Mrs. Putnam

My mom, still of the newspaper age, just sent me a clipping from the Hyde Park Herald, the weekly from the neighborhood where I grew up in Chicago. The clipping was an obituary for Maryann Putnam, my high school geometry teacher.  Mrs. Putnam had a thick New York accent. She wore denim every day--- denim vest and skirt set, denim jumper, denim slacks and jacket. Mrs. Putnam had dyed black hair, wore large framed classes and was always covered in chalk. Even though my friends and I teased her, she thought we were funny and I knew she loved us.

During our senior year when my girlfriends and I needed to create a service project to graduate, we formed a group called the Pink Ladies. It was 1986 and we were playing off the girl gang from the movie Grease. Mrs. Putnam readily agreed to be our club sponsor and we'd meet with her regularly to talk about what we were up to. In reality, we didn't do anything except talk about what we might do if we actually could get our act together-- tutoring, food bank collection, school clean up. Our biggest accomplishment that year was singing back up for a Rockabilly band that played in the school cafeteria during dances.

Mrs. Putnam's obituary said that she was 95 when she died. That means that she was in her early sixties when she was my teacher, just ten years older than I am now. It's been so long since I've thought about Mrs. Putnam but as I read her obituary, the image of her in her denim skirt and vest, standing outside her classroom door came into my mind as clearly as if it was yesterday. I can see her face--- pale next to her dyed black hair, partially hidden behind her big glasses--- smiling out at me with a hint of irritation as I walk by her, gabbing with my friends to get to our desks in class.

We were so annoying in high school-- especially to Mrs. Putnam. We made fun of her chalk covered clothes and her white roots growing under her black hair, of her big glasses and sensible shoes. But we loved her too because we knew that she loved us. Despite the Pink Ladies' profound lack of organization and productivity, she believed in us. She accepted the fact that, as seniors, not kids but not yet adults, we were doing the best we could to get our shit together. When I look back at it now I think she felt like our envisioning was enough for that moment in our lives. The process of thinking about what we were going to do, of talking about it, dreaming about it, was important, even if we didn't bring our ideas to fruition.

Those times with Mrs. Putnam, sitting in her chalk covered classroom during lunch, were incubator moments. Mrs. Putnam listened to us. She humored us and gave us her time and attention. As the mother of a teenage girl myself, I know how scatterbrained that species can be. I know how disorganized and chaotic their lives are. Being a teenager is wholly about transitioning- from child to adult.  I was surprised how affected I was to hear of Mrs. Putnam's death and I was so glad to know that she lived many happy years beyond her tenure as my math teacher. She deserved it. What Mrs. Putnam gave us, gave me those thirty-three years ago, was a quiet place to land for a moment or two during the maelstrom of my senior year in high school. Thank you Mrs. Putnam. I hope you knew that, despite my attitude and the fact that I was too self-absorbed during those years to tell you, I was (and am) grateful for your presence in my life.

Black Tank Suit

About fifteen years ago I was at a hotel in Palm Springs at a yoga teacher training. There were dozens of tight little bodies, yoga bodies swarming around the vast patio which was home to several pools and hot tubs. I was sitting on a beach chair reading when a woman, somewhere between 50-60, walked by me. On her average, healthy body, she wore a very simple black tank suit. At the time, as a body-conscious, never good enough, 35-year-old yoga teacher, I thought to myself, “I want to look like that when I’m 50.”  But her body wasn’t amazing. She wasn’t that different from me now. It wasn’t that I wanted to look like her when I’m 50, it was that I wanted to be like her. The woman in the simple black tank suit exuded confidence and she was unapologetic about her age, her body, and her place at the pool.

Now I am fifty. It’s been many years since I’ve felt like I was young. I recognize that I will never again be viewed as young. I am getting older, grayer, more wrinkly. I am in a stage of life where I should be grateful and happy for my wellness. I have lost one parent and have friends who have also lost parents, spouses, even children.  But still some days I lament my changing body and skin. I waste precious time trying to stay young instead of leaning into the next phase of life.

A few months ago, right after I turned 50, my partner Nancy and I took a vacation to Mexico. We were on a beautiful, very remote island and I was up early. There were only a few people on the beach and it was the perfect moment for a walk. Normally when I walk on the beach I put on a blouse or some shorts but I hadn’t brought anything with me from the hotel room. I was wearing a really simple black tank suit, just like the woman in Palm Springs. I was a strong, able-bodied, fifty- year-old woman. I decided to walk the beach in just my simple black tank suit.

As I meandered, unencumbered by any extra clothes or hat or even sunglasses, I was reminded of my grandmother. Every year we’d go to Florida with my grandparents and my Nana would spend hours each morning trolling the beach for shells. She always wore a simple black tank suit. My Nana was a great companion to me and a fierce ally. I thought Nana was the most beautiful, glamorous woman in the world---whether she was fully dressed in a black turtleneck and white slacks in her fourteenth floor apartment on the Northside of Chicago or in a tank suit on the beach in Sarasota, Florida. As my sisters and I splashed in the ocean waves in front of the condo every morning, like clockwork, we’d see Nana walking towards us, her silhouette with the sun behind her, eyes down towards the sand, bending down periodically to pick up a shell. She’d stroll with her head down until she heard splashing and our voices yelling her name to look at us in the water. Only then would she look up from the beach with her beautiful sun-kissed skin and cat eye sunglasses and smile.

Nana owned that simple black tank suit. Her sixty-year-old body and leathered skin were so beautiful and perfect to me. Like the woman by the pool, it was her presence that embodied the beauty. As a fifty-year-old woman, I now understand that that presence, the ability to embody whatever body we inhabit, is the product of a life lived and the wisdom that comes from all of life’s lessons.

Wisdom comes with age. For me it has come from many struggles and the heartbreaks in my life, the unexpected changes in my body and the painstaking decisions I had to make in my forties that brought me to this new frontier. Somewhere along the way things shifted and I became wiser. I stepped into this wisdom  It happens to all of us. My simple black tank suit tells a story of the wise women before me who inspired me to recognize and embody this wisdom when my turn came. 

Seeking Stress

I recently sold my business, a yoga studio in Capitol Hill, Seattle’s busiest neighborhood. I’ve had that business for eighteen years. It  went from three employees to twenty. From one location to two locations. And back down to one location with two spaces. 

It took me a couple of years to finally decide that selling the business was what I actually wanted to do. With the influence during the last few years of things like social media, yoga for dogs, goats, babies, thousands of new teachers flooding the market every year, I decided that I didn’t want to play the game anymore. I’d lost my competitive mojo. 

I loved running that business, but during those eighteen years, I was on all the time! Even when I went on vacation I brought my laptop. I checked my emails, stayed in contact. I was always the one who got called at 5:45am when the 6am teacher forgot their keys or overslept or had a migraine. When the studio had a break in, I was the one called. When a student complained about a teacher or a teacher complained about a student, I was the mediator. I worried every month about the bottom line-- rent, payroll, taxes, inventory, supplies. I had a method to managing the madness and I had support from my staff, but I was stressed and busy all the time. I didn’t realize how utterly hijacked by stress I was until I sold the business and surrendered all of that responsibility. 

It’s been two weeks since I officially stepped down from being the owner of my business--- now someone else’s business and here’s what I notice:

• I keep waiting for something to happen.
• I’m still worried I’m forgetting to do something.
• I feel like I have somewhere I need to be.
• I still set my alarm for 6am every morning.

Here’s the thing-- I don’t have another job. I’m taking a sabbatical to write and explore and figure out what I want to do next. What I realized this morning when I was writing was that, though I've let go of the responsibilities associated with stress, my body still seems to be seeking it out. My body is searching for it, like my phone searches for wifi service at the airport, roaming around until there is a connection.

The reality is that I don’t have somewhere to be. I’m not forgetting to do something. I’m doing what I want to be doing and no one is waiting for me to do something else. But my body is still programmed for stress. It’s still searching for that connection to the familiar buzz that I get when I’m stressed. It’s weird. I notice it clearly every time it happens. I feel a little surge of adrenaline and I start to worry or check my phone. And then, almost as quickly, I realize that I’m okay. I don’t need to make that stress connection because there is no stress. It’s intense and a little disorienting. I wonder how long it will take to reprogram my body and mind, to feel fully that I have let go of that stress, that those patterned brain surges are just old habits.

Whenever I do get the call to stress and I recognize that it is not real, I feel free, elated, like I’ve won Powerball. I have a moment of celebration that I don’t have to follow that stress. Instead I can walk the dog or bake a cake or clean my desk. I didn’t realize how truly stressed I was until I became not stressed. I don’t know how long this detox will take, but I’m not worried because every time I get that after-feeling it’s like a gift, a moment to truly appreciate how grateful I am to be here now.

Hello Turtle.

My friend Kate told me that one of the ways you can identify your spirit animal is if it appears to you frequently. For years my spirit animal has been the Great Blue Heron. Everyday when I walk on Lake Washington near my house I  make it a point to see a Great Blue Heron. Usually one just appears like she's been waiting for me, but in the last few months I've not seen herons as frequently. Last month I was feeling particularly stressed and I took a walk. I got it in my head that I would feel better if I just saw a heron. But there were no herons in the usual places. In a desperate effort to find one, I walked seven miles (3 miles more than I usually walk). I finally found a heron but my stress level did not diminish. I'd simply traded in the stress that I started with for a new stress to find a heron!

Lately on my walks I've been seeing lots of turtles. Turtles are prolific in Seward Park and I often see them but I don't usually stop and look at them. They frequently dot the rocks between my house and the park, but I usually just notice and continue walking. Today it seemed that every rock, and submerged tree I looked at had a turtle or two sitting in wait for me to notice them.

That's when it dawned on me that maybe my spirit animal has changed. When I got home from my walk I looked up the symbolism of a turtle spirit animal and learned that when a turtle spirit animal appears to you it is time to slow down. The turtle totem offers an invitation to stay focused on one's goals, but to take it slow and steady. For me, one who does most things at warp speed, this is a new approach, and a welcome invitation.

Having looked up my Turtle spirit animal definition, I needed to look up the symbolism of the Great Blue Heron to remind myself of what I might be leaving behind. The Great Blue Heron symbolizes self-determination and self-reliance. The indication for those who carry this totem is to follow their unique wisdom and path.

All day I've been thinking about the significance of this shift. For years I have been working hard to connect with my intuition, to make my own voice the strongest in forging my true path. And for most of this time the Great Blue Heron has been appearing to me.  I love the Great Blue Heron and I felt kind of sad that, for whatever reason, the Turtle now seemed to be replacing the Heron. But the truth is that at this time in my life I do feel more connected to my intuition and my path feels grounded in my own truth. Though I'm sad to leave the Heron, it makes sense that I am being visited by the Turtle-- invited to slow down, quiet down, and stop racing.

Not everyone in my life believes in the symbolism of spirit animals. I get it. It's not based in biology or psychology or physics. It's possible that spirit animals act as a kind of placebo-- offering meaning and context to a situation one is already experiencing. That works for me. The Heron and the Turtle and all the other spirit animals that visit us help connect us to the big picture, they offer explanation outside of our own heads. They remind us that there is wisdom everywhere if we look for it.

From freedom to liberation

A few days ago my 14-year old daughter Lucia went to deliver a shirt she was selling to a friend of her's in a neighborhood north of ours. To make money Lucia has started an Instagram account selling clothes she no longer wears. She's slowly building her business and I'm proud of her efforts. After delivering the shirt and collecting payment, Lucia took a JUMP bike home, $12 burning a hole in her pocket. I can't lie. I was relieved that she made it home without me dictating directions to her ( and without a helmet!) I tried to play it cool and not ask too many questions about her adventure and the whole day went by without any detail of her solo voyage.

But yesterday morning when we were eating breakfast Lucia said, "Mom it was so crazy yesterday. I was riding home from Camille's-- I had money, a JUMP bike, Google Maps, and my Orca card. I could have gone anywhere."
"Wow," I said, "How did that feel?"
"Great!" she said.
I felt happy for her. What an amazing milestone in life, to figure out something momentous like that, to consciously recognize that freedom. Last night when we were saying good night Lucia brought up that feeling of freedom again. "Mom," she said, "I could have really gone anywhere. I mean, I didn't have a charger, but I could have just stopped at someone's house if my phone died and asked to borrow one."

Lucia had so much joy, so much energy in the recognition that she could make her own decisions, point herself in whatever direction she wanted, and get there! She had everything figured out. I tried to think back and think if I had ever experienced that clear moment of freedom in my own life. I remember once after my sophomore year in college, taking my mom's Suburban from Chicago to St. Louis in the middle of the night without telling her. I had to collect a bunch of stuff I'd left in my college apartment before I went away to Spain for the year. I remember driving with my sister Katherine and my friend Meredith all night. I remember arriving back in Chicago at dawn, trying to make it home before my mother would detect the car gone. I remember that moment, feeling free like I was doing something insane and wild and out of my norm.

When we get older we don't have such keen moments of recognizing our freedom. After a certain point, we do mostly make our own decisions. We drive cars. We have jobs to make money. But there are moments that we experience newfound freedoms as we get older. There are obvious examples--- like leaving an unsatisfying job or a relationship. There is the bittersweet freedom of watching our children grow away from us. There is freedom in downsizing our space or our wardrobes.

The sweetness of freedom that Lucia experienced for the first time on that JUMP bike is probably a once-in-a-lifetime Ah-Ha moment. And I know Lucia will keep experiencing new moments of freedom throughout her life. When I think about it, I can identify lots of little moments where I felt free from fill in the blank.  But the freedom I'm feeling now feels more similar to what I heard Lucia describing-- a freedom to do something, go somewhere. What I'm experiencing in my life right now is liberation from perfection. During my 20s, 30s, and 40s I tried desperately to meet some external expectation of perfection. Now, in my fifties, I feel free to be supremely imperfect. This newfound liberation from perfection is inspiring. I feel energized and excited. Thanks for helping connect the dots, Lucia.

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.