Opening the Joy Valve

Yesterday I was talking to a friend in England about the feeling of joy. We only talk once a month but it’s always intentional and enlightening. I look forward to these monthly chats. She associated the feeling of joy with the experience of discovering. For many years she was a teacher of young children, a path she chose because she loved being around them in their constantly discovering state.

I remember when my daughter was little. We used to take “night walks.” After dinner, with her sometimes already in her polyester Dora the Explorer short-sleeved nighty, we’d each take a tiny bowl of ice cream and walk up and down our street, eating little spoonfuls as we chatted. The walks were never more than a block or two because there was so much to see, so many questions to ask and answer.

We looked at the tiny blue weed flowers and took our shoes off to walk on the moss. Sometimes we picked blackberries or pondered over the big trash heap behind the house at the corner of the alley. After twenty minutes or so we’d head home, read a story (also an extended undertaking full of observations and questions), and kiss goodnight.

I was never bored by these moments. To be in proximity of my daughter’s experience of discovering was a joyful, energizing experience for me. I understand my friend’s desire to be around that kind of energy all the time.

Last week I had a clothing swap for several friends and their teenage daughters. It was the first large gathering I’ve had in a few years. The idea was for all of us to bring clothes, shoes, and accessories we no longer wore, sort them into huge piles, and then shop each other’s rejects.

The seven mothers and eight daughters perused the piles finding little treasures that they’d try on and either throw into a “keep” pile of their own or toss back into the sorted mounds. After the first go-round people started to form little groups on patches of grass — having a snack, catching up on life, or sharing Tiktoks.

And then slowly people would revisit the piles, this time finding items that might be good for someone else at the swap. This is when it really started to get fun. Someone would hold a blouse up and shout, “Laura, this is perfect for you” or a mother would hold up a dress for her daughter, suggesting she try it. Occasionally, the daughter would say yes but more often she’d roll her eyes and reply, “You try it!” 

It wasn’t the outcome that mattered, it was the exchanges, the interactions, the idea of sharing discoveries with each other. It was the laughing, the teasing, the trying on, and modeling that sparked moment after moment of joy.

For the past eighteen months we’ve been living in relative isolation, at first because we were in fear, but later just out of habit. Socializing became more of a special event than part of daily life.

Reflecting on the sheer happiness I had at this gathering, I could see clearly that I have been living in isolation for too long. Isolation is truly the opposite of discovering. Isolation is quiet, still, hidden, and closed. Discovery is expansive, unknown, exciting, colorful, and thrilling.

During the clothing swap party, I became engulfed in a twister of joy that came from each of us, alone and together, discovering. I discovered a tie-dyed silk dress that I never would have selected for myself. My daughter found a simple beige t-shirt that ended up being perfect for her new job as a busser. One of my friends whose daughters couldn’t come, went home with two bags of clothes and shoes for them to try at home.

When I told my friend in England about how profound my joy was during this clothing swap, she wisely observed, “You have been missing this part of yourself and it finally had a chance to come out.” She’s right. My discovery valve has been sealed closed during the isolation of COVID. On that sunny Saturday in my yard, it finally opened up and the joy was released.

COVID has revealed many truths about our world — vulnerability, inequity, divisiveness, and fear. And all of these things have invited, for many of us, isolation. I understood isolation to be protective, and it was. But this protective isolation also limited opportunities for discovery. One can only discover so much in the confines of their home. True discovery, at least for me, involves other people, fresh air, and possibilities. 

I loved those night walks with my daughter, those short journeys filled with possibilities for discovery. And I loved the expansive happiness of the clothing swap too. The joy valve is open and I can feel the difference. The hidden darkness has lifted and I’m ready to be in the world, to keep discovering.

Tiny Moments: Gratitude for the Small Things

I remember when I was a new mother. I was consumed with my baby. Nursing, changing, soothing, adoring. Every moment was taken up with her presence. I went back to work when my daughter was six weeks old. I was lucky. I had my own business and was able to go to work in small doses — three or four hours at a time — so that I could come back home and be with my baby. I loved going to work. It gave me a place to connect to myself, to be social for a few hours, to remember who I was before I was a mother. But still, I hated leaving my daughter even for those short periods of time.

Having a baby is a lot of work. There is very little freedom. It’s like lock-down only you’re totally hormonal and in love so you don’t feel it as harshly. I remember moments of utter frustration when my daughter nursed for eighteen hours of the day. It was her only means of soothing whatever was troubling her tiny soul. In those days I wished for more freedom, for a break. I felt trapped by parental responsibility. I had a life — work to do, emails to respond to, friends to see — and I was tethered to this little being, unable to take care of the other aspects of my life.

Now my daughter is sixteen. She just left on her first road trip. It’s a small one, to a city just a few hours away, but it feels like she's traveled a thousand miles. At sixteen my daughter is wildly independent. She wants to be up, up, and away, gone from the clutches of her parents and her teachers, her coaches, and all that is familiar. She wants new and different and exciting. She’s got a list a mile long of things she wants to do in her life and most of them don’t include me.

These days I see my daughter in tiny moments — a short morning check-in over oatmeal and coffee before she hits the ground running. Maybe an afternoon shopping at Goodwill together. Often she comes home past my bedtime and I try to make myself stay up to welcome her home. Occasionally on these nights, we’ll have a spontaneous TikTok browsing session and I’m grateful for the chance to laugh together, to see what her life is about these days.

On the last day of my daughter’s sophomore year, I planned to have a family dinner but when she got home she’d already gone out to eat Bahn Mi with her friends. She wasn’t hungry so we sat on the back patio for a half hour and toasted the end of the year with a lemonade mocktail. It was short and sweet. It was all she had to give at that moment and I was grateful.

I got to watch her play soccer yesterday for the first time in over a year. I don’t go to games anymore because now my daughter is old enough to drive herself. And, she doesn’t really want me there. On the way home, she ranted about the heat and the lack of subs. It was familiar and strangely comforting to be in the car with her that way. The whole experience was only a few hours but I soaked it up like a long vacation after a hard year’s work. I’ve been driving carpool and watching her play soccer for over ten years and it’s always a delight.

We’ve switched, my daughter and I. Our roles have inverted. I understand how she feels. Now she is the independent one, the one with a bigger, more exciting life. She has business to attend to, parts of herself that cannot be nourished by me. Now I am the hungry one, longing for the familiar connection we once had. Our relationship has changed; our roles are different now. These days the connections come in small moments, tiny precious encounters.

I’ve heard older mothers talking about this change for years but I didn’t fully understand it. Yesterday my friend sent her sixteen-year-old off to backpacking camp. Her daughter would be in the mountains, unreachable for two weeks. A few hours after she put her daughter on the bus I asked my friend how she felt. “Sad,” she said, “I miss her.” I knew exactly how she felt. Even when my daughter is sleeping soundly in her room one floor below me I miss her. She’s here, but she’s far away. I know it’s a good thing. She’s moving on, living her life, becoming an adult. But the missing is still there.

It’s not unlike the feeling I had when my daughter was six weeks old. When I had to go to work, to be away from her, even for a few hours, I missed her. I relished the moment of coming back home, opening the front door and scooping her little body into my arms. It was such a clear, easy feeling. I was taking care of my baby, doing my job.

That baby is all grown up, but I still feel that desire to scoop her into my arms and squeeze her full of love, to know that I am doing my job. My job looks different now. It’s not as obvious or simple. My daughter doesn’t need me in those same ways. But she still needs me and I’m figuring out how, trying to follow her lead.

What I’ve learned is that the moments of connection are still here. They are smaller, more fleeting but if I look for them I can see they are here. The morning chat, the evening cell phone scroll, listening to a rant on the way home from a soccer game. The key is to be open, to watch for the opportunities to connect, and be present and grateful when they come.

It wasn't so bad.

A few years ago when I went to New Orleans for a week, the yoga studio sprinkler system went haywire and we had a flood. A big one. It took us two weeks of being closed with industrial sized fans to dry out the place.

Yesterday morning, while I was in Chicago celebrating Passover with stepmother, my four siblings and our families, I received a phone call in the middle of the night from the Seattle Police Department that someone had broken into The SweatBox. I didn't get the message until I woke up in the morning, four hours after the incident. The message said that someone had broken in and done damage. They needed someone to identify what items had been stolen. I was in Chicago, twelve hours away from my 8pm flight time that night.

I panicked right away because that's how I roll. Panic first, think later.  I called Nancy who was home in Seattle but she didn't answer. Then I called Seth who was teaching that morning and asked if he could go a bit early and assess the damage. I was deep into a melt down imagining the computer gone, our modest cash box depleted.  I didn't stop to think that there really wasn't much to steal from a yoga studio......

Eventually I got a hold of Nancy who met Seth and the police at the studio. Between the two of them they managed to get the full scoop from the police, clean up the place and get students ready for Seth's 8am class.

They assessed that the burglar, who the police actually caught, had taken nothing. He had, however caused significant damage. In addition to the front lobby window he broke through, he smashed one of our bathroom toilets and, in an attempt to escape police, actually kicked through a wall in the men's dressing room into the main area of our building.

Once I got the story from Nancy and talked to the officer on duty, I was able to take a breath. A patron at Neumos, the night club down the street had seen the guy break the window at 2:30am and called the cops which ultimately resulted in his arrest.

No one was hurt. Students checked in while the police took the report and classes would continue as normal all day long, despite the broken toilet and demolished wall.  I hung up the phone, took a deep breath and went on to enjoy my last hours with my siblings and their kids before flying back to Seattle.

When I arrived to the studio today, tired from a midnight arrival last night and very little sleep for the worry I was holding over the repairs to be done to the studio, I was pleasantly surprised. It was the same. Yes, the front window was boarded up, but as I walked in at 7:30am, greeting the 6am students who were leaving and the 8am students who were just arriving, it was as if none of it had happened. The energy was the same as it always is. People were laughing and chatting and sweating. I shared the bits and pieces of the burglar's escapades with people and we all laughed imagining someone escaping by kicking through an actual wall!!!

By the time I left today the toilet had been replaced, the men's dressing room wall had a preliminary sheetrock patch, and all of the glass shards were safely in the belly of the shop vac. The insurance claim was filed and it felt like business as usual. Just like that.  I felt actual happiness, joy even for the fact that it all worked out.

I'm not surprised that our studio was broken into. Times are desperate. So many people are struggling-- with poverty, addiction, anger and despair. Maybe the guy who did this was just pissed at the world and needed a place to rage. Maybe he really thought he'd get some cash from a little yoga studio. I'm not glad this happened. It will cost me money and it caused a great deal of stress for me and many other people, but it also renewed my sense of community, of gratitude for the connections we have in our little village of Capitol Hill in our growing city of Seattle. The SweatBox is open and ready to serve. All are welcome.

Did you ever wear rainbow jammies?

Writer's block is a real thing. It manifests in different ways for different people. For me, I periodically get stuck with the feeling that I don't have anything new to say so I should just keep quiet. But writing for me is a therapy, an indulgence, a place where I can feel my clear channel showing up, so I am glad that my writer's block always goes away.

Usually a life event, a conversation or experience sparks me to write. It's to the point where, after a big talk or long walk, my 12-year-old daughter Lucia will say, "Mom, are you going to write about that?" This morning when I woke up, I was thinking about my weekend visitors. My cousin Kirsten and two of her friends came up to Seattle from Salem to see the U2 concert. My partner Nancy, daughter Lucia and I babysat Kirsten's three-year-old daughter Emily for the night.

During dinner, Emily, Lucia, Nancy and I were talking about fairies when Emily let us know that her favorite color was rainbow. Then, in a very earnest, serious way, she told us that when she was in her mommy's belly, she wore rainbow jammies. There is no way to possibly recreate the tone, the face, the rounded vowels, the overall image that came with little Emily's rainbow monologue.

"When I was in my mommy's belly I was wearing rainbow jammies," created a moment for all of us-- of pure joy, inspiration, and connection. The evening evolved into more fairy conversation. We shared with Emily that she was really lucky because the Rainbow Fairy actually lives in Seattle. The spoon she ate her ice cream with became a special fairy spoon. Emily and Lucia made Rainbow Fairy dolls. We made her a Rainbow Fairy card that welcomed her to the Fairy world and left it as a surprise on her suitcase for the morning. 

Thinking about Emily thinking about the rainbow jammies she wore in her mommy's belly is not a radical concept. It is a radical moment. A moment where all the other issues, problems, crisis in the world come to a full stop and for a blip in time, fantasy becomes the fabric that connects us. It's still in my head, that perfect moment, "When I was in my mommy's belly I was wearing rainbow jammies." It makes me smile and my heart beats a little bit faster from the internal laughter.  I can see the faces of Nancy and Lucia, the glow of delight as Emily looked to each one of them to make sure they heard her.  I'm so happy that I woke up with images from Rainbow Fairy night. This feeling is a necessary respite from reality. Today I will be a mom, go to work, attend a fundraiser and a soccer parents team meeting. I have no idea what other surprises are in store for my day, but whatever comes, I'm grateful it's starting like this. Thank you Emily.

Writing the beautiful

Last night my daughter Lucia and I wrote thank you letters to Hillary Clinton.  When Clinton lost the presidential race, writing to her was my first instinct. I needed to tell her what her running for president meant to me. I also needed to find a way for my 12-year-old daughter to process her grief about the loss. I hesitated to write this blog because over the course of the elections, I've experienced many moments in my liberal, third-party, west-coast, community being shamed as "right wing" or "ignorant" or "small-minded" for favoring Hillary Clinton. But, now in the wake of her loss of the election, I am more compelled than ever to be honest and open.

At a writing retreat I attended last month, one of the exercises we did was "writing the beautiful." We had to choose something in our life that was bad, even heinous, and write only the beautiful things about it. I didn't think I could do it, but I did. I got up at dawn on the second day of the retreat and set up my laptop overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I steadily wrote two short essays about things I didn't want to think about and I found the beautiful. I found memories, feelings, details that I hadn't let myself see because I was only looking at the event from one lens.

When Hillary Clinton ran for president, a new level of hope and excitement slowly unfurled for me. I was raised by feminist parents. My father, even back then, was the Board President of Planned Parenthood. He taught my sisters and me to play football and encouraged us to start a team at our school. My mother worked tirelessly for accessible clinic services for young women and helped us write letters of concern and complaint to Ronald Reagan in the 1980s.

Even with these feminist roots, I never knew, could never imagine that a woman could be president. Sure, I fantasized, I hoped, but I didn't believe it. A woman would make so much difference. She truly would change the world. Hillary Clinton looked like she was getting close. I let myself believe. The unimaginable became thinkable.

And then she lost. The electoral college declared Voldemort our leader, and my heart broke a little bit. As my partner Nancy and I watched Lucia sob over the results, swimming in teenage tears of disillusionment and disappointment, my heart broke a little bit more. The next morning when the dust had settled a little bit, I told my family that I was going to write to Hillary and tell her what her running for president had meant to me. I invited Lucia to do the same. It's taken a week to get the letters done. They were difficult to write at first because the blow of the loss was too close. But it helped, writing the beautiful, expressing gratitude to Hillary Clinton, a woman who let all of us, especially the 12-year-old girls in the world, believe that the unimaginable is possible.