Body Mine

I exhale slowly, stretching my arms and head forward, as an instructor gently presses down on my lower back.

"Nice," she whispers.

One more deep breath, and she presses my torso lower.  I feel a slight resistance - a brief unwillingness - behind my knees, but as I exhale the tension releases and she presses me lower. 

"Navel to your back, engage your core, keep breathing, listen to your body," says the head yoga instructor. Her voice is like smooth honey, loving but firm, encouraging and compassionate.

Slowly, with a final whisper of encouragement - good - she removes her hands from my back.  Incredibly, my body stays in this position on its own.  I am folded in half, legs out in front of me, my face resting on my knees, hands wrapped around the soles of my feet.

It feels heavenly.


~~~~

I'm at a yoga workshop, a two hour instructional class where several instructors tend to a handful of students.  They tiptoe around the room, adjust poses, whisper encouragement, give massages to quivering muscles.

Finally, I find myself irrevocably drawn to something good for me:  yoga.  I'm still very much a novice, and I attended this class with a friend because I wanted the corrections, the instruction, so I didn't develop bad habits early.

I didn't expect it to be so comforting, though, a combination of pleasant aching and release of tension.  All yoga classes are like that, but with the individual attention, the massages, and the comforting touches this class takes it to a whole new level.

~~~~~

"Keep listening to your body," she repeats.  "Find that spot just at the edge of comfort, but no further, and breathe into the pose".

My mind drifts inward, taking silent stock of how my body feels.  I feel my heart beat steadily against my upper thighs, my breath hot on my knees as I exhale and stretch down further.  Every cell is humming with life and I feel connected, whole, present.

A while later, during Shavasana, I lie still, my body a dead weight sinking into the floor.  I focus on my breath and feel life rushing in and out of my lungs, through my veins.

I listen to my body, grateful for its sturdy health.  A year ago at this time I was heading into the worst of my cancer treatment.  Radiation had scorched my neck - inside and out - the skin cracked and bleeding.   Chemotherapy left me depleted, weary, sick.  I lay in my bed and fought to stay in the moment. 

A healthy body seemed a long, long way away.

My muscles throb gratefully, and I'm amazed at what they can do.  She says to listen to my body, but for the moment I talk to it, send it a little prayer:  thank you. 

My mind quiets, and I am at peace.

Recovering Chaos Junkie

I used to hate routine.

In early recovery I realized that I was facing two intertwined addictions:  alcohol and chaos.

I didn't know that I loved chaos until it was gone. I have heard others in recovery speak about this, so I know I'm not the only one.  I was talking to a friend about this the other day, how I used to be, in my words, a "chaos junkie".

When I was at the worst of my alcoholism - when denial had a firm grip on me - I used to feel so sorry for people who did things like get up at 6am to jog, or went to bed early so they could tuck into a good book, or who sipped one glass of wine all night and then STILL walked away from it, unfinished.

I would see well-adjusted people and think: they must be so bored, as I clutched my wine glass a little more tightly.

That's what alcoholism did to me; it made me believe my life of scrambling to keep up with the day-to-day obligations of life, the untangling of half-truths and outright lies, the grey or black-out nights, the nursing morning hangovers and the obsessing over my next drink, was exciting.

Of course, looking back on it now I realize my life was empty, shallow - a mile wide and an inch deep.  I had lots of friends, but I didn't let many people get too close for fear they'd find out my horrible secret.

When I finally embraced recovery because I wanted it for myself - this took months - I began to embrace routine, too.  Eventually I began to need routine; I craved predictability like I used to crave alcohol:  without it I became fearful, timid and reclusive.

I discovered that not only did I not love chaos, but that any new situation made me profoundly uncomfortable. I didn't like calling people that I didn't know; a call to my bank, or a store, would make me nervous.  I wanted to know the system of every place I went in to; I didn't try new restaurants or stores for months.

Basically, I realized that at heart I'm an anxious, shy person.  I felt so brave and confident when I drank - I'd walk in anywhere, talk to anyone.  It was a shock to find out that wasn't really me.

This got better, over time.  I am still hesitant to try new things; going to a new conference, for example, makes me anxious.  A new city, a hotel I've never stayed at before, a party at someone's house who I don't know well, a play group or house party where I don't know many people (what if they lost my reservation?  what if I get lost on the train? what if nobody talks to me?) makes me uneasy, but I do it anyway.  I practice stretching my wings - not too far - but enough so that I don't let fear govern my life.

Mostly, though, I cherish routine.

I never thought I'd feel this way.  In early sobriety I complained so much about how bored I was, mourning my old "exciting" way of life, that a friend joked she was going to get me a tee shirt with a big red number 5 on it (as in ... on a scale of 1 to 10, I loved 1 or 10 and hated 5, thinking it was boring, and all I heard from everyone is that to stay sober I had to embrace 5).

The last few weeks have brought some change into our lives.  My husband got a new job, and we're both excited about the new opportunity, but I had become accustomed to him working eight miles away, home predictably at the same time most nights so we could have family dinner or I could go to a meeting.  Now he's commuting into the city - leaving before I'm awake in the morning and coming home half an hour before the kids have to go to bed.   It's a big adjustment.

Someone has been sick in this house for three weeks, knocking me off my routine.  I missed exercise, yoga and meetings (both cancer support groups and recovery meetings) for almost two straight weeks.

I've been having trouble sleeping - lying awake staring at the ceiling until 2 or 3am every night. I had an undercurrent of anxiety that followed me everywhere.  I got sick, and spent the better part of a week in bed - sick enough to feel poorly but not sick enough to sleep.

The anxiety grew, my monkey mind wouldn't leave me alone.  It took me a while to realize what was out of whack:  routine.

We all got better towards the end of last week, (knock wood) and then the kids had a four day weekend (MLK day and a professional day for teacher training) so once again I couldn't go to my normal activities.

My anxiety peaked on Monday night; I couldn't sleep, had lost my appetite and felt near tears.

Yesterday everyone woke up healthy and trotted off to work and school.  I stared at the four walls of my house, simultaneously soaking up the silence and feeling completely out of sorts.  I paced from room to room, sat down to work on jewelry, got up again to pace some more, meditated ineffectively, tried to read and then it hit me:  get back into your routine, Ellie.

I went for a walk, then did some yoga.  My mind quieted immediately.

I slept like a baby last night.

Today I woke up feeling refreshed and grateful.

After the bus rumbled away, I meditated for half an hour, then went to yoga.  I did some work, and then sat down to write this.  The anxiety is gone.  POOF.

My name is Ellie, and I'm a grateful recovering chaos junkie.