Tuesday, May 10, 2016










FICKLE

out of grasping distance.
thoughts. images. song lyrics. and you.
get a little closer.  go a little further
away.
warm me up just to cool me off.
watch the aha! moment – finally –
dissolve into the haha moment – of course not.
what was that word you said?
where was that look you sent
coming from?
your heart? your head? your fear? your dread
of boredom?
blurry images through the rain-soaked windows
of my eyes.
parts of you clearly visible.
parts of you magnified by the center of a tiny water drop.
the rest
disappearing at the edges.



Monday, January 4, 2016

Forty-Two and Living the Dream

I remember the exact spot where I had this dream of the future when I was climbing Squaw Pass in Colorado on my road bike.  At the time, I was 32.  I was biking with my husband.  He was in a sour, dark mood.  He missed his son, who he only saw part-time because of divorce.  He hated all the ugliness that comes with separation of a parent from a child.  At one point he pulled over to the side of the road and threw his bike in the bushes.  I kept riding.

We had 2 toddler boys at home, only 20 months apart from each other after our rapid-fire marriage. We were maybe married 3 years at the time.  And I kept riding right past him, because I was pissed too.  Life was unpleasant at the moment, but I had a babysitter, and I was on my bike and I was not going to waste a single minute pulling his bike out of the bushes while he pouted on the side of the road.

So instead I dreamed of the future….Ten years…What will it be like 10 years from now? Because it can’t always be this rotten.  My mind narrowed in on the vision of this futuristic life.  I wondered how old would everyone be? I played it out in my head:  Bryan would be 50.  Hahaha.  That made me chuckle, it seemed impossibly OLD at the moment.  I would be 42.  My stepson would be 18 and graduating from high school.  Our boys would be 10  and 11.  Just thinking of the ages seemed surreal.  Those little boys, both still in diapers, would be in 4th and 5th grade—writing, reading, riding their own bikes.  Un-bleeping-believable.

I pedaled faster and noticed my husband was back on his bike trying to catch up with me and my not-so-empathetic legs.  I stuck with my fantasy-world of 10 years from now.  Bryan and I could possibly be celebrating our 12 year marriage and 13 years together.  Having never been with anyone for more than 5 years, this also seemed slightly insane.  I wondered, would we still like each other?  Would we still ride bikes together? My brain was tripping on the possibilities.

I smiled when my husband caught up to me and I said, “Do you realize how different life will feel in 10 years?”  Caught off guard, he said, “What?”  I said, “In 10 years, everything will be so different. We can do this.”  And we rode on.  And pretty soon the grade was too steep and the air too thin to talk to each other anyway.

Over the next few years the dream appeared less and less.  Life was getting easier.  And then I sort of forgot about that dream altogether.

In fact, I had forgotten about my escape technique until recently I was experiencing “number” déjà vu.  It started with Bryan turning 50 this past spring and my stepson rounding 18 in the fall. I kept thinking to myself that I’d heard these numbers before, that we had all been at these ages before…And that is when I remembered my dream.  The dream I used to think about when I didn’t want to think about the reality.  And it hit me. I’m 42 and I’m living the dream.

The realization spurred a number of incompatible feelings—melancholy, elation, fear, disappointment and contentment.

I sarcastically said to myself, “This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.”  And then I quickly wondered, so now what?  Should I create a new dream?  What would life look like 10 years from now?  Then I questioned my methodology. Was I going to live in 10 year increments of hopes?  It felt contradictory to my studies of yoga, meditation and Buddhism, which all hit you over the head with the same message:  Live in the present moment.

But, let’s consider for a moment that, “living in the present” is good advice, but not the only goal.  Sometimes living in the present can be incredibly painful.  We have options to feel that pain.  We also have options to remind ourselves that the present moment is temporary.  Pain is temporary.  And when the pain is so thick, you can forget that it is indeed just a fleeting feeling.  So maybe, just maybe, it is also helpful to think of the future, if simply to remind us that the present is ephemeral.

We don’t have to wish for better times, or a bigger house or more money in the future.  No one knows what the future presents.  But we can count on the fact that we will age.  If I am still inhabiting this world, I will be 52 in 10 years.  Maybe in addition to death and taxes, getting older is also one of the only guarantees.  And sometimes skipping a century or so helps pull us out of the mire, and remind ourselves, the present won’t always look and feel like it does today. 


One day I will be 52, married to a 60 year old with a 28 year old stepson.  Our boys will be 20 and 21.  Our dog will be 15. Or not.  I have no idea what life will be like at those numbers.  It seems too strange to fathom.  But it will happen.  I know, because I am now 42, living the dream, and drumming up a new one. 

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

365 poems

from IMBD.com
One of my intentions for 2014 was to write a poem a day for each day of the year.  Some days I slack and then other days I crank out 2-3 poems at a time.  It's only February.  By June I may be writing 30 at a time to catch up for a month.  Here is the one I wrote today:

PSH

You died a few days ago
And I’ve thought of it every day since
So many people fighting
For their right to eulogize you
To explain you, defend you
To claim their rights on
Addiction….
But not you. 
So even in your death
Addiction beat you
Has won the limelight of your
Legacy.
But not for me. 
I only remember you.
And the feelings that you sparked in me
When I first saw you stick
Your cum-soaked tissues to the Wall in
Happiness
and every other movie after that
where you played a character with more grit
than others had been brave enough to do
and I know that your passing
does not so much make me think of you
but of me
and my experiences of watching you
and maybe that’s ok

because I never really knew you.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Killing my Self with Kindness


Over the last year and a half, I quit 4 jobs, left my community of 10 years and uprooted to a new location to follow my husband’s career.  Knowing this was going to be a difficult time, I decided to be kind to myself.  I wanted to give myself some “time.”  I am not sure what I was doing with all this time.   I did the practical things—found some new jobs, made good friends, located some yoga studios.  But I kept giving myself a break, letting myself off the hook.

Here is what I learned on this break: knowing how to do yoga postures does not equate physically practicing the yoga postures.  Moreover, understanding the benefits of meditation does not bring you the benefits of meditation.  As a result my body, mind and emotions all got flabby. I was killing my Self with kindness. 

 Old clothes weren’t fitting.  Out of kindness to myself I bought new, bigger clothes.  My mind was too itchy, anxious to sit in meditation, so in spirit of not expecting too much of myself, I read Facebook.  Some may argue, “No, no, no my dear, this is not what we mean by kindness.  Kindness is yoga, time for yourself and green leafy salads.”  To me, kindness felt like doing whatever I wanted without judgment.

After about a year of “nurturing” myself judgment-free, I was crap.  My body was crap and my emotions were crap.  I was lying on my mat in the yoga room and I realized this was the 3rd day in row that I had practiced yoga.  Then I said to myself, “I am going to practice yoga every day until I quit feeling like crap.”  (And then I specifically defined yoga in my head to be more than the walk-across-the-yoga-mat-on-the-way-to-the-bathroom-yoga that I had been “practicing” daily.)

 I am on day 13 of yoga. 

Nothing miraculous has happened.

Except, I feel like writing for the first time in months.  Except, I no longer feel like I have to hide in my clothes, I can just wear them.  Except, I am finding I have less time for long-grazing meals coupled with infinite internet searches.    Overall, I feel a little less crappy.

I have asked myself the question, “Why wasn’t I going to yoga every day before?”  Some of my answers were interesting:
  • Well, I don’t want people to think all I do is yoga.
  • The people at the studio will think I don’t have a life.
  • I haven’t done anything stressful enough to deserve yoga.
  • The owners might think I am taking advantage of my teacher-rate monthly yoga membership.
  • I need to go grocery shopping.

Looking at my list of excuses, I wonder if I was really spending all my time trying to be kind to others.

I plan on practicing yoga tomorrow.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Moving forWARD: Non-Attachment vs Tradition


This Mother’s Day will be the first Mother’s Day in 7 years that I am not riding my bike with my husband from Boulder, CO to Ward, CO for our annual “Mother’s Day” ride.  Mother’s Day is in quotations because it is a joke in our family that I always get a babysitter on Mother’s Day so that for a few hours on this glorious day, I don’t have to Mother.  I cherish this ride.  As my two boys keep getting older the joke has begun, “Well, when you are a strong enough cyclist, you can spend Mother’s Day with Mom.” 

The tradition ends this Sunday.  Now that we have moved to Minneapolis, MN, it seems a little excessive to bike to Ward.  My heart is a little bit broken.  Each time I feel this disappointment--like a good yogi--I find myself breathing in and saying reassuring things like, “This is what change feels like.  Everything changes.  It is the one thing we can count on.” 

As I sit in meditation in the morning for a few minutes before waking the kids, I think, “Wait, how can a philosophy teach both acceptance of change and promotion of routine?”  Aren’t the two things complete opposites?

Buddhism, Yoga, Ayurveda practices (despite their variances in philosophies and beliefs) all ask us to establish some sort of a daily routine.  Some routines make parents with young children laugh.  For example one Ayurvedic waking ritual suggests: wake with the sun; small waking ritual; empty bowels; brush teeth/scrape tongue/neti pot; meditate/pranayama; exercise/yoga; garshana/abhyanga; shower; light breakfast. And this ritual is not just for Mother’s day.  It’s for everyday.

I am lucky if I put a bra on to walk the kids to the bus stop by 6:57am.

My purpose for writing this blog is not to challenge the validity of these routines.  On the other hand I think rituals are brilliant and something for which to aspire.  Rituals help us feel grounded.  Rituals bring comfort.  Rituals slow down that race-y feeling of anxiety when you have to plan something new every Mother’s Day.  In fact commitment to a ritual becomes the standard for gaging one’s spiritual commitment.

Rather, the purpose of my writing is to examine the sense of loss that happens when change occurs and disrupts our routines.  How do routines fit within the teachings of non-attachment and accepting change?  Like the “chicken and the egg” preponderance (a good Mother’s Day metaphor) are we attached to rituals or do rituals create attachment?

What would happen to a Buddhist nun if she got a phone call in the middle of her mid-day meditation?  This may sound funny, because she wouldn’t get a phone call.  She wouldn’t even have her phone with her, if indeed, she even owned a phone.  Many of our greatest spiritual leaders remove themselves from worldly distractions, precisely so that they can accomplish their routines. 

So this Mother’s day I am really asked to examine what is my attachment to the routine?

I understand some the attachment to mine.  Riding my bike up the steep grade (The Wall) just before Ward has always symbolized the intense endurance that was required of me to become a Mother.  Moreover the freedom of riding my bike (kid-free) surrounded by mountains and blue skies reminds me that I am more than just a Mother.  I see here that these are simply ideas I’ve assigned to a physical event.  I can re-create this same meaning in new traditions, or I can let the meaning go altogether.  Or like most things, I can find some peace in just being a little more aware of my disappointed feelings.

This Sunday, I am riding bikes with the whole family to a festival in the park.  (I couldn't find a babysitter.) I’ll be letting go of my attachment, but I can’t promise I won’t be secretly plotting new traditions.  

Monday, January 30, 2012

Losing my identity


When we decided to move to Minneapolis for my husband's job, I figured it would be hard. I anticipated it would feel something like the baby blues, mild bouts of depression for a few months and then eventually it would clear up.

And then you move, and you are just going along with the day-to-day necessities, unpacking, signing kids up for school, finding parks, buying more crap to put into your house after you were just appalled at how much crap you had when you moved out of your old house, when all of a sudden you stop and think, “Wait…who am I?” I was thinking this very thought. I was in the throes of identity crisis, wearing a cocktail dress and greeting some new babysitter with whom I was about to leave my kids so I could make my debut at my husband’s new company’s holiday party—when the question hit me square in the face. Who am I? I didn’t know how big my feelings of “who am I” were until I went to put my driver’s license and credit card in a smaller purse (vainly hoping that I looked young enough to be carded) and it was gone. My identity was gone.

Where the hell was my driver’s license? I looked through every crevice of wallet and purse. I attempted to do this calmly trying not to give the babysitter the idea that I was straight out of the Cursing Mommy column in The New Yorker. Oh never mind. I don’t think she read The New Yorker. Shit! Where was my driver’s license? I made a mental list of all the places I’d been that week that could have asked me for my license…the library, the YMCA, the neighborhood recreation center. And then I thought, when I was 28, I would have called the bars to find my ID. At 38, I call the library. WHO AM I?

I grabbed my passport (still convinced I looked young enough to be carded) and went to the party.

The driver’s-license-identity-crisis-snafu was put on the back burner and just became another annoying errand that I had to do. The kind of errand that you have to do, but you don’t really know how to do it, so instead you let the errand just sit in your stomach and rub away at the lining. I would get random pains thinking, “How will I get a Minnesota driver’s license without my old license?” Finally, probably on a day when I felt very certain who I was and very insistent that I had a government ID to prove it, I figured it all out. I filled out the paper work on my computer requesting a new license be issued in my old state. I dug through two boxes to find the cables to hook up the printer. I searched google maps to find a place to make a copy. I found the place. I made a copy of my passport. I stuck it all in an envelope and mailed it off. Done. My identity was requested. And now to wait its arrival.

I missed my driver’s license. It was like this odd little reminder to myself of the mantra that was mounting in my soul, “Nothing got lost in the move but me.” From 9 years of teaching college students about self-fulfilling prophecy, I understood this was not a productive mantra. “Nothing got lost in the move but me.” I kept telling myself anyway. It seemed to describe the subtly awkward taste I had in my mouth on a day-to-day basis when I tried to answer questions like, "Well what do you do for work?" Or worse, the mantra seemed to ring with the tiny vibrations of anxiety that I kept plucking at with my breath when people would fail to ask anything about my job...work...life before Minneapolis.

I knew this feeling of losing my identity was the “hard” part of the move. The part everyone says, “Yeah it’s gonna be hard, but you can do it.” I hear people say that a lot to justify having kids, taking on new life adventures, and moving. Ironically, as soon as things get hard, many of us hate the hard sensations and so we start to criticize old plans and start making new. This feeling lost. This looming question, “Who am I?” This was the hard. And I was in the hard.

As a general practice, I try to stay in the hard. I read a lot of Pema Chodrin. I believe rather than trying to escape the unnerving sensations that I will benefit in the long run if, instead of numbing, I breathe, I stay, I watch. And I lasted in this observatory state for about a week, until I opened my wallet to buy more crap and I realized my Passport was missing. F&#@!!! My identity: gone. Really gone. My skin was red hot and panic set in. I was wavering between exploring what the Universe was trying to tell me and freaking out that someone from the Canadian-owned yoga studio I had just attended was trying to steal my identity. It was a rocky moment. My mantra was back, “Nothing got lost in the move but me.” My vision had closed in. It was narrow and blurry. I started pacing.

I thought what I should do is sit and meditate for 10 minutes and just observe these feelings. What I did instead was begin to piece together how I would go about getting a new passport without a driver’s license in less than month as I was going out of the country in 3 weeks. And when I finally got to the question in my mental processing, “Do I have any copies of my passport?” It hit me. I had left my passport on the copy machine over a week ago when I had made a copy of it to request a new driver’s license. I had lost my identity in attempt to find it.

I called the copy shop. They had my passport in their safe. I went to pick it up immediately. I needed my identity back. And thank goodness that I did as the very next morning, I was pulled over making a left turn on a “No Left Turn from 7am – 9am” street while driving my husband to work because his car wouldn’t start in 16 below zero weather. WHO AM I? I thought of telling the officer, "My husband told me to turn here."

But I thought he might say, “And you do everything your husband tells you to do? Aren’t you a person too?”

To which I may have responded, “Well, Officer, I'm getting there.”



Monday, May 9, 2011

All I really need to know I learned when my kid went to kindergarten

I laughed when I looked at my blog today--finally feeling like writing--and I realized that the last time I wrote, my 6 year old was starting kindergarten. In two weeks, he’ll be graduating.

In honor, I thought I would bring some reality to the book title, “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.” Robert Fulghum’s popular book supposes that the lessons of kindergarten prepare children for the future challenges we face as an adult. Fulghum’s book paints kindergarten as a dreamy place where things like sharing are taught by a fairy-like teacher singing through the classroom. This is true, I think, in some kindergarten classes today.

I would like to make a list with a slightly different title, ”All My Kindergartener Learned in Public Schools with a 30:1 Student/Teacher Ratio.”

· Calling your teacher, “Mrs. FREAKING Teacher,” earns you time in the recovery chair.

· We spend more time on reading and math than art, because art really isn’t very important for being smart.

· White girls can’t like black boys.

· You really do get in trouble if you give the middle finger.

· Some kids steal school supplies.

· Library time means time to play computer games.

· If you are too good, you get ignored.

· You cannot pull girls’ shirts down.

· Scissors are meant for cutting paper not your shirt or your pants.

Some will read this list and find reasons not to attend public schools. Some will read this list and find reasons to invest more money into public schools. In reality it is just a list and some of these lessons will be learned by kids in private, religious and home schools everywhere.

The list is really more of a lesson for the parents than the kids. What we as parents learn when our children start kindergarten is that despite thinking we were in control for five years, we in fact are not. Some of us will spend years denying this and enforcing control in any conceivable way possible—switching schools, demanding teachers, unfriending families, and more. Others will find the lack of control as an easy excuse to blame everyone/thing else for the outcome of their children, shirking any responsibility of their own doing. The challenge of being a parent is to have the ability to love and protect your child at the same time you have the awareness to see when control starts masquerading as love and protection.

And so Fulgham’s book title could maybe be altered again to read, “All Parents Really Need to Know their Kids Teach them in Kindergarten.”