On A Tuesday

On Tuesday, yes, Tuesday, I will drive myself to Rhinebeck, New York.  I will enter into a new building - a retreat center.  I will meet strangers and I will sing with them; chant with them.  For the whole day.  This will be prayer and joy and space and connection.  I will listen to and join beloved voices: Krishna Das and Nina Rao; individuals who have given the greater part of their lives to devotion through song.

Last year, undoubtedly around this very same day, I went to a yoga class.  I don't think I had been in some time, it being summer.  During this particular yoga class, a voice came into my being.  A voice of compassion and unwavering love.  I was shocked by this and my ego was full of doubtful protest: "no way.  This is made up.  Listen to ME!"  

But the voice persisted and she said things like,

"I have been here all along and I will always be here.
No matter what.
I love being with you;
I have always loved being with you..."

I kid you not, in this very same class, while I was in shavasana my right hand moved over my left breast and I felt something that did not feel right.  My knowing body went into a different kind of shock - that of deep fear.  I cried then.  And I called the doctor the very next morning with a shaking hand.

In the weeks that followed, I recall a crisis of my mind/body.  The only things that could calm me were laying on the earth, doing a walking meditation where I would count 1-10 and then backwards 1-10, or washing the dishes.  And in the cracks between fear, there was just enough space for that sweet yet strong voice to emerge again.  Over the next nine months or so, I would both intentionally and unintentionally create space for this voice which required work and trust and patience and forgiveness for forgetting that she was there.  Always.  No matter what.  As she kept telling me.

I have read and could write many cliche things about this voice, but rather I will just stick with this: s/he is in all of us.  I know this for sure.  And we must make space for her in whatever way works for us.

And, sometimes, we must honor her; we must bow down to her.  For me, I will do this through singing to her and with her for a day.  And by singing to her, I will also be singing to the voice within every single one of us.  

Which is what I plan to do on Tuesday.

Soft As Water

Soft As Water

Dear One,

One day
you will
sit in
a storm

and the
waves will
crash over
you, one

by one,
and you
will watch
each wave

come and
go - some
fierce, some
gentle - and

although you
are a
rock, you

will also
be soft
as water.

My 42nd Year

I have never done this before but as my 42nd birthday approached I started coming up with a mental list of what had transpired.  This year seemed like a solid one to reflect back on the lessons and doings, big and small.  So, here I go...

NOTE: this list is certainly not exhaustive, linear nor do they imply that I have "mastered" such skills or insights; for many of them, it is just the beginning!

My 42nd year, I...

*  started wearing rubber gloves to wash the dishes.

*  practiced and practiced and practiced and practice . . . listening to my own heart.

*  began drinking shots of 100% cranberry juice.

*  had my left breast removed.  And, day by day, got/get closer to my heart (but you don't have to have a breast removed to get closer to your heart . . . its just how I have had to flip it for myself.)

*  had many bonfires in the Fall and, in connection with the previous star, had a spontaneous bonfire ceremony honoring my left breast the night before my mastectomy surgery.

*  sat (literally) with my girls more than ever.

*  found my voice in an unexpected way through sharing my journey with breast cancer via video messages on FaceBook.

*  got the shortest haircut of my life.

*  took seriously the job of opening my heart (on my yoga mat) so that I could receive all of the goodness that was coming my way.

*  heard from friends from all different stages of my life and from years ago and was so deeply touched and dare I say transformed by people's goodness and generosity.

*  cried in public settings more than ever and was so ok with it; in fact, I invited it in.  One day I said to Matt, "I may just cry the whole day."  And I pretty much did.

*  hiked a mountain in the winter.

*  took an exorbitant amount of medication and laughed at times when I would work to convince myself that I was just going through a really hardcore detox.

*  threw three birthday parties for my three girls: a 2nd birthday, a 4th and a 7th (a little early.)

*  found a prayer that really suites me: "om mani padme hum."  (the jewel of the heart of the lotus.)  And, although I probably sat less, prayed more than ever in unexpected places like on various medical scanning devices or radiation beds or my very own bed.

*  allowed myself to experience the raw emotion of anger.  And noticed how very close it lives to sadness.

*  let my husband put my kids to bed most nights for four months or maybe more.  And do the dishes after.  With a grateful (and tired) heart.

*  weaned my third daughter in a way that I never expected.  God, was she gracious.

*  wore my pajamas during the day (this was harder than it sounds.)

*  brought on tears in other people just by my sheer presence.

*  read one beautiful novel.

*  put my barefeet in the earth (and laid down on the earth) more than ever before.  In fact, I felt a slight panic come on in anticipation of the first snow.

*  watched a couple of movies during the day (once I accepted the pajamas thing.)

*  experienced feeling alone and was also aware that this is undoubtedly and ironically the most common of human sufferings.

*  created huge hearts in the snow and traced them while praying when my dear friend tragically lost her husband.  It was all I knew how to do.

*  became an aunt three times over.  And each time a well of joy and hope for new life.

* began learning that the capacity to give love and to receive love has absolutely nothing to do with being perfect.

*  said thank you and meant it probably more than ever in my life.

*  made snow angels.

*  had days when the only thing that would get me out of bed was the promise and purpose of a walk in the snow.

*  let my family and friends take care of me and experienced the power of a strong support system (including my own practice of yoga and meditation and a darn good therapist.)

*  Missed most of my girls' school events.  And cried when I realized that I could go to my youngest daughter's pizza party at her school without fearing germs.

*  got better at noticing the mental "pits" that can lead to great suffering (any thought that may begin with..."I should have...: if only I had . . . ; maybe it was the . . .")

*  planned a cross-country road trip in my mind.

*  began understanding that being with my own suffering (and delight) has the potential to widen my circle of compassion for other beings.

*  found that it is often the grandiosity of nature that can bellow, "No.  Big.  Deal."

*  started using a neti pot (albeit not religiously.)

Walking Each Other Home

"We are all just walking each other home."

~Ram Dass

When I was a child, perhaps 7, I had a jewel of a friend.  God, were we lucky.  Part of the beauty of it was our access to one another.  We both came from big families, three siblings each, so getting rides was probably not the norm.  This great fortune allowed us for long days together where we would play under the trellis in the magic of her backyard or comb each other's hair in my rainbow papered bedroom or jump in crunchy leaf piles until darkness snuck in.  And when it did, much to our chagrin, we would have to part.  And I can remember on a number of occasions we would "walk each other home."  If she was at my house, I would walk her home; when we arrived there, she would walk me home.  In my memory, this went on for some time until we would depart half way.  I picture us there in the middle of Greenleaf Drive, embracing and turning away.  Our heads down; our hearts tender.  

The image of my childhood friend and I doing this popped into my head a couple of weeks ago when I was speaking to my dear friend who lives in Australia.  She was expressing her desire to come to the States but just couldn't imagine mustering the energy for such a journey with two little ones.  I fantasized about doing what I did some 35 years ago, but this time on a large airplane crossing oceans.  I was scheming up ways that I could, "walk her home."  

Simultaneously, I saw this quote that I have seen many times by Ram Dass, "we are all just walking each other home."  And I wondered, how can we continue to walk each other home?  Perhaps these days "walking someone home" means reverting to old school communication techniques: dialing a number, sending a letter or just plain old showing up on someone's doorstep.  

Who knows, maybe I will just take a jetliner across oceans to literally walk my friend home.  And our hearts will be tender and full.   

Birds, Glorious Birds!

The diversity of birds that have graced our outdoor space just seems vaster this year: an oriole; a rose breasted grosbeak (who we even got to see take a bath!); cardinals so brilliant and robins galore; sparrows and nuthatches and birds that we don't know the names of yet (one of which did a mating dance right before our eyes!)

The other night while lying in bed I had this delightful thought that maybe the birds were being drawn to the yard by my hair.  I know.  I don't have any, but we did put remnants of my hair in our three braided birdhouses tied to our Japanese Maple a month or two ago ("we" meaning Matt here.)  Karen, who cut my hair, saved some just for this purpose.  As she was sweeping it up off of her wooden floor on a late October afternoon she thought, "oh, well the birds just might love this stuff for their nests!"  So she gifted my hair back to me and when some space cleared in our bodies and minds and hearts, we remembered.  And we acted.  

Now, I surely do not know if there are actually more birds in the yard or, if indeed there are, if it is because they were drawn to fragments of my past hair, but I don't think it really matters.  What does matter is that my eyes feel more wide open and my heart more curious.  And perhaps it is the soul of me that is utterly delighted to sense and consider that the birds flew in for my hair.  

What kind of dance will it be?

I wrote this poem as I prepared to have my hair cut and shaved in, when was it?, October?  Oddly, after all was said and done at that point, this poem did not resonate with me.  Getting my haircut and shaved happened to be quite a peaceful and even fun experience.  My friend Karen did the cutting outside with mountain views all around us and the shaving inside while we listened to beautiful music.  She even served me healthy snacks!  

But I have been thinking of this poem more recently.  As I enter back into health (did I ever leave "health?"  Another blog altogether), not having hair feels more troublesome than when I first had it cut.  My reflection in the mirror does not reflect with how I feel inside.  Goodness me, am I learning patience.  

Now I know that there is no answer to the question posed in the title; that the dance will be one thing one day, and another entirely the next.  The idea is: keep moving.  Move through the pain and the heartache; through the ease and the grace - the fierce and the gentle.  And dance when you can.  

What kind of dance will it be?

This morning

the leaves

fell from

the trees

with soft

grace; a

slow dance

with the

gentle rain

and mindful

wind and

I thought,

"may my hair fall from my head like the leaves are falling: with ease and grace."

This afternoon

the leaves

fall with

a fierceness;

a primal

dance with

the sideways

rain and

the forceful

wind and

I think,

"well, perhaps it will be more like that."

Ryan McLean Tobin

What grace.  I have become an aunt three times over in the past nine months.  The most recent birth happened about three weeks ago.  It was an arduous birth to say they least, but Kristy and Keith's strength and patience helped bring this new light into the world.

At the same time that Ryan emerged into the world, I happened to be at Kripalu having a kind of "re-birth" of my own.  I was in a class called Journey Dance and the Kripalu drummers where so on!  I stayed on the edges at the beginning of the class; like a high schooler at her fist dance.  But the music (and the amazing teacher, Toni) drew me in and there was no turning back.  When I found out the time of Ryan's birth (which was the same time that I was in this class), this poem was born from my top bunk at Kripalu.  

A Poem for Ryan McLean Tobin

Like the ancient

Beat of a 

Drum, you came

Into the world.

A gift for

Us all, you 

Brought with you

Pure innocence and 

Goodness that helps

Remind us of

The tenderness in

Each of our hearts.

And your birth

On this 25th

Day of March 

Guides us to,

In our core,

Remember our own

Precious birth and 

The sacredness of

Our presence here 

on this beating 

heart called home.