Twenty Four

Twenty four years ago, when I myself was 24, I was in my last days of being extremely pregnant. I was absolutely side-show enormous, pushing past the very outer limits of maternity wear. By then, I think I lived in one of my Uncle Ben's large plaid shirts, an XL long-sleeve thermal top and black leggings with a forgiving waistband. I also lived in my Uncle Ben's former house near San Francisco State University, thanks to my parents, so it was always gray and cool, perfect weather for me when insulated by an extra 25 pounds, 9 of which, though I didn't know it at the time, were all baby.

It pleases me to count the days, to know that in just a couple, I will cross a big boundary: I will have been someone's mother for half my life. And then, every day after that, for MORE than half my life.

Other than breathing perhaps, I can't think of many other things I've done for 24 years straight, for half my life or more. OK, drinking coffee: sure, that's true. And reading books and being friends with people I've known since 8th grade (Scott, that's you) and high school (Old Joe, Frances, Lisa and more): OK, those are true, too. But still, half a life is a long, long time to be one thing, to be someone's mom, to know that that creature over there is half me, half someone-else, connected and also free, of the same cloth and yet completely individual.

There's a lot of delight in that.

Twenty four years ago I thought I was prepared for what is, essentially, something for which nothing can prepare you. I thought I knew; I didn't know shit. And yet, everything turned out great. Knowing is not essential. Preparation is helpful, but also not essential. I'm still learning to be unprepared, to leave room to be stunned, left wordless and breathless, by all that I don't know, that I can't know.

On Monday night I'll go through my annual ritual of reliving the whole experience: the slow start to the contractions, their insistence throughout the night, the early morning ride in my parents' VW camper to the hospital, The Kid's sunny birth at 2:16pm. I'll re-feel echoes of that long-ago pain, and celebrate the moment I first saw my boy with my own eyes, all 22" of him, all 9 pounds, purple feet and hands in fists, drawing that first long breath and wailing his arrival.

Happy 24th to my sweet child. Happy 24 years of motherhood to me.

It's good to be here, half a life later. So good.

a little something i love...

This week's assignment from writing class is to write about little things we love. We were asked, on our call on Monday, to make a list of tiny objects we love. Strangely, I got a little hung up after Jasper's tag, my blue lotus earrings, my notebook, the photo of The Kid at a May Day celebration at Waldorf School, his grinning baby face wreathed in flowers. This morning the little thing I am particularly loving is The Lost Art of Gratitude by Alexander McCall Smith, latest in the series of Isabel Dalhousie novels.

For my birthday a few years ago, my mother sent me a package. No doubt she was impatient with how difficult it is to make plans with us, always so busy, but also what a delightful impulse. Who doesn't love the prospect of a surprise, the receipt of a box containing who knows what? She sent me all of the Dalhousie books, the first 4 in paperback, the last hardback. I knew McCall Smith from the Ladies Detective Agency books, but didn't know anything about these stories. I read the five books in a week. They're lovely little things, light, delightful. They make me dream of Scotland.

After a workshop in a bookstore on Sunday past, I allowed myself one purchase and one only. A bookstore is a place of huge temptation for me -- so easy for me to spend hours and dollars, leave with bags and bags of books, more books than I can possibly accomodate either physically or in space and time, feeding my greedy little inner collector as much as my voracious reader. From the sale table, I selected the latest Dalhousie, on remainder for $6.99.

I started it yesterday, loathe to drag the Murakami to the chair. Although I'm on page 224 of 1Q84 and loving it, I am still a little oppressed by its heft. Finding a comfortable supine position in which to hold it is a bit challenging.

So instead I grabbed the Dalhousie, headed for the big chair, dog in lap, and started in.

It's wonderful. There are moments, phrases, that make me laugh out loud. There has been, also, at least one occasion on which I've audibly gasped, causing Joe to look up and over from whatever he was reading (the paper, I think). It's written in such a smooth, engaging manner, so old-fashioned in just the right way.

Nowadays while reading, I am super conscious of how stories are put together. Well, to be fair, that's something I am always aware of, something that I'm tracking even as I'm engrossed in the story. I spent too many years studying literature to be able to just read without marveling at the artistry required to build the structure. But now, really, I'm reading more keenly, knowing that it's coming, the time when I will be putting together the book. This makes me super conscious of the skeleton beneath the fur.

How wonderful that just now I was on McCall Smith's website and discovered that this book I'm reading now is not the last in the series. There are two more for me to devour in short order as soon as possible, sitting curled up in the big chair, indulging myself in the name of research!

Truly, truly: a good little story is something I really love.

Pap de Q

If there's one thing I hate to shop for, it's definitely toilet paper. I tend to avoid it, but this past weekend was so proud of myself that I managed to buy more *before* we ran out, something which probably doesn't seem like it should rank as any kind of achievement when you're nearing 50 years of age, but in my case, unfortunately, does. There's just something about standing in that row in the supermarket, all those shelves stocked with variations on thickness, softness, ply, scent, that I strongly dislike.

It has nothing to do with any kind of prudery re bodily functions. Raised in a family of 5 with one bathroom, through which my parents regularly paraded and hung out at the double-sinks naked and in which the very desire for privacy was considered an act of insubordination, I don't think I ever developed any kind of squeamishness about these matters. I'm an animal that way, I suppose.

No, the thing that gets me every time I'm facing those plastic wrapped packages of ass-wipe, is how much I feel I SHOULD buy the recycled paper and yet how much I DESPISE the recycled paper. Seriously, I realize it's made with post-consumer waste-paper, but does it have to universally just suck?

There was the one day, such a giant relief, when I couldn't put off the ass-paper purchase any longer, went to the store and found the shelves mysteriously empty of the crappy recycled crap-paper. I was delightfully off the hook and free to buy whatever was on sale or struck my fancy.

This was after the time when I used to order recycled toilet paper, before it was available at places like Safeway, direct from a catalog. Huge cardboard boxes would show up on our porch, containing nothing more exciting than individually-wrapped rolls of that grayish, miserable, fall-apart paper. In those days, I was more hell-bent, and also the mail-order saved me from even entering that aisle, from having to imagine what it might be like to get a satisfying, absorbent wipe out of a handful of the "real," not recycled ass paper. I was also strongly influenced -- and indeed still think about -- an article I read in some eco-warrior 'zine in the early 90s, about how grotesque it is that we cut down trees in order to have something with which to clean our bottoms. I will say that I never did, never would, go as far as the author, who advocated the use and re-use of cloth for this purpose. That is truly vile.

A note on ass paper: in my family we always refer to toilet paper as "papier cul," which translates as ass paper, paper for the ass, what-have-you. Joe translates this phonetically, in his form of French, as Pap de Q, hence the title of our elevating post today.

So, standing in the toilet paper aisle always brings me back to this essential conundrum of my middle-aged being: how much I care about the environment and yet how much I enjoy simple things like the satisfaction of an effective wipe. There's a part of me that can get really wound up about this, pissed even, like god damn it, I've been doing my part for so long, can someone take over being all self-righteous and shit, so I can just sit down and have some comfort in my old age? I know: kind of ridiculous.

But there it is. I do really feel this way, like we've carried this torch for so long, have been so committed for such long stretches of time, like being vegan (yes, seriously) for about 7 years from 1988 to 1997-ish when there was nothing out there, the eating landscape a wasteland (going to Disneyland with The Kid and ordering hamburgers without the meat, subsisting on what was available, french fries and bread with lettuce and tomato). We were eco-warriors for ages, riding our bikes, pulling said-Kid in the trailer to school, Joe once even banishing someone in his band from eating his dinner of hot dog in our house. Oh, crazy, ridiculous, eco-fascist days of youth. Still, to this day, so many practices are integrated into our life, things I love like composting, things that are total reflex like avoiding plastic whenever possible.

I used to imagine it like shark-teeth. You know how they say that sharks have these rows and rows of teeth in their cartilaginous jaws -- one falls out and another moves up to take its place. I'd like to be that shark-tooth that delicately steps aside, letting other sharper teeth come take my place, please. Sometimes I'm just too tired and small to carry the whole burden of whether the polar bears live or die. Sometimes I just want to take a ride in a fan-boat and really, truly enjoy it without stressing about the consequences.

Not so long ago, I declared an end to my recycled ass-paper buying ways. The first time, the good stuff was on super-sale and we were on a tight budget, or so I rationalized the purchase. But now I just buy what I want, and know that I do what I can where I can and try to banish the Should. I'm a whole lot happier that way. I still feel the struggle in the toilet paper aisle, but now I reach for what I want and try to let go of the rest. So much happier that way.

sunday? sunday!

favorite things

Perhaps because we changed the clocks back to Real Time last night [daylight "savings" time is a pet peeve], I am having the most luxurious, languid Sunday.  Woke up on my own, before 7, and it was light out.  I could see the marvel of our yard, the morning light on Jasper's stone across from our room.  Mr Burns was curled up between us on the bed.  I felt fine.

When's the last time I felt fine on awakening?  

Seriously, a long time.

Just felt fine.  Great.  Slight buzz of a headache and sore as hell from yoga.  But fine.

In other words: happy.

Had breakfast with Joe, then off he went to ride for hours.  Mr Burns had his first experience of the Roomba (strong dislike).  He curled up on the ottoman in the sun.  I sat in the big chair  next to him and read, for hours, enjoying coffee #2 which somehow, inexplicably, tasted better than it had in days.  Just so rich, complex on the tongue, excellent.  

At a certain point, I looked up from my book and had no idea what day it was.  I sat there for a minute convinced it was a weekday, that I'd called in sick just to have a chance to savor being in the dazzle of my home in the morning.  The moment just had that feeling of standing suspended outside the rush of everything.  Then slowly, Sunday came shimmering back. 

What?  That just doesn't happen.  That I lost track of where we are on the calendar, of where I stand precisely on the rocketing-forward momentum of my trajectory through time, now THAT is something, something really good.  The total ease of that moment, my comfort in the chair, the sun on Mr Burns' gorgeous sable coat -- perfection.

And then puppy stretched and turned and, as I thought he might, tumbled from the ottoman onto the carpeted floor at my feet.  Then stretched some more and yawned merely as an excuse to close his teeth around my ankle.  So we went for a walk, still inside this sparkly little bubble outside of time, me and the dog enjoying Sunday in all its glory.

I can't shake the feeling that I did something really right to bring me to this day, to this sensation, to this amnesia of the day's name. At some point, when I shake off the glamour, I'll try and reconstruct the recipe, see if I can't reproduce this delicious dream. In the meantime, just completely inside it, relishing every moment.

we were on a break.

It took about one minute. All of one minute for me to realize what an idiot I'd been.

We were on a break. I admit it was one-sided. It was all me deciding for this break, needing some space, some distance, some breathing room. I'd had a few unsettling experiences of observing myself going through the motions. Oh dear. Really? It all seemed so silly, laughable even. What was I doing? So the break: I made it happen.

At first the break was great. I felt more free, more un-scheduled, more spontaneous, more present. But as time went on, I started to question my choice. Was this new state better? Had I made a mistake? I kind of missed you, but I wasn't sure. It was confusing. I felt increasingly muddled, unclear.

And then yesterday, it hit me. In one minute.

One minute of sitting on my mat, guided by a skillful teacher (thank you, DownDogDave), and like a lightning bolt came the realization:

Yoga reminds me of who I really am.

Sitting there, everything came rushing back: my sense of my self as a creative being, not as an exhausted body; my delight in my own physical systems and strength, not just a bag of ailments.  The foggy mirror got wiped clean, and suddenly I could see again.  I could see Me.  In one minute.

So even though I broke up with you for a while, Yoga, I realized yesterday that that was a delusion on my part. I mistakenly thought I could break up with you but that's impossible, because you're a part of me. I can no more separate myself from you than from my lungs or opposable thumbs or eyeballs.  You're not outside me.  You're an inexhaustible source of well-being that I carry around inside. You are me.

This realization makes me feel had -- or I could say, saddy, or any other combination of happy + sad.  I'm happy because I feel good and content in a way I didn't for the weeks of the break, happy to be brought back to where I belong, solid in this knowing of who and what I am.  And also, a little strangely sad, knowing that this, yoga, asana, practice, is something I don't have a choice about doing anymore.  Maybe I never did, it's just that now I have full awareness that this is it.  The yoga is my dharma.  I can quail and fret and eat potato chips, but that doesn't change the fact: it's my dharma, so I just need to do it.

Do your dharma.  Fuck the rest.

Everything else is noise.  All the chatter, all the yoga gossip, all the names we call ourselves: noise.  All that matters is practice, is devotion, is the act of coming back, again and again, in a simple attitude of gratitude for this body, for this life.

Of course, you, Yoga, you knew this all along.  You let me break up with you so that I would figure this out on my own.  You'd been telling me so for years, but clearly, I forgot and needed the wake-up.

Thank you.  I get it now.  I'm all in, more so than before, clear-headed, resolute and ready for class.

XX

Thank you, Jenn Graham!

fat for me

My delightful friend Jen uses this expression, "fat for me."  She's a yoga teacher and personal trainer and someone who is starting her own wellness coaching business, and is all-around gorgeous -- and yet she, like the rest of us, struggles with weight and body image, etc.  One day as we were driving to yoga together, she was telling a story and described her sense of herself at that moment as "fat for me." As in not necessarily really and truly fat, but just fatter than I want to be, fatter than is comfortable for me.  Fat for me.

I'm thinking about this expression this morning a lot as I prepare to go have lunch with a friend who has been on a weight-loss kick *and* daily yoga binge for months, even as I have been on break from practice and eating whatever I want, even as my jeans have gotten tighter.  I am definitely fat for me right now, so I'm feeling nervous about seeing her.

So lame, right?

I'm totally happy for her, of course.  I know she feels great, which is wonderful.  But it's strange to be so idle, to observe the loss of definition, to know that it's going to be a bitch of an uphill battle to get back what I had so recently.

And to be so fat for me.

But there it is.  I know this is just a phase I'm going through, this particular period of fat for me, but if I'm being honest, it does hold me back, make me want to stay home, want me want to avoid people because I am not comfortable in my own skin.

Naturally, we're going out for sandwiches, which will represent a departure from her current regimen of  not eating carbs.  Hah, no change for me in my current carbotarian ways.  But seriously, I think I've hit the outer limit of fat for me today.  And there's no way I'm going clothes-shopping right now so it's high-time to reverse this expanding trend and start contracting.

So, yes to sandwiches today, and then I'm done with the fat for me for now.  To yoga at 6 and back on the routine.  It's going to be challenging at first, but that's ok: I miss feeling great.  Can't wait to get that back.

homework for life

We just got home from puppy class and I'm sitting here feeling sad that our six-week course is already over.  The full truth is that that hour has been the highlight of my week for the last few weeks. I have more thoroughly enjoyed that hour-long experience of being in a room with other puppies and their people and our genial teacher Erica than really truly anything that's happened to me for a long time.

That probably seems kind of sad, right?

But really, it isn't. What I love about puppy class is that while I'm in it, I am utterly incapable of multi-tasking.  It takes every bit of attention to focus on what Erica is saying over the noise of other people and their dogs and their kids and every ounce of coordination to manage the verbal cue, the hand gesture, the delivery of the treat at the precise moment.  It's thoroughly engrossing and also so very entertaining.  I know there are moments when I'm enjoying myself too much, laughing with too much abandon, having to remind myself to close my mouth while I'm listening to all of the instructions.

I love it.

Honestly what could be bad about being in a room with 6 or 7 puppies, especially because there are intervals in which we let them go, off-leash, and they run and roll and bite and play.  Being with dogs, being with puppies, always feels like such a treat to me.  It's so deeply pleasing to watch how they do things, and even more so to put my hands on them, pet their sweet heads, feel their bony skulls under my fingers.

Mr Burns was a little crazy in class tonight.  We're not supposed to feed our dogs before class so that they'll be more treat-motivated.  He was particularly nuts for treats tonight, a little nippy as I was handing them off to him, pumping him with goodies and Good Boy as he held his relaxed position in sit or down.  His main strategy when playing with the other puppies is to throw himself on his back, offering up his belly and neck, then rabbit-kicking his playmate in the head. He's good at some things, and on others he needs a lot more practice.

I guess that's one of the reasons I love puppy class so much-- it's that it really and truly makes a difference.  What we do in this class, what we do as homework, the constant repetition of the commands and gestures, the insistence on good behavior, matters.  It will make the difference between an out-of-control 70-pound monster or a docile giant we can take everywhere with us, not straining at every bit of stimulation, begging for food.

And of course, the training is mostly us.  We knew this going into it, having learned this lesson with Jasper oh-so-many years ago.  The training is mostly of the people, supporting us in being in the lead, in being consistent, in using positive reinforcement to reward the behavior we want, minimize if not eliminate that which we don't.

It's homework for life.

For a lifelong school-nerd, this is pretty much nirvana.

Our six weeks in class flew by, but we're already making plans to take the next session, beginning December 15th, on our way to ensuring that Mr Burns grows into a vgb [very good boy].  It's the least we can do for him.  And for ourselves.