trusting the process

Recently I tried doing my kundalini yoga with a different teacher, who is based in the UK. I love her dvd’s, her energy and style rather different from the teachers I normally follow. During one particularly difficult kriya, she urged that it was a difficult point, but one needed to keep up, to push over the boundary, and to trust in the process.

So many times it is during my yoga sessions that I hear the words I needed to hear.

It has taken R so long to land on a job I am starting to have doubts, and wondering what had gone wrong where. Deep down I know it is a test of my negligible patience, my sometimes illogical need to have something now, or even yesterday. So I had to sit down, take deep breaths and know that it takes time for good things to happen, to know that this is an important career move for him and not something to be rushed into.  My question of course is how long does it take for he and a good job to meet? And again I have to remind myself that I have to trust that it will happen, it takes time, and I need to trust the process.

Which is a very difficult thing, especially after Ferdinand died.

Before, we were strong believers in how things know how to happen, Nature is superior and knows how to manage everything. When friends gasped (in horror and doubt) at our decision to have a home birth, we smiled, patted their backs and assured them that the body is wise and knows how to do what exactly what it is designed to do- give birth, bring forth a new life.

We did get to affirm that belief once, Sophia being born at home. It was not an easy birth, but it happened naturally.

And so of course we expected to do it again, with our third child.

I ended up totally distrusting my body. It did not know to protect a tender life. it did not know that things were grossly wrong. It did not bring life. It took a long time to realize that it is time to bring forth the baby that will not breathe.

How could I still trust the process?

So we opted to give birth the fourth time in the hospital. But did we trust the hospital, the nurses and doctors, the equipment and all?

No, not a bit. And neither did it mean that we distrusted the natural birth process, for I still labored and birthed as naturally as possible. I was scared of syringes and would not use epidural or drugs. And then I realized what I did not trust was my body, or our luck.

This trusting now depends on what day you talk to me.

On some days, when my heart is so wide open it stretches over three universes, I can trust that everything that happened needed to happen when it happened. That I have no privy to the reason now but one day I will and I will begin to cry for joy. On those days, I feel that my son is just right here, close by, never lost. I feel we are joined to eternity and all the boundaries between realms break down.

On some other days, I even doubt if this life is even real. I suspect I have nothing within my power and that the fantasy I had in fifth grade about us earthlings being puppets and being controlled by some aliens who look down and grin at us like evil clowns is indeed real.

Walking this line between is hard. Knowing I have no control and yet control. Knowing I could die tomorrow and therefore having to seize this second. Knowing my loved ones could depart any time and the moment is now. Such an intense way to live, sometimes I am fatigued to the core.

To live with ease and let be, is a high art. To trust the process is sometimes, impossible.

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autumn

 

There is no crisp autumn air to bite into; the apples they come encased in hard plastic trays, out of the big building called Cost.co.

This year we did not harvest apples from our cabin. This year fall seems slow in coming, the valley still humid and way too warm.

But I see it in the calendar and something in my bones begin to give a little, ready to curl up, yearning for tea, cake and conversation. A desire arise for winds to whip my hair around my face, to disappear into my jacket, and to hug my children close, stealing their warmth. Every year I still think of the prayer below, and once again I share it here. And if you like the photo above, there are more here, where you get to see how fall is in 30 different countries. Tell me your favorite, if you have one. I can’t decide between: Austria, Bulgaria, Finland, France, Lithuania, Scotland and Taiwan. No one beats Nature, and chance, at art and beauty. But lucky is the eye who gets to behold it all.

 

Prayer for Autumn Days

God of the seasons, there is a time for everything; there is a time for dying and a time for rising. We need courage to enter into the transformation process.

God of autumn, the trees are saying goodbye to their green, letting go of what has been. We, too, have our moments of surrender, with all their insecurity and risk. Help us to let go when we need to do so.

God of fallen leaves lying in colored patterns on the ground, our lives have their own patterns. As we see the patterns of our own growth, may we learn from them.

God of misty days and harvest moon nights, there is always the dimension of mystery and wonder in our lives. We always need to recognize your power-filled presence. May we gain strength from this.

God of harvest wagons and fields of ripened grain, many gifts of growth lie within the season of our surrender. We must wait for harvest in faith and hope. Grant us patience when we do not see the blessings.

God of geese going south for another season, your wisdom enables us to know what needs to be left behind and what needs to be carried into the future. We yearn for insight and vision.

God of flowers touched with frost and windows wearing white designs, may your love keep our hearts from growing cold in the empty seasons.

God of life, you believe in us, you enrich us, you entrust us with the freedom to choose life. For all this, we are grateful.
– Author Unknown

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avoiding the chores

Feel the walls of your house vibrate with your pain.

I think that’s the most poignant line for me from Maya Stein’s poem. Because I felt that. I felt our house, for months after, emitted eerie, mournful black light that screamed silently, aching towards the skies, straining to reach the stars. And when I went out I could sense my grief oozing out of my pores, shrouding me, twisting my face and choking my voice.

The feeling has never ceased. Time may be a healer, but it is a tardy one, it is not a miracle healer. Sometimes it even seems like quackery, especially when grief seizes at unexpected moments. It seems then that time had played a trick; offered a fake promise.

But one learns to get on. Somehow I’ve brushed my teeth, put on concealer, put my hair up, clothed myself decently and went out to meet the world. Not that it awaited with anxiety to meet me. It was just out there, whether I went to meet it or not. I made the choice to meet it, seeking to find the meaning in it all. Seeking to find the meaning for myself. I’m still searching, I think.

::

Can I tell you the drawback to believing in reincarnation? Can I??

Well, every time R has to “take care” of a roach we come across, I fervently pray to myself, Please, please, Ferdinand, that is not you. Please, do not ever become a roach because you will never be welcomed in this house, or in most places. Be a ladybug, eat aphids. Be a cute puppy. Or if you prefer not to have a fixed form, be the wind, the clouds, the mysterious sounds of nature. But please, please, do not be that roach. Please tell me you are not that roach that just got smooshed.

Funny? In some sense, yes. And then I wish I did not believe in reincarnation. I can laugh after. And cry, and laugh. He may not be exasperating me with what he might be were he a three-year-old, but I still have to wring my hands in anxiety for him.

::

The weather has not been cooperating.

I really, really wanted to go star-gazing. But every weekend, every possible place I looked, they are experiencing cloudy nights and thunderstorms. Really. Except where we are, it is just a constant hot, and humidity. We’ve got a few sprinkles, which seemed like mockery. And every time I plan to go somewhere to look at the stars, there are clouds. To say I have been feeling frustrated is a bit of an understatement. It’s a very gross understatement.

This past weekend, we decided to go up to the cabin. We’ve changed realtors and wanted to make sure the cabin is in good shape. The lawn had to be mowed, and I decided to mop everything down and wash windows and all that. Saturday night R made a fire, we grilled burgers and ate outside, listening to the creek gushing by, the cicadas wrapping us up in songs. There was a chance we would see stars.

Except when we looked up, large patches of clouds were knitted together, gray and heavy. But still, a few stars seemed to have spread open the seams here and there and peeked through, and we enjoyed a few twinklings. It was nice, but felt insufficient.

I can only sigh, and comfort myself with the thought that the stars will always be there, waiting. We may not see them, but they see us. And they’ve been there a long, long time.

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to say or not to say

I am not on Twitter or Facebook. Despite a silent nagging fear that I would be left behind in this rapidly throttling forward technology age, and be the Jungle Jane of the 21st century, I have resisted.

I am still not on Facebook or Twitter. Even when friends talk about it and shoot me a kind of look that seems to say You really ought to get on. Even if every so often I get an email telling me “So-and-so is following you on Twitter!” (Even though I have no idea who that so-and-so is- lots of creepy strangers out there!!)

OK, back up. I closed my account on Facebook, but I let the Twitter one idle.

Because you know- laziness.

And I don’t know what to do with Twitter. I don’t want you to know I just ate an entire bar of chocolate all by myself, or what pizza I adore. I may have a few household tips but I don’t care to share them. If I see an Elvis Presley look-alike in my local Fresh & Easy I won’t twitter you either. If I bought a gallon of ice-cream I will also not share that with you.

It’s not just laziness though. I think I just don’t want to be out there. I don’t feel I belong anywhere at all. Some time ago I was talking with a bereaved dad about how it is hard to feel integrated into a group, because just as you are behaving like any other normal person in the park and just as the other person is chatting away, suddenly you have a voice in your head screaming:

“You don’t get it! No! You don’t understand! I am missing my baby right now! I have a dead baby and I am not sure if I will tell you and if then when will be a good time and I am not sure if you will be cool about it! Stop talking! Can’t you hear how loud my missing is? Are you not hearing how screeching loud my aching is?!!”

I don’t know why but I am forever having a backlog of emails so I don’t see how I can even do the Twitter thing.

Go ahead. Go and add a shovel of technological dust on me and walk away shaking your head and sighing. I don’t care.

Except.

This morning Lyra decided she will pick up the half-empty (or half full, depending on whether you are the half-full type or the half-empty type) jar of mango chutney (I like it on my goat’s cheese, just in case you are curious) and then drop it onto the floor. It’s a glass jar. It fell straight down to the floor, I dare say perpendicularly. It shattered. Glass bits flew. But most of the chutney mess was contained in one heap-like puddle, with just a couple splodges a small distance away. I was really so grateful, I got on my knees– to clean up the mess. The girls took Lyra away from the kitchen and entertained her with a stuffed leopard. I thought to myself Thank goodness they are around to help otherwise I would have to trap Lyra someplace safe while I deal with chutney and glass bits.

And I also thought, “If I am on Twitter I would so post this. Yeah I would. Everyone should know not to leave a half-empty glass jar of mango chutney on the table. You should either be eating right out of it or it goes right into the fridge. The lesson of the day is not to leave a glass jar of mango chutney, half full of otherwise, on the kitchen table.”

Then I retorted myself: pppppfffff. Who cares?

If it is of no monumental consequence, I don’t want to say it. I don’t know why or how I got that way. And I suspect it is because for the past few years I have vomited my guts out here. And I still do it. And I kind of feel like stopping.

Maybe because I am getting old and I feel wise old women should not yabber so much. I have this image of being a wrinkled old woman doubled over in the corner of the room always, but when I straighten up and cough and stretch my lips open to speak, the Universe will stop (stop, not pause) to listen– because what I say (when I say it)  is supposed to be very wise, and important. Or supremely funny.

So much for being quiet for a long time.

What I do realize is whether I say it or not, write them or not, it will never change what had happened, the truth, the missing, the ache. I am sure I will not forever be bitter but I also am not sure I need to make a saga of the morphing. I don’t know. I just don’t know.

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54 things

1. I am back. The bears did not find us.
2. I have funky tan lines.
3. Lost 3 pounds even though I was hungry all the time. I had to hold on to my jeans while we were hiking.
4. I think Colorado agrees with me.
5. Canyon de Chelly is truly lovely, lovely, lovely. She has an elegance to it.
6. Just found two strands of silvery white hair. On my head.
7. I’m actually in quite a foul mood right now.
8. A close friend is having a rough year, because her mom, who is her dearest friend, has been really sick.
9. A fellow bereaved received bad news about her pregnancy.
10. It made me think of me telling my girls often, “There is no such thing as not fair.”
11. I am not so sure now.
12. The cabin is not sold yet.
13. I don’t know what happens beyond July.
14. But I know the heaviness of the month is already sitting on my heart.
15. I met a new mom today who asked me, “So three girls is all you have?”
16. And I looked at her, head cocked, trying to decide my answer.
17. “No, I also have a son who was stillborn.”
18. Or, “Yes, three girls, woo-hoo!”
19. Guess which I chose.
20. Sigh.
21. CRAP.
22. Later as I was scrapping dried up poop off Lyra’s diaper, I thought to myself:
23. “Every moment is death.”
24. True, every moment is new; every moment is a beginning; every moment is birth.
25. But every moment something/someone is dying too.
26. I can’t remember the last time I read the news. It makes me feel evil when that happens.
27. How can I not have time to care what is going on around the world?
28. Yet, sometimes I think, “What’s new?”
29. Nothing. Birth. Death. Shit. Crap.
30. During dessert we talked about pets and death.
31. Val remembered our pitbull who ran away and wondered if she is alive or dead.
32. “What if she is dead?!”
33. “Then she is dead.”
34. R said once he had to devise a humane solution for his sister’s pet hamster who had cancer.
35. Solution: put it in a box and into the freezer.
36. They hibernate when cold, so it would go to sleep when it started to feel cold, and it would sleep… … forever.
37. Then they buried it in the garden.
38. It is like that, he told the girls, if you live with animals, you help them birth, and you bury them.
39. Isn’t it the same with human beings as well?
40. Except it made me crappy and cranky.
41. Ten years earlier I would be simply moved.
42. Now I am moved, and cranky.
43. I am not sure if one can be moved and cranky at the same time.
44. Well, I guess I could be.
45. I should be in bed, because tomorrow I begin my “De-clutter with a Vengence” project.
46. I saw in someone’s signature line her goal to declutter 2010 things.
47. And she has decluttered some 700.
48. I won’t want to keep count.
49. But I would like this house half empty.
50. I love throwing away stuff.
51. I do not feel I have much to say anymore.
52. It’s the same old same old.
53. So I guess I will be quiet for very long.
54. If in case it is because a bear had eaten me, I guess you will read it in the news.

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she hates Mothers’ Day

Anne Lamott hates Mothers’ Day, and explains why.

It is true, what she said, what an incomplete day it is. The women left out, left to feel incomplete, because they do not have a card presented to them or a rose to leave to wilt in a vase.

I also do not raise my kids to celebrate Mothers’ Day. Not because I am sagely, but because I am selfish. I would like them to think of me every day, or at least often. Not just on Mothers’ Day.

This past week I had been parenting alone, R out of town for a business trip, and to make a quick visit home for a few days. Afterall, he said, he hasn’t been home for a few years and it would be nice to be there for Mothers’ Day. It had been stressful. Lots of driving, sickness, Lyra refusing to nap, toilet sprouting water sprays. Today the house is a ginormous mess, though small bits of carpet can still be spied. One child complained of having toast for breakfast again, the other said her nose is starting to run too. The littlest said she would like to rebel again for naptime.

I sat in the middle of the mess and tried to summon the noblest of all motherly love I have inside of me, but instead I snapped and started to cry. (Quietly though, because I am proud like that.) Instead of listening to complaints about the household menu, I would love to have someone bring me out to lunch. (But not today, because I hate those cheesy Mothers’ Day roses at every table, chippy waiters  making aaaawwwww sounds, and cheap chocolate favors.) Instead of wiping noses, stirring up herbal conconctions and taking temperatures, I would like to be horizontal while someone drizzles warm aromatic oils over my back, kneading every single kink and knot in me. Instead of strapping a 16-month-old to my back and storming around the house picking up stuff, I would like to curl up in a deep couch and read, to myself.

Yes, it’s true. Some days I just want to be mothered. We all need to be mothered.

Every night I had told myself I will make a drink for myself after the girls have gone to bed, but I never got around to it.

It is not just the lone parenting this week. It is not just that the crappy toilet either. It is not that this Mothers’ Day I am alone and my kids had been unaware (no TV and not being in school) and that I am just exhausted.

It is because the season has started and my heart is wrenched. I am pained. The other night I sat up in bed all of a sudden because I was sure I saw the bedroom door move. It could be one of the girls coming in for something but I was thinking Ferdinand may finally be visiting. I sat up and the door seemed to stop moving. After a few seconds, I exhaled, seeing that the door had not moved at all. It was a hallucination. I miss him. I lay back down, thinking three years had passed. Incredible.

I think maybe I hate Mothers’ Day too.

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