Homecoming

Like many Americans, I am reeling.  In absolute shock.  I felt sure that we would pull this one out, that love and tolerance would trump hate and discord.  Sadly, I was wrong. 

For me, this election felt personal.  Eight years ago, I watched from my little flat screen TV in my home in Knoxville, TN as Obama gave his acceptance speech.  It was a moment few of us will forget.  A man of color becoming the leader of the free world.  Optimism was high.  I was elated and charged with a rejuvenated sense of wonder and possibility.  I found myself lighter, freer, and I truly began to look at others and see kindness in each of them, a kind of divinity.  It was a beautiful thing.

In the wake of this optimism, I deepened my newly found yoga practice.  I was meditating daily.  I loved my job, was surrounded by wonderful, like-minded friends, and I felt that life couldn’t be better.  So, full of all of this sunshine, I went and did something reckless—probably the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done.  I decided to move back home to rural Georgia.

I guess--no, I know--that Social Media had everything to do with it.  My news feed was full of faces from childhood.  So wonderful to feel connected with them after all these years.  I left Forsyth after high school and never really looked back.  I loved my family and my family home--the twelve acres of pine-wooded property that my parents pinched and saved fifty years ago to buy and build on-- but I never planned on returning to stay. Ever. Until I did.

 

It was too easy.  My newfound energy and optimism prompted some profound need for change, and an open Georgia territory in my company and my now uninhabited childhood home in the woods provided that opportunity.  It sounded so idyllic, so lovely.  I would have my little yoga studio in my house, and I would reconnect with old faces and pick up where I left off all of those years ago. 

But wait, where did I leave off?  I was happy to leave at eighteen because I knew my hometown was not a fit for me.  Something about me just never worked here.  Sadly, that hasn’t changed. 

Now, it’s eight years later.  For eight years now, I have been surrounded by voices from the Right.   I have heard constant references to “Killary,” I have heard about Obama’s “black ass” and how he is destroying our nation. I have heard about those abominable gay people violating God’s laws.  I have heard about those horrible Muslims, who want to infiltrate our country and behead our children.

Hillary was my hope.  I couldn’t find a pantsuit that flattered the five pounds I put on this year, so I opted for a sloppy white ensemble while we waited for the poll results to pour in.  And pour they did. 

So, eight years after that historic, moving moment, when a man of color gave his acceptance speech for POTUS, I watched aghast.  And I don’t think I realized until that moment how much I wanted to see a woman take that office.  And how grieved I am that once again, that door was closed to her. 

I don’t know where I’m going with this, or with anything.  I just know that I’m sad.  So deeply sad.  And I feel so isolated from members of my community.  My home yoga studio is cluttered with junk—we actually jokingly refer to it as “the room of shame” now.  My local friends are few and most of us can’t talk politics at all.

And about Trump. I don’t even really dislike the guy—I just think he truly initiated a movement that was lying in wait, ready to bubble forth.  A beast that emerged from the dark waters of hate for Otherness, a beast that claimed to be godly.  A beast that slouched towards Washington to be born on November 8. 

I want to feel the way I did eight years ago.  I want to see the good in everyone again—Republican and Democrat, black and white, Christian and Muslim.  I want to be full of love.  But right now I am steeped in grief and ego.  I am overwhelmed by the shock of it all and I have personalized this in a way that isn’t healthy or even rational.  I have made this a part of my narrative—the story of my disappointing homecoming.

I don’t want this pain, and I don’t want you to have it, and I don’t want it for Hillary, or for any of us.  And the biggest part of this pain is how utterly isolating it is.  I know there is good in them, I know there is love in their hearts, I know there is God in all of us.

After we get over the shock of all of this, let’s rise up, not with reactive hate or anger.  But with love.  Love for those who are guided by unconsciousness, and enough self-love to calmly stand up to willful ignorance.  I didn’t have enough of that self-love before.  I just looked away or changed the subject when I heard racial slurs or homophobic jokes.  That’s on me. No more.  I won’t be angry.  I will say, “I love you and respect you.  But you are wrong.”  And I will listen to Rumi: “There comes a time when nothing is meaningful except surrendering to love.” 

Yoga exists in the world because everything is linked -- Desikashar

Most of my life I felt a disconnectedness from my body.  In second grade I overheard my ballet teacher talking to another student's parent about me.  My mom was at first suspicious then outraged when I ran home to ask, "Mama, what's un-quart-nated mean?"  Like many kids who too quickly grow tall and lanky, I didn’t know what to do with my limbs, so they kind of just flopped around loosely wherever I went.  Yes, I was the proverbial last one picked on the P.E. team (oh, how I detested what seemed like every other kid’s favorite class), and I hated being asked to dance at parties.  I was also the class klutz, leaving a wreckage of breakables behind me wherever I went.

My awkwardness quickly became a way to define myself.  I never even bothered to attempt basketball, tennis, or any other sport.  I just told myself those “weren’t my things” and cultivated other hobbies that were more in my comfort zone—reading, writing, music.  Weren’t all those things more valuable anyway? It wasn’t until I was around thirty that I decided to embrace that part of myself that had been ignored—my body. 

I started with a little Pilates.  Someone had described me as “willowy” and suggested that working my core might leave me feeling a little more grounded (physically and emotionally). I enjoyed Pilates, but I quickly found that my real place was on the Yoga mat.  For once, my willowy limbs had a place to stretch, forward-bend, and down dog.  For once, my body had a place in my life—and my mind and spirit followed suit.    

I quickly found myself in back bends, cranes, and headstands, but the balancing poses were the hardest for me.  I had been practicing for over a year before I could move my “tree” away from the wall.  Seeing my frustration, a yoga instructor reminded me, “You’re here to learn balance. Someone else might be here to learn flexibility or core strength, but your lesson is balance.”

My willow tree is fairly strong these days, though a breeze still rustles its leaves a bit.  But I don’t care if I have to touch down and start again—falling out of a balancing pose is not confirmation that I don’t belong in a Yoga studio, that I’m some awkward, bookish kid who is best sitting on the sidelines. Didn’t someone say that we were spiritual beings living a physical existence?  Sure we are. But we can’t reach that spiritual plane without learning the lessons of the body. 

So I find it appropriate that Yoga means “to unite,” or more literally “yoke” (from the Sanskrit yuj).  Yoga has a way of connecting what is disconnected, yoking what is separate. We are practicing the poses of life. Some days we stand strong like warriors, other days we melt into child’s pose. Life is as fluid as the body. And only by connecting with the body can we transcend it.

The need to be a great artist makes it hard to be an artist. The need to produce a great work of art makes it hard to produce any art at all--Julia Cameron

I love handmade cards.  I never was terribly artistic, but I always loved things that were unique.  When we moved to Forsyth, my lack of a social life resulted in a creative surge and I found myself developing a paper obsession—unique wrapping paper, recycled cards. Then I bought myself a pack of pastels and gave drawing (pasteling—is that a word?) a chance.  One look at this blog indicates my lack of ability in that department, but I found myself enjoying the process so much that I didn’t care.
 

Growing up I sang and acted but never really enjoyed doing either.  I guess I held myself to a high standard and eventually a few bad performances crushed my confidence.  But not a few bad pastels.  I’ve never been an artist, so what the heck?  I have nothing to lose! Birth announcements, thank you notes, Christmas cards . . . when I don’t have time to create cards with scrapbook paper and cutouts, I bring out the chalks, slap them onto some paper, download them to Shutterfly, and voila! Instant personal art cards. 

In her fabulous book The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron personifies the great enemy of creativity as the Censor.  Our Censor chides our feeble attempts with wicked taunts, “You call that art?  You have got to be kidding me! You actually think you’re a writer/performer/painter?  You’re terrible!”  I envy those people who are free from “censorship,” and they are few and far between. Most of us find ourselves full of self-doubt when it comes to our own ability to create or perform.  So why not recognize that evil taunter for what he is and create away—the good, the bad, and the ugly? 

But I thought we were friends . . .

Now I'm not a huge Facebook fan, but I can definitely appreciate its appeal. Dr. Laura--whose views I detest yet I have this inane compulsion to listen to daily--regularly admonishes her listeners for allowing their kids to participate in social media.  She insists that Facebook and the like create a culture of people who have no idea how to interact with others in the "real" (non-virtual) world. I'm not so sure about that.  In fact, Facebook has given me the opportunity to reconnect face to face with friends that I literally haven't seen since the single-digit years.  But I have to address one troubling FB phenomenon: Defriending.


I'll log in to my account one day and I'll have 714 friends, the next 711.  No, I don't know 714 people--don't ask.  I'll glance at the sidebar on my homepage to the "People You May Know" section only to see friends suggested that I thought I had formerly "friended." After a curious click, my suspicions are confirmed.  I have been defriended  The agony!


I suppose if something horrible has happened between me and a person (in "real" life), I can understand his/her reasons for inflicting this humiliation upon me. I can also see the appeal for the passive aggressives out there (myself included)--there's nothing easier than giving the silent treatment online.  Just block 'em! I don't know that I've ever been blocked--now there's humiliation--but I've now been defriended countless times.  


My question is: do people delete acquaintances just to fine-tune their "friend list"? I'm guessing (hoping) so.  Maybe I'm the victim of nothing more than a cursory cleanup.  Maybe these are the people who keep impeccable email inboxes, clean desktops, and tidy one-note files. But meanwhile, I have to ask,  "Was it something I posted?" Next time, IM me.  We'll talk it out!   

Life will give you whatever experience is most helpful for the evolution of your consciousness. How do you know this is the experience you need? Because this is the experience you are having at this moment.--Eckhart Tolle

This year I suffered two miscarriages—or “missed miscarriages”--at twelve weeks gestation.  Before I became a mom, I saw friends go through fertility issues, but I always felt disconnected from what they were experiencing.  I hurt for them but wondered why people wanted children so desperately. Parenthood seemed like, well, a kind of martyrdom.  No more happy hours, late nights out, or impromptu dinners.  No more snooze button.  My own son was a surprise, a disruptive, delightful waking from a long, dreamy sleep. And I’ve been awake ever since.  

When we found out we were pregnant for the second time, I took it for granted that things would go well.  With JD, I had been one of those obnoxious women who truly relished the experience of pregnancy.  I religiously practiced my prenatal yoga, dutifully swallowed my vitamins, hand-crafted my birth announcements. Yes, I even enjoyed labor until I dilated about seven centimeters and promptly decided to assuage my husband’s fear of my discomfort with an epidural.  Charitable of me, I know.

When I miscarried (both times) I was told, “God makes things happen for a reason.”  As if this were some sort of orderly universe with an avuncular deity who magic-wands the wombs of women: “Baby for you, cancer for you.”  I realize some find the idea of God’s attention to the minutiae of our lives comforting, but for me, something about that idea minimizes our pain.  And, for me, something about that idea minimizes God.

So rather than finding the reason in God’s plan for me, I prefer this:  If this experience walked into my life as a teacher—what would be his lesson?  What did my babies come to teach me? And then I look at the giggling little toddler beside me wrapped up in his little blue blanky. What a miracle that he made it here when so many things could have gone wrong.  What a miracle that he shook me out of my sleep and brought me into the now. Thank you my little wise ones.  Lesson learned.

So New Years has always been an important holiday to me.  I love all the festive little rituals--the champagne, the kisses, the countdown. "Auld Lang Syne" even makes me cry--yes, I'm that much of a sap about this special day.  But I often find myself let down this time each year, a little depressed even,  sometimes a lot.  Maybe it's the end of the Christmas hustle and bustle. Maybe it's the start of the work year--Spring semester comprises the bulk of my annual work load.  Maybe it's the weight of the resolutions.  Or maybe it's just a serotonin plunge after a month of holiday toddies. 


I find myself a little down this year because I'm holding onto some things. I'm a bit disillussioned right now, a little disheartened by some recent reminders that not everyone in the world thinks I'm as great as I do. :)  So I'm shaking off the blues with a little loving-kindess meditation from my mentor, Melanie McGhee:


Bring your attention to that part of you who loves you unconditionally, completely without judgement, without fail regardless of what successes or failures you have experienced. Rest assured it exists. . . Allow your attention now to come to rest upon yourself. . .  Allow these phrases to saturate your mind, body and spirit:


May I experience the wisdom of true happiness.


May my body maintain strength and well-being.


May I feel divine contentment.


May I be free from suffering.


May I experience the peace and joy of divine abundance.


May my life unfold with ease. 


May I live in peace.


Repeat now for a loved one (substituting he/she for I). Allow your heart to expand.
Repeat now for someone towards whom you feel neutral. Allow your heart to expand.
Repeat now for someone with whom you have difficulty. Allow your heart to expand.
Repeat for all beings. Allow your heart to expand.


I feel better already.  Happy New Year, my friends, frenemies, and loved ones.

Why do they tell me so little so late? and other Parental Grumblings

My husband and I are more or less perpetual adolescents, so this adult thing is alien territory for us.  Hell, cooking and cleaning is alien territory for us.  Cooking and cleaning with a one year old is Area 51.


We were so pleased with ourselves that we didn’t fall into the early feeding craze.  We didn’t start solids until 6 months, breastfed him consistently, made sure that milk was the primary source of his nutrition (didn’t want him to miss any of those antibodies floating around in the liquid gold).  How come no one told us that at one year, he was supposed to be “off the bottle”? The doctor informed me of this last week when I brought him in to check on his chronic ear infection issue (so much for those antibodies). 

So I have two weeks to wean him off the bottle, and it ain’t going so well.  The apple couldn’t fall farther . . . our little guy hates food. Seals his lips like they’re super-glued, shakes his round little head in a vigorous “no way,” and pushes the spoon away.  Being the cool, laidback, independence-fostering mom I am, I don't force the experience. I put the food in front of him and let him have at it. Now, cleaning is not my piano-forte, but even I know oatmeal and fruit shouldn’t be smeared all over the kitchen wall!  Thank God for the canine cleaning crew; they gather round the high chair waiting for the inevitable barrage of treats to be slung to the floor.

I keep reading these mommy blogs and forums from frantic mothers strapping their kids down and force-feeding through tantrums (can’t tell whose—parent or child). But you know me,  I’m above such nonsense.

Well, I’ll be damned if my little one isn't having so much fun with his food that he is pretty much doing everything BUT eating it.  And since I recently quit breastfeeding, he has just developed a new love affair with the “ba ba.” Despite all my enlightened parenting, we’re back to Square One.  In fact, the little fiend is consuming more milk than ever. As for my laissez-faire approach to feeding, I now hear that mothers in some cultures don’t let babies self-feed at all in an effort to preserve food.  To allow self-feeding is anything but responsible parenting, much less responsible citizenship. 

Geez Louise, when will I get it right? Oh well, in the meantime I’m saving money on one thing at least: dog food.