Freckles

I recently cashed in all of my work credit card points to buy a ticket to Oakland to get my sister's dog. I bought a stupidly expensive and impractical ticket leaving Friday, returning Saturday to meet a deep need I didn't fully understand. I just knew that I wanted to bring Freckles the dog into my life.

I arrived around 7 pm on Friday with enough time to hang with Freckles and my sister, collect his bed and a few of his belongings, stuff him into a too-small soft travel kennel, and get on a noon flight Saturday. When I arrived in Seattle I freed Freckles from the too-small kennel and we headed for light rail. I planned to walk the mile and change to my house but Freckles was simply too tired so we got on the bus. When we got home Freckles, severely overweight and out of shape, was limping and exhausted. So, I did what any good dog owner would do-- I gave him a long bath. That night we had the biggest thunder and lightning storm in recent history and Freckles spent his first night squeezed between me and my partner Nancy with Nancy holding her hands over his ears and me rubbing his fat tushy. It was a really hard day and night for Freckles, but he woke up the next morning ready to start the day anew with a walk and few naps between morning and evening meals.

This is a strange time in life. My daughter is in high school and it feels like she's in college. I never see her and when I do, it's fleeting and unfocused. But I know she's happy and doing what she's supposed to do. I've been doing my job for close to twenty years, a whole generation of my life. The yoga studio mostly runs itself and I have time to explore new creative and spiritual passions. Why, in this time of newfound freedom do I want a dog?

Today I went on a walk with Freckles. Then I brought him to a meeting. Then he came to work with me. Then the bank. He's sitting right here as I type this.  The obvious answer to why I chose to bring Freckles into my life is to fill a void, to refocus my need to take care of someone and to be in charge. And there is that. But there's also the pure joy that comes from my new little sidekick who simply is exactly who he is. He doesn't look at his phone when we take a walk. He isn't distracted by work or friends or money. Seeing Freckles live every moment like he does is just what I need. In this time of constant change and the potential to get highjacked by things I have no control over, it helps to check in with the energy Freckles brings. It's not that complicated, his eyes tell me-- some food, a walk, maybe a nap, more food, and a good night's rest. Then do it all again tomorrow. Thanks, Freckles.

Happy Tears

One of my students Carie told me recently that happy tears flow from the outside corners of the eyes and sad tears flow from the inside of the eyes. We'd been talking about how crying is such a great release, a natural producer of oxytocin. It's why kids always seem so blissed out after a temper tantrum-- it's because all of that crying has given them a flood of the happiness hormone.

I love learning things like that little factoid Carie shared. To be honest, I don't even really care if it's true that happy tears come from the outside corner of the eyes and sad tears come from the inside of the eyes. If I think too hard about whether it is actually a proven fact, I'll start to contemplate duct location and eye anatomy and that takes the romance right out of the concept. So I'm just going with it.

My friend Kate and I facilitate an annual retreat-- Put Some Claws in Your Pause-- honoring the amazing passage into menopause and we always finish the weekend with a recitation of a poem called Santiago by David Whyte. Santiago is a heartbreakingly beautiful recounting of the emotional and spiritual journey of The Camino de Santiago, a 500 mile pilgrimage through Spain and France. Kate cries every time she reads Santiago.


When Carie shared that little fact about tears, an image of Kate popped into my mind. I could imagine her sitting in a circle surrounded by ten other menopausal-aged women facilitating the final moments of our retreat. Smiling out to the group, Kate begins the poem and as she reads, through a steady stream of tears, she uses the index fingers of each hand to gently wipe the tears from the outside corners of her eyes under her glasses. And when the poem is over Kate takes off her glasses and does one big wipe of each eye, clearing away the tears. There is a brief silence as the poem settles in the space around the room and then Kate smiles big.  The joy is palpable and we all smile back at her. Those are some happy tears.

Doing "nothing"

Last week I was lying on my daughter Lucia's bed before saying goodnight. It's my favorite time with her these days. At fourteen most of her waking hours are focused on separating from me and I am grateful for a few minutes of being needed and wanted like the old days. Lucia and I were talking about about school, work, her friends and summer plans and it felt like the conversation had reached its natural end. I was getting ready to kiss her goodnight when she started talking again. "Mom, " she said, "the other day I was reading a book about Hamilton which was really boring and I just started staring out into space..... I realized that I never do that. I'm always at school or at soccer or vocal jazz or piano or I'm on my phone or with other people. I'm never just doing nothing."

Inside I felt broken-hearted. The state of existence these days is to be on all the time. I felt for Lucia and her peers who, with the presence of cell phones, are really mired in the culture of always being tuned in. The pressure to be doing something all the time is so intense and there is very little opportunity to tune out. But I didn't tell her that, I just asked, "How did that feel?"

"Great!" she said.

We talked a little bit about finding ways to get to that place in the future, making time to just be instead of always doing, and then we said goodnight. I struggle as a parent to help Lucia find balance and in helping her, I become aware of my own imbalance, my increasing inability to find comfort in the existence of just being.

The next day I practiced yoga. I went to class and from the moment I settled into Savasana at the beginning of class to wait for the Frani to turn on the lights to begin,  I was there. I was just being. I felt a swell of gratitude for this feeling and the presence of this practice in my life. Yoga is a lot of things and it means something different for everyone. For me these days yoga is a respite from the "doing," a haven from technology and chores and to-do-lists. It is a sanctuary of openness and grace. It's a reminder that underneath all of the things I do to be me, I'm still alive and vibrant and filled with energy. It's a gift. I hope you feel it too.

Listen for the birds...

I've been teaching yoga for almost 20 years, practicing for twenty-five years. This practice has been part of my life for half of my life. This past week my friend Nina and I have been leading a Yin Yoga Immersion for people who want to deepen their understanding of Yin Yoga. As I always do, I over-prepared, over-worried, over-thought every aspect of this training. I prepared a power point presentation. I included extra articles in the manual at the last minute. I lost sleep worrying that it wouldn't be good enough. The most important thing for me was to do right by these people who had entrusted me, enlisted me, to teach them what I know.

One of the things I have learned as a teacher is that I can only teach what I know. I can only share the experiences that live in my own body and my own heart.  When I was a new teacher I tried to regurgitate things I'd heard other people say, things that kind of made sense to me, but not completely. It didn't work. I felt discordant in my own body when I shared that stuff. It was like walking barefoot on a floor that feels clean but you can tell it isn't because every once in a while you feel crumbs underneath your heel or big toe and you have to stop, bend down and brush off the crumbs.

Teaching what is embodied is like walking on a clean floor. It is smooth, clean, and comfortable. I'm aware, as I sit in front of these ten bodies who've made time and given energy to be part of this immersion that Nina and I created, that they want to learn. I am aware that it is our job to give them what they want. Over the last three long days of training I have shared some of my power point about Yin Yoga. I have taught classes, workshopped postures, and offered my thoughts on Yin Yoga philosophy. I have loved sharing what I know.

When I think of my teachers, the ones who have made me go deeper into my own practice of life, not just yoga, I think about the little jewels they have shared with me. I think about the snippets of wisdom from their own lives they have imparted and how seemingly random they were to me at the time that they shared them, but how they have revisited me in my own life often and unexpectedly.

Last night at the end of our long day I had a flash moment of homework for the class. It was unplanned and seemingly arbitrary in the moment I shared it, but I shared it anyway. "Listen for the birds at least three times between tonight and tomorrow" I instructed the class. In the moment, I second-guessed myself; I thought to myself, these people must think I'm crazy.

This morning I woke up and lay in my warm bed under the sheets opening and closing my eyes a few times to get connected to the light and I listened for the birds. I heard the robins that live outside our window. They are so loud they wake me in the summer when we sleep with the windows open. I came downstairs to make coffee and sit on the couch and I listened again. I could hear the chickadees chirping outside and the seagulls down by the lake. Hearing the birds made me so happy. It always does. And then I knew why I'd assigned that homework.

Cell Phone Challenge

Since we opened The SweatBox eighteen years ago, we've never had a wall clock in the studio. This is deliberate. We want people to try to practice and be in the moment. I remember in high school the wall clock was like a plague, keeping us tortured students abreast of every painstaking second we endured in geometry or chemistry or world history. We wanted to create a different experience for people in the yoga room, an experience where time, for just a few hours, was suspended.

Some people do wear watches to practice, but the majority of people take them off to practice because they are uncomfortable. I've noticed an interesting new phenomenon at the studio lately of people wearing their Apple watches into practice. I sometimes see these people looking at their watches. Not having one myself, I don't know if they are checking their text messages or checking the time.

A few days ago someone actually had their phone next to their mat. Occasionally we'll have a medical professional who is on-call for work and they have a pager or phone, but we have an otherwise strict no-phone in the studio policy. But what of these new Apple watches? Do they invite the same kind of checking that we do on our smart phones?

When we practice yoga, we are doing a form of moving meditation. In this action, we are creating new neuro-pathways, opening doorways to new patterns of thinking. We are experiencing life in real time, in the present moment. This is an important (I might even say critical) part of creating life balance. There is too much screen time for all of us. This is no secret. It has become a public health issue.

Sometimes after taking class when I'm in the shower room getting dressed I'll notice people sitting, still in their sweaty yoga clothes, with their phones, scrolling to see what they missed during their yoga class.  I would probably do it as well except my phone is never in the dressing room with me. As I watched a woman last week, eyes glazed on her screen post-class, I thought of a challenge for myself and for anyone who wants to try it.

What if, for a half-hour after every yoga class we practice, we DON'T look at our phones? What would that be like? Would we notice that calm, energetic quality we have after final Savasana settling in a little bit deeper? Would a half-hour turn into an hour or two hours of just being in the present moment?

It's a big challenge. It will take a mighty effort for me to do this. I'll probably linger longer in final Savasana. I might hang out in the dressing room and lobby talking to people for more time than normal, but I want to try it. I want to see how it makes me feel.  One half-hour, thirty-minutes, after yoga class- no screen time. Can I do it? Can you? I invite you to take the challenge.

Glasses

I turned 50 in November. Three weeks later I got glasses. For several months, I had noticed that driving at night had become perilous. Sometimes I'd just grip the wheel, hold on tight and hope for the best. But for some reason I didn't put the pieces together that glasses might help. I didn't know I needed glasses until one day my partner Nancy and my friend Genessa and I were looking out our dining room window towards the lake. "Look at that guy in that tiny boat out there," Genessa said and Nancy replied, "Oooh, yeah, he looks so small out there." What they were seeing to me looked like a sea otter splashing. It was then that I made an appointment with the eye doctor.

The eye doctor informed me that I am near-sighted with an astigmatism that would require me to get progressives-- distance above, close up below. I got the glasses and for the last month have been stumbling around, struggling with putting them on then taking them off. I fell down my front stairs because I misjudged the placement of the last two steps of our front porch. Part of me really thought that I didn't need glasses, that I was better off missing a few little things here and there and going without the hassle of equipment on my face.

Yesterday, I went back to the eye doctor, a month after my initial glasses consult, to get re-examined, to make really sure that I truly am a glasses candidate. This second opinion ophthalmologist confirmed my prescription and gave me some pointers about how I should be wearing progressives.

After work this afternoon I took a walk down to the lake. Last night there was a fire at the marina at the end of our street and I wanted to see what the damage looked like. I remembered to bring my glasses, knowing that I wouldn't be able to see what had happened without them. As I walked down to the lake in the dusk of the afternoon, I appreciated that I could see the coots and geese along the shoreline. I could see the detail of the cormorant's wings on the buoy beyond the coots and geese. Why was I so resistant to glasses? They helped me see in the dark. They enabled me to see nature in detail. They helped keep me safe behind the wheel.

It's not the glasses. It's the change. I've always felt healthy and unencumbered. Glasses make me feel like I've lost a bit of that. This week my 91-year-old stepfather Al decided to go on hospice. He's got a few ailments that need tending, but for the most part, he's a typical 91-year-old. He's a lot slower than he was ten years ago. He's shaky and tired. He went on hospice as a way to acknowledge the changes that are coming, the things that are happening to him, that will continue happening to him as he moves from this year to next year and beyond. My mom said that the hospice workers are affirming of his wishes. They are good listeners and respectful of his opinions and values. She said since taking the step towards hospice his energy changed, his demeanor changed. He got an oxygen tank and has been able to sleep through the night.

There is grace in leaning into change like Al has. In not fighting it, he can find the peace within it. I've been thinking a lot about Al these days. It's hard to talk on the phone with him and he lives 2000 miles away. I get reports from my mom about how things are going.  I wonder how I would approach what Al is dealing with in his life right now. What I do know, what came to me as I walked down the hill seeing the lake clearly in my glasses, feeling different, knowing I looked older, more encumbered than I have in years past, is that change happens whether we fight it or not. I'll take a cue from Al and lean into these glasses, this new look. Just like Al, I'm getting older with each year that passes. To fight it will make it harder. To accept, maybe even embrace it, will bring me closer to peace.

True Nature

This year at my family’s annual holiday party I was talking to my friend Heidi, a physical therapist/wise woman who has two teenage daughters and is herself in peri-menopause. “I’m totally in puberty,” she said. “ The difference is that now I can see it. I can see from outside looking in what is happening to me and I have some clarity about it. Some perspective.” When girls are in puberty they don’t have perspective. They don’t have the years of experience to tell them that this is a moment in time, that this emotion, body change, or crush will change. They are flooded with the here and now of hormones and life experiences.

At fifty, I am just entering menopause and I can see what Heidi is talking about. The mood swings, the drama, the frustration at not being able to control the texture of my skin or my energy level are all here, just like in puberty. But I have wisdom and clarity. I am connected with my inner voice that tells me that I am driving this train. These changes that are happening to me do not define me. It took me years to come back to this true nature. I am still aware of times when I shush it, turn down the volume to accommodate someone or something else. As a fifty-year-old woman, I can now reflect back on my own path. I can see where my inner voice was loud and clear. I can remember when I closed it down and boxed it up to make room for what I thought was expected of me. And I can feel now how it is showing back up, loud and clear, awake, and aware.

Women share a hormonal and a historical connection that is powerful and illuminating. My mother’s story--- her strength and resilience as well as what she lost and sacrificed-- informed my own experiences as a girl and a woman. And what I’ve learned from my mother and my own experiences informs my own daughter’s path. What we all share is an inherent true nature. This is the thread that runs through us at all stages of life and connects us to our power. That's pretty awesome.