Oh F*ck, It's Mother's Day

I'm sure a lot of you are saying this right now, perhaps because you didn't buy a card or you forgot to book brunch, so you're taking Mom to an afternoon tea at an obscure German restaurant because all of the popular places are full.

This post is not for you.

If you're taking your mother or children to get a pedicure or wreak havoc in a family photo, go and get on with your life. You're wasting daylight by reading.

If instead, you woke up in shackles, compelled to drink not because of family drama ala Everyone Loves Raymond, but Family Drama, this is for you.

This is for all of the people who drop off of social media out of self preservation.

The people who hang cloths over the mirrors.

The people who bury their heads in the sand because this day was brought to you in part by The People of Hallmark, who are very first on my list of people to launch into outer space and the very last on my list of people who get to join me on my ark.

Today is a day that finds the hidden wounds, the things that didn't magically heal in the last year. The gremlin in the basement, the blood stain under the rug.

This is for the mama who has a variety of rehearsed answers to, “Why don't you just adopt?”

This is for the mamas who hear someone call out their baby's name and see the child they lost, they never had, run into the arms of someone else. She's the same age, with a reasonable resemblance to The One That Got Away.

This is for the mama who couldn't decide, couldn't flip a coin, and imprisoned her soul to the one that came through her, sacrificing her own dreams.

This is for the mama whose babies rain out before their time, whose body cannot seem to catch or hold.

This is for the mama who had to unplug her baby from a machine, without the added option of disentangling her heart and soul.

This is for the mama who opened the door to the man in uniform, who started with, “I don't know how to tell you this.”

This is for the mama who cannot seem to redirect her focus back onto herself, whose babies became her world and now lives imprisoned by her perception of their happiness, who forgot that she had work to do and that only a part of it included her fruits.

This is for the mamas who do it anyway.

This is for the mamas who have to answer why they kept “it”, knowing “it” would never “live a full life.”

To the mamas who never get asked the question, because they made the other choice.

The mamas who have to lie about how blessed they feel in every moment, because they'd rather be anywhere else.

The mamas whose babies don't or can't love them.

The mamas whose own mamas drank or hit, detached or never dropped-in in the first place.

The mamas whose brunch dates involve a bottle of champagne and a headstone.

My life's work appears to be about motherhood – helping people navigate the minefield of horrors that surround the greatest Wonder of the World. It's about reclaiming birth and women's rights and advocacy. It's about recognizing all mothers who choose to mother, or try to mother, whether that means carrying or birthing or raising or some combination of the three.

Mother is a verb, people. Maybe in your life it's a person or two or three. Maybe you add fancy terms like “step” or “in-law” or “formerly-known-as.”

They say it melts their hearts to hear their little call them “mama,” and I believe that's probably true. My heart already melted, it's somewhere under the rug, or painted on the door. The crime scene tape is ratty and faded, but the neighborhood kids keep their distance anyway. I have nothing left to give, and those sparkly little souls out there, flitting above, choosing their mothers based on their karma or samskaras or who already drives a mini-van? They are not interested in me. Fly over, they say, this one's marked and mutilated.

I'll pick the meth addict.

The woman whose shopping cart already runneth over.

This post might seem a tad bit negative (is my depression showing?), but really, it is intended to highlight the aspects of motherhood, of mothering that are deeper and more innate. More universal than flowers and pedicures. The Solidarity of Motherhood is that this shit is the hardest thing ever – to be caught up in a tornado of love that you simply cannot detach from. Or to stand in the field and chase the tornado saying PICK ME! Make ME feel LOVE! Get my ass out of Kansas, please.

We whitewash motherhood, degrade and deflate it by simply saying YAY MAMAS: here is a card, see you next year.

Instead, this year, will you do something, for me?

With me?

Write a letter, to the mother you had or wish you had. The mother you are or wish you were. The children you have, or wish you had. Define motherhood for yourself. Give yourself a reference point. Acknowledge all of the sides of yourself.

And then do it again, tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

Make an Agreement with Motherhood that you will meet it on your own terms. Become aware of the sticking points and make an effort to move through them. Appreciate the highs when you can, locate the barriers that keep love from flowing through you. Maybe for you it is sadness, or grief, or regret, or things you simply cannot post about on the internet.

I'm not asking you to post them on the internet.

That's my job.

But, spend today in relationship with this word. From a place of reverence, devotion. For the power it wields to both build and destroy. Let it build you. Let it destroy you.

And do it again tomorrow.

Sat Nam.


Last Mother's Day

Atha

17 years ago I was 18. I submitted my deposit check to attend THE Colorado College (into the hands of MLB, who would later be my supervisor) and drove home, through Denver. My mom and I stopped for lunch and saw lots of EMS drive by, and said a little prayer for wherever they were heading.

When we got home, I turned on the TV and my heart sank as the same footage was on every channel.

From that moment on, life was different.

Life keeps changing like this. Waves of grief, moments of stillness. Unimaginable things that happen, then fade, then become commonplace.

Do you remember the time before "school shooting" was a part of your vocabulary? When the biggest drama in high school was... drama?

I do.

In many ways, today is one of those days. It is a before and an after. Remembering the before, mourning the after. Maybe this isn't a bookmark in your life, and that's just fine. Maybe for you today is mourning the before, and relishing the after. Your bookmarks are different.

But here we all are, awash in the sea of forgetting the most important moment, the now, as we all face different directions and focus on what once was or what might be. What does it take for you to be in this moment? To see the full spectrum of your experience?

I forget 'now' almost every moment of almost every day. I think that's a natural, normal human condition. But every once and awhile, sometimes with the perspective of before and after, from the path I've walked, from the open field in front of me, I realize that this is it, baby.

Atha.

Amen.

Neoplastic

This week marked an important anniversary.
(you know how I get around anniversaries)
This time it skated past me for the first time. Is time so short, that four years is now all it takes to forget the word – the promise of certain death and the redemption – the vow to pave over the regrets, to Live Life Always, without ever allowing a sunrise or sunset to pass unnoticed?
Neoplastic.
On it's own, it sounds like the next greatest recyclable, a breathable material perfect for sailboats and umbrellas, reusable diapers and carrying your groceries home. The Revolution.
When a doctor blurts it in a well-rehearsed sentence on the way into the room, locking eyes with you in desperation for your uterus and your health and your Salvation? Less sexy.
It's a cancer word, she said.
We don't have time, she said.
And everything I knew about medicine, about second opinions, about breathing? Drowned out by the fear in my ears, the tears in my eyes, the well-worn anxiety button in the pit of my stomach.
I am a Kwinn, afterall. We survive on contingency plans and fatalistic thinking.
Damage control.
I dropped into the well of myself as she laid me down, took pieces of me, her serenade reverberating in my head: your best case scenario is a full hysterectomy.
The next day, I flew into the four winds. I fast-forwarded to spring in the partially-digested thinking, flew over the emotional storm and landed in the arms of friends. The resolutions I made on the plane – to never again participate in soul-sucking monotony, to eat well, to say my prayers. To forgive those who had trespassed against me.
To keep the C word at bay.
To keep certain things sacred, like the sunrise.
--
You've read the rest of the story, or you can if you'd like. I kept my uterus, lost my fertility.
Kept my wits, lost my marriage.
Kept my fatalistic fantasies.
Burned down my life.
And just when I thought all was lost, I forgot. I forgot to worry, to plan for the worst.
I remembered to breathe, to follow the tiny compass inside of me. To hear the beat of my own heart, without imposing sorrow or desperation.
To see myself with new eyes.
Neoplastic does not mean cancer. It means new and uncontrolled growth (how's that for a mind f*ck?). And yes, when a doctor uses it in relation to laboratory results, it's not a good thing.
But I'm ready for it to be a good thing.
I somehow lost the memo that I'm attractive – in more ways than one. That a man (and The Man) don't get to define that for me. That I may be 35, which may be older than I feel, but it's a lot younger than I'll ever be again.
So while I could concern myself with not being 19 and blonde, not being moldable and shapable into someone's pet project or Flavor of the Week, instead I'm concerning myself with being exactly who I am.
Growing, uncontrollably.
I'm getting ready to fly into the four winds again – this time without an agenda or sense of direction.
In no one's cage.
Not even my own.
With a New Age definition of neoplasm.

Throwing Gratitude

Yoga teachers have a bad habit of telling everyone to be grateful for every moment, in every moment, like it is the secret to happiness or something.

(It is, but that's not important).

The nugget often lands off-target, particularly if someone is experiencing grief or suffering or anxiety. And if they aren't experiencing deep despair or sadness, if they're having an up day, they just sing right along – yup – gratitude.


Preach it, sister.

Until they experience grief or suffering. Then the lost relationship, the illness, the expense – it catches up and overtakes. It is hardest to hear and hardest to remember in these moments, which punctuate life and give it spice and meaning.

Or at least, make it worth writing about.

A few years ago my friend gave me a polished rock with the word “gratitude” carved into it. I put it on my meditation altar, carried it in my pocket, took it out and rolled it around every once and awhile. It was there to be that reminder, that port in the storm, that piece of solid matter or fact that could literally be held.

About the 18^th or 19^th time I tried to get pregnant, and failed, I threw it off the back porch. I was standing outside, in a staring contest with the sunset, miserable and full of anger, jealousy, pain.

Rage.

I f*cking threw gratitude down the hill.

It marked the beginning of a dark period. I would like to capitalize all of those words, ala The Blue Period of my Picasso, my brotha from anotha motha, but I cannot. Capitalizing it makes it seem like an epoch that came before, indicating that it has ended.

I slogged through life, overtaken by spontaneous naps, overwhelmed by the good news of others. I held zero gratitude for the little things, like the sunrise and the fact that my body was working.

Well, some of my body was working.

I'm certain that anti-gratitude isn't a thing, except that it is. It is the Scrooge and the Eeyore, the dark cloud that does not permit access to the healing rays of the sun. And in this dark place, it is particularly hard to find gratitude, to determine which way is up or out. You bounce – I bounced – between taking one step in each direction, then backtracking to the neutral zone, where it was safe, deep in the heart of my own suffering. Yoga teachers kept telling me to Be Grateful. To recognize the things that were going according to plan. To play. To adventure. To rest.

It never managed to permeate my bubble of sadness.

And one day, when nothing was particularly remarkable, I decided to walk down the hill. It is rough and scraggly down there, with scrub oak and cactus and a myriad of non-human footprints. It is a sacred and timeless space – yet untapped by the internet and the footsteps of those who walk on two legs. The grasses are very tall, and the slope is untamed, rocky and precarious. It requires full attention and focus when you're on the move, because every step has the potential to be a misstep, to take you to your knees, to drop you into the canyon.

It was a misstep that landed me squarely on the smooth stone, whose message was as clear as ever.

Gratitude.

Ugh.

This is life. And this is the practice of gratitude. I think Forrest Gump got it right, that sometimes you have to throw it. And having thrown it, you have to throw it more. And eventually you stop, because you learn that sometimes, there just aren't enough rocks.

You can carry gratitude with you, look at it on your altar, remind yourself continuously to be grateful. And you don't have to. You can chuck it down the hill and into the hinterlands when your wounds are still seeping and you need a little time. Gratitude isn't something that someone can give you – it must be found, again, every day. Instead of remembering to be grateful, perhaps we as Yoga Teachers should remind you to look for gratitude. To find the smallest thing that is going right and to give thanks to God or the Universe – or simply to yourself.

If you are breathing, something is going right.

If you are seeking gratitude, if you have thrown it out or smashed it to pieces, remember that you carry the secret of gratitude in the grace of each breath.

The capacity to seek it.

So throw gratitude. And then find it again. Maybe sooner next time, maybe without as much wallowing and weeping. Maybe not. No one promised you happiness, not life, not the Founding Fathers. But the promise of gratitude is available in every breath, and gratitude is the seed of happiness.

Help it grow.

Equinox Paradox

I can tell you my life's story like a leap frog – how I've hopped from seeking one person's affection to another, to another.

(You do this too, I'll bet. At least to some degree.)

But recently, I've realized how significantly this pattern of behavior has influenced the path I've taken. How eager I have been to conceed, negotiate, bend, fold, or twist into the shape that seemed most appealing at the time, to keep those in my life happiest.

As though their happiness were my sole responsibility.

Or the reason I came here this life.

This is a seed that sprouted early in my life. I'm not certain where it came from – I cannot seem to see farther back into the distance than this incident. But it the shadow it has cast upon my path has served as an unwanted guide that has steered me so far from what I'm here to do.

My family jokes about how wise I was as a child – my violin teacher remarked that I aged backwards – which may explain why I feel as though I'm mired in an additional adolescence. I'm five years older than my brother, and when he was born, I'm reported as expressing dramatic relief that if no one else would marry me, at least I now had a backup plan.

Kids say the darndest things.

(This is troubling for many reasons).

The summer before was my first year in summer school. I was four and a half on the outside, which must have made me 74 on the inside? I'm not sure. Regardless, the troup of my elementary school classmates was headed to the park to run through the sprinklers. The teacher, at the head of the pack, helping the kiddos cross the rickety bridge, one of the “senior” students (probably 12 years old?) held up the rear.

I tripped, and skinned my knee. The 74 year old in me was mortified. The four year old cried.

In an effort to delegate, the teacher yelled to the back of the pack, to M.H., to pick me up and carry me the rest of the way to the park.

Save me from my pain, my shame.

Distract me from the Work I am here to do.

Every step I have taken since has been in an effort to recreate this feeling – the rescue.

In my romantic life, I've sought the rescuer.

Everywhere else, I rescue.

I've thought – felt – desired – to be That for another human. I've forced that idea of motherhood and waited for a baby to choose me. To Be The One. To rescue. To rescue me.

But that's not why I'm here, either.

I'm headed into retreat for the next ten days to do some deep soul-searching for myself, by myself, which means I will not get back to you. But it is ok; you will be ok. I've always thought you would need me, paid close attention to how that might look, how I might rescue you from the middle of the ocean or the nightmare of your life. Or maybe in your case, I've considered how you might rescue me, if I did and said exactly the right thing at precisely the right moment.

But now, at 35, on this Vernal Equinox, I meet myself in the middle. The day and night the same. My body and mind the same age for a fleeting instant.

To rescue myself, from myself.

See you in April.

So'ham.

Just Relax - and other unhelpful suggestions

Just Relax

...and other unhelpful suggestions.

As you know by now, I sometimes work as a doula. This year, I had a realization while sitting at a kitchen table with a couple of clients. I always ask how women think they wanted to be supported in labor, and if there are things they don't want me to say. Like most of my clients, she knew little about what she wanted.

And exactly what she didn't want.

"You always tell me to relax." She said to her husband. "DON'T TELL ME TO RELAX!"

(I may have done the same thing a few thousand times myself).

Her husband shot back that sometimes that was what she needed. They volleyed back and forth for a little while and some little nugget of realization came to me, so I shot it out there. I think I interrupted.

"What do you want him to say?" I blurted.

"I don't know, just don't say relax."

THIS IS THE AMAZING THING THAT CAME THROUGH ME LIKE I WAS SPEAKING IN TONGUES ---> So when he says relax, what he is saying is, "I have no idea what to say right now, since you don't know what you want me to say, so until then I'm going to keep saying the word 'relax' which means [space filler for the right thing]."

This experience changed my life.

First, I have realized that all annoying things ever are simply the annoying person trying to do their best in the absence of clear direction. If you don't state your expectations or needs or desires, how can anyone ever (ever) hope to meet them?

Second, instead of saying "relax" or "I'm sorry to hear that" or fill-in-the-blank, I now say, "let's pretend I'm saying the exact right thing in this moment, because I have no idea what that exact right thing is. If you know, tell me and I'll say it. Otherwise, please hear my intention, which is to be for you whatever it is you need in this moment."

(It's a little longer than 'relax').

The Mess

"This was not part of the plan."



I hear myself say this a lot, and I hear my students say it, too.



Life has dealt a Thing – an injury, an illness, an unplanned pregnancy, a different ability.



A tear in the fabric.



The Thing we thought would last forever, the unimaginable Thing, the dreaded Thing. The Thing we forgot to plan for. The Thing has become a mess.



Life has misplaced her end of the contractual agreement that we wrote, promising warm nights and salty breezes, punctuated by sweet moments and ample rest. Life did not accurately keep score on the times we arrived early, pulled more than our weight, paid for the next person in line. She was turned the other way when we gave our brother the bigger half of the cookie, and somehow didn't notice just how many times we dug for genuine joy when someone won the prize we were after.



Even when they didn't appreciate it.



Life seems not to notice the big and little efforts, even when they are unsuccessful or particularly bitter. Life behaves, at times, like an unruly toddler – destroying best-laid plans, biting your ankles, and speaking emphatically in a language you do not understand.



I like to think that my life would be better if it would just follow the f*cking plan. Like we alternate back and forth with who is in the lead, because while I've never been strong with the tango and often forget the steps, I would still like to be in charge. Even though the dance would probably go smoother for everyone if I would simply abdicate, I can't get over the fact that she did not give me full credit for the things that I have done – so how could I possibly trust her?



And then she steamrolls me. All of a sudden I'm upside down in a massive dip, my feet flailing in the air, thinking – I was not prepared for this. I did not learn this wacky move in the Cotillion. I hear my mother's voice yelling something like, “ass over elbows” or “ass over elephants” and I think – yes, that is exactly how this feels. This thing is it – not survivable. Not part of my plan, no tools to extricate myself.



Except that over and over I find myself surviving situations just as these – the unthinkable things that defy the vocabulary of the After School Special, the things that linger between the lines of sacred texts.

The things too unimaginable to be warned about.



The Things that I have survived – The Things that YOU have survived – that is the miracle. That we made it through the unimaginable, or that we're making it through the unimaginable, or that despite the fact that we cannot see the edge of imaginable, from our ass over elbows position – we are going to make it through. We somehow have the tools around us and within us to weather the most unpredictable, the most epic, the completely unprecedented.



That, is life.



The next time you think, "I didn't sign up for this!" remember that you did. Remember that this is exactly the mess that you signed up for. The things that you have done and the reason that you came here: to untangle this mess. You have the tools to do this.



(At least, that's what I keep telling myself)