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Learning to ride a bike
Truth be told, I have spent a huge part of my life being afraid to ride a bike. Like my son, who is now 9 years old and still refuses to learn, I avoided riding a bicycle until my double digit years.
My late husband Aaron, gave me a hybrid road bike for my 27th birthday, just a few months before he tragically died of a rare adenocarcinoma. The day he gave it to me I cried and yelled at him. "This is a pressure gift" I said, with tears of shame rolling down my cheeks. Again, I refused to ride the steel stallion all but a few times.
I eventually rode it, with Aaron next to me on his road bike, from our loft to Advocate Illinois Masonic Hospital. We locked the bikes up outside, thinking his cough was nothing more than bronchitis, thinking we'd be back on the bikes to ride them home in a few hours. How wrong we were.
We never rode our bikes together again, and Aaron passed away 8 weeks later.
I took Aaron's parting gift with me when I returned home, back to Nantucket, to heal my grief stricken heart. It rarely saw the light of day.
A few years later, when I myself was diagnosed with cancer, I made a promise to God that if I made it through chemotherapy, I would learn, not only to ride that damn hybrid, I would learn to ride an actual road bike, like Aaron's and clip in. To cement the deal, I registered to ride the bike section of the Nantucket Iron Teams Relay race in June of 2014. I had never competed in a race of any kind, ever, but I figured throwing in this last part would motivate me to train, and might shore up my likelihood of surviving cancer.
To my great relief (and horror), I somehow made it through my first 14 rounds of Taxol, Herceptin and AC with "flying colors". I also survived major surgery and hormonal therapy and an additional 16 infusions of Herceptin. 6 months into treatment, It became apparent that I was slaying breast cancer, and soon it would be time to slay my debilitating FEAR of riding on skinny tires.
I had to keep my end of the bargain up.
The first time my friend Big Ed took me out on my new (used) steel Greg Le Monde 10-speed, we rode from my house in the Cicso area of Nantucket’s south shore, out to Sconset on the north east end and back. I averaged about 12mph, because that was as fast as my treatment-wrecked body could go. He patiently taught me how to unclip before slowing at an intersection and I remember how hard and fast my heart was beating. I was terrified.
Terrified, but thrilled, and I fell in love. I fell in love with cycling that very day and I am so grateful to have had that experience. Not just of falling in love with cycling, but of facing what had been a life-long fear.
I was so in thrall with riding, I signed up for the bike leg of the olympic length Nantucket Triathlon a month after finishing the Iron Teams Relay. My leg of the race was more miles than I had ever ridden at a single time, something around 30-miles. That seems like nothing now, but back then it sounded like running a marathon to me. Yet, I was a newbie, and I cruised along fueled by the power and inspiration of a new found love. With no pressure to set a record or win a ribbon, I was just grateful to be alive and on two wheels.
“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.
~Eleanor Roosevelt”
Fast forward through the last 5 years of riding road, to this weekend. To this moment, on Sunday, in the photo below, taken by my friend Burton Balkind, and here I am again, smiling at fear.
Photo by Burton Balkind
I had just traded in an old cyclocross bike for my first ever mountain bike the day before, and was getting ready to hit the trails with a group of experienced riders. I was smiling, fckn' scared, but smiling, and determined not to let fear get in the way.
I fell 3 times in the soft sand out by the beach on Sunday. I fell in in an embarrassingly slow motion surrender to the earth and my new (heavy) mountain steed pushed me deep into the Cisco sand. As I cornered around trees with handlebars much wider than I am used to, I saw my heart rate soar to a whopping 180bpm. I fought my way through some moments of bike handling anxiety, during a panic-induced trail ascent in Ram's Pasture, but I eventually I made it through the woods.
I rode my new freedom machine for an hour and began to settle into her foreign geometry. While there were indeed lows, there were also so many highs, which is why I firmly believe that it is important, no necessary, to do things that scare you as much as possible.
“Do the thing we fear, and death of fear is certain.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson”
For me, earning to ride a bike was scary. So was going through breast cancer. But I got through both. I still get scared - all the time, but I think these days my muscles of resilience and determination are stronger.
At the end of next month, a group of riders from Nantucket are joining up with Destination Cycling to travel to Mallorca, Spain for 7 days of riding between 30 and 80 miles a day. There will be flats, beautiful rolling hills, and some days of heavy climbing. Some of our local riders have been going for years, yet I have always been too scared to sign up. So you know what I'm about to share:
This year, I signed up.
Listen, you are not alone. We all have fear. The trick is, not to let it stop you. Life is so short, and there's no way to anticipate what's coming around the next corner, so take your fear and turn it into fortitude. Do something, anything, that scares you as soon as possible, and you'll see. Like magic, it no longer has the power, you do.
You have the power.
After the Nantucket Triathlon 2014, with my first road bike - a vintage steel LeMond.
Triangulating the Intention of Trikonasana
Trikonasana aka Triangle Pose, is a beautiful yoga asana, or posture, that both stretches and strengthens the entire body. While no single yoga pose is a substitute for a full practice, if you’re limited on time and looking for one posture that will set you up for having great day, trikonasana might just be your jam.
All that being said, triangle pose is more than just a shape, it’s a beautiful metaphor. Within the embodied shape is an opportunity to ground into the present moment (think through the legs), fire up our desires and goals (manifested through the core) and a chance to spread our wings (aka arms) and express ourselves.
I remember very clearly, the first time I felt appreciative of this deceivingly simply looking yoga pose. I was practicing in a tiny studio, next to a boy I liked, on a little island 30 miles out to sea. Trikonasana was his favorite pose and I remember, while watching him articulate the reach of his top arm by brining his thumb and pointed finger into gyan mudra (think of the OK symbol), that he looked exquisitely good doing it.
Of course this was not the first time I had practiced triangle pose; I had been adjusted in this asana by Alan Finger in New York City, instructed in it’s alignment by Ganga White in Santa Barbara and urged to embody it’s energetic flow at Kripalu by Shiva Rea. Yet it wasn’t the sage wisdom of any of these formidable teachers that pulled the shape together for me, it was love.
As most Western practitioners know by now (regardless of whether or not they actually believe it) yoga isn’t just a physical discipline. It’s SOMAtic, as in a practice that integrates the body and mind. Symbolic, as in expressive of the emotional exploration and the creative process of the self learning about the self. And in the case of the Prana Vinyasa yogi, deeply devotional.
In my lineage, it is important that one’s physical practice of yoga has bhavana, loosely translated to mean the cultivation of a quality or feeling. I think of it as heart. Well I didn’t yet have the language to understand bhavana back in my early 30s, but as a dancer I did understand the art of self-expression. I knew what it felt like to use my body to tell a story, share a sensation, or curate a collection of complicated emotions.
In that moment, watching my beautiful friend embody whatever trikonasan meant to him, I was inspired to do the same. I lined it up like he did, and just for fun added the mudra to my own extended top hand. A flourish of passion rose from my roots all the way up to my crown, and instantaneously triangulating through my body were feelings of new love, compassion for all the lovers out there and an accompanying sense of dare I say it, divine bliss.
Horse shit you say? Maybe. Certainly my 20-year old self would agree. But I’m in my 40s now, and I’m not afraid to say things I feel anymore.
Listen, I’m not trying to sell you on the idea that I have, or you should experience ecstasy in every yoga class, let alone every yoga pose. But I will go on the record to say I truly believe that if you bring heart into your asana, you will taste the mystic now and then. That’s what these shapes are designed to do - align you with the bliss that while sometimes asleep, is already deep within you. All you have to do is stay clear about the bhav you bring into your practice.
So let’s get into the nuts and bolts of this alignment stuff:
Trikonasana aka triangle, stretches and strengthens the entire body. While no single yoga pose is a substitute for a full practice, if you’re limited on time and looking for one posture that will set you up for having great day, trikonasana might just be your jam. Benefits of triangle pose include toning the calves, quads and core and lengthening the hamstrings, groins and spine. This pose has been said to help relieve sciatica, back pain and the symptoms of menopause while also reducing stress and anxiety. Trikonasana can improve digestion and is therapeutically indicated for those suffering from flat feet and osteoporosis.
All that being said, triangle pose is more than just a shape, it’s a beautiful metaphor. Within the embodied shape is an opportunity to ground into the present moment (think through the legs), fire up our desires and goals (manifested through the core) and a chance to spread our wings (aka arms) and express ourselves.
To experience this multi-faceted pose for yourself follow these 10 steps to total trikonasana triumph:
Start standing in tadasana (mountain pose); feet together at the top of your mat.
On an exhale, take a big step back with your left foot, so that your legs span 75-85% of your mat’s length (beginners or those students who tend towards tight hamstrings, stay a little short of 75%).
Keep your right toes facing forward, turn your left toes slightly in towards the midline or keep the left foot parallel to the back edge of your mat (beginner’s can brace the left foot against a wall for additional support). Your front heel should be aligned with the instep of your back foot, or if your hips feel impinged, widen your stance a few inches.
Inhale. Draw energy up through the legs, firming the quadriceps, so that both kneecaps lift and extend both arms out parallel to the ground.
This is key: before you alter the alignment of your hips, shift your pelvis towards your back foot (think about middle school girls when they stand chatting at their lockers, weight resting more on one foot, hip pushing to the weighted side). Now on an exhale, reach the front arm as far towards your front foot as possible, creating a big stretch in the left side waist, and keeping yourself anchored through your foundation, especially the outside edge or your left heel.
Still exhaling reach your arms along this horizontal pathway, simultaneously lengthen your torso, keeping both sides long, over your right leg. Your right ribs should be gazing at the earth, your left ribs facing the sky.
On an inhale, take the arms from parallel to the grown to perpendicular, so you can reach your right hand to your shin, a block placed just inside your right arch, or if possible the floor, inside the right leg, near the instep. Reach your left arm up to the sky, so that the left hand is aligned over your heart and due north of your right hand. Think of your arms as a vertical pillar of channeled energy, like a lightening rod that runs through your heart center).
Energetically send your tailbone towards your left heel, while extending your crown towards the front of the room.
Your gaze can be directed down towards the floor, straight ahead at the left wall of your space, or you can sweep your chin across your chest to look up at your left hand), just be sure to keep your neck long and your shoulders far away from your ears.
Now, to activate all the power of trikonasana simultaneously press your feet into the earth and away from each other while also isometrically (without moving) draw them in towards one another. Pulling all that powerful energy up from the ground through your legs, in and up through the core, radiate it out through bother arms and forwards through the crown of your head. Inhale from the crown down to your pelvic floor and then exhaling visualize the breath rising up from the pelvic floor to the crown of your head. Slow your breath down as much as possible for 3-5 cycles, drinking your breath as if sipping on sweet nectar through a bamboo straw.
(( On an inhale rise back up to a vertical spin position, soften the knees and step the feet together. Repeat the journey on the second side, stepping back with your right foot.))
Modifications: for more support, beginners can do this pose with their backs against a wall, setting a block for the bottom hand, on its tallest edge, a little closer to the pelvis (as in to the rear of, not next to the instep of the front foot). Students with cervical issues should keep the gaze down at the floor or neutral.
Variations: Students with significant hamstring flexibility and core strength, for whom it is easy to keep everything in proper alignment and have their bottom hand on the floor, may enjoy taking the bottom hand to the outside of the leg. Play with taking the top arm behind the back, resting the palm of the hand on top of the bottom thigh for a half bind. Another advanced variation, which challenges the core even more involves reaching both arms towards the front of the mat, framing the face with the palms facing on another as an extension of the line of energy from tailbone to crown.
As you would after any yoga practice, please lie back in savasana (corpse pose) for a moment of relaxation before moving on with your day. Reflect on how the posture has made you feel; what is going on in your physical body and where is your attention resting? Honor the process of receiving this valuable information from your body. What was your somatic experience like? Did you feel the heart of the pose?
Life After the Knife
The explanation seemed to continue on for hours. The radiologists’ voices seemed distant and distorted, as if the words came out of their mouths in slow motion. Then, all of a sudden, they disappeared. They went to check on the O.R. and the time space continuum swallowed me up. All I could hear was the thumping of my heart and the loud rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Photo by Robert Kricivich
Originally Published post-mastectomy. August 12th, 2013
Eight months doesn’t seem like a lot to exchange for the chance at living another 50 years, so I’m trying to be patient.
For me, the past 2 weeks since my mastectomy have been packed with a myriad of emotional transitions and physical alterations and it’s been tough to stay attentive. Despite my lack of physical activity, all the emotional flux I’ve been navigating has turned slow days into full days, and I find myself feeling like the last 2 weeks have both flow by and crawled along at a snail’s pace.
It’s hard to believe that 2 weeks ago I had a body of disease and today I am making big strides towards a full recovery.
According to everyone, my double mastectomy with immediate reconstruction was a great success. With the guidance of my savvy oncologist, the previous 3 months worth of chemotherapy shrank my tumor and all of it’s many calcifications and satellite spots of carcinoma to an almost undetectable presence. My breast surgeon was then able to remove all the invasive cancer from my chest, get clean margins and perform what is called a nipple and skin-sparring mastectomy.
What is a skin-sparring mastectomy, you may ask?
For those of you who are unfamiliar with this process, as I was before confronting it, this kind of mastectomy involves the removal of all of the patient’s breast tissue, but preserves a woman’s own nipple(s) and surrounding skin.
While nipple-sparring is said to alleviate some of the emotional turmoil a woman will feel following a mastectomy, sadly she will likely loose most of the sensation in her nipples. Generally speaking the pain level following this type of mastectomy is greater than that of a simple or total mastectomy, but if it were possible, I was prepared to pay that price should I be able to keep more of myself self intact.
It was originally said that I was not a candidate for this type of mastectomy given the extensive and aggressive nature of my cancer, so going into my operation, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Leading up to the operation, my team prepared me for two of possibilities: 1. single stage reconstruction with implants, or 2. tissue expanders which would help rebuild my breast over several months should everything need to be removed. I had no idea which outcome I would awake to.
Needless to say, I was scared.
I arrived at Mass General Hospital at 5:30 am with my teammates by my side. Both my partner Burr and friend Elisa helped shepherd me through not one, but two preoperative check points, and as we got closer to the surgical time of 7:00am my anxiety was mitigated only by a dose of Ativan.
The fear kicked in big time when my partner and I were greeted by my anesthesiologists who explained to me in detail the process of getting a PVB, or paravertebral block. The explanation, though sound, did nothing to make me feel better.
“PVB is an advanced nerve block technique, in which long-acting local anesthetic is injected below the muscles lateral to the spine and adjacent to the spinal nerves. Ultrasound guidance ensures correct needle placement, and the injected local anesthetic provides a band of numbness around the chest and breast area.”
Ultrasound guidance or not, I was terrified by the thought of someone sticking a needle in my back. After all, I am the girl who’s primary motivation to birth at home was to avoiding an epidural. Put another way, I’d take childbirth over a needle in my back any day.
The explanation seemed to continue on for hours. The radiologists’ voices seemed distant and distorted, as if the words came out of their mouths in slow motion. Then, all of a sudden, they disappeared. They went to check on the O.R. and the time space continuum swallowed me up. All I could hear was the thumping of my heart and the loud rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Be here now, said a voice from somewhere deep inside my mind.
It occurred to me right then and there, that was exactly what I had been practicing and teaching in my yoga classes all year: being present no matter what was going on. Regardless of the mounting pre-surgical fear, this was another golden opportunity to put my money where my mouth was, and be.
Pre-op meditation. July 25rd, 2013
Be here now, the voice said again.
I fell back on my mindfulness techniques. I focused on the feel of the loose hospital garment draped over my shoulders, the sounds around me, and the cold bed beneath my seat. I remembered Thich Nhat Hahn’s gatha:
Breathing in I calm.
Breathing out I smile.
Dwelling in the present moment
It is a precious moment.
My partner was asked to clear the room and an ultrasound machine was switched on. Someone injected an intoxicating liquid mellow into my I.V. and soothing female voices began coaxing me to relax. Reflexively I started ujjayi breathing, and somehow I faded into the ether. I barely remember the nerve block going in.
The next thing I remember was thirst. Thirst, then dizziness, then nausea and then my partner. By the grace of the goddess, the marvels of modern medicine and several hundred friends and yogis praying and practicing for me around the country, my surgery was a success.
My tumor was gone.
My breast surgeon had saved my nipple, the plastic surgeon reconstructed my breasts and everything had been completed within the space of a day. As I came to my senses, I felt a tightness around my chest and a tingling in my breasts.
Breasts! Yes, I had them!
Two of them; swollen and distorted from surgery, but exactly where the old ones had been. How amazing!
I was released from the hospital two nights after my surgery. Sent home with a monstrous surgical bra and an elastic band that wrapped around my chest to keep the implants from pulling north, I felt like a walking Ace bandage. With the residual effects of anesthesia and morphine still pumping through my body I was amped-up enough to entertain company for dinner. I was alive, tumor-free
I’d love to say that things went smoothly from there on out, but I can’t. I’d love to tell you that I kept the full sense of mindfulness and presence I had found in pre-op, and that I basked continually in gratitude for my medical successes, but that wouldn't be truthful.
A knife might be less painful than depression.
The truth is, that once the last of the intravenous drugs wore off, nausea and vomiting descended upon me like locusts, eating up any excitement or enthusiasm I had had for surviving the surgery. Since I couldn’t hold food down, I weened myself off everything except Tylenol and Ativan, three days after my hospital discharge.
But once off the narcotic pain killers I was haunted by strange phantom pain in my chest and bizarre let-down reflexes in my breasts.
Every time I thought about my holding or snuggling with my son Griffin, I’d feel the hot prickling sensation of my long ago dried up milk coming in, and a floodgate of tears would stream down my cheeks. No longer having milk ducts to produce and deliver milk, nor a baby to nourish, I felt bewildered by these sensations and overwhelmed by maternal yearning.
Try Googling “phantom let-down reflex after mastectomy,” and you might get two or three hits on some breast cancer message board, and that’s about it. So little information exists out there that I thought I was just imagining things.
I made valiant attempts to stay positive, but found myself spiraling into sadness.
The dirty, dark secret thing that no one wants to talk about, the possibility the doctors don’t warn you about, the trap that Glass-Half-Full-Cancer-Warrior-Troopers aren’t supposed to succumb to, is that cancer can cause clinical depression.
4 days post-p July 29th, 2013
And about 7 days out of surgery, I fell into a deep, self-loathing darkness. The darkness in my heart matched perfectly the deep purple bruising spreading across my chest.
I’ve always believed that knowledge is power, so I’ve since done a little digging. It turns out that studies show as many as 1/3 of people newly diagnosed with cancer, in treatment for cancer and those who’ve survived cancer suffer from PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, and according to HealthNews Day, 1 in 4 women with breast cancer report symptoms of PTSD following diagnosis and/or treatment.
Symptoms of PTSD include “trouble sleeping, memory problems, irritability or anger, feelings of guilt or shame and episodes of uncontrolled sadness and crying spells” (Post-traumatic Stress via The Mayo Clinic).
Well, this explained the darkness and tumultuous tears.
I rested all of my hope on getting my surgical drains taken out as soon as possible. These drains are a package deal when you have a mastectomy and keep blood and lymphatic fluid from collecting at the surgical site. The drains are embedded inside the breast area and extend externally from your body, where they connect to collection bulbs, sometimes called grenades. The bulbs are awkward at best, and need to be fastened with safety pins to your clothes.
While the drains functionally provide an important service, they are anything but sexy (if you’re interested in more about the drains, there are hundreds of patient-made videos you can watch on YouTube), suffice to say that daily life with the tubes and drains comes with its own set of challenges.
I was crestfallen when at my July 31st follow-up appointment with my plastic surgeon, he told me I’d need to keep the drains in for at least two more weeks due to residual edema and the stubborn internal bleeding. For a short while I let this pull me down deeper into my depression.
“Let everything happen to you, beauty and terror, no feeling is final.”
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
The drains are a drag. But they are temporary! At least that’s what I keep telling myself, and isn’t that the lesson that has made itself all too clear since the beginning of this journey: that everything is temporary (beauty, youth, fertility, hair, health, even breasts). The only constant in life is change.
In her powerful and tender book, Being Well (Even When You are Sick), Elana Rosenbaum counsels those of us with illness that “To accept change, we need to accept thoughts and feelings as well as our resistance to an altered life.” I read that and thought, what sage advice.
So all that being said, I decided this week, it was time to accept my bulbous plastic friends and my depression and then maybe I would stop feeling so out of control. I've stopped fighting everything so hard and started embracing things as they are.
I took some solace in my old copy of Pema Chodron‘s seminal work When Things Fall Apart. I started walking the 1/8th of a mile to the beach a couple of times every day, and recommitted to my meditation practice. My partner came up with smart, creative ways to make the drain grenades more comfortable.We used old Kaenon sunglass bags to cover the sticky plastic bulbs (making them much less irritating to my skin) and carabiners to fasten them to my belt loops. This makes wearing the grenades more comfortable and it saves my clothes from holes made by the safety pins.
Malas: not just for mantra
Now, when I wanted to shower, we made good use of one of my many malas. It’s easy to pin the drains between the beads, and this frees up your hands for sudsing and shaving. I realized that if I ooped a long mala around my neck twice, I had enough freedom to move my arms (at least from the elbows down) to wash a good deal of my own body.
Sometimes I keep the grenades pined like this all day long. I've gotten used to looking at the fluid they collect. But If I leave the house, I cover them up. Their unsightliness could easier nauseate the unsuspecting passerby. The bulls go back in the sunglass bags and the drains get pinned back inside one of my paretner's boxy t-shirts.
If I’m teaching yoga, I wear a flowy skirt with a roll down waist band that can cover the grenades and a loose tank top on top to hide the drains. I sit on a yoga block at the front of the studio and keep pillows under my armpits to remind me from excitedly gesturing while I instruct with own my voice.
I even started going to the gym…with my parents!
As if it weren’t already sweet enough that each day this week, my father or my mother has picked me up and chauffeured me to the Nantucket Health Club, the entire staff welcomes me with open arms and showers me with encouragement. “We’re with you” they say. “You can do this!” they declare.
The reality is, I can’t do much (exercise that is); nothing with my arms until my drains are taken out, but I can ride the stationary recumbent bike. So that’s what I’ve been doing; about 10 miles a day, at a very mild pace.* The endorphins I release while exercising are giving me the kick in the ass I’ve needed to stop the depression in it’s tracks, and despite the drains, I feel better than I have in weeks.
*Patient Note: it is important not to get your heart rate up too high while recovering from surgery — exercise only under your doctor’s guidance.
My dad is a cancer survivor too. Stage IV throat cancer almost took him from us two years ago. It’s kind of a miracle he’s alive, considering he smoked well into his 50′s.
Never having been one for a workout, it’s impressive that this year he’s getting himself to a few group fitness classes per week. I’m tickled pink when we go there together: two cancer survivors, working out in the same gym, giving cancer a run for its money.
My life feels very different since I was diagnosed with cancer.
It certainly looks different. Sometimes things change at lightening speed; like the period of time from your initial diagnosis to beginning of your treatment. Other times a procedure seems to last forever: hours lost in trance watching drugs drip slowly from their IV bags. The key, I think, perhaps for all of us no matter what the struggle, is to stay present with whatever is happening, whenever possible, as much as possible and to remember each moment is temporary. One wave turns into another. Eventually, we learn to surf.
“The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.”
~ Carl Rogers
###
MAKING THE BREAST DECISION
It’s been 4 months since a core biopsy revealed I have invasive breast cancer. Since then, my days have been chock-full of research and reflection, so I’ve had plenty of time to think about the upcoming July 24th surgery that will theoretically save my life.
Originally published on RebelleSociety.com
July 23rd, 2013
It’s been 4 months since a core biopsy revealed I have invasive breast cancer. Since then, my days have been chock-full of research and reflection, so I’ve had plenty of time to think about the upcoming July 24th surgery that will theoretically save my life.
In the past 4 months I’ve had 14 infusions of chemotherapy and 16 weeks toweigh the options: single mastectomy, double mastectomy, reconstruction, no reconstruction, nipple tattoo, artistic tattoo, no tattoo. I’ve grappled with whether the path of least resistance would be to peel myself back to the bone, bravely staying flat chested forever, or to move gracefully forward with the replication of what I am about to loose.
Photographer: Joey "Islandboi" Rosado / Make-up artist & Art direction: Moshoodat
Each option has its pros and cons. Of course they are all preferable to have no options at all.
With all the decisions that needed to be made, I’ve researched all my available choices (there are many) and prepared myself for the various possible outcomes of resection (there are a few). I’ve asked everyone I knew who’s gone before me all the relevant (and delicate) questions: Are you happy with your choices? Would you do things differently? Do you like the way you look?
Some of my fellow breast cancer warriors elected to remove only the breast affected by cancer, and haven’t sought to reconstruct. Some of these women use an external prosthetic in their bras and bathing suits, some don’t.
Many women I’ve spoken to have removed both the diseased breast and the healthy one prophylactically, and have reconstructed both. Some of these women were candidates for nipple-sparing mastectomies, which left their original areola and nipples intact; some were not and could not.
For those for whom saving the nipple and surrounding skin isn’t an option artistic tattooing can be healing. These women are empowered by reclaiming this part of their body with stunning tattoos where nipples or whole breasts used to be. Each woman’s options are affected by her case, diagnosis and genetic background. The possibilities are many. The choices can feel overwhelming…
I’ve taken a winding, sometimes bumpy road to arrive at my own decision.
In the beginning I researched various autologous reconstruction procedures, all of which create new breasts using some fat, muscle, skin and blood vessels harvested from another area of one’s own body. But I came to the conclusion that this option could leave me physically weakened in the donor area of my body, and might seriously interfere with my yoga practice and my love of competitive athletics.
Then I asked myself if I’d be okay using cadaver or bovine (yes, cow) tissue to hold a silicon or saline implant in place. As an aspiring vegan, this presented me with a bit of an ethical dilemma, and I wasn’t sure if I could introduce any kind of foreign body into my own; whether it came from a four-legged friend or a chemical manufacturer.
David Jay Photography via TheScarProject.org
Down to the bone.
In May, I came to the momentary conclusion that I would choose mastectomy without reconstruction. I started compulsively feeling my ribcage, imagining a smooth hillside slope from my collarbones down to my bellybutton. I’d press my fingers into the divots between my ribs and try to picture myself with a full set of 12 impressions instead of the breast tissue that presently occludes the spaces between my fifth, sixth and seventh intercostal muscles.
For hours and hours I Googled images of women without reconstruction to see how I would feel when trying on a more Balanchine ballet dancer version of femininity: flat chested and boy-like. What I found were hundreds, maybe thousands of brave women who have documented their journey through breast cancer and proudly displayed photographed themselves or posed for others.
Coffee table books and websites, like The Scar Project, celebrate these women and beautifully illustrate the process of survival and recovery. The photographs I unearthed revealed incredible courage and strength, and touched places deep inside my feminine soul.
But after sitting with this decision for several weeks, I realized that my reasoning was flawed.
My decision making process no longer felt personal. It felt political, forced and academic. I realized that the pressure of what I thought I was supposed to choose was strangling what I wanted to do.
Through meditation and self-inquiry, I realized how reactionary my initial decision had been. I had judged myself harshly in April for wanting “fake breasts,” and I had labeled myself vain. What I needed to do was get out of my head and into my heart.
When I finally did, I realized that choosing not to reconstruct out of fear of being judged for having implants is no more authentic than choosing reconstruction for fear of being flat chested. To reconstruct or not to reconstruct are both honorable choices. Navigating breast cancer is brave, period. Ultimately not only are other people’s opinions none of our business, they are certainly not worthy of influencing such an important and personal decision.
David Jay Photography via TheScarProject.org
Beauty takes many forms.
I have unending admiration for the women who have lost their breasts to cancer and have chosen not to reconstruct. I think they are just as beautiful as women with breasts; reconstructed or natural. But after much debate with myself, I have chosen another path.
Tomorrow, June 24th, I am having a bilateral mastectomy and hopefully, reconstruction.
I have chosen to remove both the breast that has cancer and the one that does not. If single stage reconstruction is possible, it will happen shortly after my breast tissue and cancer is removed. If my cancer is still too invasive to save the majority of my skin and nipple, my plastic surgeon will put in tissue expanders that will stretch my skin until it is able to hold a pair of implants.
Either way, I am excited to have a new pair.
This decision has brought with it great freedom. I feel released now from the pressure I had put on myself to practice the asceticism I had applauded as part of renouncing of this process. With my mind settled now on rebuilding what cancer has taken from me, I’ve been able to return my focus to healing.
Spending time in quiet meditation and holding myself with greater tenderness, I’ve been mourning the imminent loss of the breasts I used to feed my son, and pleasure my partner.
In honoring our time together I’ve been directing thoughts of loving kindness towards my breasts and letting go of any negative feelings I’ve had about them in the past. I’ve come to realize that for me saying good-bye to my breasts has also been about letting go of any shame, blame or animosity I’ve felt about them in the past.
I’ve forgiven their colossal and early development in my pre-teens, the shrinking they did when I lost weight in my 20s, the tear-jerking mastitis I had during the first few months of breast feeding, and their abrupt deflation after I weaned my son. I’ve reached back into the distant past and forgiven the right one for being smaller than the left. I’ve forgiven this sweet hijacked tissue from being compromised by cancer and failing to stand up to what I can only surmise is an attack of environmental causation. On the brink of momentous change, I think I’ve finally made peace with my bosom, and let go of old gripes and insecurities.
Pre-Mastectomy {Photo: Larisa Forman / Caitlin Marcoux}
I’ve put my hands over my chest and thanked my breasts for all the amazing things they’ve brought into my world: thousands of hours of enjoyment, the pleasure of a satisfied partner, the discovery of a deeply maternal sensibility, and a strapping, well-nourished toddler.
I’m ready now; ready to make space in my heart to welcome myself home again: perhaps a little modified, but healthy, cancer-free and damn it, just as much a woman as before.
“Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy.” ~ Anne Frank
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HOW TO TALK TO SOMEONE WITH CANCER
{Originally published on RebelleSociety.com May 15th, 2013}
Bummer. Sounds like you have to talk to someone with cancer. I’m so sorry – for you both! After all, it’s no easy task for either party. Going through this very thing myself, I’d like to help you out with a little cancer context, so that we can put your inevitable dialogue into your loved one’s perspective.
Originally published on RebelleSociety.com
May 15th, 2013
Bummer. Sounds like you have to talk to someone with cancer.
I’m so sorry – for you both! After all, it’s no easy task for either party. Going through this very thing myself, I’d like to help you out with a little cancer context, so that we can put your inevitable dialogue into your loved one’s perspective.
The thing about people living with cancer, is that we are a complicated bunch.
Our senses have been rubbed raw by diagnostic testing and medical evaluations. We’ve been graded, staged and given projected survival rates. We’ve seen the fragility of our lives held up before our own faces, and we come away from our treatments feeling vulnerable in a way we’ve never felt before. We cling to our independence, but know we’re dependent on others for healing and help.
We are emotionally taxed and psychically drained.
The very nature of our dis-ease has thrown us into a world off-balance. Not only are our bodies working over-time to halt the production of alien-like rapidly mutating cells, they are struggling to process the toxic poisons we voluntarily ingest to cure ourselves. The very treatments we implement to make us healthy, make us sick. We walk a fine, contradictory line on a daily, weekly or monthly basis.
Cancer survivors know better than most how fleeting life can be.
We live with a foreboding and heavy awareness of risk. We are almost painfully aware that each day we have is precious.While certainly there are many silver linings, we remember wistfully what our lives were like Before Cancer, before the silver linings needed to be pointed out. We navigate the remainder of our days knowing that we will never again feel the pre-cancerous freedom we may have taken for granted.
“Toleration is the greatest gift of the mind; it requires the same effort of the brain that takes to balance oneself on a bicycle.” ~ Helen Keller
We know it’s a tall order, and that our needs are inconsistent, but we really appreciate your patience as we figure out exactly what we need. We want you to be sympathetic, but we don’t want your pity. We want you to look us in the eye, but please don’t stare. We’d like it if you could meet us where we are, not judge us for where you think we should be. We want you to reassure us that we are capable and brave, but don’t blow smoke up our asses; being the authority on ourselves, we know we’ve looked better, felt better, or seemed more grounded.
We’d like it if you lent us a compliment or even two, but for heaven’s sake, please don’t go over board. Sure, Bald is Beautiful, but given the choice, most of us liked ourselves just fine with hair.
Love us.
We still want to be loved, and by that I mean made love to. Those of us withbreast cancer and facing mastectomy could be on the brink of loosing the very largest symbols of our sexuality and femininity. If in the face of buzz-kill cancer, we can muster up enough energy to jump in the sack, please do whatever you can to rise to the occasion.
We might complain all day long about not feeling pretty but at night we’d like to be pursued as if we were the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen. We might ask you to turn off the light, just go with the flow.
Shower us with empathy.
Compassion is a prized commodity amongst our kind. It’s better that chocolate, red wine, or our anti-nausea medication. A single empathetic commiseration that indeed things can suck may be more appreciated than any other grand gesture of affection you can bestow us. It’ll certainly go over better than the knee-jerk condolences you might be tempted to offer up.
The truth is, no matter how above it we may project ourselves to be, we are embarrassed by our vanity. Even those of us who walk a path spiritually devoted to cultivating an awareness deeper than the skin, know real and intense discomfort when our physical identity starts to fall apart.
We may attempt to take control of our hair loss by cutting it short, or shaving it off. We may throw ourselves a Boobvoyage party before a mastectomy or parade around with our newly bald head held high. BUT we are actively engaged in the most difficult task of accepting that we are completely and utterly out of control.
This week I’m grappling with something I find simply humiliating. As if it weren’t bad enough that my hair has fallen out only in patches, to add insult to injury I now have something called folliculitis, a bacterial infection of the hair follicles, not only on my scalp, but also in the soft downy follicles on my neck and all the way down the small of my back. It is nearly impossible to feel sexy when touching your own head gives you the heebie-jeebies.
For all the cancer patients out there who have experience this particular itchy, hot, and unflattering torture, I bow to you. It takes a formidable person to rock this particular look without tears. And to those of you, who like me, have wanted to hide far from society in the seclusion of your own homes, or in the very least under a hat, I feel you. I know the last thing in the world you want to hear is how beautiful you look, when you feel like shit.
Get real.
We know that you know we are strong, but don’t you know we don’t always feel that way? Do you know how hard it is for us to be brave when our hair is falling out and our bones are itching? Do you know there are days we don’t feel graceful, moments we don’t act graceful and times we fail to live up to our own graceful expectations? It is hard for us to feel empowered with an icepack on our head and a heating pad on our knees, dry red eyes and a rashes lashed across our skin.
Sometimes we feel bad.
We don’t envy you: those of you who run into us at the grocery store, or the coffee shop on one of our bad days. We know it’s awkward to hear us panicking on our cells phones with our mothers, or crying to our husbands. But please don’t walk away and pretend that you didn’t hear. Chances are in a moment like that, we need your help and we might be too proud to ask.
Forget attempting to offer up some gratitude platitude (we are more grateful for the chance to keep living than most), just give us a silent squeeze. One hand on the shoulder is worth a million well crafted aphorisms. Most likely, we will hug you back with all our strength; perceived or projected.
We want you to see us. To see our strength and our vulnerability. To feel our pain and to know the depths of our gratitude. Ask us sincerely how it is, and we will tell you the truth.
“There is no difficulty that enough love will not conquer; no disease that enough love will not heal; no door that enough love will not open; no gulf that enough love will not bridge; no wall that enough love will not throw down; no sin that enough love will not redeem…” ~ Emmet Fox
Here are a few more things to keep in mind when you talk to someone with cancer:
1. If you know about our disease, address it immediately. Chances are we already know you had dinner with a friend of a friend the night before last and they told you all about it, so get it off your chest. Waiting for us to tell you how we are puts us in the awkward role of feeling like we’re complaining; usually things could be better, but if you’re curious about how we feel, just ask.
2. If you’re not prepared for some detailed response to your inquiry, just don’t ask. We may need to vent about some gnarly side-effect, and most of them are kind of yuckie. Be prepared to listen. Your shoulder to cry on might be the biggest boon we get all day.
3. Please refrain, if possible, from telling us a story about your friends and relatives who died of cancer. Just like a pregnant women gearing up to deliver her baby, it’s important that we surround ourselves with stories of success not fatality. If you haven’t experienced cancer first hand it is normal to want to relate in any way possible, but for our sake think twice before sharing a story with a bad ending.
4. Unsolicited advice might be great, but it’s still unsolicited. You might just have the most miraculous outside-the-box alternative therapy that you’re dying to put to the test, but please, unless we’ve asked, soften your enthusiasm. No one takes their diagnosis more seriously than the patent themselves. Most cancer survivors I know have thought long and hard about their treatment plans. They’ve often consulted their nearest and dearest and have gotten a second and third opinion. And by the time we are in active treatment we have a pretty solid plan of attack in place.
5. Empathy, empathy, empathy. Plain and simple, cancer sucks. If anyone wants to talk about how it’s a gift, leave that to the patient to offer up.
6. Shower us with love. According to the mother of Western yoga, Judith Lasater, all emotions stem from the two most basic: Fear and Love. We, cancer patients, are confronting our fears in a full frontal attack. Showering us with love is like helping us stock up our arsenals and helps us prepare for battle.
7. Lighten Up. The more you can make us laugh, the better. This is not to say we don’t appreciate you taking our challenges seriously, but let’s face it, laughter is the best medicine. If you can find a way to make us giggle we will love you forever.
I am lucky enough to have some of the best and silliest girlfriends in the world. When three of them came to visit me last month we took over the infusion room at the Nantucket Cottage Hospital. When Gretchen, my infusion nurse, slipped out to go to the lab, the girls promptly took over and we turned Cancerland into Clubland.
9. Touch us. Cancer is not contagious. We can’t give it to you. What we can give you is the chance to heal our aching hearts. Most of us just want to be held.
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Teach Them Young
I gave birth to Griffin at home, in table pose, on a well-worn yoga mat. We were in front of the fire, in the middle of the living room. The mat was green and helped hold my focus during Griffin’s lighting speed, two-hour delivery.
No doubt about it, parenting is challenging.
I gave birth to Griffin at home, in table pose, on a well-worn yoga mat. We were in front of the fire, in the middle of the living room. The mat was green, well-worn and was the only thing between me and the floor during Griffin’s lighting speed, two-hour delivery.
You probably know which mat it is: It’s the one with the large tree and floating leaves. Gaiam had it on sale with a matching mat bag several years ago. I’m sure a million people have the same one. Mine was special enough to me to be one of the few things I needed during labor. I had taken it with me on my pilgrimage to Santa Barbara nine months earlier, to the White Lotus Foundation, where it comforted me consistently during the transformative experience that was my first yoga teacher training.
Its California wear and tear soothed me during that riveting night in December of 2009. I still have it—though it now bears the even more poignant markings of Griffin’s birth. I didn’t know it then, but that night, on that mat, a new kind of practice was born.
He loves building towers out of yoga blocks, and skates over the studio’s hardwood floors in his socks. It’s not unusual for him to join in at the end of one of my classes for savasana and a chant an Om or two.
It wasn’t always this way though. Back in 2009, pregnant with Griffin, I made a ridiculous decision that being a Mom wasn’t going to change my yoga.
Wow, was that naive.
It’s difficult to admit (and still makes me feel guilty from time to time) but I struggled with postpartum depression. I resented my own child for taking away my me time, and I resented the world for what I then saw as a detour of my dharma from teaching to parenting.
I labored to find any sort of balance in my life, and I was angry. It took me the first year and a half of Griffin’s life to figure out how to bring my yoga practice and parenting together. But eventually I surrendered to the inevitability that my practice was going to include my son, and being a mother was going to require a serious shift in how I would navigate the rest of my life.
Since then, I have made it a conscious decision to incorporate Griffin into the very essence of what I hope to accomplish with my practice: a deeper sense of equanimity, and alignment with integrity. And so whenever possible I bring him into the fold.
Yoga began for me, as it does for many of us, as a collection of beautiful poses. Then it became a collection of tools I used to build and shape my life, and today shape the way I build my life with my loved ones.
I think this is a common experience.
For many of us it begins with the asanas—we practice and reap the physical benefits, the feel-good highs and the calming moments of stillness. And then, like magic, it turns into something more: a level head, a quieter mind, a meditation practice, a change in diet, or a commitment to healthier mindful living. Maybe we dig a little deeper and study up on the traditional teachings.
If we can integrate our practice into how we run our homes and work our relationships, our children absorb yoga by proxy.
Yogas Citta Vritti Nirodhah
Yoga is the resolution of the agitations of the mind
I recently took a workshop with Raghunath in Boston, and he started out his dharma talk by speaking to this very evolution. He reminded us that while we were there to practice asana, we were really there to use the practice to clear the vritti, or fluctuations of the mind, and that this could be best accomplished with the breath.
In my practice I have found that indeed, the moments when we slow down our breath, we can slow down the vritti and find a self-awareness that resides only within spaciousness.
“Yoga is a way of moving into stillness in order to experience the truth of who you are.” ~Erich Schiffmann
When Griffin gets upset now, I’ll hold him and ask him to look into my eyes and breathe with me. Sometimes I put his hand on my chest, and rest mine on his. I try to help him find space between his cries or complaints and simultaneously put a pause on my own reactivity. It doesn’t always work, but sometimes all it takes is a little pranayama and touch, and my amped-up toddler will calm himself down to a place in which we can both be still. We are together practicing mindfulness.
“Mindfulness frees us of forgetfulness and dispersion and makes it possible to live fully each minute of life. Mindfulness enables us to live.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh
No doubt about it, parenting is challenging.
It’s one of the hardest (and most rewarding) jobs on the planet. It’s difficult not to take a toddler’s temper tantrum personally, or stay calm in the midst of a Stop N’ Shop Def Con 5–sized meltdown.
Many of us parents find ourselves pressed for time and end up multitasking three or four different things in any given moment—folding the laundry while helping the toddler get his breakfast down, or answering e-mails on our iPhones, while skimming Huffington Post on the desktop and answering questions about the day’s itinerary. It’s all forgivable, but it’s not very mindful. There is no room for space in a torrent of activity like this and it can make usand our children feel claustrophobic.
Now when I find myself having a day like this, my yoga practice reminds me I’m not in alignment with my beliefs.
Multitasking, no matter how time-saving it may feel, produces half-baked ideas and an overcrowded mind. It’s ultimately anxiety-producing.
And it’s not yoga.
The next time you get caught-up in the whirlwind of your “life”/the vritti, practice bringing your attention back to the present moment. Invite into your heart the practice of mindfulness. You will be rewarded with tiny or not so tiny arms wrapped around you, keeping warm and grateful and grounded in a shared experience of the present moment.
“May we learn to allow the stillness in our hearts to live in our minds.” ~Elena Brower
Your children will learn. When you set a positive, mindful, spacious example for them when they are young, they will learn and lift off that much earlier and soar before your eyes.
Enough Love.
Self-doubt hasn’t always been my worst enemy. There have been many times in my life when I have felt grounded and strong, confident and full. I’ve had “important” jobs and respectable earnings. I’ve had fulfilling friendships, and raging romantic relationships. I’ve had critical acclaim, and glowing reviews, approved graduate school applications, academic scholarships and positive survey feedback. And there have even been times in my life when I’ve had all of these things simultaneously. More importantly, I have had times in my life in which I have felt a deep sense of fulfillment from the inside out. I’ve liked where I was and who I was and I’ve loved what I was doing. I was enough. Maybe not enough for a star on Hollywood Boulevard, but enough for me. But that didn't last....
Self-doubt hasn’t always been my worst enemy. There have been many times in my life when I have felt grounded and strong, confident and full. I’ve had “important” jobs and respectable earnings. I’ve had fulfilling friendships, and raging romantic relationships. I’ve had critical acclaim, and glowing reviews, approved graduate school applications, academic scholarships and positive survey feedback. And there have even been times in my life when I’ve had all of these things simultaneously. More importantly, I have had times in my life in which I have felt a deep sense of fulfillment from the inside out. I’ve liked where I was and who I was and I’ve loved what I was doing. I was enough. Maybe not enough for a star on Hollywood Boulevard, but enough for me.
Sadly in the last couple of years, self-confidence has been in short supply… somewhere along the path that has been my recent adult life, I’ve lost my self-love mojo. Ironic for a yoga teacher who regularly posits in class that self-acceptance and compassion are the self are key components of living a mindful and healthy life. Believe me when I tell you there has been no lack of reflection on this twist.
Maybe it started with a string of unsuccessful career choices. Or loosing a husband to Cancer. Or living with an emotionally cut-off alcoholic. I’m sure there was a lot of self-loathing going on when grief-stricken and bereft, I found myself snorting cocaine off the back of a toilet in a dive bar in Chicago, and unfortunately it didn’t stop even when the drug use did. Maybe it really began when I broke trust with myself, and rushed into a second marriage, still full of grief over the last one. I’m sure my self-doubt was doubled when in my relatively small community I went through a fairly publicly discussed divorce. But for whatever (many) reason(s), somewhere in the not so distant past I seemed to really loose my sense of self and began consistently looking for external validation. I started to feel unworthy of true happiness, love, and santosha (contentment).
Sure, there were moments in between now and then when I felt satiated, fulfilled and worthy of love. Bringing my son into this world, naturally and nearly unassisted, felt like nothing short of a miracle, and yet even that accomplishment’s glow wore off quickly. Completing my yoga teacher training felt satisfying – to a degree… but I had plenty of doubts about even that; was 200 hours really enough training to call myself a teacher? what did I have to share with my students anyway? who was I to be leading a class? etc.
Then in late 2010 I found myself unexpectedly falling hard in love again, and the hole in my heart felt temporarily full. Of course, it wasn’t long after the flush of fresh love began to calm, that fear and insecurity crept back into my heart, and I started to feel unworthy again. Not a few months into my new domestic bliss (summer 2011) did I begin to feel tripped up by doubt and insecurity. Fear around trust nearly broke everything apart, and though part of me would like to add “for good reason”, the rest of me knows that there wasn’t one. All of a sudden I didn’t feel pretty enough, or smart enough, successful enough or spiritually evolved enough. I began to think that I didn’t meditate enough, or hadn’t traveled enough. That I didn’t have enough accolades or degrees, or missions of seva and global activism in my resume. I began to think I wasn’t interesting, and felt like I had nothing to share. I stopped talking at dinner parties, and began resenting people for their own exciting stories, careers, adventures or vacations. I started to believe I didn’t have enough to offer my partner, my students, or my friends.
Well enough is enough.
So I’m making a proclamation right now, in broad internet daylight, that the buck stops here. The self-doubt and feelings of unworthiness stop NOW. The truth is, I am more than my past failed relationships, my divorce and my losses. I am more than my up-in-the-middle-of-the-night worry that I might not be the best mother to my toddler son. I am more than my measly 30-thousand dollar annual income. I am vulnerable and I am strong. I am a novice at some things, and an expert at others. I cry, but I laugh. Some nights I have nightmares, but many nights I have big beautiful dreams. I have fears but I have many more hopes. I have trauma in my past, but I have done more than just survive it. And YES, I have major issues with trust – but I’m WORKING on them.
I might not have a three figure salary, or a CV full of humanitarian service work in third world countries – but I do have an interesting list of skills and interests.
I am a great mom. I’m a really good massage therapist, and I’m working diligently at becoming a good yoga teacher. I have a strong commitment to a spiritual path, and I really believe in living as mindfully as possible. I love music of nearly all kinds, modern dance, photography and art. Prior to motherhood I was fairly politically active. I’m a good cook and I can talk about wine. I’ve lived in several major cities, including New York, Chicago and Paris, and I can paint you a pretty exciting picture of my travels through the Netherlands, Berlin, Belgium, and the Czech Republic. I once spent 6 months traveling through Ireland all by myself. I’ve been a house painter, fishmonger, prop stylist, studio manager, and choreographer. I’ve worked as a photo researcher and photo editor for major magazines including the New York Times Magazine, Fortune and Newsweek, and once upon a time (1999) my modern dance company, headlined the Nantucket Arts Festival. I gave birth to my son 100% naturally, at home, on a yoga mat, in 2.5 hours with nearly zero assistance. I really like skinny dipping in the ocean. I once smoked pot with David Byrne. I was married to one of the most amazing martial artists I’ve ever known, who just happened to love working out and training with me. Consequentially I can deliver a pretty kick-ass muay thai knee strike. Every day I spend a considerable amount of time balancing on my hands, forearms or head, and I love being up-side-down. I used to play the piano with passion, and I still secretly love singing.
So as it turns out, I am more rich in beautiful experiences than tragic ones – and from here on out, I’m going to start identifying myself more with the former than with the later.
Here’s an amazingly powerful quote I read today; “those who have a strong sense of love and belonging BELIEVE they are WORTHY of love and belonging.”
Today I believe I am enough for my son. Today I believe I am enough for my partner. And today, I am enough for myself.
I am enough.
I am enough.
I am enough.
THE GIFT OF TEACHING YOGA; FAMILY STYLE
I never wanted kids. I never wanted kids and I never wanted to teach Kid’s Yoga. In my teens I was horrified by the over-population of the world, the irresponsibility of “breeders” and the selfishness of adults who wanted to see mini versions of themselves. In my early 20s I found myself ritually annoyed by the stroller take over of my previously hip South Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn. And in my late 20s I was convinced that I might explain my situation as “childless by choice”.
I never wanted kids. I never wanted kids and I never wanted to teach Kid’s Yoga. In my teens I was horrified by the over-population of the world, the irresponsibility of “breeders” and the selfishness of adults who wanted to see mini versions of themselves. In my early 20s I found myself ritually annoyed by the stroller take over of my previously hip South Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn. And in my late 20s I was convinced that I might explain my situation as “childless by choice”.
Fast-forward 3 years later, and I now have a 2.5 year old little boy and not only am I’m teaching yoga for kids, but also yoga for teens, and yoga for families. Um…. how did that happen? I could tell you, but that might take a while, suffice to say I hit 32, and a whole bunch of everything changed.
For one thing, hormones I was perviously unaware of began raging through by body. I began fantasizing about the kind of family I might have. I started dreaming about doing yoga on the beach in Costa Rica with 2 or 3 naked bronze babies with long blonde dreadlocks crawling all over me. Then in 2005 my first husband Aaron died of cancer, after suffering through that loss for several toxic years, my need for human connection and comfort became a huge priority, and I wanted a baby, badly.
So here I am, seven years later, a mother and a yoga teacher, and loving every minute of it (okay, maybe not every minute – but a lot of the minutes). It’s been said a million times, but it’s true; being a mother is the single most difficult and simultaneously rewarding job there is. It’s hard to a have a real sense of this until you’re in it, but it’s the total truth.
Being a yoga teacher can be challenging for sure – but it isn’t nearly as challenging as being a mother. But I often feel very maternal towards my students, and watching their practices continue to grow is certainly rewarding. So having an opportunity to put the two together has been an amazing experience. I can’t say that I yearn to teach yoga to kids while parenting my own children every day – but yesterday it was truly, truly special.
On Memorial Day I taught my first ever Family Yoga Class at The Yoga Room here on Nantucket – and 6 brave mothers came with their children. Some of the mommies were beginner students, some intermediate and some advanced. Their children ranged in age from infancy to pre-adolescent. Some moms came with one child, some came with two. One was in a car seat, and yet another could already practice full tripod headstand (she’s only 5). Even I had the chance to teach with my 7 year old former step-daughter on the mat right next to me, and my ex-husband arrived at the end of class with our son Griffin. The last time I taught a class with Griffin he was nursing in a sling across my chest.
At first I thought the “class” felt more like loosely organized chaos (there was even a baby throw-up incident on a TYR mat – a first I’m sure), but then before I knew it, 55 minutes had passed and all 15 children and adults in the room were resting serenely in savasana. When class was over grown-ups and children alike looked happy, grounded and open, and my own heart blossomed in gratitude for the chance we all had to practice together.
A couple of hours later the lovely Jessica Douglass tagged me on Facebook in a bunch of photos she had taken of class, and my ex sent me a few photos he was able to capture with his iPhone. I couldn’t help but get teary eyed and rather choked up. Here is a little look inside our class:
Yoga and Parenting both help us mainline compassion straight to the heart. I feel very bless to be both a mother and a teacher. Many thanks to all of those of you who have encouraged me to teach the Dharma Kids, Strong Girls, and Family Yoga classes. I wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t pushed me.
THE DAILY MEDITATION
Let’s be honest. Yoga, like life, is a practice, and I am far from practicing either perfectly. I’ll be the first to admit that I have ridiculously high expectations for myself, and I’m really good at beating myself up when I fall short. I want to be able to do things, most things, (okay, everything) well, if not specatularly well. And when I don’t, which I won’t, because I can’t, I get frustrated and discouraged. And believe me, I know that as a yoga teacher this isn’t exactly politically correct to admit. I’m not supposed to be goal-oriented or ego-driven. In fact, I’m supposed to be non-judgmental, patient and compassionate with everyone, including myself. I’m accepting and understanding of everything, and I embrace all sentient living creatures with equal amounts of love. But let’s be real for a moment? It’s just not that easy.
photo by Katie Kaizer
Let’s be honest. Yoga, like life, is a practice, and I am far from practicing either perfectly. I’ll be the first to admit that I have ridiculously high expectations for myself, and I’m really good at beating myself up when I fall short. I want to be able to do things, most things, (okay, everything) well, if not specatularly well. And when I don’t, which I won’t, because I can’t, I get frustrated and discouraged. And believe me, I know that as a yoga teacher this isn’t exactly politically correct to admit. I’m not supposed to be goal-oriented or ego-driven. In fact, I’m supposed to be non-judgmental, patient and compassionate with everyone, including myself. I’m accepting and understanding of everything, and I embrace all sentient living creatures with equal amounts of love. But let’s be real for a moment? It’s just not that easy.
As yogis and yoginis we hope to practice the yamas (non-violence, truthfulness, non-stealing, moderation and non-hoarding) and live a life full of mindfulness, and compassion. It is a noble aspiration be as mindful of our first breath as our the last, and all the breaths we take in between. For most of us, there will be breaths that will stack up as hugely alert (focused pranayam, the first breath drawn after a 90 second hold beneath the waves, an exhale which crowns a baby’s head, a gasp taken in horror or ecstasy, or the last sigh before the soul leaves the body). Others, here and there, are simply stolen from the atmosphere on autopilot, our attention diverted to the many other things swirling around in our minds. When we practice mindfullness we try to be aware of as many breaths as possible.
Whether it’s adhering to a schedule of daily asana and/or meditation, taking my 2 year-old to the beach, or finding time to fold and put away 3 loads of laundry, one of the things that gets in my way is my desire to do it all. Things, sometimes many, fall by the wayside-because that’s what happens with life, and I often feel disappointed I when I don’t accomplish more. I feel bad when I don’t make time to study, and worse when I haven’t had an opportunity to reflect on my spiritual path. And I think that because I am a yoga teacher, there are times I feel an additional pressure, to navigate through my life with fundamentalist’s fever. I either berate myself when my mindfulness slips and slides: when I say something judgmental about someone, get angry at my partner, feel enraged when someone hurts my feelings, or yell at my child. Real yoga teachers don’t loose their patience with their off-spring, do they? Well, yes – actually… they do. I’ve asked around. We do. And I’m going to be honest with you: I do too.
If I don’t punish myself for being a “better yogi”, I might find myself pushing back against the practice with a rebelliousness that harkens to my angry, jaded and nihilistic 20’s: So I passed a judgment, I might say to myself, so what…everybody else does. I lost my temper; um, well he did yesterday…and so on. But this response is childish, and no less toxic that the aforementioned self-flagellation. So I remind myself, as I’m doing here, in print, that letting up on myself is the better option, and every day presents us with yet another opportunity to recommit to the path of mindfulness.
The truth is, I make mistakes. We all do. And maybe you haven’t, but I’m going to venture a guess that you’ve probably lied at some point, such as I have. I’ve stolen. I’ve acted out of jealousy, and anger. I’ve been competitive in my asana practice and envious of other teachers and students. I am extremely insecure from time to time, and especially depending on where I am in my cycle I can be emotionally unpredictable and even volatile. I don’t floss my teeth every night, and I haven’t used a neti in months. I once lost my patience with my late husband, who was dying of cancer, and asked me for a glass of water at the end of a very trying day. I yelled at him. He was dying. Did I mention he was dying? He forgave me, because he hadn’t an ounce of anger, resentment or judgement left in his body those last few weeks, he was already moving into a more enlightened state of consciousness. I didn’t forgive myself for years.
I got there, eventually, because I finally accepted that I couldn’t carry that kind of pain around with me and be the kind of person I want to be. I knew that at the time, (27 and on the brink of losing someone I was very much in love with) I did the very best I was capable of. There are other things I haven’t accepted yet, and travesties I haven’t forgiven yet but maybe, with time, and practice, I’ll get there too.
I might not, at this point in my life, be able to take a month-long retreat to India, or Bali, or some other exotic spiritual destination, nor can I bow out of my parenting responsibilities and instead bow to the feet of a guru, or keep my every thought focused on devotional intentions – and actually, if I’m honest – I don’t want to. But I can work here, within the context of my pretty awesome life, and practice meaningfully within the scope of my relationships. I can be a yoga teacher, and a yoga student. A mother and a lover.Shiva and Shakti. I can practice patients with my son. I can practice thoughtfulness with my partner. And I can practice engaging with the people in and around me with compassion and love. My practice will not be perfect. But I am committed to being the best possible me I can possibly be.
My partner recently told me that he wasn’t interested in being in a relationship with someone content to settle for less. It’s a good thing I’m not either.
FEAR & SNOWBOARDING IN MASSACHUSETTS
Why do I consistently put myself in uncomfortable situations, expecting they will get easier? Probably because, on some level, I continue to expect that at some point I will somehow rise above the most basic of human emotions: fear.
Sitting here in the snack bar at the base of Butternut Mountain, outside of Great Barrington, in an absolute shit storm of anxiety, I can’t help but ask myself why? Why do I consistently put myself in uncomfortable situations, expecting they will get easier? Probably because, on some level, I continue to expect that at some point I will somehow rise above the most basic of human emotions: fear.
Ironically I know I won’t though, because there’s no magic fear-removing fairy godmother involved. There’s only me, and the many different flavors of fear. The situations change; graduate level chemistry class, a social engagement with people I’m not comfortable with, a meditation technique that feels inapplicable, falling in love, travel to a foreign country, a business meeting about something that feels out of my depth, crowds, surfing, math, cancer, parenting, being alone for an extended period of time, loved ones with terminal illness, the immanent death of a spouse, pending divorce, how I might be perceived by my community for getting divorced- no lack of scary events, but I remain the same. I am the common denominator that does not change. And, though we are making progress, fear and I are still not comfortable with each other. So here I go again, stubbornly forcing myself into an anxiety creating situation, and now I must figure out how to gracefully move through it.
All that being said, I have made some progress. As you can see from the list above, there has been no lack of opportunity. When I was a kid, I had few tools in my fear-coping tool box. But I have yoga now, and because it helps me stay grounded in the present, I have a better handle on reigning in my anxiety these days, then lets say 5 years ago? Okay, well, sometimes. I’m not doing the best job right now, but hey, it’s a practice….
It’s not a panacea for everything, but yoga helps with a great many things. It teaches us to focus not on the “what if” projections of the future but on the present moment at hand. Judith Lassiter, an amazing yoga teacher, author and physical therapist, wrote a great little chapter on Fear in her book, “Living Your Yoga”, in which she explains
One of the interesting things about fear is that it exists in relationship to the future. When there is actual danger present, I am not afraid. When you are truly present in the moment, even when that moment is life threatening, you are not afraid.
So true. Take handstand for example. The thought of practicing handstand used to scare the hell out of me. Projections about what would happen if I fell over would flood my mind, my heart would start to race, and I’d begin to sweat almost immediately. Fears about failure would take over. ‘What if I’m never actually able able do handstand?’ ‘Does that mean I have a sub-par asana practice?’ and so on… My ego would engage and become goal oriented, task driven, and a downward spiral of self-reproach would start, even before my first attempt. This went on for quite some time, until I began to soften with myself, and send myself a little compassion. Watching my breath helped me focus my attention on the sensations of my body in the present moment, I began to calm down.
With a calmer Self, and consistent practice I’ve managed to look the monster that was once handstand in the face, and the fear has dissipated. I still fall over all the time, but I know what happens when I fall, and thus spend less time projecting about what’s going to happen when I do. I already know. More importantly I’ve been able to practice patience with myself. Handstand is humbling. It’s a difficult pose, and unless you have a background in gymnastics, or your genetics simply stack up well against gravity, it’s a pretty challenging no matter who you are. It rarely happens overnight for students, and having patience with yourself is key.
Today my fear is wrapped up around snowboarding. I’ve never done it before, and now that I’m here, I not sure that I want to start. But it’s too late, we’re here. My feet are cold (literally and figuratively) and armpits are sweaty, and I wish I could jump into the rental car and drive far and fast away. I have heard stories all week long about how much it sucks to fall time after time on one’s ass, how sore I’m going to be the next day, how steep the learning curve is, and how frustrating it can be. One of my closest girlfriends told me a story about how scared she was to jump off the lift and made a humiliating trip all the way back down the mountain on the chair.
So as I sit here anxiously watching the clock, until it’s time to wrestle with my rented snow boots and track over to my lesson, I am faced with several options: I can sit here and worry about the approaching event, and all the many different ways I’m going to fall, fail and frustrate myself. Or I can begin the practice of grounding myself in the present moment. After all, nothing bad is happening right now.
I listen to my breath, and try to smooth the next one out. Inhale a little deeper. Exhale a little longer. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
THE ARTFUL SANKALPA
Sankalpas are intentions, similar to resolutions, and yet quite different. Sankalpas are often positive things we wish to cultivate – like peace, compassion, love, or truthfulness. Resolutions, on the other hand, are often about decreasing something, giving an indulgence up like alcohol, fatty foods, sugar, or TV… sometimes a list of New Years resolutions can feel like punishment, or self-denial.
photo by Graham Swindell
Thursday night I had the opportunity to practice at the studio, not something I get to do often late in the week, so it was a real treat. Especially because It seems like ever since I completed the 60 Day Yoga Challenge back on the 10th of December, my asana practice has kind of fallen off the mat, and it’s amazing to me how having external motivators in place, like a challenge, can totally change the way we, or I as it were, approach self-discipline. Anyway, I was super psyched when I arrived at the Yoga Room to see that Susan had written the word Sankalpa on the dry-erase board, which is the Sanskrit word for will, purpose or determination, how perfect.
Sankalpas are intentions, similar to resolutions, and yet quite different. Sankalpas are often positive things we wish to cultivate – like peace, compassion, love, or truthfulness. Resolutions, on the other hand, are often about decreasing something, giving an indulgence up like alcohol, fatty foods, sugar, or TV… sometimes a list of New Years resolutions can feel like punishment, or self-denial.
So in this way, a sankalpa is actually the opposite of a resolution. It’s about increasing not decreasing. And the process of creating more space for our intentions to grow, instead of the often difficult task of giving something up. Sankulpas foster positive self-image, whereas resolutions can run the risk of making you feel like you’ve been perpetually coming up short.
Here we are on the cusp of yet another new beginning. And whether you believe this is the dawn of just another new day – which in itself is still a miracle, or if you celebrate New Year’s Eve as the end of one year, and beginning of a new chapter in your life, it is without a doubt a time when many people take a moment to reflect on the past and look towards the future with fresh eyes. The end of the December presents us with a chance to re-evaluate where we are in our lives, our relationships, our careers and of course, our practice. So if writing down a list of resolutions is not your cup of tea, perhaps thinking about the sankalapas you wish to cultivate in the year to come will get you closer to a place of greater equanimity.`
Anyway, however deep your intentions are, or long your list or resolutions may be, I wish you many powerful and compassionate sankalaps in the year 2012. May your New Years Eve celebrations allow you a moment to be grateful for all that you have, and all the beautiful things to come.
I celebrated earlier this evening, as Griffin, Burr and I watched a Fantasia-esuqe sunset over Cisco beach on the Western side of Nantucket. The moment flooded my heart with love and gratitude as I watched my two most special people smile at the simplicity of the setting sun. Griffin excitedly pointed to the great ball of fire in the sky exclaiming “hot” over and over again, while a big bright rainbow spanned the horizon behind us. It was the perfect ending to a transformative year.
Many thanks to all my friends, family, students, teachers and mentors for all there continued support. To my son, for giving me a reason so much bigger than myself to continue down the path of Self-realiztion. And to my partner, for nurturing me along the way.
Body Attachment
This might seem like an obvious statement (most of us are pretty attached), but it’s actually something I’ve been working to let go of for a long, long time. Not my body, the attachment that is. My body comes in real handy when I have to lift the baby from his crib, go to the grocery store, or demonstrate a posture in class. All sorts of spiritual gurus and leaders tout the benefits of practicing non-attachment, but it’s so much harder than anything I’ve worked towards, including my undergraduate degree, passing the NCTMB, learning a solid Chataranga, or even the still-ellusive handstand.
photo by Katie Kaizer
I am attached to my body.
This might seem like an obvious statement (most of us are pretty attached), but it’s actually something I’ve been working to let go of for a long, long time. Not my body, the attachment that is. My body comes in real handy when I have to lift the baby from his crib, go to the grocery store, or demonstrate a posture in class. All sorts of spiritual gurus and leaders tout the benefits of practicing non-attachment, but it’s so much harder than anything I’ve worked towards, including my undergraduate degree, passing the NCTMB, learning a solid Chataranga, or even the still-ellusive handstand.
Non-attachment is a real bitch.
So anyway, several years into this process, I’m still pretty attached to my body, and lately it’s been grossly self-evident. Last week I started off my Tuesday with my first ever mammography. Then on Wednesday I had an MRI of my left knee done (the same knee with the injury that ended my dance career in 2000), followed by a CT of my left ankle, which I have now broken twice in the same spot, once in 1989 and again when pregnant with my son in August of 2009. Needless to say I was feeling tremendously attached to the outcome of all these diagnostic procedures, and began to experience intense empathy for my body’s soft tissue.
At some point by Thursday I was in the full throws of what-if’s. What if I can’t do massage work this summer? What if I can’t teach yoga? What if I can’t practice myself? What if I have a malignant breast tumor ? What if, what if, what if…
I began to get upset. I worked myself into a emotional tizzy. My knee began to hurt, my ankle started to swell, and in my agitated limbic state, the area of discomfort on my right breast started to grow. All in a matter of moments. Fuck, I thought. I’m so super attached to my body! This expletive was quickly followed by another in the form of: Shit! I’m trying not to swear!
Hang on, let’s just pause for a moment. I would like to state for the record that in the last year I have given up all meat and seafood, alcohol, and most dairy products. Despite having a partner who would like it better if we both gave up stimulants and bad language… I must continue to swear while eating chocolate and drinking coffee just to keep myself interesting to other people.
Anyway, I started to think about my physical self, my physical life, work and play, and what it would be like to loose temporarily or permantely my athletic ways of navigating through the world. Sadness and panic rushed into my chest. Everything got tighter, and I began to feel a little wheezy. This was an absolutely amazing moment.
I realized that however I might deny it to myself or others, I am profoundly caught up in my yoga body, which is really just a newer, more insidious version of my old dancer body- and all its issues. As it turns out, my sense of self is directly tied into what I can do with my body, and my body has literally grown into who I am and how I support myself and my family. Some of this is simply fact: as in, I need my hands, fingers and elbows to do good deep tissue work. But some of this is really old shit I need to let go of: like, I must not be a good yogi if I can’t do adho mukha vrkasana.
So, time to check that attachment thing again, and recommit to thinking outside the musculoskeletal box! After all there are plenty of yoga poses you can do with one good knee, or ankle, or boob.
And just when I think I’ve gone beyond the need for a perfect Chatarunga, I catch myself thinking, well my Bird of Paradise has gotten really good lately! And off it goes- my mind and it’s monkey.
Ah well, one un-attached foot in front of the other. One day at at time.