already!

Diagram of a dark day...

I came home from vacation to find death under the hood of my car. The battery watched, helpless, as the life drained from its black and plastic housing. A trunk, cranky and unwilling to close all the way, stole the juice. Welcome back to Portland I said to myself. Hungover from a late night flight and a white pilled promise for airborne sleep, I pressed fingers to the buttons. Three letters at the beginning of the alphabet arrive with a black snake of electricity. It bites down and shocks my car to life. It's hard to bring back the dead. I need stronger voltage. Stomach empty, cells dehydrated, uterus cramping on the 28th day, I drive to the men in white shirts. They run to greet you with names stitched above their hearts. Hand over keys, receive a promise for revival, I join the others in the waiting room. Clock ticks, stomach grumbles, blood sugar drops. My mood? Erratic and skidding towards unreasonable. The progression: irritable, irrational, inconsolable. I stand next to my car 2 hours later, starving, and begin to cry. It works, as it always does. Testicles run from salty water. Charging complete, keys in my hands again, I drive home to eat oatmeal in the rain. Cramps intensify with the fuel. This day is hydroplaning.

Cross the river and find an hour of needled bliss. I am relaxed, briefly. Yoga class is waiting for me on the other side. This salvation - 90 minutes of spring cleaning for my nervous system – is pre-paid. Still, it is a day of dismay. A 15 minute drive expands to 40 in late day traffic. My bladder screams, Release Me! Tears, they prowl my perimeter. Yoga lost. I turn instead to my standby. Clean aisles of potential dressed in green and white. Fruits of other people's labor, bread kneaded on someone else's floured surface. This is my meditation – up and down fingering what might do the trick. First though, I answer my bladder's pleas. It's ruby time, the scarlet stranger is back in town and demanding I change her dressing. Distracted, fingers slip. My jeans turn the color of garnet. Shirt too short to hide the evidence, I unlock the gates and let the tears pour in, over, and through. I'm crying, sobbing, in the stall of a grocery store bathroom. Is this what happens when vacation ends?

Stumbling into the brightness

Then it's morning. I wake early. All of my cells are in one place again. Yoga, the reliable haven, is waiting. These roads are traffic free for my bike and me. Criss-cross apple sauce I sit and open to what has to be better than yesterday. My teacher speaks and I feel the flashlight beam. She says – "You know those days when every last possible irritation happens? When the drama builds and you sit, lungs strapped tight, wondering – why? why? why? One more thing and you feel as though you'll explode into sharp splinters. Then, something happens and you remember the ancient equation: inhale, exhale. You do it again. Then, you think - 'Oh my god, for a second there I thought I was the center of the universe. Can you believe it? I actually thought I was the center of the universe.'" She laughs, condescension free, speaking with lightness and compassion. I think, exactly. What a burden, to be the center of the universe. To feel that you are in charge and responsible for all that goes on. This practice, inhale, exhale, moving my body to that airy rhythm, it's what saves me. On 9.11, I went to yoga. When my relationships with A, M, & S ended, I went to yoga. When I first got hired, I went to yoga. When emotions are swirling and I don't know what else to do with myself, I unroll my mat and do some yoga. It's home base.

I often think how lucky I am to have something so accessible that reliably eases my insides. Yoga doesn't have to be yoga – the process comes in many forms: brush, pen, instrument. The anywhere, anytime, no money, no one else required thing. That piece of life that helps us to expand and say "Yes."

My 3-year old son slept late this morning. When it came time to take his sister to school, I sat on the bed and coaxed him to come down for scrambled eggs "to go" -- the same eggs that had cooled 30 minutes before. He looked up at me, one eye still hidden behind the folds of a pillow. I knew something wasn't right. And for a second, I thought of cancelling everything so he could rest. Hmm, I could knit all day. I could watch my daughter dance. I could collect autumn leaves. I could rub my son's back. But a little voice said no, you have a parent meeting, and you promised to show a friend your garden, and you are carpooling with another family, and you scheduled a playdate in the afternoon. So I curled his body into my arms and carried him downstairs, hoping that it was just a fluke, that when he saw the eggs, he would perk up.

We drove to school in a breathless flurry, the untouched bowl of eggs teetering on the seat. After escorting my daughter to class, I stopped by the Parent Lounge, my son draped over my shoulder like a heavy blanket. The voice said, okay okay, you can't really stay, but before you go, be sure to explain to everyone why you're skipping out -- you can't just leave them hanging (but you can leave your son literally hanging). That's when he threw up, all over my wool sweater coat, all over the tile floor. Splash. The driving voice inside me was now silent. I was back to the present moment. I could feel my son's chest, rising and falling with each breath. So why does it take vomit to bring me to this sacred moment? :)

Admittedly, I have a lot of work ahead of me, if I want to live mindfully and be witness to the sacred in everyday moments. I do not want to wait for illness, conflict, crisis, or change to bring me to my senses. That is the lesson my son taught me today. Now, to carry forth what I've learned...

Signed,
A mama in Portland

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Blessings to you,
mark