Spring Lilacs

Despite our wacky winter that wasn't, and summer in March, the past few weeks have really felt like spring - verdant, fresh, new. My dear friend C has the most beautiful yard, whimsical and earthy, and her lilacs defy explanation. The fragrance is unreal, one of my favorite smells.

I walked around her yard a few days ago, and saw this butterfly, and thought maybe I will fly away soon too, new in shape and form. Maybe my spring is here.

Returning

How things have changed in six months, and my, how they are still the same.

Divorce is a long, ugly, painful process. I am still getting divorced. It is a soul-sucking process. Some days I wake up and marvel that there is still any light in my being. But then I think that fire is a purifying element. I am walking through hell, and will emerge stronger, distilled, free. Even this, as awful as it is, is better than what I was living in for years.

But I don't want this space to only be tears and woe. I am multifaceted, and there is much joy and beauty in my daily life. So I will still post about food and knitting and yoga and school (I am finally back in school - my life on my terms!!) and kids and politics and triumphantly crow from this soapbox.

So pull up a chair, let's brew a pot of tea and chat. Welcome back.

Running Lessons, or How Everything is Really Yoga

My legs are mismatched. They look like each should belong on different bodies, not emanate from my pelvis together. The left is the stronger, more structurally sound of the two. Longer by three quarters of an inch, my left leg hangs down a plumb line, ankle stacked below knee, arch of my foot strong and curved. My right leg is in a state of perpetual external rotation, so when my two feet point forward in neutral, my right knee cap points in at at an odd angle. The tibia and fibula curve out in a more pronounced fashion. The arch of my right foot is flatter than it's partner, and collapses as I walk. I can hold standing balancing postures as long as I like on my left foot, but the right, oh my. Not so much.

In the summer of 2006 I set out to become a person who liked running. Growing up I was the kid who walked the mile run in gym class. My bother ran track, and was very good, so naturally I could not be bothered to try knowing I wouldn't be as good as him. I had other talents, and sports, and as I chose a career training horses, I was not in need of a physical outlet. But by that summer, that had changed, I had a toddler, and a job pushing paper, and I needed to move, to have a space and time that allowed me to focus on the rhythm of my breath, to move in meditation, to quiet the screaming in my head. So one day I ran a mile. The next day I ran a little farther, and before long, I ran my first 5k with Kathryn, and was hooked. I ended up running a half-marathon in the fall of 2007, but during my pregnancy with Bridger had to stop running due to placenta previa, and just never got back to it. Until this June.

I'm the kind of person who needs a goal, so I signed up for 10k in September, a race I ran 5 years ago and loved, and have slowly been working my mileage up. Today I got new shoes, to accommodate that funky right leg, and therefore had to run the scheduled 6 miles in mid-day heat. It's hot today. mid-nineties, humid. It was a little not that smart. But I started, felt great for 3 and half miles, and then came to a BIG FUCKING HILL. By the top of that hill, I was blacking out, hearing the blood pounding in my ears, and eerily enough, felt cold and shivered. So I'd walk until I could see again, breathe and be with the panicky sick feeling of, But I still have 2 more miles until I'm home, then run until the world went dark. And repeat. This a skill my yoga practice has taught me, how to be with the uncomfortable, impossible feelings and spaces, and keep moving forward throughout, until the inevitable change comes. I've learned I am so much more than those feelings, that the truth within me is deeper, that I am strong, that I can will deadened limbs to move farther, to ride the waves of dizziness, and arrive where I intend, or be at peace with arriving where I am. That knowledge is power. 

Coincidentally, I still ended up with an average pace of 11:30, even though the last 2 miles were run/walk. Which is the other lesson learned - slow the fuck down in the beginning of a long run, Blondie!

Making the Impossible, Possible

Open your heart, share your love generously. 

I had the pleasure of subbing a Chakra Flow class just over a week ago. The Chakra for that week was the heart Chakra - meaning yes, a backbend heavy practice. I have for many years had a hate-hate relationship with backbends, but recently have been attempting at least to make friends with them, to observe the discomforts rather than fleeing from them. A woman came up to me after the class, and told me that although she had a rod in her back, and she had nearly walked out of the studio when I introduced the theme, she said that the way the class was sequenced and presented made it accessible to her - that even if she could not wear the full expression of each posture, she left that day feeling her heart open, and her body lightened of previous perceived limitations. Another student yesterday, with herniated disks, told me he had never been able to 'do' yoga since his injury, but felt the practice that day was presented in a 'kind, gentle manner', that allowed him to find new possibilities in his body and mind in that moment.

This is yoga to me - through the practice we make what seems impossible at the moment, possible over time. It's magical to me. Physically I've found new corners of Neverland (the name I have for postures that are at the moment un-accessible) over the past 2 and half years of practice, but slowly the landscape changes. What seemed impossible in 2009 is now part of my regular practice, and poses I didn't even know existed are in the Neverland category, as something I am working towards. But more importantly than physical progress is the quiet in my mind, and finally, finally a willingness, a courage to explore the shadowland in my soul, to bring to light buried traumas, to remove the armor I have worn for so much of life so I too, can blow my heart wide open and live a life free of fear. This will be the second time in my life I call on this practice to be a ship to carry me over a sea of dark thoughts, to be refuge from the darkness of my mind.

I believe the physical traumas we experience in life write themselves into our bodies, like psychic tattoos. The deep work of yoga can release those deeply held memories and beliefs. I have a heavy mantle of somatic emotional pain, of transgressions, of violence. Once the autonomy of one's body is breached, it is no longer safe or sacred. I am damaged. I have no safe space in my own being. Backbends have always scared me, as they require me to open my most vulnerable areas to attack, belly and throat up and exposed, heart open, easy target. Each and every time I drop my head back into Ustrasana, I feel that hand grab my hair and wrench my head back, rendering me powerless. But I am tired of living with this darkness. I want to be touched in love without seeing the flashes of hands holding me down, and so, I will do this work. I will reclaim this place of openness. 

So here is the state of the backbend at the start:

In honesty they don't look nearly as bad as they feel - right hip (as per the usual) likes to be in external rotation always, shoulders are tight, but not a bad place to start from. This was taken last week. Tonight I did my practice, tears streaming down my face, lots of inversions, and of course more backbends. They do feel better, but each time I prepare to enter the postures, I have to gather my courage, beat back the fear and un-grit my teeth. Time, diligent practice, tears. Hard work. I will reclaim my body.

By the numbers

I recently jumped on the scale, for the first time in months. 

Before my children, I was always trim, athletic, thin. Oh, and eating disordered. Pregnancy was a total mind fuck for a recovered/ing 'eating disorder not otherwise specified' woman. But after Isabella was born, the 32 pounds I gained fell off in three short months. Three months later I had lost an additional 20 pounds or so. Extreme stress did that to me. I wore a zero. I stopped lactating. Not awesome. 

With Bridger I gained the same 32 pounds. But three months after giving birth to a nearly 10 pound baby, plus a large placenta, I was just 10 pounds lighter than the morning my water broke. Two years later I was still 18 pounds heavier than when he was conceived. He is still as of this post breastfeeding. It did not melt off the pounds the second time around. I feel cheated.

So imagine my surprise when I discovered I am now within five pounds of my pre-Bridger weight. 12 pounds of my pre-Isabella weight. And how? Living. Loving. Eating real food. Baking from scratch. Following, more or less, Michael Pollan's advice: Eat Food. Mainly Plants. In Moderate Amounts. Having a celebratory relationship to my fuel. Daily yoga. Mindfulness.

But the truth is, my navel is a different shape. My breasts no longer stand at attention. My hips have spread. Two people grew within the confines of my abdomen. No number can change that fact. And finally, finally, I have surrendered my need for control enough for that to be ok. I am two children away from my pre-pregnancy body. And that is beautiful.

Evolution of Practice

Over the summer I discovered this fantastic website YogaGlo, through noted (and fabulous) yoga teacher Kathryn Budig. For the price of one drop in class in Boston, I can stream unlimited classes monthly online, with various awesome West Coast teachers, from varied traditions.  At this point in my life, it's far more economical to do my personal practice this way, and I don't have to find child care to get to a studio for an external input. 

In June I made an attempt to commit to a daily yoga practice. Note I said attempt...

In October, Glo put out a 30:30 challenge  - 30 classes, 30 days. Even if the class was 5 minutes of meditation. I made 18 of those days, I got sick mid-month, and there were some days where life just got the best of me. This month, I've continued this quest to create the habit of Daily Practice. And as of today, the 18th, I've missed two days.  Not  bad... This month I've counted teaching as practice, and haven't made a minimum time for practice. Next month I think I'll up the ante, and aim for a minimum of 30 minutes practice, and a personal practice on teaching days.

What's been most interesting to me during this time though, has been simply observing the fluctuations in my practice in response to my life, my 'comfort food' practices, and what is really challenging to me. Bridger's daily rhythm hasn't really allowed for me to adopt an early practice; I'd  need to be done by 5:30 most days. I've tried where possible to practice during his erratic nap-times, but most days I end up doing an evening practice. Which means I typically practice on low energy. My instinct is to do a sweaty athletic vinyasa flow, but some nights I just don't have it in me. So I've been doing some quieter, more yin practices, and once-weekly meditation. And I've re-learned about myself in the process. I hate being still. I love being 'busy'. Even on my mat.

This re-discovery has been a gift. The intensity of a yang practice, my breath working like bellows stoking inner fire drowned out the monkey-mind chatter. In a quiet practice the mental  mastication is deafening. I chew, re-chew, regurgitate thoughts, past conversations, conversations not yet had, muse about life, love, the garbage, what's next for tomorrow, my hangnail, you name it. 

The last lesson my practice taught me is the asana you hate most is probably the one you  need to hang out with. Until you make friends with it. I suppose it applies to style of practice too...  

And the observation continues.

* I have not been compensated in anyway by YogaGlo - my opinion here only! *

Activism, Advocacy, Ethics, and How to not be an Asshole

So an advocate, and activist  and an asshole walk into a bar... There is no punchline here, just my growing realization  that there is such a huge difference between advocacy and activism. I think our society is really getting these two activities confused. Everyone likes to think they make good choices in life. Some people even like their choices so  much that they want everyone else to make those same choices, regardless of whether those choices are a good fit for those other people's lives.

The difference for me lies withing the expectation of the A-person. An advocate seeks to inform, educate and most importantly, EMPOWER others to make well-researched decisions based on balanced, unbiased data. An activist most often seeks to have everyone make the decision that they, the activist agree with, regardless of the individual circumstances of the decision-maker. A lack of ethics leads activists to masquerade as advocates. A perfect example of this would be a Crisis Pregnancy center (anti-choice activism) giving a woman false information regarding the safety of abortion - they are giving information, but it is not the kind  of data that an empowered decision can be made from.  

One step farther from misguided activism is just plain being an asshole - bullying, derisive  behavior meant to demonize those who are 'other'. Clinic protesters, 'intactivists' who post abusive Internet comments, sanctimonious parents who pity children born in a different manner than the way their children were born.  These behaviors do nothing to further a cause, and most often alienate the very people that are trying to be reached. 

I've come to believe that if I feel so strongly about  an issue that I can no longer advocate - that is, detach my self from an outcome I disagree with, it is time to move to useful activism. That is, taking concrete steps to change the cultural and societal framework, or legality of the issue at hand. For example, I truly believe that routine infant circumcision is not a 'choice' for a parent to make. I find it disturbing that my daughter's rights to bodily integrity are protected but my son's rights are not. So instead of being an asshole online, or in person, I do what I can to change the laws regarding male genital mutilation. And until certain frameworks are changed, I advocate by sharing information about the issue. Because until the larger societal issues are addressed (think formula company lobbies and parental leave in regards to breastfeeding, myths regarding male cleanliness and prepuce function for  MGM, hospital maternity policies driven by liability rather than informed consent in birth), individuals should not be crucified for making decisions based on bad information, habit, or pure survival. 

These are  really large issues, enough to make my head spin. I think though, moving forward as an advocate and an educator, it's important for me to reflect and examine these issues carefully. 

Thoughts on Breastfeeding

What follows is an essay I wrote on my personal history regarding breastfeeding, for one of the side projects in reproductive advocacy I have going on. It is in response to the following comment thread on Facebook.

Mira Clark via Kathy Abbott: If you are looking for support quitting smoking, you wouldn't call a hotline run by Philip-Morris...
Need help breastfeeding - call LaLeche League.

Opposing Views: Formula Company: Call Us for Breastfeeding Help

www.opposingviews.com

Formula Company: Call Us for Breastfeeding Help on Opposing Views. Issues, Experts, Answers.

Sunday at 3:03pm ·  · Comment ·  · Share

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  Gail Strunk Lachs likes this.
• • 
    

    Leahla Contreras formula is the devil's milk.
    

    Sunday at 5:39pm · 
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    Gabriella Ercolani twinkies for infants
    

    22 hours ago · 
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    Mira Clark 
    
    
    

    Remember it's the companies, our system, and the lack of milk banks that force many mothers (including me) to use this inferior milk substitute. I really think if there was an attempt to create artificial blood, and it was marketed the way artificial milk is, there would be uproar. We need milk banks, proper education on breastfeeding management and physiology, and for American companies to be held to the WHO code. I'm lucky Bridger has only ever (and continues to have) my own milk. But I wasn't that lucky with Bella. And knowing where I was lead astray sucks. Hindsight...

    
    

    21 hours ago ·  ·  1 person
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    Leahla Contreras where were you lead astray? did it start with a hospital birth and a c-section? seems like that's where a lot of this gets slipped in.
    

    20 hours ago · 

Personal History

Mira Clark

    One of my earliest childhood memories is of sitting next to my mother, who read to me while she nursed my younger brother Stephen, and then a few years later, my brother Michael. As a child I knew that all three of us had been breastfed, and only assumed that was how all babies were fed. Although at that time I did not know the details of how long we each nursed, or that in the late 60's my mother had wished to breastfeed my older sister, only to be prescribed birth control at 8 weeks that dried up her milk, I just knew that breastfeeding was going to be part of my parenthood. The manner in which my mother not only fed my brothers, but mothered me at the same time left an indelible mark on my identity as a woman and mother.

    At the age of 24 I found my self very unexpectedly pregnant. In that chaotic time, as I worked through the decision to become this baby's mother, and own that choice, one of the constants for me was the knowledge that my child would be breastfed. Her biological father came from a very different background however. Where my mother chose to have her 3 younger children unmedicated and breastfed all of her children, his mother and sisters all had surgical births, and chose to formula feed from the outset. They did not understand my desire to have a natural birth, and thought that breastfeeding was a waste of time and effort. During my pregnancy, I bought the Womanly Art of Breastfeeding. As there were no LLL Groups nearby, it was my lifeline, the only breastfeeding support I had nearby, as my family lived far away. 

    My daughter's birth was long, difficult, and without the necessary support, the natural birth I had envisioned became filled with the interventions I had wanted so desperately to avoid. After 29 hours of labor, mockery by my ex and the l&d nurse, an epidural, and pitocin I did not consent to, my daughter was born, healthy and normal. I was not allowed to hold her for an hour after her birth. When I did try to breastfeed, the nurse roughly shoved her on to the breast. She was so sleepy from the epidural that she did not suck at all. Despite the sign on her bassinet 'no artificial nipples', and my express wish to only room-in, a nurse came the second night while I was sleeping, took her to the nursery, and brought her back an hour later with a pacifier in her mouth. I spent the next hour trying to get her to latch on, we both sobbed, and no nurses came to assist us. Not surprisingly, she did not learn to latch properly, and by the fifth day my nipples were cracked open and bleeding. Thankfully I got a good phone consult to correct her latch, and some Softies, and our rocky start smoothed out a bit. She gained well, and I nursed on demand. Her biological father was still critical of my decision to breastfeed, but saw her irregularly. I had only a hand pump from WIC, and would pump all week so she could have breast milk during visitation. One Sunday he decided to let a full day's worth of breast milk go bad, bought a can of formula, and fed her that instead. He very proudly told me that she had eaten the 'better food'. She was constipated for days. I was furious that my effort and milk had been so undervalued. To this day, he still somehow believes that formula and bottles are the better way to feed a baby, no matter how much science and commonsense is shown to him.

    Even though I had a hand pump, I hadn't really grasped that if I missed a feeding, I needed to pump to try to keep up supply. At six months I started giving my daughter juice, not knowing she didn't need it. This coupled with the extraordinary stress of her father's erratic, sometimes violent behavior and trying to support my daughter as a single mother working multiple jobs caught up with me, and I lost a dramatic amount of weight. My supply dried up, and Isabella weaned around 8 months. I was very disappointed that I hadn't made it to the year mark that seemed to be the measure of breastfeeding success. There is so much that I know now that would have perhaps changed our breastfeeding history. I do know though that I did the best I could with the information and circumstances I had at the time.

    Fast-forward 4 and half years, and I was expecting my second child. I was happily married, my husband had just adopted my daughter, and I was doing everything in my power to have a different birth and breastfeeding experience with this baby. My son was born in the water at the North Shore Birth Center, after 2 intense hours of labor. He crawled over to my breast before the placenta delivered. Within an hour he had latched on, and took to sucking like a pro. All of his newborn care was done on my belly. I didn't put him down for at least 3 hours, (bathroom call :)). We went home that afternoon, and he nursed so well that at three days he had only lost 3 oz of his 9 lbs 5 oz birthweight. While he did cluster feed, and there were the 'clucks' of older relatives swearing that a baby that big could never thrive on breast milk alone, I had the confidence and support from my husband to continue mothering him as my instincts dictated. 

    After a few weeks, it became clear that my moods were not normal, and I began treatment for what would become a very severe post-partum depression. One of the only things I felt confident about was our nursing relationship, and it was vitally important to me to be able to continue nursing my son. In the weeks between starting medication, and feeling any effect of it, I truly crashed. A friend knew a local La Leche League Leader, and gave me her number. I left a message, and got her voicemail telling me where the next meeting was just before it started. To this day I am so profoundly grateful that I got her call and pulled myself out of bed for that meeting. The mother-to-mother support I have received since have helped me define who I am as a parent, provided me and my children with dear friends, and have been a constant affirmation that I am the mother my children need. I was so proud to make it to a year with my son, and with the support of the mothers in our Group, I'm confident my son will nurse as long as he needs to.  As an advocate I hope to give other women the information they need to make the decisions surrounding pregnancy, birth and parenting that work best for their families, and help them find confidence in their authority as mother. 

Remember I shake my fist at the system that fails women, not the women who have been failed. Did you want to breastfeed? Or have your children breastfeed if you are male or a female partner? Were you able to meet your definition of successful breastfeeding? If not, where was the trouble? Would you, or have you been able to, go do things differently knowing more now? 

Control

Riding the waves of life. I used that imagery giving birth to my children. Riding the wave, looking over my shoulder to know when to paddle, staying with the crest, being in the moment so as to not become overcome by what I can not control. Knowing that really, truly, we are powerless. Being willing to surrender any notion of 'control' of the situation. Breathing, observing, being.

Rob is out of work again. My Grandmother has cancer. Things I can not control. The economy. The speed at which cells in Grandma's breasts divided. 

What I can control. The direction that I look. Whom I vote for. Where in my body I send my breath. My ability to still sit in the sun with a cup of coffee, watching the golden strands of my children's hair intermingled as they examine dirt, and say to my self "life is good". 

Because it is. Life is sweet. Regardless of the size of waves, or where I am in relation to the pounding surf. 

Consistent Commitment

I'm good at a lot of things. To the point where I don't get to do a lot of them very often. And I often I am not very good at caring for myself. So in an effort to fix this conundrum, I am making the commitment to myself to do the following consistently in the month of June:

Practice yoga daily.
Have a green smoothie, and/or a green juice daily.
Blog at least once a week.
See my horse this month.

There. It's out in the ether. I have to do these things now.

Captain Obvious

One must first be lost in order to be found.

The brilliant and profound C has once again sent my mind-cogs into action. Yesterday as we sat with toddler chaos all around, and coffee to soothe the ragged edges, she began to muse about how much more comfortable she is in her own skin as she walks through life as N's mother. As a mother, you just do what needs to be done. And after a while what used to be gross, or awkward, or someone else's job just gets done, or is ignored. Because it just is. Screaming child in store? Check. Shirtless baby on a (thankfully) 70 degree October day coming into YOUR doctor's appointment because they puked all over themselves and the car and you were too sick to remember a change of clothes? Check. Grabbing visible boogers from the nostril entrance? Check. What once would have cringe-inducing, or embarrassing, we just do. And that kind of comfort in one's life is such a revelation.

And that made me realize: it took me becoming not myself to truly become myself. The early days and months of motherhood truly made me not myself. At birth I transformed from the vessel that grew another human being to the being that was now charged with sustaining this human being. There was no room for Mira at that time. I was just Mother. This phenomenon was not relegated to just the first child either. I so clearly remember, as I began the descent into PPD, thinking out loud 'I was a perfectly competent mother of one child. What the fuck made me think I have any business being a mother of two children?????'. I said this to my mother (god love her). Please, never tell an overwhelmed mother of less children than you have that she has it easy. Guarantee you've just made her feel like shit. (And Mom, you were not the only one who shared that sentiment. You are amazing. I love you and thank you for all of your gifts.) But I digress... I had to learn to be the mother of two children. I had to abandon all that I thought that knew of the mother of Isabella alone, in order to become the mother of Isabella and Bridger. And now, I find, that in delving so deeply into being someone who is not Mira, I have found who I am.

In yoga we talk of duhka, the cause of suffering. It is the sand at the bottom of the glass, that when stirred, makes the water cloudy. It prevents us from seeing the truth of things. A block of marble looks like nothing more than a cube of rock, until the sculptor chips away everything that is not the statue. It is then we see the art within. It is with that intent that yoga aims to unify the body and mind, to quiet the inner chatter so our essence can be found. I find it a little ironic that it was my practice before I returned to the mat that allowed me to find myself. Malasana as I squatted to birth my babies. Ardha Chandrasana while picking up toys. Tadasana to be stern. All before I knew... It makes me wonder how many incarnations of myself I will be privileged enough to discover in the years to come.

Knitting in a Wii World

I think at this point if you don't have a Wii, you know someone who does. With your Wii you can do virtually anything. I like to throw myself off big mountains in the Wii Skii, but not really. So many of us 'talk' to each other on Facebook or Twitter, but it's not real conversation. This blog, the blogosphere, communities, that are real, but they aren't, too. In this world of things that are, but not really, I cling to my illusions of being something real, doing things that are real, embodied in my yarn.

I am a yarn crack whore. Total addict. It's BAD... I just love yarn. I'm certainly partial to wool, but any natural fiber will do. I rarely make it out of a yarn store with empty hands. I have a whole stretch of cabinets to hold the stash, and countless works-in-progress. That's been something I'm working on, a growing edge if you will, actually finishing a project before I cheat on it with some new, softer, knubblier ball of yarn. With my knitter's ADD I've learned to keep to small projects, that give quicker satisfaction, like hats, mittens, or baby gear. Although I swear I'll finish Bridger's baby blanket before he goes to college. Or at least by the time his first child is born.

But beyond the yarn fetish, the physical and spiritual act of knitting is a healing salve for my high-idle self. It forces me to sit, become the process, and enter a quiet space. The actions ofthe needles are quite like the sat-nam in meditation, just the simple quiet focus of breath, or yarn.

As with cooking I find knitting for others to be a nurturing act. I can literally wrap the intended recipient in my love, carried in each stitch.

But even more than any of this I cling to the realness of my yarn. With a strand I can make something of nothing. Knitting is truly alchemy. A series of loops, with a single knot at the beginning. And broken down even further, there is only one stitch - as knits and purls are simply the reverse of each other. A knit garment is a fraud, a shape-shifter. Yet with that ethereal nothingness a myriad of things can be created, things I can feel, touch, breathe into, wear.

Sometimes I question my version of this world. I know that I can look at an object, and call it blue, and someone else may do the same, but does it look the same to them? Is everything I believe to be true experienced by others? Big questions... so overwhelming. So I sit down with my yarn, and make a tangible hold on the world.

Bridger modeling my very first original design:

Presence

Excuses first... Bridger managed to pry the space key off my computer so typing now involves pressing the white sensor just so to get a space. So I've been a bit lazy about anything involved with typing... In the next few days I should have some shots of THE birthday (Bella and Rob share their day), and Christmas. But first, my day, and reflections on the new year. Cause hey, it's my blog :) me me me time!

Yesterday was my 31st birthday. I woke up, and pretty much had one of those 'why am I in this handbasket, and where are we going?' moments. I just couldn't fathom where the last 10 years had gone, how I ended up where I am. As I mused on that feeling throughout the day, I came to the realization that I have spent the bulk of my life waiting for it to happen. I've fallen victim to the 'when' syndrome - I'll be happy when... I get x done, I meet someone, I make more money. Bullshit.

So here is my intention for this next year, more properly for the rest of my life. I will be present. Mindful. Joyous.

And I think the universe agrees... Went to lunch at PF Chang's with a friend from a former life. My fortune read "one must not pursue happiness. one must create happiness".

A Shift in the Seasons

Today was a most perfect beach day, one of the few we've had this summer. And it's September. Yes, I know that it's still summer until the equinox, but really, summer didn't arrive in New England until a few weeks ago. We had a long extended spring, that dwelled into July, and then proceeded to have a monsoon season through most of August.

I feel sometimes like the seasons are shifting - the weather associated with each seems to come much later into that calendar period. As a child, I remember snowfall well before Christmas, and summer weather that began in May. It seems that in the past ten years or so, we don't get winter snows until February, but they last into April, and then spring rains crowd out those perfect beach days until school starts again. Global warming? Weirdness in the earth's axis? I don't know, but it feels, quite literally, like something is wrong in the universe.

So on to the pic (and video!) whoring - of our perfect September beach day.

B always looks like he's surfing...

My little super-model... I mean really, look at the length of those legs!

Sweetness and light

Yes, Isabella is fishing. Off the porch. This photo just says everything that is best and beautiful about being 5.

We had a wonderful trip, despite the tailend of April showers in July. Fourth of July weekend was spent at my in-laws lakeside cottage. On Monday morning we packed up and spent the next few days in Acadia National Park. It was MAGNIFICENT. Isabella is a seasoned camper, but this was Bridger's first trip. He loved it - particularly playing peek-a-boo in the tent:

Tuesday was overcast and cool, but we did go biking on the carriage roads. Being in such a beautiful place was soothing to my being. It seemed every few breaths was a moment of 'stop, look, be here'.

The rain came in Tuesday night (it was downright raw - 52 degrees!), who knew we'd need hot cocoa in July. Wednesday morning was still pretty foul, so we had lunch at Jordan Pond House, famous for their popovers and jam - yum! By early afternoon, the rain had passed, so we went for a hike around the pond. Although a popular route, the scenery is just beyond belief. There was a loon in the pond, and mist around the bubbles. It felt other-worldly.

Thursday, the day we had to drive home, the sun finally made a real appearance. We ended up hiking from our campground along Somes Sound to Thunder Hole, where we had lunch. It was bluebird, just wonderful. There was time for a little yoga by the water:

This trip definately got two thumbs up :)

And a few other notes, as I've been such a bum about posting... Garden is ... a bit wild. But I think not all is lost after the ridiculous abount of rain we had. I have zucchini blossoms, a few green tomatoes going, and I think there will be cukes as well.

I am now off zoloft. Not entirely by choice, but I'm coping. Truth is it just got to be too expensive to throw $300 a month into appointments and meds - although I wish I could have weaned off it more slowly. The withdrawal was pretty unpleasant. Pranayama has been a very important tool in managing the anxiety that is still gnawing at my edges. So has the occasional smokey treat (boo - I hadn't smoked in over four years...). But I am managing, and now feel like this is a battle I can at least think about losing, rather than a battle I can't even fight.

I'm feeling pretty hopeful on the whole though. A few months ago I felt as if I was a dead zone of sorts - like a sailboat with luffing sails, waiting for some wind to come take me to in some direction. Now there is both purpose, and quiet attention to a path. I have reconciled with my self that right now, in this moment my JOB is to mother my children. I've put together a hodge-podge of things that will help pay some bills, that can be scheduled around my kids. That all speak to my passions and interests, and use my strengths. This is the most secure I've felt in myself and my future in a long time. And it is a lovely feeling.

About Me - On Becoming a Human Being

I am a human doing. For almost all of my 30 years on this earth, my self worth has been wrapped up in what I do, and how well I do it. I have been the anti-zen. Never able to sit and BE - not in silence, not in my own skin, not in my own life. I always had to DO, something. Just answering the "about me" questions, I have not the vaguest idea how to answer that. Who the hell am I anyway? I can tell you who I am in respect to what I do; I ski, I ride, I knit. But recently I am begining to find things that I just am - I am a mother, I am a yogini. And what I find interesting is that although I have been a mother for more than 5 years now, it is only now that it is something that I am becoming - not something I do. At some level, I feel that in birthing Isabella, I was reborn into a different person, as her mother. And then when Bridger was born, I had to relearn how to be a mother and myself again. Because being a mother of two is very different that being a mother of one. That is why I am so grateful that I have returned to yoga in the past few months. I think that yoga has taught me to be present in a moment, to live that particular moment, and be, present. To find stillness in movement, and movement in stillness. To live with compassion, for myself, and for others. Because we are all just doing the best we can in that moment. And as I become more of a being, that is ok.