Category Archives: Yoga

Sep4

Balance Between Labor and Rest

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Hopefully we each found a way to savor the past liberties of summer. In a way, I think of it as a yoga exercise that includes contraction and release. To pause. To rest from our work and worries on Labor Day weekend. If not for a whole long weekend, then for a day or even a few hours.

I reviewed my own summer checklist. Manged to include a few more wishes over this weekend, as a way of assuring some rest and relaxation:

  • Cooked a few meals using fresh crops from Appleton (which their newsletter reminds us has several weeks remaining, so that part of the green season is still in full swing): pesto from fresh basil, kale chips made and seasoned in our oven, green salad and quinoa with veggies in it, tomato-salad, fresh ears of corn.
  • Date night(s) with husband: cooking, talking, sipping wine, and watching a good sci-fi show plus some political humor on the Colbert Report and Jon Stewart Show.
  • Kayaking on the river: walked two blocks down the street, put in along the river bank, and timed our outing for high tide so it was a lazy and scenic paddle.
  • Potluck dinner in the twilight with friends: in the backyard in the flicker of candlelight until the biting insects … no-see’ums, midgies or gnats choose your preference … took the romance out of the outdoors, and we moved inside to talk.
  • Chai tea with a friend at Zumi’s.
  • Ate a kiddie-sized ice cream cone at White Farms. Anyone who has eaten there knows you probably don’t need more, although it’s tempting.
  • Read a book on my personal back-logged fiction list: The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood.

Other folks accomplished interesting things, including:

  • Hiked in the White Mountains, summitted several peaks
  • Camped on a lake
  • Visited Maine or New Hampshire
  • Sailed
  • Jumped horses at a nearby event
  • Boated on the river
  • Went fishing
  • Biked locally
  • Visited the beach
  • Picked apples at Russell Orchard
  • Hiked through the Audubon

Of course, we also probably all did more back-to-school or back-to-regular-life errands. Groceries. Clothes. Backpacks. Supplies. Computers and phones.

As I once mentioned, finding this equilibrium between responsibilities and pleasures is similar to performing a yoga exercise. By tensing each muscle group, then releasing it, you create overall relaxation. As you deliberately focus on each area of the body, you also realize you may have knots and pent-up tension in places you didn’t notice. By tightening or clenching each muscle area, then relaxing, you can feel the tension slip away.

Labor Day … and other mornings, mid-days, evenings and weekends … can be a chance to do the same thing. It’s never too late. In fact, this should be a year-round practice, not just a summer ritual. Check those wish lists. Take stock of postponed sets of chores and pastimes. Focus on the areas of life that are often overlooked. Pay attention to them. Maybe give them a workout, get them sweaty and active, and then let them relax again. We’ll see where muscles … or aspects of our lives … need more work and play. And come to a greater awareness of where and when to restore balance.

Aug30

Go In to Go Out

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Yes, we all know by now, the seasons are changing, and many of us find ourselves in transition. In the middle of all this change, chaos and bustle, self-care becomes more important than ever.

After all, most of us are responsible to and concerned for other people in our lives. We serve as partners, friends, colleagues, caregivers, guardians or advocates of some kind. We are engaged in relationships with people who need or expect some connection with us.

Yet if I don’t make it a priority to pay attention to my own wellbeing, who will do it for me? Admittedly, I don’t claim to know what that means for everyone else. Probably you know what’s good for you, and what’s not. You know what you want to do, what you should do, and what you’ll do anyway …

I have a well-intentioned debate with myself almost every day. It takes on countless variations. Sleep in or wake up for yoga? Drink caffeine or water? Take the stairs or use the elevator?  Walk or drive?

So this is just another reminder to me … and anyone else who needs it … to make time for what helps maintain equilibrium.

  • Sleep. (It’s the greatest gift we can give our bodies and minds, which are designed to rely on this daily renewal in order to operate at best capacity.)
  • Movement and exercise. (Our bodies work better when we use them. People in recover from joint replacements, for instance, are often supported and encourage to move as soon as possible, especially to reclaim as much function as possible.)
  • Nutrition. (Eat well. Hydrate. Choose healthy meals. Refuel.)
  • Spiritual practice. (Prayer, meditation, reflection, journaling, music, etc.)
  • Pastime or avocation. (Something you love to do, that engages a different part of the brain or different muscles, changes your rhythm and focus, and helps you switch gears. Maybe it’s yoga or running or reading  or crossword puzzles or cooking.)

Today, in a “being well” session during a week-long orientation at Harvard University, we were encouraged to continue our spiritual and physical self-care practices, regardless of how hectic life gets. After all, when we’re the most pressed for time and energy, when we’re pulled in too many directions, when we’re overwhelmed … that’s exactly when we need balance the most.

The reminder was posed as, “We go in, so we can go out.” This was the wisdom offered by Kerry Maloney from the Office of Religious and Spiritual Life at Harvard Divinity School. Her challenge suggested that we take care of ourselves (“go in”) so that we can serve others (“go out”).

By this, she meant that we turn inward … that we engage in self-care at the level of mind, body and spirit … so that all those integrated aspects of ourselves are whole and in good health. By maintaining internal equilibrium, we have resources and energy available to share with our loved ones and our larger community.

It’s a timely reminder, as we hasten toward the next page in the calendar, and enter an autumn humming with appointments, commitments, obligations and activities.

 

 

Aug28

Obstacles as Blessings

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A wise person from my past once made the observation that we grow frustrated by obstacles. Yet if we look again, we might realize these are providential occurrences. Blessings.

For instance, we’re in a hurry to arrive at a destination. We’re driving. Ahead of us, someone is going slowly. Below the speed limit!

We grit our teeth, talk to ourselves, complain out loud, gesticulate and generally grow agitated. The woman making this observation, Rev. Sue Remick, challenged her listeners to reconsider whether the slow driver ahead was a problem or a gift. She suggested that this driver, going slowly and causing us to brake and travel at a more thoughtful pace, even causing us to arrive late, was placed in our paths to keep us safe.

Such situations – like a maddeningly slow driver, or losing your keys so you leave the house later than you’d like, or getting a call just as you’re about to walk out the door — could be read as cautionary signs. Blessings in our travels. Fateful moments that we could interpret as a chance to take a little time. Breathe. Pay attention. Stay safe. Slow down.

Some people call these moments “God winks.”

My kundalini yoga instructor has her class recite a specific chant three times at the beginning of many sessions. She also says the chant to herself three times before she turns on the ignition in her car. She believes that it is the difference between safety and danger …  this discipline that causes her to pause, focus, take a little extra care, and begin her journey with a breath of prayer to bless her way. She thinks those few seconds of repeating sacred words, invoking divine assistance, may have saved her life more than once.

I say this same prayer to slow a wheeling mind at night, or to calm me down when I’m angry or overwhelmed, and need to breathe slowly and deeply.

In any situation, you can be annoyed by the delay. Feel your blood pressure escalating.

Or you can breathe. Say a prayer. And try to be grateful for the frustratingly slow driver, or missing keys, or extra errand that sends you on a detour … and consider it a blessing. You may not know just what fate you have escaped today. Or what fate you have embraced.

Such an interpretation is entirely yours to make … but if the event is the same, regardless of how you respond to it, you might as well receive the benefit of it, yes?

After all, if you arrive safely at your destination, or even find yourself going someplace else altogether, you are one step further along your journey … wherever it may take you.

 

Aug9

Self Care: Checklist from the Past (Still Works)

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Self care in difficult places. How do you do it?

Back when we spent extended periods of time with Jessie at Childrens Hospital Boston, it was easy to let go. To make excuses and just overindulge. To say to myself, “You’re under tremendous stress, so don’t worry about what you do to make yourself feel better. Just take the elevator, because time is more important than exercise on the stairs. And the breakfast pastries? Those carbs don’t count right now.”

But those indulgences did count. The cravings, the bad food, the less-than-virtuous habits, the lack of movement … it all added up. And I carried (and still do) the results of that lack of self care even now. I’m still regaining balance.

Now let me clarify, that given the constant crisis in which we often lived, I coped darned well. I only slept a few hours each night, but I was alert and functioning at a very high level. Always “on” …  checking monitors and daily numbers, being Jessie’s companion, working out Jessie’s schedule for the day (coordinating visits with friends for her, organizing therapeutic appointments, negotiating time on/off the IV so she could be more mobile, making a plan with her nurses for any other particularly difficult procedures, scheduling her daily ACE flush, participating in rounds with the oncology and transplant teams … later ICU teams … and any specialists), consulting with a variety of staff members at crazy hours of the day and night, and keeping up with Chris and Sarah either during their visits, calls or remotely (I was still handling Sarah’s schedule and organizing the logistics of her daily life, from a hospital room in Boston, through a network of phone calls among friends). We did a lot from a small room in Boston. But only because we had so many people willing to help. Chris and I were a team. And our community was an extended web of compassionate hearts and hands, willing to make almost anything possible.

Taking care of yourself and each other? Could depend on your definition, I suppose. In a way, when your child is diagnosed with a mortal illness, your sense of power, control and competence is already being put to the test. You can’t make her safe anymore. The disease wasn’t cause by your lack of vigilance, and it won’t be fixed because you pay extra attention now. And yet … you have been dealt a severe blow to your own self-image as a parent and member of a family.

Realistically, although only one body is affected, this kind of trauma happens to everyone. It ripples out and touches, affects, changes all family members … and also friends, peers, community. In my family? I think we all feel like we had cancer, though only Jessie truly did. And if she were here, she’d stomp her foot, raise her voice, and be quite clear that it happened to her body, it was her experience, and not mine. Not dad’s. Not Sarah’s. But in many ways … yes, it happened to all of us. Hurt all of us.

Below are some of the ways we managed self-care even in stressful places and times. Many of them would translate well to virtually any experience in life. Admittedly, it’s easier to dole out wisdom than to act on it … I attempted all of these things, but I was better at some than others, as I’ve admitted earlier in this entry. If you find something helpful on this list, that’s great.

  • Walk. Use the stairs. Exercise. The hospital staff used to pass out pedometers, so that parents could measure how many steps they walked. We figured out that several rounds up and down the halls of the hospital, as a parade of patients and parents riding or driving wagons, tricycles, IV poles and plastic cars, totaled a mile or more. (Jane Roper, the mom whose daughter has just completed her first month of treatment for leukemia, made a humorous post about her exercise regimen. It was familiar, I assure you.) Or you could go down to the garden, as Jessie often wanted to do, and run laps. We had a timer and stop watch, because she liked to be clocked for speed. Usually I was timing her, not running, though. Using the stairs? It was an easy way to improve cardiac health. I started, in the last few months of Jessie’s stay, to challenge myself to do this every day. I admit that down was easier than up.
  • Eat healthy foods. Homemade food didn’t really exist at the hospital. There was plenty of cafeteria food, and it was fine, but not home-cooked and not always very appealing … the best, healthiest menu item available was the soup from Au Bon Pain restaurant. Otherwise, we always asked for homemade food in containers … Chris would bring a stack of filled Tupperware for us to put in the unit’s refrigerator, slices of all the casseroles and meals that our friends were delivering to the house each week. I tasted a lot of those meals. Now kids on treatment have steroid cravings, or can only eat restricted diets, and sometimes homemade foods won’t work. There were lots of times when we gave up, and let Jessie eat whatever she wanted, but we worked hard to offer healthy alternatives, and not to buy into the “every calorie is a good calorie” mantra we’d been taught early in her treatment. Like us, she had to have healthy eating habits that could translate in and out of the hospital, as much as possible.
  • Say yes. When people offer to help, let them. Be specific and express your needs. It empowers others when they can’t actually do anything about the disease, but you give permission for others to “do something” in other ways. It heals everyone. And lets you focus your limited resources and energies where they’re most needed. We went through this journey, as I mentioned above, in the company of hundreds … possibly thousands … of caring souls, starting with our own extended families and our town of Ipswich. Meals. Pet care. Household chores. Rides. Visits. Errands. Childcare. Yard work. There are always so many big and small ways that others can assist … it takes a village to raise a family living with cancer, you might say.
  • Find a mental escape. A little every day. Late at night, when Jessie finally went to sleep, was the only time my brain could have “down time,” and I craved that almost more than sleep. I needed to go on a mental vacation. So I’d put on earphones (one side only, so I could listen for Jessie and the monitors, though) and if I was too tired to read a book, I’d watch movies … all of the movies made from Jane Austen’s novels or the Bronte sisters’ works … and the entire JRR Tolkien Lord of the Rings series. Fantasy. Period pieces. Stories so removed from the room where we lived, with beeps and clicks and small flashing red lights and digital numbers counting down, that I was transported away, could escape and unwind a little bit.
  • Swap shifts. Take a break. Most families had some variation on this routine; parents would trade roles. One would spend time at home, the other in the hospital, with brief overlapping periods. Some would do a night-day rotation. In our family, I’d do the week shift, Chris would come in and handle the weekend, and I’d go home, spend some time with Sarah, and get the only real sleep of the week. Chris would take a fresh look at the situation in the hospital, and problem-solve whatever he could.
  • Sleep. When you can, every day. Naps are good. If Jessie slept, sometimes I did, too. I’d start off in Jessie’s bed, until she was deeply asleep, and then I’d move over to the “parent bed” and attempt to sleep more deeply.
  • Counseling. Work on what’s happening. We had a therapeutic relationship counselors. We spoke (or in Jessie’s case, played) with the counselor as often as possible. We also did a lot of role-playing with dolls and stuffed animals. Writing stories or creative art projects.
  • Social time. We made play dates or therapeutic sessions for Jessie. Adult friends came down to visit, too. (And the staff were often friends, so you could have plenty of bonding time with them, too. Many of the nurses and a few of the doctors remain good friends even now; they allowed themselves to be more than just medical caregivers. If you think about it, we basically lived with them for extended periods of time.)
  • Shower. It helped to scrub away one day’s stress, stand for two minutes under the pounding hot shower, and then feel slightly more alert and a little more pulled together.
  • Clean clothes. Chris did loads of laundry and brought them in, exchanging dirty for clean garb … it was possible to do laundry in the hospital, but it was another chore and expense that we handled at home instead. And when the new bag of clean clothes arrived, it smelled like our detergent, our house, our …. Our lives. I developed a “hospital uniform” that was layered for temperature changes (we would travel to different areas that were hot or cold), could stand up to messes (blood or puke, for example), remained comfortable (I was often contorted into weird positions, crawling into bed with Jessie, playing games in odd spaces, etc), felt clean and loose (I hate tight constricting clothes) and forgave my lack of grooming, but made me feel presentable when dealing with teams of professionals who can shower and change into cleaned, laundered and pressed outfits with heels or polished leather. I was lucky if I got to brush my teeth. Jessie had a whole different wardrobe. It was mostly pajamas and some street clothes, all marked by her style. Lots of cute slippers or flipflops. Head gear, scarrves and hats. When she had certain kinds of cardiac catheters, we sought halter-style dresses, pjs and tops, because of how we had to maneuver her arms in and out of clothing.
  • Personal grooming. Take a little quiet time. I liked to get away from the hospital room, behind a closed door inside a bathroom to myself for five minutes (on oncology, ICU or transplant, parents shared a few bathrooms, so you couldn’t monopolize it for long). Completed small daily rituals. Brushed my teeth. Shaved armpits. Applied deodorant. Washed my hair if there was time. Changed my socks and undies. Phew.
  • Cry. Mostly in the shower. You can weep in private in a shower. Your child or spouse won’t know. And you have to let it out sometime.
  • Journaling. Wrote a daily blog entry that I would email to Chris, along with photos if I’d taken any, and that he would post for us. It was a joint effort to maintain the journal every day during Jessie’s treatment. Tried to make some meaning of this experience, and also communicate with everyone who cared about what was happening. Other people did it through scrap-booking, or video journals, Youtube posts, or online journals such as caringbridge or carepages, or MySpace or Facebook, or yes, old-fashioned diaries. In all kinds of ways, the experience was recorded. In addition, we kept a running Daytimer schedule appointment book that was passed back and forth, so that when we handed it to each other, we’d recorded such items as what medications had been given, what doctors had visited, Jessie’s vitals, her temps, if she’d eaten or gone to the bathroom, what she’d had been doing (active, tired, playful, cranky), any memorable quotes, and those sorts of details.
  • Communicate. Visits in person. Notes and letters. Pictures. Skyping. Phone calls. Facebook. Staying connected.
  • Photography. An amazing tool for family and the patient, too. The lens can be turned toward the experience itself, or pointed outward, away from the body and self, to whatever else draws the eye. The birds in the garden. Other patients. The hospital environment. Details. Also, we put up the prints of loved ones and home where Jessie could see them and visitors could look at them. They can help with visualization. And remind caregivers that this is a real person, a well-rounded family, and they’re only meeting us in one part of our lives, but through photography they can learn more about their patient as a whole person, with other interests and even appearance (like a kid outside on a soccer field with hair, not just bald in pajamas hooked to an IV pole).
  • Take a walk. We’d negotiate ten minutes to walk outside in the garden. Or while a nurse or therapist kept Jessie company, because she didn’t usually ever want to be alone in her room, even surrounded by staff, I’d make a quick run for supplies (toiletries from pharmacy, snacks from grocery or new titles and games from the book store). Sometimes I’d stand outside the front entrance to Childrens, ignoring the traffic and the pedestrians, and just lift my face to the sky. You don’t know how important it is to feel any kind of weather on your face … rain, sun, wind, snow … until you’re stuck behind a layers of insulated glass in an environmentally-controlled, filtered-air, cycled-water, colored-lights-in-the-ceiling unit … where nothing is real.
  • Caffeine. I wanted to sip chai latte every day. Some people love Dunkin Donuts for its coffee. I drink tea, so I went to Starbucks, because there wasn’t a Zumi’s in Boston.
  • Creativity. Sing. Dance. Make a video. Express yourself.
  • Pets. Animals are an amazing form of unconditional love and affection, and a safe place to put feelings you don’t share with anyone else. They won’t give away your secrets.
  • Create family time. We’d organize visits for the whole family, so Sarah remained connected, as much as possible, to events in the hospital, and Jessie got family time. We’d eat a meal together downstairs (during the periods when Jessie was allowed off the floor or in our room), play video games or board games, take a nap, watch a movie, read a book … just hang out.
  • Scream. Jessie had to yell in her bed. We worked on ways to handle rage. We’d close the curtain. She had a “monster” pillowcase on which she’d drawn the “mad monster” and the “happy monster”. She’d flip sides, and pound on the pillow until some of the anger dissipated. Or she’d just yell invectives at the top of her lungs. And why not? What was happening wasn’t okay or fair or anything resembling the childhood that any child might hope for. You can call it a “Book of Job” moment if you want. Other cancer parents have told me stories about throwing rocks at the ocean … hurling missiles at the biggest, most impassive element in their worlds … because it was the closest they could come to screaming and hitting at their Creator (or fate, or providence, or karma, or whatever … depending on faiths).
  • Pray. Yes, always. Sometimes the negotiation variety. “If I do this, will you do that?” We’d make lists of what we hoped for, and ask everyone reading the blog to pray for specifics. Good blood counts. Stability. Remission. Healing of infections. And we were sent all kinds of prayers. Stones with words in them. Angels as pins and small objects. Buddhist prayer flags. Quilts. Native American prayer wheel. Tibetan prayer wheel. Cards and mementoes from sacred places known for their healing power. Meditations and mantras. Digital messages with scriptural texts. Visits with our minister Rebecca. Songs. Oh, and all the unspoken prayers that arrived in every bag and box delivered to the hospital … embodied as stuffed animals, books or homemade food.
  • Laugh. We learned early about the power of laughter to release tension and restore balance. Another family from Ipswich, whose daughter was treated for non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, told us right away about a website called squirreltales.com and a list of funny observations called “You Know You’re the Parent of a Kid with Cancer when …”  We posted the lists on our hospital room door, and other pediatric cancer families also read them and guffawed out loud. We all understood the bizarre humor. Meanwhile, Jessie was a big fan of playing jokes and pranks. She had a fart machine. She’d draw fake rashes with washable marker. She’d make squirt guns out of clean syringes and shoot water at her nurses. Oh, the fun.
  • Seek alternate therapies. The staff used to arrange chair massages for parents. Once a week, if you were lucky, a masseuse would come work out the knots of tension, anger and grief in your neck and shoulders. (It might be the kindest and most intimate touch you experienced in place filled with masks, gloves and gowns.) We also had access to reiki, which didn’t require touch, and was safer for patients to use, too. And then there’s simpler therapy, like doing manicures. Believe it or not, that used to be a very helpful pastime for parents and patients alike. Except you have to leave one fingernail unpainted, so they can hook up one of the monitors that clips to your finger and reads vitals through your nail (I think it was O2 saturation, but blessedly, it’s been long enough that I don’t really remember, and I’m not going to research it for this blog). And yoga.
  • Know you’re not alone. It was humbling to realize that we were surrounded by other families also on the same journey. When you look outside your own door, or even peek around the curtain in a shared hospital room, you learn that this story has many variations and many outcomes. And you have a whole lot of companions, people you’d never meet any other way, who share this common experience and can understand it from the inside out, and may even have more wisdom or tips for how to cope. And as mentioned earlier, you also have friends and family participating, as much as possible, in this journey. And staff, who also become like family along the way. You really have a whole lot of support and community available. (I hope others also find this true, anyway.)

Okay, here’s a confession. I also had “drinking” on this list. As in, adult beverages. Margaritas. A beer. Social chances to unwind. But then I decided that was never a self care habit; it was more along the lines of eating too many carbs and making excuses. Not when you’re run down and strung out. So I can’t recommend it as a responsible therapeutic step. Even if it’s soothing.

The truth is, we also cope by indulging. Becoming childlike in our activities. We play video games. Eat sugary or salty foods. Misbehave in many ways. And that’s okay. That’s human, and it’s part of what happens in stressful times. It’s just good to find equilibrium, and use those other resources listed above to maintain some healthy counterbalance in life, and not tip so far over into any unsafe, destructive choices, that you can’t be a responsible, competent caregiver to your family or yourself.

Jul26

Taking Stock

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The past day has made me pause, and realize that it’s time to set aside a little of what’s best about this season, this community. Pay attention. Make note. Maybe even save some of it, put by, to pull out again during cooler and busier times of the year.

Many of us have transitions coming up at the end of the summer. Maybe sooner. School resumes. Work hours change. Pressures seem to mount up. Children have different schedules and needs, or go off to their own new destinations (our living daughter is headed for college). Demands on our time, energy, focus and resources grow more pronounced.

Meanwhile, there is something just a bit slower and more reflective about summer months. We take a little longer to finish projects, linger over meals, sit outside in the fading daylight hours, sip a beverage, talk until night truly falls, and realize that we’ve captured some memorable moments along the way.

Yesterday, despite hours of work, I had time to savor a few experiences. And it made me realize that just like picking fresh produce in the fields at Appleton, and maybe preserving some of that summer vitality as sauces and other pantry goods, to be stored up for later use … it’s a good idea to stock up on some sunny, special moments now, to draw upon later.

For instance, while Chris was at a meeting for the United Way yesterday evening and Sarah was out with her peers, I walked over to Meryl’s house near the river. As twilight fell, I sat still long enough for Raina, Meryl’s daughter, to paint an extravagant henna tattoo on my ankle and calf. Caught up briefly with friend Terri about her photography and some of the projects that are coming up. Spoke to a local writer about her jaunt to Harvard’s Baker Library with a member of the Heard family for a celebration of Augustine Heard and our historic economic connections to China. As Raina traced out her henna design, she and I talked about theater and dance, boarding school and sacred symbols in tattoos, and the future of the kittens she and her mother are fostering. Despite being allergic to cats, I bottle-fed and cuddled a tiny grey furball named Brie, just a few weeks old, who is technically under the care of the Merrimack Feline Rescue Society, but is living for a few more weeks in their home, learning to be people-friendly, playful and to expect affection in his life. (Aaacchhhoooo.) Meryl shared a scoop her homemade chocolate cayenne ice cream, made in anticipation of family arriving this weekend. The scent of lavender oil infused into henna clung to my skin, and the unexpected bite of spicy seasoning in sweet dessert stayed on my tongue.

Later I was invited to a late dinner with our neighbors Hugh and Gary. Over the table we discussed books and travel to Maine, friendship and work, pets and family, the fate of old musical instruments, and all kinds of food. Good things that we all love. We talked about the connection between daily yoga and the habit of prayer, meditation as a channel to God, what we believe about life here and a spiritual life beyond this one. I walked home, barefoot, in the dark, gallantly escorted to my front door by Gary. At the end of the night, I snuck in a few pages of a novel by Daniel Silva. Went to sleep, holding Chris’s hand in the utter darkness, as if we were the only two people in the whole world.

Tattoos, art, kittens, tomato-basil salad, chilled wine, history, recipes, books, friends, photography, travel, family, reflections on loves ones departed and living … it all wound into the beauty of the latter part of the day.

If I can decant such times, distill them and put them into the pantry of my heart and mind, I will be able to draw them out later. Hold up their deep golden colors and purple shadows to catch the light. Savor again their pungency and sweetness, motes of dusty summer drifting through the layers of flavor and memory. Close my eyes, release sensory richness from its captive state, and recall what is good about an evening in this community. Let days like this one warm up my soul from the inside out.

Jul16

Every Prayer

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Every prayer is sacred and powerful, regardless of language and religion. Prayer also comes in many forms. So I have come to believe.

When our younger child Jessie was diagnosed and living with cancer, we learned to appreciate and welcome every form of prayer, positive intention, affirmation, meditative reflection, mantra, chant, song, or any other form of energy ever offered to us. Don’t all faiths and practices, in the end, have the same intention, at least when it comes to sending out cries for peace, hope and healing into our universe? For the sake of one child, or a generation of children?

When we were in the hospital, we wanted and needed every vibe and Amen that came our way. We hung up a cross, Buddhist prayer flags and a hand-made Native American dream catcher. We made a bowl that accumulated — as gifts from practitioners of many healing methodologies or faiths – angels of all sizes and shapes, a Buddhist prayer wheel, stones incised with words like love and believe, prayer cards from saints and sacred sites, crystals with different healing capabilities or properties, necklaces or bracelets strung with symbolic beads and prayer boxes. We received a quilt, blankets and shawl all stitched with more prayers and wishes. We listened to music ranging from vacation bible school songs to sounds of the earth itself, plus hymns, chants and mantras.

We cherished all of them, because they came to us from many parts of the country and the world. Carried home from other people’s travels. Some hand made. All tenderly packaged and delivered, when we were isolated in one small room, unable to go further than oncology unit’s hall or the garden downstairs.

Of course, sometimes people would make observations, sometimes in the guise of a prayer, with the best of intentions or from inside their faith tradition, that we didn’t agree with. Sentiments such as “this happened for a reason,” or God “wants another angel in heaven” or “you’re only given what you can handle.” The Creator in whom I believe doesn’t dole out diseases as punishment, to balance the scales, or to fulfill a predestined script. I understand that other families with different backgrounds found these statements to be comforting and consoling, and I wouldn’t ever negate or argue with those perceptions, where they provide support. Yet if we couldn’t bear to be told such things, we were explicit about asking people not to make certain statements; we established boundaries, when we needed them, even though we wanted every good wish and prayer.

Personally, I cannot imagine a Creator who deliberately creates illness, famine, war, disease, hunger, poverty and other conditions that hurt us. In my estimation, we connect with the Sacred when we find comfort and resources to endure or overcome these situations. Even when people offer strength and help to each other, we act in sacred ways. Maybe we find relief through a song that inspires us or a shower of 10,000 paper cranes. Perhaps acting through a doctor’s quick insight and action or a nurse’s gentle teaching. Playfully lifting us up through a counselor’s silly games or a playmate’s challenge to a feisty competition. Or in the tasty delivery of a homemade meal or steaming beverage. In many small and big ways, the Creator’s presence comes to us as compassion and healing.

Empathy and mending, grace and tenacity, laughter and honesty: these still come to us, in other ways, though that chapter of our lives is over. If you ever listen to my daughter Sarah sing Hallelujah, you will know that prayer continues to be part of our lives.

Yes, I believe in all prayers.

In times of urgency, we ask for help or rescue.

  • That’s often when we’re most likely to bother praying. We’re in need. In crisis. Seeking a miracle, even
  • When our need is extreme, sometimes it makes sense to be specific, and ask for exactly what you need. During cancer treatment, we used to ask for Jessie’s healthy blood counts, protection from infection, remission, and stability. Yes, we also asked for broader blessings, but they could be interpreted many ways: hope, courage, fortitude, healing. These days, we ask for continued emotional connection and healing within our family, and for grace and growth during new adventures.
  • You can imagine, even now, that I grapple with a gut-level reaction that specific prayers weren’t answered. I’m sure you have those feelings, too. Years ago, we requested Jessie’s survival. We have all had those moments, those specific requests we made, that didn’t turn out as we hoped. Over time, I have come to a reconciliation between what I asked for and what occurred. For instance, maybe the only possible resolution, the only form of peace and dignity that remained for my youngest child, was the one that came to her. Letting go and moving on to the next part of her journey, because it was … finally … time. And what kindness remained, in holding her here, in the conditions under which she lived?

When you pray as part of a regular routine …

  • … such as at bedtime every day, prayers can be like an entry in a diary. Or a one-sided conversation. Gentle. Sometimes formulaic. Reciprocal, though the other party is silent, but listening in. “Guess what happened today? Did you hear? I’m thinking of these people … be with them. Know what I’m planning next? Be with me as I take this step.”

At times, we experience Book of Job moments.

  • Like Job, I have cried out, “No! Why?!” Screams of rage or defiance, desolation or confusion. These primal screams are also forms of prayer. Communication with our Creator. Healthy ones, I think, because a real relationship can sustain moments of doubt and anger, fear and despair … these are how relationships grow. Even relationships with Yahweh.
  • After Jessie passed, I thought nothing more, nothing worse, could happen to our family. Yet there have been additional times when my loved ones have been vulnerable, hurt or compromised. All over again!
  • I have called out, at those times, demanding, “Couldn’t we just keep a loved one safe? Haven’t we been through enough?” No, it seems. We are all human and vulnerable, and life will continue, the world will keep spinning, and experiences will accumulate apace, not sparing us either the best or worst of existence, just because we feel time should stand still … give us a respite …. since we have endured so much already. Life isn’t like that. There’s not really a 10-minute intermission between acts. It just keeps going. Sigh.

Happily, we sometimes pray out of gratitude. Celebration. Hallelujah.

  • We pause and reflect, acknowledge a special experience or blessing.
  • Maybe we notice a silent, awesome, profound moment. We give thanks when we feel particularly moved or connected.
  • Or we honor  something special  — extraordinary — such as a milestone. Graduation, anniversary, promotion, birthday, or other landmarks.
  • Sometimes it comes in a moment of laughter and humor. When your perceptions shifts, and a situation strikes you as funny, and you regain balance and connection.
  • It’s a healing practice, to remember to say thank you. To count blessings. To name our gifts and their Source. With praise. Exultation.
  • Because the Creator is in these moments –  the quiet-wow-introspective-soulful ones, and the wild-happy-loud-rowdy-dancing-singing-clapping-hoorah ones — as surely as in the darkest ones.

Sometimes, we’re taught to turn over our situation to the Creator’s consideration, and say, “Thy will be done.” That has always been a tough lesson for me.

Really? Relinquish control, or my idea of what the best outcome would be?  As I’ve said before, and as Reverend Rebecca Pugh reminded us again on Sunday at church, sometimes the answer we receive to prayer isn’t the one we expected. It may surprise us. Alarm us. Challenge us. We may not even realize, until later, that we received an answer at all.

Of course, some folks don’t have a specific religious affiliation. And even if you believe in a divine force or Creator, you may not credit that Someone is listening or intervening on our behalf. That a divine Being is stirring up the pot of events in this world to change fate at the request — on behalf of — of fragile, finite human beings.

I have my own view, based on personal anecdotes and experiences, that causes me to believe that I am connected to a Creator who cares and actually interacts with us. But that’s me. I honor other viewpoints, too.

The cancer mom Jane Roper, who is new to this journey, is receiving many prayers, too. She is eloquent and honest, in this excerpt from her blog:

“… while I respect and appreciate the fact
that other people like to pray, I’m not really a pray-er myself.

Or maybe I am. I certainly engage in prayer-like activities sometimes.
I will silently ask for strength or courage or patience or peace,
either for myself or for others. Last weekend when we found out Clio was sick,
I did a whole lot of desperate, tearful praying
that she’d be OK, and that we wouldn’t lose her.

But I’m not entirely sure who I’m addressing in these prayers.
I don’t believe in “God” in the classic, personified sense
so much as I believe in a sort of force / energy that connects us all,
and is maybe somehow responsible for the incredible
and beautiful creation that is our world (dude).

… But I do believe that people’s
thoughts / prayers / vibes / whatever
can have a positive effect on how
we handle adversity and experience joy.

I mean, I think I do. I’m not sure.

… So. Is it weird that I like other people’s prayers
even though I’m skeptical of my own?”

People are moved to pray at certain times. Even if you’re not sure. If you have doubts. Or you don’t believe in it, not really. Motivated by joy. Or desperation.

As I have said before, I find comfort and personal growth in the habit of prayer. Yet I’m not rigorous about the form that prayer takes for me. I grab hold of opportunities as they present themselves. There’s Sunday prayer in church as a community. There’s meditation in my yoga class in the morning. There’s picking herbs at Appleton. Sipping a hot drink. Paddling in a kayak. Listening to my daughter. Touching my husband. Walking through sunlight and shadow. Playing with a dog. Writing in a journal. Serving others. Singing. Sitting still, noticing the world.

Prayer can be individual or communal. Silent or aloud. Action or words. Directed toward the deity of a specific faith, or simply to the sacred universe. And throughout our lives, we will learn new ways to pray.

Prayer is a tool. A practice. An opportunity. However and whenever you do it, it’s a chance to connect and communicate with something bigger than yourself.

Every syllable, every thought, every vision, every hope, every wish, every intention … it all has potency. And when it is directed toward goodness and healing, wellbeing and peacemaking, stability and humor … when it is aimed at building connections … then such prayers, regardless of origin, must be working for the same cause. So I hope. So I believe.

Namaste.

Jul12

One New Thing

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When you learn one new thing during a day, it can make the entire 24 hours worthwhile, can’t it? It’s great to engage your body and mind. Both your muscles and your brain (also a muscle, I guess) can learn and remember. (Of course, I  recognize that we sometimes struggle when we learn unwelcome or difficult things, too … and those are different sorts of lessons, but related, aren’t they?)

My friends have different daily services that send them – via Facebook or email – quick snippets of “did you know” info. What are those called … factoids?  Or better yet, some people receive a new joke to share. Others register to receive actual educational lessons, like the SAT question or vocabulary word of the day. Many of my peers subscribe to newspapers and journals, where you’re sure to discover something you didn’t know (whether it’s factual or not is an entirely different topic). Some folks read a daily horoscope for insight. Or hey, there’s always a fortune cookie or tea bag for a little prefabricated wisdom. Or you can take a class, and you’re sure to learn something there, if you pay attention.

For a few moments, learning something new can give you a sort of mental or physical respite. Like a mini-vacation. To entertain. To develop your intellect. To check off something on your “life list.” For whatever reason you choose to learn.

I love it when “one new thing” comes my way from unexpected sources. Although honestly, I’m lucky to absorb and remember new info. (Uh-oh, what does that bode for autumn and a full-time load of grad school classes?)

In the past 48 hours, the items below have been told or taught to me. Or I’ve savored the results of someone else’s latest adventures in learning:

  • The word yassou in Greek means hi, welcome or bye. Since my daughter Sarah will spend her first semester in college there (she’s enrolled in Northeastern University’s international program), this could be a handy one to know. Plus Ipswich has many Greek residents, so it’s handy here, too. Like at one of our favorite restaurants, Ithaki. I learned this greeting while in line at Zumi’s, called out by the staff who have learned it from their customers. I like it enough to say it again with feeling, “Yassou!”
  • I may be the only person in the world who hasn’t peed in a shower. Go ahead, tell me the truth. While sitting at a kitchen counter among 7 women and 2 men, it turned out that everyone else had done so. Some only in desperation, others more regularly. So I’ve continued to poll people all day. So far, anecdotally, everyone’s done it … except me. I have to call my sister and check in with her … is our whole family missing out on this liberating pastime, or am I the only backward one who never let loose down the drain? (The conversation went on to enumerate other times when you pee without access to sanitary facilities … on the side of the road, while camping or boating, or maybe at a large concert or sporting event when the lines for the loos are too long.) I’m sure I’ll have to give this a try, but I don’t know if I’ll confess to it once I do.
  • Henna has a shelf life and an expiration date. If you acquire premixed henna, it might not work so well. Better to mix it yourself (and by the way, it will be 24 hours before it will be ready, so this isn’t a spontaneous activity). Also if you coat the dried henna with a mixture of lemon and sugar, it might adhere longer and be a longer-lasting stain. Our first experiment only produced faint results, but I woke up with a little henna lotus flower tattooed on the inside of my wrist. Magical.
  • Homemade strawberry vinaigrette goat cheese ice cream is so yummy and rich, you only need two spoonfuls. Ice cream recipes are from Jeni’s Splendid Ice Creams at Home by Jeni Britton Bauer and this sampling was created in the kitchen of Meryl Baier. Mmmmmmm.
  • Some of the New Hampshire beaches north of Ipswich were closed due to shark sightings near shore. And apparently sharks start showing up when the waters are warming up. Another sign of summer in New England!
  • Your aura as a person should extend at least a few feet beyond your body in all directions. A quite healthy aura might extend 10 feet above and below you and 10 feet in all other directions, so that you occupy more like 26 feet of vertical space and 21 feet of horizontal space. Ever meet someone with a larger-than-life personality? That’s partially the impact of the aura, according to my yoga teacher Ingrid.
  • Also the postures of sadhana (the morning yoga exercises we do at 5am in my class) work on the subtle energies of the body: the same energies that are affected in practices such as Reiki and other complementary healing arts.  I have had the benefits of Reiki, and although it’s a form of therapy that doesn’t actually use physical touch, one time I would have sworn my Reiki caregiver was kneading my neck and shoulders to get rid of knots in muscles, but when I opened my eyes, she was standing across the room. Wow. (This used to be a weekly service at Children’s Hospital Boston to temporarily relieve the tension built up in the bodies of parents of pediatric cancer patients, who lived round the clock on the oncology unit. It was, of course, also available for the children living with cancer, since non-touch complementary therapies were safe and soothing for compromised immune systems.)
  • I listened to the words of John Updike as read by his sons Michael and David. They were written 45 years ago about the elm tree at the corner of County and East, because his former home was just across the street, and it featured in his personal landscape. The final verse of the poem Elm began with  “My thousand-thousand-leaved, with what a graceful straining you greet the year’s gray turning and put forth green.” The final verse wished, “Great shape, most godly thing I know, don’t die.”  And yet, that tree came to the end of its centuries-long life, and has been cut down. People shared their private memories of the tree, and there were many. It was a landmark for generations. It can’t be replaced, but if you love the American elm species, and need one to adopt, another yet survives by the Agawam rock at Town Hall. It’s worth taking a second look … and seeing anew.

Just for a moment, pause to consider what you’ve learned in the last 24 hours. Maybe you didn’t want to know it, but needed such unwelcome knowledge or insight. Emergencies, for instance, can cause us to become experts in subjects we never imagined. That’s happened, under many of circumstances, to all of us. Ideally, whatever you learned today was more willingly received … a piece of news or new skill that arrived lightly and left gentle footprints on your heart, mind and body in its coming and going.

If you ask yourself what you found out today, and answer “Nothing?” Hmmm. Listen again to your body, heart and mind.

There’s something new inside you … Life is, after all, change. Growing and responding, anticipating and moving. Learning.

Even if it’s just … one … new … thing.

Jul8

Pick Your Own

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I promised myself I’d learn how to recognize and cook one new vegetable every year. See a lean coarse stalk, a leafy feathery head, or rotund soil-crusted root, and know it for what it is. Recognize it as beautiful and tasty, once it’s been scrubbed and chopped, or the outer layer peeled back to reveal its tender interior. The work of a sharp paring knife, and a sense of each plant’s purpose, reveals that each vegetable has its own sweet taste, sharp bite, or clean verdant flavor. And plenty of goodness and nutrition to impart to us.

Why do I care? Me? ‘Cause I’m not a gourmet cook. And I’m a most reluctant gardener. (In fact, I don’t garden. I just don’t.)

Gail with dill from the pick your own part of the Appleton Farms CSA fields

I care, because we have a share at Appleton Farms, the Trustees of Reservations’ CSA (Community Supported Agriculture). It’s also the oldest continuously operated farm in the United States. And it’s a model for sustainable agriculture. Hundreds of families have shares, and receive the bounty of the fields from June into October, with access to a winter supply of vegetables before the end of the year. Plus there’s a dairy store and a small selection of meat (which may appall some readers, but it’s part of this farming model) and access to other locally-made produce, such as honey or bread!

Much of the CSA share is planted, cultivated, and harvested by staff, interns and volunteers on the farm. We don’t have to go out and put seeds in the earth, turn the soil, pull weeds, water row upon row of plants, or participate in the other labor included in bringing a single plant to leaf and table. Instead, shareholders enter the cool interior of the lofty barn, and fill a single large bag with produce already plucked from the earth. We walk among wooden bins overflowing with leafy cabbage and lettuce, chard and carrots, beets and turnips.

So my goal to learn new vegetables and make a meal of them? So far, so good. Well, I learned to identify kohlrabi, which is in the broccoli family according to my friend Meryl, with its bulbous root and leafy stalks; it is good diced small into coleslaw or salad, for instance. A few years ago, I learned to appreciate dark green kale, whether its chopped and massaged into a tasty salad or simmered with sausage in a Portuguese kale soup recipe. I’ve made pesto and fresh salads from the farm’s selection of basil and tomatoes (tomatoes aren’t ready yet, fyi).

Another part of the experience is picking. We wear boots and hats, sunscreen and probably insect repellent, then go out into the fields with scissors and bag, to pick whatever has grown ripe. We come back with snow peas and basil, oregano and snap peas right now. Many herbs, actually.

Again, do I really know what I’m doing? No. But I’ve learned.

Sigh. Or remembered back, to childhood when our family depended on the produce from a large home garden to supplement the meal on the table. My mother, who worked fulltime, nevertheless became adept at canning, freezing and storing produce in ways that it would last through the winter months when our family income was stretched too thin to heat a large drafty house and buy enough food for a family of six, too. As a child, contribution to the garden? Weed. Pick. Shell. Knock beetles and other unwanted infestations, critters that vied for the same green leaves and juicy crop we needed, off the leaves.

Back then it was a burden. A task. A necessity.

Miri gathering herbs at Appleton

Now I go out into the field, often with a friend, and choose which rows I’ll walk down. Bend over and search among the pale green vines, coated in dry earth, for promising sugar snap peas that aren’t too fat or leathery. Snip tassels of dill, bouquets of chive and mint. Visit the flower garden, and bring home a few lacy heads of yarrow, a flower whose name I didn’t know until this week.

Usually, just like waking up for 5am yoga, I debate with myself about the merits of getting out to the farm for PYO (pick your own) moments. I’d be happy enough to take just the share already picked for me, and miss out on the other juicy and floral opportunities. Wouldn’t I?

Okay, okay, I know there’s benefit to the pick your own crops. I’d be disappointed not to enjoy them. Or not to make the effort to partake in that part of the CSA.

So I put away the bag of vegetables already neatly harvested for me, and head out to the fields. Once I’m out among the knee-high rows of early summer crops, kneeling down, sometime alone and sometimes chatting companionably with other shareholders, adults and children, it’s a form of healing and meditation. Something loosens up and gives way.

Out in the fields, amazingly, I grow relaxed. Feel connected.

The presence of the natural world and the character of cultivated land surrounds me. I hear a chorus of birds, some startled out of hiding in tall stalks a few rows away, warbling or crying. Catch the furtive rush of small mammals who share the fields with us. Brush away the drone of a curious insect. Hear a tractor in the distance. Smell the up-close pungency of manure from the dairy pastures.

Pluck. Snap. Snip.

I’m learning to know these shapes and scents, these green and colorful plants, by their leggy vine or bushy shape, their pale flowers and crisp fruition. I have plans for what I’ll make with them. Some fresh. Some baked or stored for later in the year.

Yarrow from the flower garden at Appleton Farm’s CSA

And when I leave the fields? I feel beautiful myself, outside and inside. Like the cultivated crop I am coming to know, one name and recipe at a time, I may be a little dusty and droopy on the exterior, until scrubbed and freshened up. Once peeled back a bit, and bared to the light? Inside of me there is a hard nub of persistence and life, something too tough, bitter or stubborn to bite and swallow, but also a crisp or soft part that is tender, flavorful, nourishing. Some part of myself that’s willing to give way and be made into something new.

In its way, spending an hour or so in the fields at Appleton is a form of prayer. A letting go. Connecting with self and something greater.

My bag is filled with the bounty I’ve chosen or picked. With the promise of meals to come, experiences to share with family and friends as we savor these flavors and times together. And my heart is at ease, reminded of a part of life that it’s easy to miss, either because we don’t have a reason to go into the fields, or we just barter away the chance by shrugging our shoulders and saying it doesn’t matter, really, does it?

It matters. It does. That’s one more thing I’ve come to recognize – and name, for myself anyway — in the shadows of the barn and the broad, green expanse of the CSA fields.

Jul2

Tension and Release

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Just back from another hour of yoga. It’s a morning routine to wake up the spirit and mind, along with the body. As I’ve mentioned in the past, you may also consider it a form of prayer.

Of course, ideally, for much of the crea (set of exercises and mantras) you’re focused. Following your breath, staying in the present, setting everything else aside.

Sometimes, though, we’re encouraged to really let go. Given the chance, my imagination breaks open in the yoga studio, ideas go wandering, and I’m off on my own little mental walkabout. Occasionally my mind goes wandering, even without permission. And that’s okay.

Yoga isn’t competition. It’s about working on yourself and your connection to something sacred. It’s about doing your best, but also accepting wherever you are (though pushing yourself to try harder is healing, too) and gradually improving what you can do with your mind, spirit and body.

Anyway, in kundalini yoga, as in other forms of yoga, there’s a great deal of physical contrast. Muscular tension is followed by relaxation of the pose.

My Smile

When you exhale the in-held breath and let go of tightened muscles, you notice what happens inside your body. Follow the breath, follow the messages of nerve endings, pay attention. You can create a mental and sensory map of your own body, and learn about your own fitness.

I notice, for instance, that I hold tension in specific places, even after we’re supposed to let it go. My shoulders, neck and jaw remain anxious and knotted. I clamp down with teeth and create tautness in the facial muscles from the back of my ear forward to my mouth and chin.

So I’ve been practicing my own tension and release challenge. When I feel the strain in my jaw, I relax it.

By smiling.

I smile through tough exercises, because it loosens the lower half of my face. Otherwise I’d continue to build the pressure of clenched teeth and tight jaw, until it creeps down into my neck and shoulders, and causes an ache even when I practice relaxation.

Life is about tension and release, isn’t it? We often don’t realize how much strain and pressure are knotted into our lives: family interactions, work responsibilites, school schedules, recreational and self-care routines, faith pactices, volunteer commitments, social obligations. They all require time and energy. Even when balanced, that’s a lot to maintain.

Sometimes, permission to slip away and be spontaneous, to set aside obligations and “must do” lists — play or retreat or try out an activity that stimulates you in a different way — is like the release in yoga. The chance to let go of a pose: relaxation of tight muscles.

For instance, Sarah is traveling right now. So Chris and I are experimenting with life as two adults who have some flexibility, and the chance to be spontaneous. This past weekend, we made a last-minute decision to attend an international event up in Concord, New Hampshire, where the president of Rotary International was speaking. He’s from Japan, and we don’t often have the opportunity to meet or listen to these world leaders.

Chris’s Smile

We also decided, since we didn’t have kids at home, to spend the night in New Hampshire. Hang out. Not rush. This week is our 27th wedding anniversary, after all, but it will be filled wit the bustle of work deadlines and continued projects around the house renovation, and Sarah coming home again. So last Saturday’s sleepover was a stolen moment. Okay, not stolen, but rather an interlude that we “gifted” to ourselves.

After tension, release. We enjoyed the getaway.

Now we’re back in action, with a full week ahead of us. And yet, we can practice ways to extend that relaxation. Oppose the stress through little things. A cup of tea. A 30-minute walk. A prayer. A cat nap. A bike ride. Reading a short story. Doing a puzzle. Starting or ending a day with yoga.

It’s like when I opt to smile, in the morning class, in order to release a clenched jaw. Who can argue with a smile?