A Walk with Mother’s Day

I’ve been uncomfy with Mother’s Day since I came to the States to live. In England we had Mothering Sunday which was connected to the “Mother Church of England,” but when I read the sentiments in some of the Mother’s Day cards I was surprised. Who were these saints? 

My relationship with my mother was difficult and complicated. Most mothers and daughters I knew struggled too. As a new mother in Mississippi 30 years ago I realised I didn’t even know the job description! My yoga teacher, counselor and spiritual director helped me tremendously. I also realized how much our culture likes to romanticise and stereotype motherhood.

Early this morning, I kissed the Mother’s Day card from my daughter, (don’t tell her!) and took off for a walk at Lake Johnson. As I turned the first corner a gaggle of goslings toddled towards me, followed by two tall-necked geese. I counted 18 of them. They must be a couple of weeks old by now. Then I saw our new, small (is it a baby?) blue-grey heron standing in the shallows. For a split second I thought I saw the profile of a crocodile’s head emerging from the water! Upon inspection I saw it was two turtles on a flat thin log, looking like the bumps of the crocodiles’ eyes.

Feeling light, gooey, and in love with life, I wondered how I could honour mother’s day and give it meaning today. A friend is visiting me this afternoon. I don’t know much about his relationship with his mother except he wrote a wonderful poem about her teaching him the names of the stars.

“We could tell each other a few things we liked or appreciated about our mothers,” I thought.

“No, a bit corny,” another part of my brain replied.

“Maybe not,” I wondered.

As I walked I thought about my mother. I found myself smiling as I anticipated naming a few of her generous, compassionate moments. All those years of working with these my “mother issues” paid off!

Yoga is about seeing things as they truly are, without rancour. Consequently, forgiveness and acceptance are central. It’s delicious to say I’m truly looking forward to “Counting the Ways” I appreciate and love my late mother. (Wouldn’t it be grand if my daughter or eventual grandchild wanted to play this game one day too!)

I just returned from a holiday in Britain visiting family and friends. Several yoga students asked for advice on flying well and preventing jet lag. Here are some thoughts as I do re-entry.

GET UP AND MOVE. I heard one Englishman apologise to the flight attendant for walking up and down the aisles so frequently. “It’s my leg,” he explained, “I have a condition.” Perfect, I thought, it’s my body…I have a condition! On the flight over I walked up and down the aisles many times and stood in the little cubby next to the toilets. I stretched, circled, and wiggled as much as I could in the tiny space: Neck circles, lion facing the wall, ankle circles, shoulder rolls, side stretches, and hip circles when everyone was asleep. I arrived at my sister’s in Somerset after 13 hours of airports, aeroplanes and cars with very little stiffness. On my return, however, I read and dozed. (We’d been out dancing at a local village most of the night before!) Consequently, I got up and moved much less. When I arrived at RDU Airport every muscle and joint hurt, I shuffled and slouched as if I were ancient, and my ankles swollen painfully. So, GET UP AND MOVE to maintain circulation, mobility, posture and comfort.

VISIT THE HANDICAPPED BATHROOM AT THE AIRPORT. There’s plenty of space to practice a long, delicious triangle pose or runners stretch! Stretch out before and after you fly on the plane.

CHAIR YOGA. Take a list of possible chair yoga stretches and breathing techniques you’d like to practice. What parts of your body can you move while you are sitting still? Explore! What breathing exercise would help you relax or feel more alert? Be inventive and creative.

DRINK WATER-gallons of it! On the flight over I drank extra water, but my lips got extremely dry. I noticed I was putting on chap-stick every 15 minutes. Driving from London to the West Country I thought I’d die of thirst. 10 days later, returning home, I filled numerous bottles with water and drank them on the drive to Heathrow. I returned the empties to my re-cycling sister before checking in at the airport. On the plane, each time they offered drinks I had a cup of tea and held out my huge to-go mug for water. Frequent walks to the toilet made me get up out of my sleepy dozes and get at least a little exercise. My lips didn’t call for chapstick once, so I’m assuming I didn’t get dehydrated.

FIX A SALAD and put it in a disposable container. Airline food contains very few vital nutrients for your health and very many simple carbohydrates. They fill you up and dull you out depleting your energy. Real food is sparse, so take your favourite vegetable or fruit salad and supplement your fare. Also, take nuts, seeds, or a hard boiled egg for a protein snack instead of the white flour, salt and preservative snacks they hand out these days.

TAKE YOUR BOOK. I was lucky to be deeply into a novel at the beginning of each journey. Not only did I read delightedly for hours on the flight, I read for the 55 minutes I was in line at 6:00am when we arrived at Heathrow Airport. Everyone was tired after the overnight flight and the loss of 5 hours, but I was happy as a clam savouring every word of my novel as we moved at a snail’s pace through customs.

PREPARE A PRAYER. Deciding on a seed thought, prayer, or breathing technique ahead of time is a way I practice my yoga in transit. I copy it by hand onto an index card and pop it in my pocket or passport. Having it physically with me reminds me to use it. As we sit or stand and…wait, wait, wait, what a wonderful opportunity to bless everyone in the queue, or the airport staff, or to inhale “I am” exhale…insert the intentional word or phrase of your choice. Memorizing the prayer on your card works well, also.

SO I’M BACK…JET LAG FREE…HAPPY TO HAVE TRAVELLED…DELIGHTED TO BE HOME. See you in class J.

~jv~

This month I am thrilled to say a story I wrote won first prize in the Resource Center for Women in Ministry in the South’s annual essay competition.  Enjoy the read and take a few minutes at the end to count your rich blessings, too. For more information about RCWMS visit www.rcwms.org.

Rich.

 “Stuck in Jackson, Mississippi.” I re-read the words I’d printed, big and bold, in my journal. My ex-husband had brought me here twelve years earlier from England. Now I was divorced, burnt out with work, my daughter was staying with her Dad and his family in New Orleans, and I needed to get out of the deep-south.

The one sure thing I had, after a decade of yoga classes, was a great love of yoga. I yearned to learn more about yogic lifestyles and earn my living as a yoga teacher, if it were possible.

 Instead of interviewing for a university position in Georgia, and continuing up the career ladder, I decided to spend July in a study program at a yoga ashram in Pennsylvania. I hoped immersing myself in yoga classes, meditation instruction, and yoga philosophy for a whole month would help me figure out how to get out of my rut and find a new creative niche somewhere in the USA.

The ashram was housed in a former monastery, surrounded by gardens and fields. The Indian Guru-Swami in charge of the place was tall, debonair, and well-educated. From afar I studied his interactions with program participants, Indian visitors, colleagues, and tennis opponents. Some shook his hand, some bowed, and some kissed his feet. I cringed when I saw the Swami pat his afternoon tennis fans on the head as he imparted pearls of wisdom.

 Swami was very stylish. I glimpsed him a few times in elegantly tailored suits striding down hallways, in full length saffron robes cross-legged on his throne-like chair during Saturday night talks, and in polished tennis whites for his daily game. One night he phoned a woman in my wing on the hallway phone waking us all up at four am with an errand. I imagined him reclining on a couch, wearing maroon and gold silk pajamas, a long matching gown and hand made slippers.

I avoided the Swami as much as possible. Instead I picked the brains of the American and Indian teachers, men wearing western suits and ties or traditional Indian dress. They gave us lectures from books they had written on yoga philosophy, stress management practices, and the traditional yogic diet.

The days consisted of hatha yoga, meditation, vegetarian meals, lectures, and karma yoga: cleaning, cooking and sharing the ashram work. We weren’t allowed off the grounds.

At first I found ashram life extremely oppressive. No hairdryers before 7am. No showers after 9pm. No talking at mealtimes. Lights out 10pm. One breakfast I sat opposite a long, lean, ashramite chewing his oatmeal 80 plus times looking ascetic with his eyes lowered. I couldn’t face my oatmeal. I left the dining hall and escaped to the woods.  As I walked and swung my arms a chant emerged. “Rules. Rules, ruddy, bloody rules.” I repeated the phrase over and over in time with my stride. The faster I walked the louder the chant became and I imagined the ashramites in the silent dining room chewing to the rhythm of my rebellious chorus. I burst out laughing and my attitude lightened up. I remembered this was their home and I was just visiting briefly.

I decided to focus on learning all I could as I’d originally planned. I interviewed the teachers, studied bio-feedback, practiced numerous breathing techniques, and learned gobs of yoga philosophy. My group gave me a prize for making the most of all the resources. Some of us even snuck out for pizza and beer one evening.

At the end of the month I could do a fancier headstand, cook Indian dhal, recite facts about doshas, koshas, and chakras, but I was no clearer how to move out of Mississippi, and support myself somewhere new teaching yoga.

 At my last Saturday night satsang, everyone was singing the Sanskrit chants before Swami’s talk. I sang with passion and became more and more energized. The rhythms and melodies stirred me. I needed to move my arms, sway my spine and wiggle my bum. I thought I’d burst if I didn’t get up and dance. Dancing was forbidden at the ashram.

Suddenly, I couldn’t sit still a second longer. I stood, strode upstairs to my monastic cell, opened the window to hear the music and danced. I sang, clapped, and twirled. As I huffed and puffed a powerful energy built inside me. When the music ended I was trembling. Was I angry? I banged the window shut and began ranting at the blank, white wall. “I’ve been here almost a month,” I raged, “I’ve put up with all the ruddy rules and regulations, but I haven’t got what I came for. I still don’t know diddly-poop about how to move forward.”

I paused, stood taller, and addressed the Swami’s essence through the wall. “I admit, Swami, I haven’t liked you from the start, haven’t fawned ’round kissing your feet, haven’t gazed adoringly at your tennis game. But, damnit, Swami,” I slowed and spoke with a new authority, “I do want something from you. I want something transformative, some, um, some amazing new awareness. I want an, um, a multi-million-dollar-moment.” I shook my finger at the wall. “And I’m not hunting you down, Swami. You’re gonna find me.” I smiled, savored my monologue and got tickled at my audacity. I was certainly no longer the polite, compliant Brit I’d been brought up to be. Satisfied, I lay down in the narrow bed and slept.

For my work-study karma yoga, the next afternoon, I was cleaning the bathrooms in the health center. I stepped into the empty hallway, pulling my trolley of towels and cleaning supplies. Suddenly all six feet four of the Swami was towering in front of me. He wore his long, saffron robes. I couldn’t see a door; he was just suddenly there, staring down into my face. His forehead crinkled with horizontal furrows, his eyebrows pinched over his nose, and his eyes were popping out on stalks. I caught my breath. Should I shake his hand? Kiss his feet? Curtsey?

He looked as furious as I’d been the night before. Staring into my eyes he looked through me to the back of my head. “Lady,” he growled. He spoke five words as if underlining every one. “Lady,” he said, “You are very rich.” What? I snickered, embarrassed. Rich rhymed with bitch. It wasn’t for people like me.

I looked away, saw my trolley and quipped, “Yes, I’m rich in towels.” Swami wasn’t amused. He stepped even closer and glared down on me. “Lady,” he repeated with more vigor. “You…are…very…very…RICH.” A tingling shot through my head. The workings of a wind-up clock flashed across my mind. Was he re-setting something mechanical inside my brain?

 I turned away again and touched one of the towels. I AM rich in towels! I thought to myself. And I’m rich in friends, and life experiences, and resourcefulness. I’m rich in courage, rich in health.” I turned back to tell the Swami I understood, but he was gone. The hallway was empty.

For days I wrote lists. “I’m rich in stories, rich in poetry, rich in words.” “I’m rich in rhythms, melodies, dance-moves. In fact, my whole life is rich with all sorts of possibilities and opportunities, no matter where I go.”

When I returned to Jackson, Mississippi, still vibrating with this new awareness, I had a garage sale, tuned up my twelve year old Toyota, and took off to find my niche. A sense of rightness and richness remained as I travelled.

 I arrived in Raleigh, North Carolina, at the beginning of February 1990. In March of 2010 I’ll celebrate my twentieth anniversary of teaching yoga as my livelihood. I am enormously grateful for the strong, spiritual surgery I experienced at the ashram.

When I find myself worrying about the economy, health insurance, or my very small business, I try to step out into the rich world of nature or find beauty in another person’s eyes. The goodness of gratitude seeps back into my brain, breath, and bones. Feel free to remind me lest I forget!