What Brought You to Your Yoga Mat?

What Brought You to Your Yoga Mat?

October 15^th 2017: 

I spread out my yoga mat in a pediatric hospital room. Might seem an odd place to practice yoga, and I realize that, and I think about how my teachers often saying at the beginning and end of class, “What brought you to your yoga mat today?”.  

Walking in the Healing Garden, October 16th, 2017

1980:

In the living room of my childhood home, I spend hours reading a book called Be A Frog, A Bird, or A Tree:  Rachel Carr’s Creative Yoga Exercises for Children by Rachel Carr (1973, Doubleday & Company, Inc., Garden City NY) and trying to imitate the poses.  I am fascinated by it, am not ever being bored of trying to make my stomach expand like a balloon and then exhale back down, or attempting to balance like a boat, or jump like a frog.  It is such great fun, and I love moving and twisting my body to look the children in the pictures.   

2000:

I haven’t practiced yoga since.  The book was no longer available to me, and it’s still before the advent of yoga classes in schools, community centers, and the spread of private studios. And the Internet is still young – there’s no such thing as “high-speed”, let alone “wifi” and, mercifully, “blogging” has yet to offend ears as the term hasn’t been coined.  So even if I’d gone looking for “local yoga”, no search engine could have produced anything near a helpful response.  But when I see a class listed in a local evening education program catalogue, I go.  I purchase a yoga mat, which I still use.  And in class, my body remembers the poses, and even the names of the poses.  For me it’s an incredible experience.  

2002-2003:

During my first pregnancy, my birth center recommends a pre-natal yoga course, and I’m excited to sign up.  After a rough time with “morning” sickness, getting out and moving a little sounds great.   It’s taught by an amazing woman who’s had six children over two decades, with vastly different experiences over that time.  Her insights into both healthy yoga poses during pregnancy and pregnancy, labour, breastfeeding, and caring for infants are invaluable.  She lets us tape record classes so that we can practice at home, and I do, daily.  The meditations during savasana stay with me still, and sometimes during the night when I can’t sleep, I think about her words and practice their visualizations.  This is particularly so during the time that my father was ill with metastatic cancer, and again when I hold my youngest child in my arms all night, in a pediatric intensive care unit while he is in an induced coma.  

After my first child is born, I go to her post-natal yoga class to which we are welcomed and encouraged to bring our newborns.  It’s about the only thing I can manage to leave the apartment to do, except for urgent grocery store runs and walking down to wait for my husband’s train in the evening.  Nobody else I know has a baby, and most of my close friends have recently moved.  I adore my baby, but the days are long.  When I go to yoga, a few people from my birthing class are there, and it’s great to connect, stretch, see each other’s babies, talk, breathe…..breathe……and again learn so much from the instructor.  Not to mention the ultimate bonding experience of sharing wipes (wipes! wipes now please!) when the tiny creatures manage to explode poop like a volcano, up out of their diapers reaching their hair.  Babies are talented. 

2003-2008:

With two young children, I have a sporadic, yet, let’s say, highly energetic yoga practice at home.  Same mat, but materials via DVD’s, books, and gaming systems are now readily available.  I get a book about doing yoga with babies, and it has a definite impact.  My children still remember crawling underneath me during cat/cow and how what a blast that was. My oldest calls me into the room when the youngest is about 15 months, saying “He’s doing something”.  He was.  Quite a good downward dog. On the sofa.  Points for form.  

"Doing Something" 2007

2009-2016:

Yoga has mainstreamed to the Y, plus my youngest has started preschool.  So for several years I attend a variety of classes in yoga, including one class with an instructor that does a great blend with pilates.  

October, 2016:

Life changes, and around the time that none of us are using the Y much anymore, I’m helping chaperone a school field trip when I meet a woman whose children are the same ages as mine, and who happens to have a yoga studio. She offers me a stretch suggestion when I honestly feel like I cannot keep up with trekking round the hills any longer. It’s brilliant and effective, and so I check out her studio. 

It’s not just another yoga studio.  All of the teachers have a different background and approach to yoga, and they are all incredible and offer a unique perspective with small, individualized classes.  It is a perfect fit for me in all aspects: exercise, stretching, breathing, reflecting, thinking, connecting with others.  Which makes sense, because the studio’s name is Balanced For Life.  And that’s exactly what it provides: balance for life.   This is the studio where often class begins with the teacher asking “What brought you to your yoga mat today?"

October 13^th, 2017:

My youngest son is in the backyard playing with a friend.  It’s a Friday, and this is typically what they do.  I hear them running around outside; it’s a warm afternoon and the windows are open.  They run in and out of the house, getting snacks and water and answering my question of when to drive the friend home with the response that his dad is leaving work early and will come get him.

I go outside to ask when exactly his dad is coming. My son has a party this evening and needs to shower and get ready.  I don’t see or hear anyone in the backyard and call for them.  I’m distracted momentarily because the cat’s tent is twisted up.  

Then the friend appears and says, in reference to my son, “I think he’s joking, he has a rope around his neck”. 

What? I say.  What are you talking about? What are you possibly talking about.  Putting a rope around your neck is not a joke.  

I run to the back of the play fort. And in fact, yes, my son has a rope around his neck, but this is no joke.  It’s tight around his neck, and he’s slumped on his knees against the back of the playfort.  His face is pale.   

Okay. Get the rope off. Need more slack.  Can’t risk the rope digging in more or catching his neck at a bad angle.  Scream for the friend to lift his legs as I struggle to get the rope off. 

The rope is off, he’s on the ground.  But he’s not breathing.  His eyes are rolled back and partly open.  His body is limp. His skin is a so-wrong colour.  I want to shake him, somehow shake him back to life, as ridiculous as that sounds.  I don’t.  I pull it together, go full on zen-focus.  

I start CPR, the really hard strong vigorous CPR like you’re supposed to.  It feels weird when practicing in class, but listen to me on this: in a crisis you will have no trouble compressing that chest with everything you have plus more.  Also perhaps good to know is that there might be some nonsensical bits added in that aren’t part of training at all, like shouting for the person to wake up.  Or even though breaths aren’t that effective and CPR is what really matters, doing a couple anyway, because of some basic, primal urge to literally give this pale, still child breath.  

And it works.  It works.  All of a sudden, he takes a deep, ragged breath, followed regularly by more of these ragged, not normal breaths.  But he’s breathing.  

And then, under my hands, I feel his heart start to beat.  I keep one hand on his heart, to make sure it keeps on beating, and I call 911 with the other. 

It takes 4 minutes and 39 seconds for EMS to arrive, even though, as I keep telling the emergency dispatcher, they’re literally located around the corner and could have walked here in half the time.  Make that a quarter of the time, even including rolling a stretcher down the street. 

When we transferred from the nearest hospital to a pediatric trauma hospital, the EMS team head prepared me for what I would see when I arrived:  A roomful of people in paper yellow gowns.  I guess that’s intimidating or frightening to some people.  To me, when I saw it, I felt comforted and in awe: that there was this many people, highly educated with specialized training, all present to help my child with whatever was necessary.  

Because that’s to what they have dedicated their lives; work their hardest and do everything they can to save the lives of children and give them the best possible outcome.  Trauma surgery, neurology, pediatrics, anaesthesiology, so many that I can’t recall even though I kept scanning the room, trying to remember.   Plus a chaplain, to explain what was happening and to assist in any manner possible – answer questions, help advocate, make phone calls, bring water, offer prayers.  Someone just for the parents and family, to provide help in a time of crisis.

The power of a brother ET touch, October 14th, 2017

                                    

October 15^th, 2017:

To keep going in a crisis, especially one with an unknown road ahead, you need to stay strong and healthy, and for that you need support.  So that’s what I was doing on my yoga mat in a room in the regular pediatric unit.  There was more space there than in the PICU, and, more relevantly, time for me to do a few stretches.  It’d been a difficult few days, and the body responds as much as the mind.  Yoga helps heal both.  Even just a few minutes of settling in and breathing deeply.

December 3^rd, 2017:

In addition to the amazing hospital staff, our family was buoyed by an absolute outpouring of support from our community, near and far.  Family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, staff from our children’s schools, acquaintances, and people we didn’t even know all sent prayers (in different faiths, beliefs, traditions and spiritual practices), thoughts, messages, meals, cards, treats, calls, and offers to help in any way they could.  We could literally feel the love and caring connecting us all, and I can’t begin to describe the difference it made to all of us.  I also don’t have sufficient words to express our gratitude.  Thank you.

Early morning, Healing Garden off the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, October 14th 2017

                                             

It’s taken me a while to find enough time to write this.  The phrase “What brought you to your yoga mat?” was my impetus, because it evokes the journeys we go through in life, whether throughout a day or something over time. Why have you chosen to take time out of everything you need to do to be on your yoga mat right now?  I wanted to express some what we experienced during this particular journey.  

Our son has made an incredible recovery, and is almost back to a regular academic, social, and athletic schedule.  Every single person involved was essential to this journey and, in the end, it illustrates that we are all one community.  We are all on a journey, facing an unknown road ahead no matter what what’s currently going on in our lives and what plans we make.  None of us can do it on our own.  Recognizing this and choosing to be actively part of the community and to be both present and available when needed and to graciously receive help when needed is how best to travel the unknown road: together.

Sitting Shiva and Swimming in Cenotes

L-R: author's mother, sister, father, author. Mankayane, Swaziland, 1977

Ek Balam Cenote, Yucatan, August 2016

 

Swimming with the islas at Ek Balam Cenote, August 2016, Yucatan.

Opening to the sky, Ek Balam Cenote, Yucatan, August 2016

Sitting Shiva and Swimming in Cenotes

Last week, my son and I sat shiva with friends.  Not being Jewish, and being an inherent researcher I read up first since I was only passingly familiar with the practice.  What most struck me most was the emphasis – the insistence - on taking time to grieve and to accept the help and comfort of one’s community.  

I was raised to offer and give help when family, friends, and neighbours are, for example, ill or grieving or (best!) welcoming new little ones.  I was taught the importance of attending important life events and providing support whenever I saw a need, and it’s a deep part of my identity. 

Take care.  Show up.  Look for a way to help.  Write a note.  Place a call.  Bake a casserole.  Send flowers.  Make a donation.  Be available.  Give space.  Pay attention. Listen.  Listen.  Listen. 

Yes, listen.  And while listening to those around you, also listen to yourself.  Allow yourself space and time to feel, to grieve, to let feelings and thoughts flow in a safe space to explore them as fully as you can.  Allow others to express their care, and when they offer, tell them what you need.  

My father passed away last spring, and I consciously worked on finding safe spaces and times to let myself process what I was feeling, and what this immense loss meant to myself, our family, our community.  When in the summer we traveled to Mexico, I took the opportunity of getting to swim in cenotes to reflect. 

The Yucatan Peninsula is this giant slab of limestone thrust out of the seabed millennia ago.  The soil is thin, and rain filters down through the porous stone feeding a giant underground network of freshwater rivers, sometimes spilling out into caverns with openings above.  

Sacred to the ancient Maya, explored, mapped, and investigated by archaeologists, local swimming holes and escape from the oppressive summer heat, cenotes are all of this and more.  While most of them are hidden from common view and either difficult or impossible to access from the surface, many cenotes are open and available to everyone. 

And so there I was, scrawling down the slick limestone steps with my family as we visited several cenotes, duly warned by hand-painted signs: “Friend Visitor: Walk Carefully” and “Precautions Tourist Take Care of Your Self” and “If You Can’t Swim Don’t Get in the Water”.  All fair and relevant points.

Once at the water’s surface, it was usually a delicate and completely ungraceful scramble over sharp ledges (aided and encouraged by abuelos and abuelas) and then plunging into deep, cold, and dense water.  

I swam under the water, embracing the coldness (I was getting to swim in a cenote!).  I floated on my back, looking up through the opening to the sky above.  

I thought about life, death, birth, rebirth, memories, dreams, past, present, future, the underworld, earth, and heavens: these big impossible things.  I felt the islas (cave-dwelling fish) nibble my feet.  I watched bats spiral down through the sunlight.  I heard my kids, and everyone else in the cenote, shout and laugh and play. 

I let myself feel.  And think.  And ponder.  And breathe, just breathe.  And look, and listen.  And then I would dive back down, and swim back to the ledge, and let the abuelos help me back out. 

Growing UP and UP

It's all true - while one's offspring may have been voraciously hungry all through childhood, with growth spurts seemingly every other month, once they hit the preteen years it's another level entirely.  It's no longer the days of handing them a few pretzel sticks or apple slices or a biscuit to quietly chew on and be content.  No.  No longer sufficient. That plus the fact that a modicum of self-sufficiency has finally set in (after having first positively then, um, firmly encouraged to GET THEMSELVES A SNACK) along with some basic communication skills -  and the above photo is what results. Please note that this was not the first occurrence of a cereal box and bowl left on the counter - it was just the first time it was accompanied by a note, which was also (fairly) polite (social manners having also showing rare but sparkling appearances). 

I asked my preteen why exactly it was so exciting for him to be taller than me - I was honestly curious.  He said simply that it was a milestone. 

Of course that's not the only milestone that they've surpassed in the past while.  In my struggle to keep up with them, I'm so far behind on my writing schedule.  At this rate, my nephew's birth present of a book about the seaside dedicated to him will be ready by the time he can read it himself.  And my own children, having long since past picture books (in reading ability only - they still enjoy reminiscing/re-reading favourites), are still desperately waiting for a "chapter" book from me.  The format of which is evolving in my head but obviously needs to come out.  And at the rate I'm going, it's going to need to be an actual work of literature to match their reading level by the time I'm done.  It's a growth race - and I'm choosing to embrace this as exciting rather than daunting ;).

Opposite................?

Mankayane, Swaziland, quite some time ago

What was behind the choice of this photo in response to the Sketchbook Project's challenge to "create a combination of opposites"?

What about this photo might illustrate "opposites"? Is it that the two people are different genders? Different ethnicities? Different cultures? Different religions? Wearing different styles of dress?

Art is always open to interpretation, and the main goal of creating art is to provoke thought.

So: is the idea to represent the two subjects as opposite genders? Which would presuppose that gender is exclusive, either one or the other.  But humans don't necessarily fall at all neatly into two opposite genders, according to any definition, whether biological, physical, cognitive, behavioural.  

Now to what degree are the subjects different ethnicities: their skin colour certainly differs, but racial and ethnic identification is a whole lot more nuanced than that.  Are they really opposite ethnically?  

Consider the idea of different cultures - possibly at first glance that's a seemingly logical assumption, but we don't know where these two grew up, what occupations they currently hold, what aspects of lifestyle and perspective and family and friends they share in common - or not.  They're walking across the same town center, a shopping plaza - perhaps both with a similar list of errands; groceries for dinner, stop at the post office, etc.  How opposite culturally can they really be?

Different religions - might surmise so based on appearances, but then again, we have no idea to what beliefs they hold true. Unlikely to be opposite in any deep sense.

On to dress - yes, they do look quite different.  However, they are both wearing traditional clothing of long-standing origin. 

And then there's the simple fact that both subjects are facing away, in the opposite direction, from the photographer. 

"Tailgating" During the Devon Horse Show Carriage Pleasure Drive

A summer afternoon party calls for sparkling beverages! On the left, seltzer with raspberry puree and a dash of Rose's grenadine.  On the right, Prosecco with raspberry puree and St. Germain elderflower liqueur (the ribbon tied on the handle alerted one to which was "with" and which was "without").

Tea sandwiches on pain de mie bread: radish with goat cream cheese and cucumber with salmon mousse.

Cinnamon chip scones.

Roasted red pepper deviled eggs.

Bountiful, beautiful berries!

Playing bean bag toss while waiting for the horses!

Founded in 1896, the Devon Horse Show is an amazing event that attracts competitors, spectators and visitors from all over the world.  It's a cherished part of our community.  The Carriage Pleasure Drive is a beloved tradition that takes place on the opening Sunday of the Show, wherein antique horses-driven carriages of all sorts and sizes go for a leisurely ride along the winding, wooded residential roads around Devon.  Drivers, passengers and groomsmen all dress the part, from tip to toe!

One can hear the next carriage coming before it can be seen, and everyone rushes to the side of the road to watch.

Carriages are pulled by one to four horses (or ponies!).

It's so much fun to see the different carriages, horses, and outfits!

The weather this year was perfect - a verified rarity during Horse Show days!

It takes much preparation beforehand to ready the carriages and horses.

We are fortunate to live nearby such a wonderful and unique event.

Everyone waves and cheers as each carriage goes by.

Of course, hats are also a big part of tradition at the Horse Show, and one day is in fact devoted to a Ladies Hat Contest.

I would wish to ride in a carriage with an awning! Even though the weather was unusually mild and dry, the sun was still strong!

A perfect day for a Sunday drive.

Watching and listening to the rhythm of the horses' steps was fascinating.

Our party voted these four ponies the absolute most adorable of the day!

This four-in-hand pulled a wagon advertising Professor Odell's Ointments.  Must find out the story behind that!