Dear Bodes,

In case you ever somehow read this
I want you to know:
you are an amazing kid.

I can't believe how many times a day you tell me you love me.
How creative, hilarious, inventive and mischievous you are.
You change from costume to costume all day long.
You rock out and make the goofiest faces when you hear
the Black Keys, the White Stripes, and your little kid music.
You cry over sad songs.
You demand that we respect it when you cry. And we do.
You are, right now, uninhibited and free.
You have said, more than once or twice, "I love myself!" and "I love my body!"
I hope to God you retain this for the rest of your life.
I no longer worry about you, how you are going to do with others.
I worry about how the world may try to crush you.
How a bitter child might look askance at you, or envy you, or put shame on you.
I pray your spirit be indomitable, stainless, bullet proof.
I pray you find your tribe of supporters and lovers and friends.
I pray that you know down to the cellular level, down to your soul,
life is a beautiful game.
You're already a winner.
You're perfect just the way you are.
Show me, guide me, teach me
make your passions evident
so that I may nourish them in you,
and give you plenty to go on, more than enough support to
follow them and to realize your dreams.
Over and over.

Two Minute Baby Meditation

I am trying to give myself at least two minutes every morning, first thing, even before I get out of bed, to revel in quiet and empty space. So far so good.

Last Monday nightI attended my parenting guru, Carrie Contey's, workshop on parenting a four year old. Since that is what I will have in a few months. Right now he is still decidedly THREE. But all of the wisdom I absorbed last night must have been of great comfort to me; I was at the very end of my tether yesterday, completely depleted, flat-ly depressed, and hormonally bereft. I had nothing left. I was running on empty. My battery had drained. I was a shell, a husk of a woman. A mere shadow of my former self.

I was tiiiiiired.

So tired.

And just being around other parents who are also dealing with biting, screaming, kicking, adorable little people, all of whom are trying so hard to Parent for a Peaceful World, was balm for my soul. I know for sure we are not meant to parent in a vacuum. Nor are we meant to parent among judgmental a-holes, but it happens. Usually the biggest judgey-a-hole of my parenting is myself. At least it's obvious when others are doing it to me, and I can easily and righteously be properly outraged. When it's myself, well, I have every right to skewer my  horrible parenting skills (or lack thereof) and I know, while no one else does, that deep down inside I am a cruel, lazy, selfish chicken poop of a mommy.

Sheesh.

So much of my Yoga Work has been to lovingly and thoroughly, systematically at times, embrace all the parts of my self. It's easy to embrace the smart, slender, hilarious parts. It's harder to embrace the chunky, angry, petty parts of my self. But those irritants are my best teachers, the rough edges that keep me interested and involved.

Speaking of irritants, I really struggle when we are around other parents, the types who are still doing it "the old way," and not in the Slow Family Living way. And when I'm tired, which is often but not always, I struggle. Period.

So at some point during Carrie's presentation, I told of a weekend incident in which I, against my intuition, took my son to the swimming pool "for his own good." Even though I was already feeling vulnerable, angry with my husband (who was in a kung fu workshop all weekend), and deeply tired and resentful of _____ (you name it), I went. Even though I felt fat. Weird. Out of sync. And lo and behold, all of my worst fears about my child's behavior (He's too clingy! Autistic!) (He doesn't understand boundaries! SPD!) (He'll never have any friends! He doesn't see that they don't want him here!) (He won't share! He's a serial killer with no empathy! And look! He's hitting and splashing someone! He's a Bad Seed!) played out. I was MISERABLE. And the other parents, who seemed kind enough, just triggered me with their behavior (They are so much younger and more fit than I am! They must be wondering what such an old-looking mom is doing with a young boy!) including continuously calling him "Brody" instead of "Bodhi" (Do I correct them? They'll think it's a weird name and ostracize us! Why did I give him such a hippie name? What's wrong with me? Does he know that's a socially unacceptable name? That it brands him and his parents as weirdos, as worthy of scorn, as LIBERAL NEW AGERS or worse, TREND-FOLLOWERS?) OH WOE. IS ME. Why didn't I just name him Jack?

Ugh. Well. The moral to the story, as Carrie gently pointed out to me when I brought it up during the workshop, is that SELF CARE COMES FIRST. She reminded me/us that perhaps I shouldn't have put myself and therefore the two of us in that vulnerable situation when I was feeling desperate before we even left. That his "acting out" was his effort to maybe get energy from another source, since he wasn't going to be getting it from me. And yes, there is a fine line between honoring the self and getting out of the house and getting transformed by it, AND in wallowing in self pity, and in pushing yourself when you're already depleted. So I guess I'm not done learning that lesson yet.

Thus enters the Two Minute Baby Meditation.

Every morning, before I check my iPhone, I remember to breathe and create space for two minutes. Before the storm. And I do it sitting up if I can, though lying down with it is just fine. It's becoming habit, which I know means I am accumulating prana, and conserving energy. It is changing my life, dare I say.

I know, it's not a week-long silent meditation retreat. Not in chronological time, anyway. In the big scheme of things, in the eternal flow of time, it is. Every day. So when I give myself that much space in a day, the old junk clears out, and there is room for new insight and clarity.

There is so much to be said for this, for any practice at all.

On the "How" and "Presence"

Obviously my anti-depressant has knocked a hole in my writing mojo-worker. Oh well. I'd rather not be homicidally angry all the time than blogging and writing great novels and screenplays and magazine articles and poems anyway.

So where does the anger go? Well, April was "Anger Appreciation Month" so I reveled in it some, giving it space and letting it know I knew it was there and all. May was "Fear Appreciation Month," and that has been so exciting I guess I'll continue it into June. Giving Anger and Fear acknowledgment, putting those swelling emotions into words is, for me at least, a way to relieve them. 

I recently spent some time with two of my most influential yoga teachers, Mary Keator and George Purvis. Out of a couple of long conversations I got a couple bits o' wisdom to share with you:

1) When talking with George about the crazy "yoga scene" and the energy of students and in classrooms these days, he said something really quite profound: that people seem to come to class because they want to "do" yoga, not to learn "how" to do yoga. Yes! "Do" vs "How." Not that there's anything wrong with that; it's just a very different vibe. There does seem to be a group fitness class mentality, which is cool, but the real work happens at home, in my opinion. In practice. There has undoubtedly been lots written about the distinctions between a) yoga CLASS and b) yoga WORKSHOPS and c) yoga INTENSIVES and d) yoga RETREATS and e) yoga HOME PRACTICE and f) yoga OFF THE MAT.  But I'll add my two cents, and take a look at it myself.

I remember when I was first learning to play guitar and bass, 24 years ago, my then-boyfriend was teaching me so I could play in his band. He taught me the difference between "rehearsal," which is what we did with the entire band, and "practice," which is what I did at home, on my own. (I made the mistake of saying we were going to "band practice.") And then of course, all of that was meant to serve the "performance."

So it is, I think, with home practice, classroom study, and _______. Group practice is another topic as well. I personally *want* and *need* my yoga teacher to single me out and give me adjustments and "corrections." To tell me to do more or less or whatever. In a big group class, like at my gym, the teacher never leaves the front of the room and therefore is never really observing and suggesting. Now don't get me wrong, I go through my phases where all I want is to hide out in the back and be anonymous so I can just get my sweat on, but that kind of class doesn't advance me in my understanding of yoga, necessarily.

Something I have realized lately is that I have a gift, as a teacher, of being able to SEE. I can truly see a tiny adjustment that needs to be made and I can work with that student quickly and effectively to change their pose, which then has the potential to change their life. I didn't realize that not all teachers can do this. I think it takes practice. I have always been keenly interested in John Friend's talk of "cultivating eagle vision," the practice of cultivating the ability to SEE both the big picture and the overall energy of a roomful of students and the details in the energy of the people as individuals right in front of you. Oh I love this. I recall a teacher training with Mary K, years ago, where we really focused on seeing the whole of a student, and sensitizing ourselves so we could pick up on old injuries, or the emotional state of the student. Now, it's a hard thing to do, because obviously the danger would be that we as teachers might project our shit onto our students. So it has to be practiced with great care and love, and not with a critical eye toward "correction" but more a loving eye, as John says, toward enhancing the shri or beauty that is already there.

Back to "doing" yoga in a class rather than "learning" yoga.

Yeah, I find that I want to impart teachings. And I want to learn how to do yoga. But sometimes I just want to exercise and show off.

Good to know.

On to Mary's wisdom.

2) As we were chatting with another old friend and longtime yoga practitioner, we were discussing George's comment, and how there was something troubling to all of us about the "yoga scene" and being part of a group that well, you just really don't feel all that much a part of. My friend's  comment was that she usually felt "invisible" in the group. So Mary asked her, "Is that okay with you, to feel invisible in a yoga class?" And her answer was, "Not really, but I just try to accept it." To which  Mary said, "Well, if it's not okay with you then you need to own that. Because yoga is not about being invisible. Yoga is PRESENCE." It's BEING HERE. NOW.

Doh!

So I've been contemplating that. The learning. The teaching. The imparting, the partaking. What it is to be SEEN. What it is to SEE. And the many ways in which we make others feel invisible, or stroke the egos of the more visible by putting them up in front of the others.

I got a funny look from a pretty young woman as I was sitting writing at the coffee shop tonight. It was kind of...sweet, I think. But I have been enjoying myself, knowing that when I was the pretty young woman glancing at the older woman in the coffee shop I felt sorry for her. Now I know, my day has come. And those pretty young things will all hopefully grow beautifully older, as I have, and their days are coming too.

Ah, wisdom.

There's more, like how I've been setting boundaries with my son. How I feel like I already have a teenager in the house, who says he's BORED. Says he doesn't want me, doesn't like me, doesn't need me. Hates his toys. Doesn't like his house. Wants to go home. Needs a new toy. And so on. I'm trying everything I know and feel, and still could not avoid a meltdown at the toy store tonight. But I was so hungry and needed to get home. And he was so eager for adventure, and wanted to stay stay stay and play with the smorgasbord of toys. So we couldn't compromise. And he cried, yelled out that I was hurting him, struck me repeatedly, sobbed his heart out and kicked at the doors as they closed behind us. So we sat on the ground in front of the store and talked about how I needed to go, how I had to cook dinner and eat, how he wasn't hungry, how he wasn't sleepy, how he really wanted to look at the dinosaurs, and so on and so forth.  I stayed calm and we talked, in the soaring Texas heat (101 tomorrow), on the hot sidewalk, in front of funky toy central, while his voice shook and his shoulders shook and I empathized and soothed and spoke honestly until finally we were able to get in the car, neither of us satisfied but resigned to the outcome.

My parenting guru says that this age is extra tricky. She says it's a good time to hire a sitter or have someone other than mom or dad come and take care of the basics, like bathing. Eating. Teethbrushing. Bedtime. Because these are the places where the battle lines get drawn, and where tired parents go crazy. I try to remember that whenever I'm getting bitten, when naked boy circles the room gleefully while I chase him down with a tiny pair of tightie whities, when he keens and clamps his jaws shut every time I get the toothbrush out.

I'm still worried about him. That he has such an intense need to know WHAT, WHEN, and WHERE. Always. Has to find ways to anchor or locate himself in space. His most heartbreaking complaint? "I'm LOST!"  And when he says it, he means it in the most profoundly poetic way. Like: "But if you don't sleep in the bed with me tonight I'll feel LOST." Or when he finally did give in and accept his fate at the toy store, he mournfully said, "I'm LOST." Oh it tugs at me!

But I'm hesitant to teach him all the specifics of how we mark time. I want him to experience the freedom of his childhood without the restrictions and regulations and false sense of linear reality that clocks and schedules and closing times, deadlines, and sunrises give us. At the same time, I want to show him the maps of the world, so he'll have a sense of where he is. Where he's going. A big picture for a small boy.

Okay, that's it for now.  I know, pictures must come soon.

Tears of a Small Boy

I am starting to understand some things about who my son is, and perhaps who he will become.

The first realization came this week, when he insisted upon playing with the Halloween and the Christmas decorations, stored in boxes in the closet.

I remember vividly how much I LOVED to play with the Christmas decorations all year round. My barbies and paperdolls interacted regularly with the figurines from the nativity scene.

Bodhi is especially interested in "decorating." He wants to decorate every room so that it's "spooky." So we've been putting spiders on the shelves and hanging bats and owls from the wall. We turn the lights out and shine a flashlight in the bathtub, all the better if we turn on the light-up pumpkin and sit it on the bathroom counter while he takes a bath. In the dark.

So he was very adamant about getting the decorations out, was willing to pick up toys and take bites of his egg as long as I remembered to get the decorations out. At some point, he kept insisting there were more in the other closet, which I knew was not true. But he would not give in until he looked. I had to lift him up so he could look on the top shelf of the closet and make sure there was nothing interesting there. I was quite amused, because I saw in my son what I am sure my own mother must have seen in me: an indomitable will, aka "hardheaded." If you told me something I wanted to believe in was not true, there was no way to convince me otherwise. Still isn't, not really.

I see in my son that I am never going to be able to convince him with my words. He has the magical thinking that things are the way he believes them to be. Honestly? I am SO glad.

The other thing that actually happened today was really quite moving. We were on our way home from a birthday party outdoors in the park, and B had eaten a popsicle and played hard with some other boys for about an hour. So he asked that we listen to a Music Together CD, a compilation of kid's music from classes we used to take together when he was a baby. He kept asking me to turn it up LOUDER. So there we were, zipping down Mopac listening to "This train is bound for Glory" and so on, when this sad little ditty comes on. the gist of the song is "Whoever takes care of you will always come back to get you because they love you." It's a poignant little song, obviously meant to comfort a child who is upset over parting from mom or dad or whomever. So I look in the rearview mirror and there's Bodhi, eyes swollen with tears, little mouth turned upside down and quivering. Poor guy! He was clearly listening to the lyrics and feeling the melancholy of the song, because he was truly sad. I asked him if he was okay, and he said "I want to hear it again!" So I played it for him again, and the tears got bigger and started rolling down his cheeks. It really reminded me of how I could listen to certain sad songs as a kid and just cry and cry, listening over and over again and feeling the sorrow so deeply, so sweetly. So after it was over for the second time, I asked again if he was okay. And he said, "I can't talk." Oh. So I turned off the music and we rode in silence all the way home.

What a tender heart.