Every Second

When Gabriel was small and we lived downstate, I’d take him grocery shopping with me. Mostly this consisted of frenzied trips to Whole Foods where I’d virtually run through the aisles so I could get all the stuff we needed before he lost his shit and I had to abandon my cart (yes, I have done that, but before you judge, I took it to customer service, I’m not a heathen). I remember these times vividly because they were always, always punctuated by older women (and sometimes men) gawking at my son and saying in a cheerfully irritating tone “enjoy every second, it goes so fast.” And I’d always think: “what the fuck is that lady thinking? Did she not just see him throw a fit in produce? If she didn’t see it, she MUST have felt it, because it was a definite 10 on the screaming toddler Richter scale.” I cannot tell you how angry this used to make me. I never showed it, of course. I’d just nod my unwashed, sleep-deprived head and say “yeah” and wander into the checkout line cursing her and everyone else who dared to tell me to “enjoy every second” when clearly, I was in hell.

In case you’re wondering, I did not “enjoy every second.” Raising kids is hard, thankless work. Have you ever gotten groceries with a toddler? One time Sebastian laid down in the middle of the baking ingredient aisle the night before thanksgiving. Have you ever been in the baking ingredient aisle on the night before thanksgiving? Everyone in the surrounding 5 counties is there looking for evaporated milk and they will step on your toddler to get it. And after they’ve stepped on him, they’ll curse you for putting them in a situation where they had to do it in the first place. But to a toddler, that is the perfect time to pretend to be swimming on the floor. And there was the time he snatched that perfect purple heirloom tomato off the display and ran for the freezer section like his pants were on fire. Cue me casually walking after him like I had the whole situation under control when I most certainly did not. So no, I can’t say I even know how to “enjoy every second” because not every second is enjoyable.

I often wondered where that sentiment came from. Isn’t that the basis of all our problems as parents? That we should love it all? That if we don’t, we’re somehow flawed? I mean, it used to really get to me. Am I broken? Why can’t I enjoy every second? What am I missing here? I felt that maybe, just maybe there was something wrong with me. That gratitude did not come easily to me, I was too stuck in the actuality of raising kids. Too stuck in the endless days that pushed ever onward into long, sleepless nights. Too stuck in the nap routine that made me feel chained to my house every day at 1pm. Too stuck in the spiral of when is this going to get easier and if it doesn’t get easier, when am I going to get better at it so it can get easier?

Fast forward 13 years and Gabriel is shaving. And now it’s starting to make just a little bit of sense. How did I end up with a teenager who shaves? Where did the time go? And where is that toddler who ran to me with open arms, face lit up like a Christmas tree every time I came into the room? Where is the kid whose nose turned orange because he ate so many carrots and sweet potatoes? Where was the kid who screamed when I wouldn’t let him have an apple to gnaw on and get all sticky with while I was shopping at Whole Foods? That kid is taller than me now and only reluctantly gives me hugs when I ask for them. No, I did not enjoy every second, but I wonder all the time where all the seconds went. I’m going to blink three times and he’ll be driving away in a car, headed off on adventures that I won’t be a part of. I’m not going to lie, the thought of that breaks my heart more than a little bit.

So, if you see me smiling at a kid in the grocery store, know that I will never, ever tell that poor mom (or dad) to enjoy every second. It’s just not a fair burden to place on anyone. But you bet your ass I’m going to go home and do my best to drink in every single moment I have left with my kids. Because time does in fact fly and I’m going to enjoy every second.

Father's Day

Father’s Day is this weekend and I need to buy a card for my husband, Nick. I love picking out cards. I love standing in the aisle and giggling until I find the perfect one. It brings me joy. This year though, things are different. This year, I’m dreading my usually enjoyable trip to the card aisle.

I lost my dad in April. I lost my dad 72 days ago and there are still some days when I have to convince myself he’s not here anymore. Like how is a person there and then just not? It’s a nice place to be, that little pocket of the world where my dad isn’t dead. I dreamed about him a few weeks ago. There he was in his Tevas and cargo shorts, his long white beard intact, (his beard before all the chemo robbed him of it), he was doing something ridiculous that I can’t remember, but it doesn’t matter. When I woke up, I laid there for a while thinking about all the things he’d be doing if he was still here: making wine, mowing the lawn, drinking beer and talking shit during croquet, making wooden swords for my boys, or walking around the yard showing me how well his fruit trees were doing. The list went on and on until I fell back asleep, quietly hoping I’d get to see him again.

Nothing reminds me more of his absence than the Father’s Day card displays. I tried to find one for Nick when they first popped up in the stores a couple weeks ago, but each card I touched was like a little shard of glass. Even the bad ones sliced right through me. I left with empty hands and tear-stained cheeks thinking I’d pick one out next time I was there. I’ve walked past that damn aisle for weeks now.

His birthday was at the end of March. He was in the hospital, and not doing well, so we never really got a chance to celebrate. I bought him 2 cards then. I told you I love cards, but I’ve never bought two for the same occasion. This time I had to. One was a silly one from all of us, his “favorite nuts” off the family tree, and the other was just from me. It said: “At what age does a daughter stop needing her dad?” and on the inside it read, “I’ll let you know when I get there.” We are a family that has a hard time talking about the serious stuff, so I wanted him to have it as a quiet acknowledgement of how much he meant to me and how much I still needed him. He was released from the hospital the afternoon of his birthday, and he was gone 7 days later. I never got the chance to give him the cards. It seemed so trivial then. They never even entered my mind as I watched him slipping away. But, god, I can’t tell you how much I wish I’d given him those cards. I have them tucked away now, wrapped in a plastic bag in a bin at the back of my closet.

When he first died and I was an absolute mess, I wailed to Nick about how I’d never get to buy my dad another Father’s Day card. His answer was simple, he said: “Buy him one if it makes you feel better. Buy him one every year for the rest of your life if you want to.” Does that make me crazy? Buying a card for someone who’ll never see it? They say grief is just love with no place to go, so what is a card with no one to send it to? And how many cards will it take to fill the hole he left?

 I guess I’ll start with one and let you know how it goes.

42 Missed Calls

There was a picture in the studio where I used to teach. I can still see it, it hung on the wall in the bathroom, on dark green walls; it was, I think, a page of a magazine that was torn out and placed in a frame. I read it every time I was in there – 19 words sprawled across a picture of a waterfall - a quote form Nisargadatta Maharaj:

“Wisdom tells me I am nothing. Love tells me I am everything. Between the two my life flows.”

I first read it as a 20 something yoga student, and though it has always stuck with me, I didn’t always understand what it truly meant. Eight years later, then a teacher at that same studio, when I was teaching my last class, I read this quote. As a student and a teacher, I had made a home there, with a strong community of friends. I knew that after I was gone, though I had grown to love so many of my students, my classes would be taught by new teachers, and eventually, I would just be a memory; another blip in the lifespan of the studio. Life would continue, not come crashing down like it felt it would in those moments when I said goodbye.

On the last day of March this year, we lost a beloved member of our family. She wasn’t feeling well at Christmas and by March, she was gone. It was fast and it was devastating. Soon after, we headed to her home to begin the process of sorting through the things she left behind.

It was odd being there without her. She was a ferociously private woman and to be going through her things felt like we were violating something sacred, yet somehow, I knew it was truly an act of love. When we made it to her basement, we found the toy bow with mini arrows strewn all over the floor. There was a bulls-eye propped up on an extra dinner chair. Everything exactly where it landed the last time we were there, two weeks earlier, and our boys were shooting them with her. Even in the depths of her illness, she found the strength to play with them as she always had. Her presence was palpable, but the fact that she wasn’t there echoed on the walls. That massive house that she had so easily filled with her vibrant energy was empty. She was really gone.

After we made our way around the house, gathering and sorting, we stopped in the kitchen. There, on her counter, was her telephone. It had 42 missed calls. 42 times that phone had rang.42 times someone from the outside world tried to reach in. There we were, broken hearted in a house where it felt like time had stopped; toy arrows still on the floor waiting for the next time they’d be pulled across the bow, old cookbooks with discolored pages and notes shoved in them waiting for the next dinner prep, and there they were, 42 pieces of proof that the world continued even though we felt it crumbling around us.

In that moment it struck me, that quote from Nisargadatta Maharaj. At last, I understood it completely. Wisdom tells me I am nothing. Love tells me I am everything. Between the two my life flows. Everything and nothing woven together in that kitchen; a beautiful and cruel tapestry created by love, loss and the courage to go on.

The Thief of Joy

When Akiba was on his deathbed, he bemoaned to his rabbi

That he felt he was a failure. His rabbi moved closer

And asked why, and Akiba confessed that he had not lived a life like Moses.

The poor man began to cry, admitting that he feared God’s judgment.

At this, his rabbi leaned into his ear and whispered gently,

“God will not judge Akiba for not being Moses.

God will judge Akiba for not being Akiba.”

-From the Talmud

A couple days ago I posted a video of myself on Instagram doing pull-ups. I was super excited because I’ve spent a lot of time in the weight room these last couple months trying to get stronger. We have a pull-up bar in our foyer, so I took a quick video of my seven, yes, seven pull-ups and I put it out there. Before I started strength training, I could only do two (I posted that too). I love seeing progress and I wanted to share my excitement.

Before I hit the “post” button, I thought to myself “wait, seven isn’t really that many, and I don’t have any weights hanging around my waist to make it more fancy or challenging” I thought about a woman I follow on Instagram who has posted videos of her own endless weighted pull-ups and I started to think that my accomplishment wasn’t that grand after all. Maybe I should wait until I can do something better, something more impressive. I thought, maybe I shouldn’t post it at all. In a matter of minutes, the pride I felt in my accomplishment was completely wiped out.

When we moved up here 5 years ago, I thought teaching yoga would be easy. I was a successful teacher in my life downstate. So, when the opportunity to open my own studio arose a year after we moved to Rochester, I jumped at it. It was going to be so fun! What I forgot in those moments before Cycle Swami opened were the six years it took me to get where I was at my old studio downstate. Six years of teaching small classes (during which, some people walked out!), six years of building relationships, and six years of investing my time in a community so that it would (and did), in time, invest in me.

During the first year we were open, another yoga studio opened – a beautiful space with talented teachers. I found myself going online and checking social media to see what they were up to, what kind of classes they were offering. It seemed to me that they were flourishing where we were not, and I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. I stayed up at night doubting my value as a teacher, doubting I had anything to offer but at the same time I was angry because I knew I did; how could the people of Rochester not know that? In those two short years we had the studio, I lost sight of who I was as a teacher. I was so unraveled by self-doubt that I tried many ways of teaching, and each way took me further and further from my true way of being.

Like Akiba, I bemoaned the fact that I was not this other woman – this wonderful teacher running a studio full of good vibes and sunshine. I did not consider how long she’d been teaching here, how long it had taken her to get where she was, or what struggles she had to endure to get there. I did not consider the fact that I had no place yet in this community. I expected to transplant my six years of work and immediately reap the benefits. When I didn’t, I became acutely aware of how “not her” I was, and it sent me reeling.

Mark Nepo, author of The Book of Awakening says, “we are born with only one obligation – to be completely who we are.” But when we get caught up in comparison, that becomes almost impossible. Social media has made this even more obvious. Very rarely do people share their failings to the broader audience – it’s only the envy-inducing eye candy shots that ever make it out there. In the same reading Mark Nepo also says that “when we compare ourselves to others, we see neither ourselves nor those we look up to. We only experience the tension of comparing…”

I completely understand the tension of comparing. Even today, I need to be vigilant and guard against that voice in my head that says: “sure that thing you did was cool but look what she’s doing.” Some days the tension of comparison is so intense I feel as if I may snap. Thankfully, there are more days I when can see it for what it is, and I can drag myself back to my center. I can appreciate where I’ve been, how I got to where I am, and I wouldn’t change it for the world – or for a prettier Instagram feed.

So, yeah, I posted that video, and you should too. Don’t wait until you can strap 50 lb weights around your waist, show the world your one, assisted pull up. Let it be okay to not be perfect. Just be you. Dr Seuss said it best: “Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”

Comparison will not steal my joy anymore, so stop letting it steal yours. I’m no Ninja Warrior and you’ll never see me on Titan Games but I’m the lead-role bad ass in my story and I’m proud as hell to say it. And, you bet your ass when I get to ten, you’re going to hear about it.

New Year's Revolution

Well, 2019 is in full swing. Hopefully you’ve settled back into your regularly scheduled chaos and the stress of the holiday season is a distant memory. I love this time of year, it always feels so fresh and full of promise. Even though the temperatures are brutal, it seems a little easier to dream big and believe it’s all possible in the early days of January. I have a few plans of my own for this year and have made a couple resolutions I’m proud to say are still going strong. I wanted to share just one that seems to be working a bit of magic into my life.

I decided to write down one thing every day that made me happy, or one thing for which I’m grateful. I tried this last year, but only got 3 days in before I canned the whole operation. This year, I figured out why and upped my game. See, last year, I used the big plastic barrel we had laying around from the time Sebastian coaxed me into buying 5lbs of cheese balls. I didn’t have any specific paper for the job, I just ripped corners off unopened mail. Basically, it was set to fail from the beginning. My heart just wasn’t in it. This year I pulled out a pretty vase from the basement and Nick bought me a big block of note paper. I have the note paper and a pencil set out right next to the pretty vase. It’s all there (and visible from my couch), so there are literally no excuses. All I need is 2 minutes each night to quietly reflect on my day. I find the best bits and scribble them onto the small square of blank paper, and I walk upstairs to tuck into bed with that moment’s recognition of gratitude still on my mind.

Some days the things are small: we got our coffee machine back, so today I’m super grateful for my morning (and afternoon) latte. Some days the thing I’m trying to fit on that little square seem too big to verbalize – like the all-encompassing love I feel for my kids or the flood of gratitude I feel for the tender words of encouragement from Nick after a hard day. But it doesn’t really matter how big or small the thing is. I want to tell you something about keeping track of the things in your day that put a smile on your face: it puts a smile on your face. I’m not saying it’s the silver bullet to all bad moods, trust me, I still have my share of them, but something shifts when you ask yourself to look at all the gifts life has to offer, even on a small scale, from day to day. I find myself thinking about which moment I’ll record for the day, so it isn’t just the best moment that I recognize, but all the others too. Yes, it’s all magical, but I find now that I’m writing it down, I stop a moment and acknowledge the magic instead of just letting it pass me by.

What is even better than all that? I find my mindset is slowly moving away from focusing on the things I lack and it’s moving toward all the amazing things I already have. Taking stock of the good stuff throughout the day has made it much easier for me to see how lucky I really am. I don’t need a nicer car, mine runs fine. I don’t need a bigger house or a better wardrobe. I don’t need fancy trips around the world to see how happy I am, I have a pretty vase right in my living room and it’s full of all the proof I need that I’m doing just fine.