fist tenants of a yoga practice. When you step onto the mat, you are asked to be where you are, to accept the moment as it is. No judgment, no expectation, no projection into what it is going to be like when you finally “nail” that handstand. This simple, yet so difficult, practice is the building block to a more advanced asana practice, but even greater, it is the building block for healing and love. By accepting the moments as they are for what they are, we become interested. And when we’re interested in something we become compassionate. When we’re compassionate we feel love. Acceptance brings love.

I wish I could say that I am just a mellow fellow these days, that that I am open and receptive to all beings everywhere. But, I’m no where near that. I get crabby with my kids on a daily basis, have no patience for bad drivers, and am prone to bouts of guilt, disappointment, anger and bitterness. I am painfully human.

And that is just something I’m going to have to accept.

The Typwriter

When I was a kid my dad started his own business. He set up a home office and purchased an electric typewriter. It was a pretty high-tech piece of equipment for the time (this totally dates me I know. It's true, I'm officially middle-aged) and a source of fascination for me. It sat on a short, black, metal bookcase, a pedestal that separated it from the rest of the desk riff-raff. It was a totem of progress and possibility, a shiny and sleek white machine with black keys and a red “power” button.

The typewriter evoked a feeling of busy, efficient progress and purpose. When it turned on, it hummed. The keys made delicious, slapping sounds as they smacked against stark white paper and envelopes. When the typewriter was on, the basement was flooded with light and hive-like movement. When the typewriter was on, adult things were happening and we had to “go play somewhere else”.

Sadly, my dad’s business did not make it and the typewriter ceased to have any practical purpose. It was demoted to “toy” for my sisters and me.

I loved this toy. I would spend hours sitting at the typewriter trying to unravel its mysteries. I would pound away at the keys, typing so furiously that they would get all tangled up in the middle. I’d untangle the keys, study how they lined up in their proper places in the bed of the typewriter and then do it all over again.

It had an auto return feature that would automatically roll the paper up, thus permitting one to continue to type uninterrupted. This was a marvel for me. I would set and re-set the margins at various widths and line spacing and then type away, watching the paper fly. Sometimes the lines would be really far apart and others they’d be so close to together the type would be on top itself. Other times I’d try to make a solid black line by setting the line spacing so short that the typewriter would auto return over the same line over and over again. It was an exacting exercise that never bore the results I’d hoped for, but kept me entertained for a really, really long time.

Then there was the “erase” feature. It had two ribbons one black, one white. If you hit the “erase” button, it would go back and stamp white ink over what you just typed, thus effectively “erasing” your mistake. I would type full lines and then hit erase, erase, erase, erase, erase. This feature fascinated me. How many times would the typewriter obey my request to erase? (Answer: indefinitely. You just hit the button and the white tape would pop-up. Every. Single. Time.) Could I re-insert a page and get it to erase something I’d typed previously? (Answer: No. That’s what white out was for.)

The actual act of typing was a mystery that I assumed must be accomplished by sheer act of will. I would randomly strike keys, watch the paper roll through the machine and then scour the page to see if I had actually typed any words. I got in a few “hog”s, “as”, maybe a “lik” and thought for sure I was getting the hang of it.

But, for as much as I loved the typewriter, I also grew to loathe it. After my dad’s business failed, he suffered his first in a series of nervous breakdowns and was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. His bouts of mania were often ear-marked by late night typing sessions. The happy clickety clack of “daytime typewriter” morphed into the pneumatic drill of “nighttime typewriter”. Nighttime typewriter would slowly, persistently, draw me my out of my dreams and into the late night hours of mania. I’d rouse from sleep, hear the keys and groan. I tried to ignore it, but the harder I tried, the more insistent my mind latched onto it. I’d toss and turn and eventually give up the fight and lie there, eyes wide open, trying to will my father back to bed.

One night I stumbled out of bed and asked him, “Dad what’re you doing?”

He startled then snapped, “What do you want?”

“Nothing, I just heard the typewriter. It woke me up.”

“Well,” he paused, “I’m sorry about that, but can’t you see I am busy?”

Not wanting to upset him further, and knowing that I wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep, I curled up on the couch and watched him. All his manic energy was focused on trying to make some elusive thought tangible. He was wild-eyed and disheveled. His hair was greasy and matted to his forehead, indicating that he probably hadn’t bathed or slept in several days. He sat hunched over his work so that his glasses slipped down his nose, making him look like a strict, rather wild, school teacher.

His intensity and size made him frightening, yet I felt kinship, a feeling I rarely ever felt for my father. I understood his desire to make that typewriter manifest something. I understood the draw of the keyboard. For the first time, I saw myself in my dad. I closed my eyes and listened. Eventually the sound became soothing, rhythmic. I fell asleep.

Having a mentally ill father taught me early on that empathy can be a powerful tool for finding compassion. When I struggle to break bread with a person who challenges me, throwing in a little self-referential empathy is often the spice that makes the stew a feast.

Yet, while empathy allows me to hold the space for others, it is a spice best used judiciously. Use too much and it overpowers all the other flavors. Boundaries blur and I find that rather than standing by, I am walking through the quagmire of someone's life for them.

This past weekend I witnessed a family whose member is going through his first in what promises to be a long series of bi-polar related manic episodes. My heart breaks for all of them. I know how difficult the years ahead are going to be. To watch someone you love tear himself apart and refuse help is horrible. But, at some point there is simply nothing you can do but say “I am here for you. When you are ready, when you decide you need help, come to me and I will help you as best I can.”

This sounds callous, but it’s not. Each life must be led individually. We all have to find the recipe that makes the most of all the flavors in it. Each stew, casserole, etc. is different and can only be made by the person whose skin it is in. No matter how badly I want to say “I can see you’re having trouble, why don’t you just scoot over and let me do that for you”, the best I can do is sit close by, hand you the salt and respond to your efforts with love.

Club P

Yesterday was all about poop and pee. Jai woke up with a diaper explosion. Poop up the back, poop out the sides, mustard yellow poop on everything within a six inch radius of the source. Jai’s poop was so messy I had to call John over to help me clean-up for fear that he would put his hands, which he’s recently discovered and loves, into the poop and then put those same hands into his mouth.

After soaking and cleaning everything that was near the baby, our needs-to-be-potty-trained toddler gave us a full day of hide-and-seek poop. Jack hates the idea of potty training and, coupled with his general dislike of having his diaper changed, he’s taken up the practice of Poop and Dodge. Since he prefers to sit around in his own doing, once he feels a poop coming on, he’ll scurry away and play in another room so we don’t smell it. The stewing fecal matter, combined with the chaffing of his diaper, has resulted in welts on his inner thighs. When we change his diaper, the welts get poop in them making diaper changes very painful. That pain exacerbates his desire to dodge diaper changes and the gross, vicious cycle continues.

After a long day of Poop and Dodge I had a brilliant idea. Let’s just get rid of all diapers, training pants, etc. and put him in underwear. Let’s rip the diaper band aid off and have him see what it feels like to have accidents. Let’s get the potty train rolling!

This was a dumb idea. Apparently when you pee on a diaper rash, it hurts a lot. Jack’s choking “Stop! You’re hurting me!” sobs and crocodile tears rip my heart out. I try to remain calm, but I can’t help feel, yet again, like I am failing Motherhood 101.

At this point I have one of those “parenting sucks” moments.

Of course a huge part of the trauma of potty training is my fault. I’ve put it off. First there was the “we just moved” excuse. Then there was the “new baby” excuse. Then it was “let’s wait until summer”. But really, I hate the idea of potty training. Hate it. I could say that it’s because it’s a rite of passage that I’m not quite ready to go through, that I don’t want to let go of my little baby boy, or that I am afraid of doing it wrong and damaging my child, all of which have some sliver of truth to it, but the real reason I’ve put off potty training is I don’t want to deal with the mess.

After three years of diaper changes I am inured to poop in a diaper, but I shudder at the idea of mess splattering onto grocery store aisles, of ruined clothes and furniture and the inevitable frustration that always comes with introducing anything new to Jack.

Potty training is the first major rite of passage that will send my son out into the world beyond me. It is a huge hurdle that, once we are over, will propel Jack that much further away from me. This is both a welcomed and sad thing. Like most transitions, we will have to pass through the gross to get to the good. Transformation is murky, muddy and generally gross. In yoga, the lotus blossom is used to illustrate the process of transformation. The lotus, a beautiful flower that blossoms on top of stagnant water, plants its roots in the mud below. In order for it to grow, it must first root down into the mud and then grow up through the muck to blossom into radiance.

I have no delusions that Jack’s mastering of toileting will be a radiant experience, but I do know that passing through this grim rite of passage will move him closer to blossoming into an independent being so I gotta suck it up.

I look up from the bath I am drawing and see John. We lock eyes and I say, “I loathe the idea of potty training. I don’t want to do it. All the mess, ugh, I’m sorry but it grosses me out.”

“I know, I know, me too.”

I sigh, “God, this day.”

He lifts up his hand and high fives me, saying “Solidarity man. Welcome to the Poop and Pee club. Woo club P! Rock it! Rock it with the poop! Rock it with the Pee! Woo club P!”

He walks away, swinging his hips and singing, “Rock it club P! Woo!”

Jack runs bare bummed after his dad singing “Woo! Club me! Rock it to Me! 21, Four, Zero, Eight!”