I thought I was not going to be writing for a while, but I’m wrong. The words keep multiplying in my brain like rabbits in spring, and I don’t keep words inside very well. At a party or function or whatevers you will not find me the center of attraction, my spit going up in fireworks discussing intelligent things or gossiping or talking. But in front of the computer, in my virtual little world, I let it all spill.
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TTC with intent is no fun. In fact, very stressful.
dh will beg to differ, but we have never TTC. OK, with dd1, we said we will start trying after the last champagne of the wedding banquet, but it did happen much sooner than expected. So soon that I believe a few of my friends suspect that mine was a shotgun wedding. (And to set the record straight once and for all, it was not.) And when I told my mum about my pregnancy she asked, “Gosh, don’t you guys plan?” My answer was, “Yes, and the plan is: ASAP.”
TTC means counting days and penciling in time to, you know, baby dance. Although I am the sort who likes to plan but fail to execute, this drives me nuts. It’s hard to get into an amorous mood when it is because the calendar says so. And dh complains that he feels like a sperm donor, like an animal brought in to inseminate, and at the end of the act, handed a folded-up five-dollar bill before he disappears for good.
There is also the issue of control. We feel, after Ferdinand’s death, that really we do not have control over many things, although that does not stop people (and us) from attempting to grasp some kind of control, even if only over small little unimportant details of our life. And TTC seems like we are trying to control something; and I guess we are superstitious that this will make it all fail.
Also. because we are consciously doing it, if we do not succeed, then I guess the fault and blame is on us. This is kinda crappy. Imagine our discussion if we do not see the double-line in a few weeks, or several months- maybe we did not do it enough; maybe your position was a bit off; maybe your swimmers were not, erm, good; maybe your egg was faulty; maybe you should not have eaten beets; maybe we should have eaten more _______. Maybe we are infertile.
I am stressed. And overwhelmed. Don’t know what to do with myself. Sick and sad that we have to do this because we lost Ferdinand. So in the middle of dinner I felt tears welling up and left the kitchen and went upstairs and sat in our closet and sobbed. dh came up in a few minutes, concerned. He asked if anyone has been an idiot to me during that day, saying insensitive or stupid things? Or what is it? I shook my head. It just comes, I said. Then he told me, “You know, I wanted to tell you… this morning I had a dream. I dreamed that I was delivering a baby… it was quite a fast delivery, and the baby was a happy one.”
I looked at him, and then I bawled even louder. Inside I had questions, I wanted details- the setting, the background, the time of day, how the baby looked; was he delivering for me??? But I did not ask. I did not dare to get more details and talk more for fear that I am going to jinx it all. I refuse to find out what that dream may imply because either way, I do not want to know.
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I looked at the calendar and realized we are nearing the eight-month mark. Inside my head the words formed, “Eight months down. Forever to go.” I said it. I don’t think I will ever stop missing and stop grieving. I feel as if someone signed me up for a “Grief Marathon” run without my permission, and there is no way for out. You are in and you keep going until you gasp your last breath.
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Sometimes, the more spiritual part of me finds light and wisdom and I begin to think I can indeed heal from this. And, during my yoga sessions (with my masters on DVD) I hear things that seem relevant. I am not sure if I hear them because I needed to hear those words, or because my mind just twisted them around to make them relevant to me.
This morning in Down Dog, she said, “Tightness at the back of the legs is indicative of one’s gripping, for fear of moving on. Gripping is a habit, just like fear is a habit.” She also said, “We need to let go, not dwell and move forth into the unknown.”
Well, the backs of my legs are tight. I do not mean, tight as in looking real sexy and firm and bikini-worthy. I mean, the muscles are tight. Gripping. Fear. Sounds right to me. And that unknown part? Gosh, it is 200% true.
These words I hear often on their DVD’s, but my brain always screams back and my heart squirms and hides– “Let healing happen, because it can.” “Remember, if you can feel it, you can heal it.”
I really want those words to be true. But I also know only I can make them come true.
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I got my first issue of Shambhala Sun. I am thrilled. I feel I need this magazine and its contents. Of course, the advertisements for retreats and classes make me feel like I have been living in the wrong part of the world. I see books upon books I would love to read. Actually, i want to just eat them up and hope they immediately make me wiser and a better person. I am not done reading it, but I can already tell it is going to be better than the Body+Soul magazine, and I am really glad i ordered it. In the section of letters from readers, I found the following, and I am truly humbled, and inspired:
I look forward to receiving each issue of the Shambahla Sun with great anticipation. I like the articles; I like the artwork. I am, however, troubled by the ads. Stick with me here- this is not the criticism of materialism you might expect.
I am a person of modest means. I live on Social Security Disability Insurance, I have few possessions, and I have to share a small two-bedroom apartment with a student to make ends meet. I will never be able to afford what is advertised in the magazine. But since I can’t, I have made the conscious decision to use the ads to strengthen my practice.
I read them all and I want it all. I pore over each ad, letting myself experience wanting in the worst way. I want to go to Ann Arbor with the Dalai Lama and to Vietnam with Thich Nhat Hanh. I want to attend a weeklong retreat at Spirit Rock, visit India for three weeks, and have that nifty T-shirt and a namaste ring to go with it.
Then I settle down on my cushion. I let all the envy, jealousy and grief consume me. I let it rip. I even throw in my frustration with having been in a wheelchair for the past ten years. And, like the Pu’u ‘O’o vent that has been erupting since 1984, I let the hot lava spill over and flow to the sea. I step back and watch it all.
I breathe in. I breathe out. And bit by bit I let go of all the wanting, the envy, and the unfairness. Bit by bit I return to this present moment, hear the doves out in the yard, peek out at the beautiful Hawaiian sunshine, and let gratitude wash over me. I am grateful for all the advertisers that make the Shambhala Sun possible, grateful that the American Buddhist movement is thriving, grateful that all the energy generated by those retreats is changing the world. Grateful.
Margaret Mann
Honolulu, Hawaii
Sometimes, too much of that “be positive” thinking gets to me, and it rubs me the wrong way and I get annoyed. But I do try to make a conscious effort to be grateful. At least on some days I search for things to be grateful about and feel, well, really grateful, and get out of myself and find my place in the world again. But some days I just want to wallow. This letter makes me see how I can practice; how to stay away from that negative downward-spiraling vortex. It is not always easy, but I endeavor to try. I try to remember that the girls look to me as to “how to deal”. Some days I am a downright bad model, but on other days I am inspired to try to be better.
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