Guest Blog- Menopause Mentoring

Menopause Mentoring by Kate Poux

This is my grandma and her sisters in 1954,  when they were in their late 40s/early 50s. I admire their easy middle-aged glamour. I am the same age as they are in the photo.  I wish I could  be part of their midlife summer barbeques. What would they say to me about this time of life? What will I say to my daughters and nieces and grand daughters 30  years from now? What are they learning right now by watching me live it?

When my daughter was 3 she would watch me get out of the shower and get ready for the day, and ask for some of my lotion to rub on her legs like me. One day as she bent over, going through my same lotion motions she said, “I do what you do, Mommy.” I am struck  by how much she took in as a toddler watching me, and how much she must notice now as a teenager, sometimes seeking connection to me and many times doing the hard work of separating from me.

My dad died 28 years ago. I spend November remembering him, and every year I notice how much more I am like him. This year I dug through an old box  at my mom’s house and collected photos. He’s the guy at the block parties with a clipboard, putting up the flags, playing the “head on a table” in the haunted house, wearing make up for his part in the Kismet chorus, singing real loud in church, whistling, drinking coffee in the front yard, running with the dog. I live so much of my life like he did, mostly unaware of this deep subconscious connection. He doesn’t tell me to do all these things, I just do what he did.

The process of becoming like our parents and ancestors is deep. As parents and adults in families, we work so hard  to keep children safe, healthy, happy. We make conscious choices in every moment about what to say, do to help them grow, but all the while they are watching us and becoming like us, without either of us being really aware of it. I do what you do. How can I live through this time of menopause in a way that will help it be an easier, fuller time for my daughters and next generations?

I made a  friend on the Claws in your Pause retreat last year who told us that every day at work for her is a +5 on her energy meter. She made changes to her diet a few years ago and feels great, totally reconnected to her body. Being with her changed me. I want to do what she does. Not literally, of course, but I want to embrace opportunities, let go of the energy suckers and love my life like she does. And making it happen for me at this time in my life has an impact on how the young women around me will feel about menopause, now and maybe later.

It’s kind of a lot of pressure to figure it out. Especially on days like today when I pretend to be sick and hide in my bedroom so I don’t have to deal with anyone. This last photo is my daughter around the same age when she used to imitate my showering routine. She’s making a banana phone call. Wouldn’t it be so much easier if banana phones could call back and forth through time, connect past and future generations? She could just call present-me 30 years in the future and say WTF about all this menopause bullshit, Mom! Oona, if you’re still there…

...notice changes in energy, mood, confidence, hair falling out,  temper, libido, weight, heart palpitations in your 40s, open up a dialogue about it with your family, friends, doctor. Track your symptoms, write them down. Keep a timeline. You are not crazy.

… notice what gives you energy, and what depletes it, and practice letting go of the things that don’t bring you joy or energy.  Observe how much more decisive you feel. Reconnect with your intuition.

… find the nearest chapter of Put Some Claws in Your Pause and tell them Mommy sent you. Bond with people about menopause. Say it out loud, often. It’s a comforting, inspiring connection, to find out how other women are handling it or not handling it, how we can learn from each other and shed the shame.

 Kate Poux is an elementary school teacher and co-facilitator of Put Some Claws in Your Pause, a Yoga & Writing Retreat in celebration of Menopause.

On the road again.

Last weekend four of my good friends and I went to Portland for the weekend. We left the kids and the spouses behind, took the mini-van on the road, and shacked up in a rented town house overlooking the 405. It was brilliant in a million ways.

We travelled as a pack. We ate together, slept together, shopped together, and on the road home Sunday night in the minivan, we sang together. All weekend, we'd been reveling in the lightness we felt being on our own in Portland. At one point during dinner on Friday night, I became disoriented (the pre-dinner 'brownie' might have played into this) about what era of our lives we were in. I momentarily felt like I was back to my twenties when going out to dinner with a gaggle of girl friends was commonplace.

With a van full of Christmas presents and some personal indulgences for ourselves, we hit the road north back to Seattle on Sunday afternoon. We stopped at an incredible Mexican restaurant in Centralia to mark our halfway point, none of us fully ready to return to "normal." Once we were back on I-5, Jenna, the owner of the minivan, started playing DJ. We heard Sade, Simon & Garfunkel, Tori Amos, and Etta James among others. Eventually we started singing our own tunes-- The Eagles, Bette Middler, John Denver.

From the darkness of our minivan, we belted out songs we all knew. We harmonized. We sang back up. It was the perfect finale to a weekend of debauched bliss. There was so much goodness in the van, so much happy energy.  It is a moment I want to remember always.

The next morning, Monday, I taught class at 930am. I can't say I was thrilled to be back from my weekend escape, but I was happily surprised, as I almost always am, to be back teaching.  It was many usual practitioners, people I know well and love; all hard workers, focused Yogis. During Pranayama breathing, watching the students in the room, I had this wonderful reminiscence of my friends singing harmony in the minivan the night before. All of the different bodies, breathing separately but also together. It made me so happy to be simultaneously experiencing last night's memory and the present moment's reality.

Yoga is a big part of my life. It's my home, my away, my safe and my scary. My everyday practice gives me the grounding I need to move through the world sanely, and sometimes I have a class that is very, very hard, uncomfortable, unmooring.  I still practice though because I know that through my practice I'll find my way home.  Lately I've been expanding my practice-- still Bikram but also Vinyasa and Yin. It's refreshing and disorienting in all the best ways. The new practice energizes my old practice; it breathes new and different energy into it.

My relationship with my friends is similar. With each of them I've had countless moments of complete elation as well as periods of hard times and struggle. The everyday coordination of playdates, carpools, parenting advice is a critical structure in my life, but getting away from all of that is important too. Our trip to Portland, without the parameters that normally define us, gave us each a way to see each other differently, open ourselves up to new experiences, and sing our hearts out.

I'm not a great bike rider, but that was a great ride.

In October, I went on a 25-mile urban bike ride around Seattle with my friend Kate, her in-laws and a group of their super-biker friends. All of these uber-athletes were in their 60s and 70s. I was kind of dreading the ride. My own bike being a 20-year old piece of crap, I had borrowed a bike on which I was less than proficient. Knowing that these bikers are all pretty hard core (Canada to Mexico, the circumference of England, the Idaho Panhandle), I was a bit daunted to join them on this freezing cold Sunday morning. My one conciliation was that Kate, the only other party in my generation, was suffering from advanced pneumonia, and I was pretty sure I would at least be able to keep pace with her.

We all met in the parking lot of Mount Baker Beach. All the elders in their toe-clip shoes, blinking fog lights, spandex of various lengths, and rain gear. I improvised with running shoes, hand-me-down bike shorts and thigh-high disco pink knee socks to keep my legs warm. Kate's in-laws, the official bike docents gave us a preliminary safety lesson (which was incredibly helpful) and off we went. Lily, Kate's mother in-law volunteered to be the "sweep" bringing up the rear to make sure everyone (me, the clown rider, and Kate, the invalid) was safe and accounted for.

We headed north and immediately started climbing what our guide called "a gratuitous hill towards Leschi." I struggled up the hill with Kate and Lily close by, and when we got to the top, all the other bikers were patiently waiting. No one seemed testy or irritated or put out. I breathed a sigh of relief. These people were great cyclists, but they were also kind.

Though my vocation is Yoga Teacher, and yoga is my preferred everyday exercise, I am apparently pretty competitive. I have to really, really push myself to do things I'm not good at. But, like I say when I teach yoga, "It's the postures we struggle with the most that we probably need the most." I went into this bike ride with this attitude-- it will be good for me to push myself to do this thing that I suck at.

And I did suck. Lily had to help me put the chain on my bike when I misjudged shifting gears on a hill. And she did so with such generosity and grace, I couldn't even muster embarrassment or frustration. At one point when Kate's shortness of breath from her pneumonia started to feel like too much to take more hills, Lily, Kate and I took a shortcut for the last three miles and met the others at our planned ending spot.

This all brings me back to yoga. After the bike ride, I thought a lot about my role as a teacher as well as a fellow student. I hear students all the time say, "I am not good at that posture. I hate that posture." As the teacher, of course I encourage them, tell them to try to withhold judgement of their ability, to be in the process more than focusing on some unknown end result. As a student, I try to always bring an openness into my practice, refraining from any judgement of myself or anyone around me, including my teacher.

I am not a great bike rider. But like yoga, biking, or anything else I happen to not be good at, is about the process. Focusing on "being" any certain way with yoga or biking or anything takes away the joy of it. Just be in it, however good or bad you are, try it, do it. You'll be glad you did.

Who's the Winner?

Yesterday, with virtually three training sessions under my belt-- two lake swims and one summer jog, I did my second triathlon. A sprint triathlon, it's called-- half a mile swim, twelve miles bike, and a quick 5K run. I loved doing the same triathlon last year but, with limited time (or interest) and one more bucket list item scratched off, I decided that I could skip this year's event.

Here's the thing-- in my primary exercise, yoga, I am generally successful at being non-competitive. But, despite the fact that, as a yoga teacher and student, I spend my work life teaching people (and myself) to let go of competition, perfection, performance, I am a deeply competitive person. Being a twin is surely relevant, but I can't really say why, and to be honest, I don't want to open the psychological Pandora's box of my twin status. For whatever reason, I'm competitive.

So, when my friend Kate who I did a triathlon with last summer told me that she was doing it again, my hackles went up. If you know dogs at all, you know that's a sign of being on high alert. Goddammit, if Kate was doing it, I was going to do it! Kate is a person who I perceive to be non-competitive. She's open, giving, neutral. So why was I competing? Was I competing with her? With myself? I'm still not sure but I hope I get some clarity through the writing of this blog post.

Yesterday morning at six o'clock am, four of us convened at Kate's house to load our bikes and drive down to the lake for our race. The temperature was 54. It was pouring. And my hands were half-way numb. Kate's dark figure, already soaked from getting the bikes out of the garage, emerged and I jokingly blamed her for getting me into this horribly cold, wet situation. Kate, quick-wit that she is laughingly replied, "Maybe this will temper your competitive edge Culberg!"

Our bikes safely racked on top of the car, we all piled into Kate's car and warmed ourselves as much as we could on the drive down to the lake. It stopped raining by the time we arrived to the race site and, like lost girl-scouts finally finding the path out of the dark forest, we were all optimistic about the weather and our impending adventure. As the sun came up on Lake Washington and we prepped our little spaces with our bikes and helmets, running shoes, and water bottles, I looked around at Kate and my other friends. We were coaching each other out of our nervousness, advising one another about goggle usage, sharing snacks. There were at least a thousand other women in the park around us doing the same thing. Only a handful were clearly uber-athletes, "elite" athletes they call them. They were sizing up the competition, in it to win it.

But not us. And not me. I honestly didn't feel it. No hackles, just cold, wet fur. We walked down to the lake in our separate groups to start our swim. I got my cap on, made the final adjustments to my goggles, did two sets of Pranayama breathing to calm myself down, and dove. And, as I swam, it wasn't the winning that motivated me, it was that we were all doing this together, all one thousand of us, elite and novice, old and young. And I loved it. Same thing with the bike and the run. The allure of this thing was simply in doing it, not in winning it.

Maybe I have figured it out. Being a twin, you are always part of something bigger than yourself. Even in the womb. Katherine (my twin) and I used to say, "we're wombmates." Even when we are each alone, our fundamental frame of reference is being with someone else. Being part of something bigger than oneself. So, while I admit that I'm still competitive, it's not the whole story.

Maybe I'll figure it out at next year's triathlon. I sure hope the weather's better.

Jumping in to a year of more of the same.....

Every year on December 31st I resolve to do nothing. And, like most years past, this year I pretty successfully did nothing with my New Year's Eve or my New Year's Day. Success. I neither contemplated my past year, nor planned for the months ahead. While I'm open to change, I really really like my life. There is very little I want to alter. I'd consider myself lucky if, in 2011, I got more of what I had in 2010.

At a party the week before Christmas, my friend Kate told me how much she hated Christmas, how she'd taught her two young daughters (3 and 5) that Santa didn't exist. This was refreshing coming from Kate, who I consider to be one of the more upbeat, positive, cheerful and engaged people I know. Her cynicism seemed to come from the absolute absurdity that everything Christmas has become-- commercial, indulgent, laden with wants and expectations.

I feel similarly about the whole celebration of the New Year. Why now? Why on this particular day am I changing my whole life? How is that even possible? I mean, what the hell have I been doing with myself for the last 365 days if suddenly I now need to shake it all up, turn everything on it's head and start from scratch. That's overwhelming. That's depressing. That's ridiculous.

Now, while I truly believe everything I just wrote, I must come clean about an unexpected 2011 New Year's Day event. In December a handful of my friends planned to do the polar bear plunge. Meet at Mount Baker beach and jump into Lake Washington at noon on New Year's Day was the plan. Initially, being pathologically competitive, I said yes to the challenge. Then, on New Year's Day morning, after an absurdly unplanned, highly relaxing New Year's Eve, I decided that I would absolutely not do the plunge. I don't need to jump into a freezing body of water to start the New Year, I told myself. But I wanted to see the event, so the morning of, Nancy and  I walked the two miles down to the lake to "watch."

There were people of all ages (even a 6-year-old from Lucia's kindergarten class), all smiling, shivering, gearing up for the big plunge. It was exhilarating, thrilling, contagious. Suddenly, I wanted to be a part of this group. I wanted to start 2011 with an Arctic jump in the lake like them. I deliberated. It was so cold. I had no bathing suit. No towel. No car to get home. I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but as all of the plungers shed their down coats and fuzzy robes, I was suddenly pulling off my sweater, kicking off my clogs and stripping down to my bra and undies. Holding the hands of my old, old, good, good friends, I ran screeching into Lake Washington. It was a big celebration of all of us. We were all brave, strong, impulsive, excited. And it happened to be 1/01/2011.

I still feel the same way about New Year's resolutions. Why wait until January 1st to jump into change? That can happen any time, and it should. I will probably never jump into Lake Washington in the winter by myself. Ever. But I very likely will do it next year. And for many years to come. I'll hold my friends' hands, adding new ones each year, and run screeching into the ice-cold water, plunging into a New Year of more of the same.