On Shavasana, Stones, Memories and Giving Thanks

I go to an awesome yoga class at the Cancer Support Community near my house.  Due to factors outside my control (Greta's tonsils, a hurricane and my own bronchitis) I hadn't been in a month.

I practically sprinted to class.

At the end of class, we prepared for Shavasana (where you get as comfortable as you can, listen to calming music and meditate).  Gail, our teacher, passed out little flat stones we placed in between our eyes or on our heart, dimmed the lights, and turned on some classical music.

Immediately, my heart jumped into my throat; Pachelbel's Canon in D floated through the room, and I was transported back to my wedding day. My Dad walked me down the aisle to this song.

As I listened to the music, every sense felt electrified.  I could smell my Dad's scent: an Old Spice, manly-yet-fatherly smell. I felt the muscles flexing in the crook of his arm, as I held on for dear life (I was so nervous/excited my knees were shaking).  I tasted a small salty tear on his cheek, even though he was smiling from ear to ear, as I planted a light kiss on his cheek and he placed my hand in Steve's.

Tears started rolling gently down my cheeks; I was grateful for the darkened room.  I miss my Dad so much, and as the holidays approach he's on my mind even more.  Thanksgiving in particular, I think, because I miss his steadfast presence at the head of the table, his strong back carving the turkey with antique utensils used by his own father.  Last year at Thanksgiving we were reeling from my cancer diagnosis, and to be honest I barely remember any of it.  I know I was grieving, but I was also terrified and absorbed in my imminent treatment, so the grief was numbed by fear.

This year, the grief feels loud and pointy.

I lay on my comfy mat, with the cool stone pressing its comforting weight between my eyes, and I cried for a minute or two.  Then I prayed. Instead of indulging too much in my grief, I honored him as best I could.  The tears dried up, and I found myself with a tiny smile at the corners of my mouth as Gail turned the lights back up, slowly, and brought us to a sitting position for a reading.

I was blown away by what she read, and after a year of hardship and blessings, it seemed like she was reading it just to me.  It's called, simply, "Be Thankful", and the author is unknown:

Be thankful that you don't already have everything you desire. 

If you did, what would there be to look forward to?

Be thankful when you don't know something, 

for it gives you the opportunity to learn.

Be thankful for your limitations,

because they give you opportunities for improvement.

Be thankful for the difficult times.

During those times you grow.

Be thankful for each new challenge, 

because it will build your strength and character.

Be thankful for your mistakes.

They will teach you valuable lessons.

Be thankful when you're tired and weary,

because it means you've made a difference.

It's easy to be thankful for the good things. 

A life of rich fulfillment comes to those who

are also thankful for the setbacks.

Gratitude can turn a negative into a positive.

Find a way to be thankful for your troubles, 

and they can become your blessings.

I was holding the stone in my hand, feeling how it had warmed from my body heat, when Gail mentioned there is a word on each stone.  

My word made me smile, given that tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  My stone said:  INDULGE.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  May your life be filled with the richness of gratitude and love.

-Ellie

I Wasn't Expecting This

I'm sitting at my computer, trying to think, but I'm distracted by the thumping of little feet upstairs.

They are playing some kind of game with their stuffed animals; elaborate skits that involve music and role-playing and can go on for hours.

I can't make out their words, but I can hear Greta's lilting voice, and Finn's lower, scratchier one (is it me, or is it already getting a little deeper?) as they laugh and argue good-naturedly about the rules of the game.

I didn't expect this.

I didn't expect that at almost 10 and almost 7 they would still play with stuffed animals, that they would still enjoy each other's company so much. I know I'm lucky; I know not all 10 and 7 years old get along like mine do. That's not bragging, because it has nothing to do with me.  It's all them, and their sweet souls.

There are changes in the air, though. A twinge of cool air in the evening, sometimes even carrying that distinctive smell of autumn.  Some leaves are changing (changing!) in patches, and some are starting to fall to the ground.

There are other changes, too.  As Greta approaches tween-hood, there is more eye rolling, more "Finn! Leave me alone!", more bursting into tears for no reason.  It's coming, I know it is, and so I'm wallowing in the mostly-sweet of the way things are right  now.  I try to stay in the moment - OH, I try - but a little voice in my brain whispers - is this the last sweet summer?  Is this the last summer of stuffed animals?  

Finn starts first grade, and so for the first time in ten years both my kids will be gone full time - all day, every day, at school.

I spent so many years longing for this day; mired down in diapers or whiny kids who couldn't speak well enough to articulate what they wanted.  Days when I couldn't just go to the gym, or visit with a friend, because my schedule was irrevocably intertwined with theirs.

Now that day is only a couple of weeks away, and I'm surprised by how my gut twists at the thought of them both being away for so long, every week.

I wasn't expecting this.

Again, I try to stay in the moment, not project, not have too many expectations, but I have to acknowledge that twisting.  I'm not great with a lot of unstructured time. My inclination is to start my plan for world domination - make HUGE plans, turn my jewelry business into something big, write that novel, get a full-time job - all to run from too many hours alone with me.

Instead, I'm going to try what I'm thinking of as mini-structure, and it's all about self-care, self-love, and peace of mind.  I'm six months past cancer - I have to keep reminding myself of that - and I need to take this time to take care of me.

Each morning I will do some form of exercise. Not in that over-the-top-train-for-a-marathon-hate-myself-if-I-don't-workout kind of way, but in a move-your-body-Ellie kind of way.  Yoga. A walk in the woods. A trip to the gym.  Low-key, gradual, simple.

Every day I'm going to make jewelry just for the sake of making jewelry, not because I need to make thousands of dollars immediately. I'm going to resist the urge to learn metal-smithing (something I really want to do) just for a while.

I'm going to meditate. Even if can't quiet my mind, I'm going to sit, with no noise, for a while each day.

I'm going to read for at least half an hour. Every day - right smack dab in the middle of the day. Force myself to stop and just read.

I'm going to take time to write - offline, in a notebook - start that journal up again.

I'm going to go to daytime recovery meetings.

The day will come (who knows when, maybe sooner than I think) when I have to either ramp up the jewelry business or get a job.  But not right now, not yet.

I'm going to spend some time with me, who - in the past - has been my least favorite person to hang around with.  I'm going to acknowledge that twist in my gut that will miss my kids.

I know I'll adjust. I know it will take time.  I'm glad that the deepest part of me doesn't want them to go.

That's love.

Earning Forty Three

One side effect of cancer?

I will never take another birthday for granted again.

Yesterday I turned 43.  I've never been one to make a big deal about getting older. Birthdays don't bother me as far as the whole "don't tell anyone how old you are" thing. I wear my age like a badge of honor.  I've earned forty-three, and all the wisdom, scars and lessons that come with age.

Now birthdays feel like the gift they should have felt like all along, I suppose.  Now I get to turn forty-three.

It was an incredible day, full of fun, sun and family.  We are out at our beach cottage (it's totally off the grid, no electricity, only solar power and a generator and propane to run the appliances) so the kids aren't plugged into anything.  We play games, lounge on the beach, have frivolous and soulful conversations.  The kids can run freely outside with no worry of abductors or getting lost.  It's as close to what I remember childhood feeling like as we can get (barring the fact that I have wi-fi from a hotspot on my phone and can plug a computer into the generator to blog.  Cause a girl's gotta blog).

The cousins came out to celebrate, and watching them run wild through the wide open space fills my heart with happiness.

I spent a lot of time doing this:

And this:

At the end of the day, we had cake and ice cream.  And my throat is well enough now that I could eat them both. So I had three helpings:

And saw the most beautiful sunset - a big ball of fire sinking below the horizon:

Before dinner, there was a brief rainstorm, so we even had a rainbow (the only thing missing in these pictures is a unicorn, it was that unbelievably gorgeous):

There was this awesome card from Greta, too: 

"Thank you so much for doing all the nice things you do to us. Like make us dinner and mabe [sic] get 
us a pet goat?  You made it through all.   Love, Greta"

My favorite line? "You made it through all".

I did. And it would be easy to write about what a tough year it has been, how I deserved and wanted a terrific birthday.  But these days I try not to look back too much. I try not to look too far forward, either, wonder about forty-four, or think thoughts like "If I had known when I turned 42 what this year would be like...", but of course I sometimes do. 

Mostly, though, I try to lean into the moment.  And when I say "try", I really mean "try".  It's hard. I have a lot of work to do.

The self-care I'm focusing on is helping.  I'm still meditating, going to group counseling for cancer survivors, taking a yoga class for cancer patients/survivors, talking to safe people who understand. The anxiety is still there, peeking around the corner, waiting.  Instead of running from it or trying to pretend it's not there, I give it a little wave (hello, anxiety) and try to honor it as part of me. As much as joy, gratitude and hope are part of me, too.

The gratitude is coming back, and days like yesterday help a lot.  I am a lucky woman indeed.

My Monkey Mind - On Meditation

In the throes of my alcoholism, I found a way to drink everyday.  So I'm doing my best to find a way to engage in self-care every day.

Meditation has always been a kind of scary word for me.  Maybe scary is the wrong word - maybe more skeptical?  And I always told myself I don't have time. I have two young, noisy kids. I have a small business to run...  blah, blah, blah.

But then I remember that I always found a way to get my fix when I was addicted, and that shuts me up.

I read (and strongly, strongly recommend to anyone - even people who aren't in recovery) Lorna Kelly's "In the Footsteps of the Camel" (the Kindle edition is less expensive than the paperback version).  She is in recovery, and has a fascinating life story as an auctioneer at Sotheby's, and then a close relationship with Mother Teresa, and a really interesting blend of studying faiths and perspectives on her own spiritual path.  And she's funny.  Funny is so important to me when it comes to these weighty topics.  (I'll stop here to send a big shout-out to Lisa H. who turned me on to her in the first place by sending me a copy of a CD of her speaking at a recovery convention).  

So, anyway, Lorna talks not just about the fact that she meditates, but how she does.  She uses Vipassana Meditation, which in my very neophyte way I will define as "thought observation".   Every morning she puts her alarm clock across the room so she can't hit snooze.  She then splashes cold water on her face to wake herself up, and goes downstairs for 20 minutes of quiet time (no screen time, no radio, no television). She sips tea, or looks out the window, but no noise.   Then she goes upstairs and sits on her mat for 45 minutes of meditation (setting an egg timer she can't hear ticking down the hall from her room).  After 45 minutes, no matter how blissful she's feeling (or how edgy), when the timer goes off, she stops.

During the meditation, she observes her thoughts, without judgement or fear, and if she gets too deep into some practical problem or daily snarl, she pulls herself back to baseline through breathing.  She also got to the point where she can meditate on her own death, and it brings her peace.  In my Buddhist readings I learned how Buddhist monks consider this ability - meditating on your own death - to be a joyous breakthrough.  I'm not quite there, yet, but I'm curious.

Lorna's practice just makes sense to me. A practical interpretation of an ancient form of meditation (I'm sure long-time practitioners of this are rolling their eyes).  But this is what I love about Lorna - she's totally committed to her recovery, her meditation practice, her reaching out to others, but she's so human, so grounded, so real.  So busy, too.

And she is a cancer survivor.

So I've been trying this.  Every morning.  Watching my thoughts - without getting caught up in them, or owned by them - is fascinating.  My brain never stops and the sheer number of topics it will hit upon in 45 minutes is astounding.  I know I'm not unique in this way, but it still surprises me. 

It's challenging with the kids - getting up before them means about 5:30am, so if I miss that window I have to tell them to find their own quiet activities for 45 minutes while I meditate somewhere in the house where I can't hear them (thankfully, they are old enough that I can do this safely, now).   That's good for them, too.

As a last result, I'll go for a walk.  No music, just walking and mindfulness. 

I can feel it helping, although I can't really put into words why.  Maybe getting used to observing some of my scarier thoughts without obsessing about them is helping me embrace fear more.  Because a lot of my thoughts revolve around fear.  

And I'm learning that it's okay.  That my mind creates thoughts like my heart pumps blood, or my lungs breathe air.  There are no "bad" thoughts - and it's not my monkey mind's fault that it is a thought-making machine. I'm just trying to learn to make peace with it.

One day at a time.

P.S. - I don't recommend many books.. only when I really feel they are unique or impactful in some way.   This endorsement of her book is all me - I was not paid or asked to write about it.