Be True and Be Free; or, "The Blog is Back."

I don't know why I started this blog.  It's never really had any particular theme or focus or purpose.  Mostly I just write every once in a while when something is really weighing heavily on my mind, and it's never anything that I can imagine is useful or important to anyone else.  But people tell me I should write a blog and my ego gets in the way and I suddenly think that what I have to say really is important, so every once in a while I write here.

And that's a lie.  Kind of.

The truth is that I have purged every poem and story I have ever written because I am afraid to look at them.  Because I am afraid that I suck as a writer and that nothing I have to say is really all that meaningful or eloquent.  Because I am afraid that my work will remind me of who I used to be and I am afraid that I won't like what I see.  Because when I was in my 20's I wrote a poem inspired by the Earthrise photo taken from the Apollo 8 on Christmas Eve, 1968, and I sent it out as a Christmas card and I didn't think anyone "got it."  You know, those kinds of insecurities.

Which brings me to Satya.

Last night I started "tattooing my house," as my boyfriend put it, with Sanskrit.  I decided to paint the Yamas and Niyamas on my walls.  The plan is to paint all ten of them, in Sanskrit, and beneath each, in English, describe their meanings in a short and sweet manner that can be understood by my children, who are 8 and 9-years-old.  I started with Ahimsa, non-violence, in the dining room.  Under it:  "Be kind."  Then Asteya, non-stealing, in the hallway:  "Give more, take less."  The kids started asking questions.  Score one for Mom.  Daughter is walking around the house saying, "Give more, take less."  Son is suggesting places for the next Yama I plan to paint:  Satya.  We decide on the living room.  I sketch it out and paint it, but I can't think of how to explain it in simple terms.

Satya. Truthfulness.  To say "Speak the truth" isn't enough.  Yes, we should speak honestly, but that doesn't quite cover it all.  I considered "Speak YOUR truth."  Be true to yourself, to your Self, to the essence of who you really are.  That was better, but doesn't quite encapsulate all that Satya means. Satya is Truth with a capital "T."  It's not just about not telling lies, or about hiding who you really are; it's about living a life of integrity in a world where there is an absoluteness of Truth.

How do you sum that up in a few words for a couple of grade school kids?

Swami Satchidananda wrote in his book on the Yoga Sutras that "The more we lead a life of honesty, the more we will see the results, and that will encourage us to be more honest.  With the establishment of honesty, the state of fearlessness comes.  One need not be afraid of anybody and can always lead an open life....So, first follow truth, and then truth will follow you."

It occurred to me that I had spent so many years of my life unable to speak, act, or be my Truth that it was no wonder I couldn't figure out how to explain it to my kids.

Take this blog, for instance.  I took it down in part because my ex-husband kept reading it and then commenting on it in some shape or form, often in a manner that indicated he was uncomfortable with something I had written.  I haven't really written about my divorce on this blog.  I have tried to refrain from speaking ill of my ex-husband on the Internet.

But this just needs to be said.  It needs to be said not because I am trying to bash my ex, but because I am compelled to be an example to those who are younger than me and/or who have yet to dive into the world of marriage.  IN CENSORING MYSELF VIA THIS BLOG, I WAS DOING EXACTLY WHAT I DID TO MYSELF FOR MY ENTIRE MARRIED LIFE.  I was allowing him, albeit indirectly, to dictate my truth.  Without assigning fault, let me just say that I spent one-third of my life in fear of expressing who I really am to my own husband. I wasn't being my Truth.  And that was--and residually, it remains--a problem.  A big one.

Okay, so this new paragraph is a tangent.  Not really.  But it will seem like one for a second.  When I was in college, I had this friend (really more than a friend, I had a crush on the boy for years, actually) who thought I was an amazing writer.  Frankly, I think he overstated how great my writing was, but regardless, he really dug my work.  So much so that, upon reconnecting with him after 14 years, I learned that he still has some of my writing. He kept it.  He wants to know things like, why don't I write anymore?  When did I stop?  Have I lost my marbles?  The answers:  I'm not that good at it anyway; I don't remember when I stopped; and No, I'd like to think I am pretty sane. (Okay he didn't really ask if I was crazy, but he has implied heavily that I have no clear concept of just how talented I really am.)

So tonight, as I am struggling to find a simple way to define Satya for my children, I have this epiphany:  I stopped writing when I met my ex-husband.  Just like everything else I stopped doing, and saying, and being, and believing.  All those things that made me who I was without him--all those things I forgot, those things that were the essence of my inner Truth--I just gave them up.  Willingly.  And in doing so, I lost who I was.  I lost the freedom to just be me.

Wait--I think I got something.

"Truth is freedom."  No.  Too Orwellian.

"The truth will set you free."  No.  Too cliché.

"Be true; be free."

And there it is.

The moral of the story and the reason I am compelled to tell it:  Marry the person who sees your Truth, loves your Truth, and knows that your Truth is amazing even when you don't believe it yourself.  Marry the guy who "gets it." Only then can you be free to love yourself and, in turn, love him back.

The blog is back.

It's sleepless nights, asking ourselves all the time if we're doing the right thing

“After all, what is happiness? Love, they tell me. But love doesn't bring and never has brought happiness. On the contrary, it's a constant state of anxiety, a battlefield; it's sleepless nights, asking ourselves all the time if we're doing the right thing. Real love is composed of ecstasy and agony.”
― Paulo Coelho

 

 

Okay, Paulo.  I read your book The Alchemist and it has lots of nice nuggets of wisdom it in.  Nothing about it wowed me, but everyone else seems to like it and the critics think you're pretty ingenious.  So I read your thoughts on happiness, Paulo, and I feel pretty much the same way--a combination of, "Yes, Paulo, I do believe you are right" with a touch of "But I'm not sure that you really have it as figured out as you think you do."

 

And isn't that the case with all of us.

 

I come upon your quotation tonight, Paulo, with a heart heavily weighing my decision to take my son to the doctor in the morning to have him medicated.  This is an idea I have struggled with for many years, and a path that I have longed to avoid.  After all, hasn't yoga replaced my own need for anti-depressants, anti-anxiety meds, and sleeping pills?  Haven't I come to understand peace through meditation?  Through new friends and growing relationships?  Though learning that I have the ability to pick myself up, dust myself off, and face another day--even if it has to be on my own?

 

Then again, Paulo, there are those old habits that don't die hard.  There's the sugar.  And then there's the bottle of Jose Cuervo sitting up there on the shelf--the one I've had for six months, the one that I don't open often, just tempting me to mix it up with some limones y limas y azucar and find felicidad at the bottom of a glass.  I think that's called self-medicating.  I think maybe I haven't come as far as I think I have; but the difference between then and now is that this time I won't beat myself up over it.

 

So back to my son, because certainly this is not about me.  Is it?  I am not completely certain.  On the one hand, I think, "Wow, I am a shitty mom" (all about me).  I could work more with him at home, teach the boy more about breathing exercises and help him practice more yoga, make more visual aides and daily schedules and scrape up the money for more therapy, OT, SLP, ABA, all the alphabet soup.  I could have found a way to send him to that autism program at St. Adlebert School this year--I could have found a way to get him to school in Berea even though I live and work in opposite directions--I could have done that if I would have just tried harder, right? 

 

On the other had, this isn't about me.  It's about my son.  Am I medicating him so that my life will be easier, or am I medicating him so that his life will be more peaceful and productive?

 

Listen, Paulo.  I can't friggin' do everything.  I am not superwoman.  I can't even get a decent dinner on the table half the time anymore.  One would think that tacos and grilled cheese would eventually get old with the kids, but thank God they don't.  And I have to work.  Someone has to pay the mortgage.  And I have to clean the house sometimes, too.  I don't have time to worry about everything I have to worry about.

 

I think maybe you're right. Maybe love is just a constant state of anxiety, worrying, will my son's growing anxiety and aggression land him in jail one day?  Will he ever be able to hold a job?  Will be even graduate high school?  Will he live in my basement for the rest of his life? 

 

Am I too soft on him?  Do I give him too much power?  Do I not empower him enough?  Do I allow him to control me?  Do I try too hard to control him?  Do I yell at him too much?  Do I make things better or worse?  Does he know that I just want him to be, you know, "normal"?  Do I want him to be "normal"? 

 

You're right, Paulo.  Sometimes it's agony.  I have spent many a day and night wondering why I am such a shitty mom for this child.  Why on earth would his soul choose me?  What can I really do for him except stand by feeling helpless?  And what is he supposed to be teaching me?

 

But the ecstasy... when he gets out of the car in the morning during school drop off an tells me he loves me... when he hugs me good night... when he rambles on with his scientific trivia about jellyfish that asexually reproduce and how the rapid cell reproduction caused by animal growth hormones could give humans cancer if they eat meat... when he sleepwalks into my bedroom and snuggles up beside me... when he is the center of my entire universe, which is really pretty much always....

 

How can I medicate a child who has his passion?  How can I not medicate a child who has his passion?

 

I am stuck between a rock and a hard place, Paulo.  And I am tired of fighting these endless battles.  So medication it is. 

 



To My Son

Dear Son,

Always make a big deal of her birthday, your wedding anniversary, and every holiday on the calendar up to and including Valentine’s Day.  She needs to know that these days are special to you, too. And yes, she wanted a present; don't be an idiot.  And don't tell her to go pick one out for herself.

Always go to bed at the same time as she does.

With that said, not every touch needs to be sexual.  In fact, if every time she touches you you expect it to turn into something sexual, you run the risk that she will stop touching you.  Sometimes a woman just wants to sit close to you on the couch. 

No matter how strong she is, she will eventually break.  When that time comes, your job is to hold her and tell her everything is going to work out even if you are scared to death that it isn’t. Because sometimes it just isn’t about you.  In fact, a lot of times it just isn't about you.  Check your ego. 

Always acknowledge that you hear her.  Let me repeat that:  Always acknowledge that you hear her.

Your time is not more important than her time.  Ever.

If she likes to dance, take her dancing.  I don't care if you don't like to dance.  You should have thought about that before you married her.

You didn't "do the laundry for her" and you don't need to point out every time you run the dishwasher.  Those are your chores, too.  Just do them and shut up about it.  Yes, she notices.  The reason she isn't impressed is because it's not 1950 anymore; you're just expected to do these things now.

Eat what she cooks even if you don’t like it.  She worked her ass off to get that dinner in front of you.  I don't care how weird it looks or how different it is than the cooking you grew up with.  (That said, your mother is a pretty damn good cook.)

There’s no one you need to impress.  If she is no longer impressed, maybe you were trying too hard to be impressive.

BE TRUTH.  BE YOU.  Never lie or cover anything up, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem.  If you do, she will never fully trust you again no matter what you do to try to make up for it.  And if she doesn't like your truth, then find someone who does.

It is my job to be your mother; it is her job to be your wife.  Be her partner, not her child. (Side note: If you're smart, you will always take her side when I am pissed at her; I guarantee that I will be pissed at her eventually. I promise to remember that I said this.)

Always be kind, even when you are angry.  Consciously choosing to use hurtful words--or to engage in hurtful actions--will only create wounds in the relationship that will never fully heal.  And saying you're sorry later isn't a panacea for deliberate cruelty.  Anger and violence are never the answer.  For anything.

Your relationships with your family will be affected deeply by any existential crisis you have about your own identity, your social status, and your place in this world in general.  Remembering that you are part of a greater whole and that all of your thoughts and actions will have ripple effects on your relationships will help keep your existential crisis from becoming the wrecking ball that sends her packing.  If you're in this together and not just for yourself, you will have much greater success.  And "being in this together" doesn't mean she supports all of your needs while you "find yourself"; it means you are in it TOGETHER.

Listen.

Breathe.

Be present--not just in body, but in mind and spirit as well.

I am sure I will think of more later and you know me, little man--you know I'll tell you what I'm thinking when it comes to me.  In the meantime, son, just be aware that every word you say, every thought you have, and every action you take affects everyone and everything around you.  You'll thank me later--and so will your wife.

Love,

Mom

 

Autism Awareness: A non-eloquent rambling because I had too long to think while scraping paint

Those of you who know me know very well that my son is 9 and has high functioning autism. He has all kinds of trouble in school because of his behavior, but he loves to learn and he loves science. And he is wicked smart.  So this summer we signed him up for a week long day camp at the science center where we live. Usually when we sign him up for classes there and at the Museum of Natural History he has no issues and everything runs smoothly, but today when I went to pick him up after the first day of camp his counselor expressed all kinds of concerns. Apparently he had a few meltdowns today and they didn't know how to deal with it. E.g. he lost a game and he got upset, another kid bumped into him and he got upset, stuff we are used to. But they also accused him of throwing food at lunch, which is not him at all and he had no idea what I was talking about when I mentioned it, and if there is one thing he doesn't do it's lie (I'm not sure he can, actually), so I wonder if someone made that up.  I know a lot of people claim their kids would never lie, but my son, he really doesn't; he will avoid replying if he doesn't want to tell the truth, but he will never flat out fib.

Anyway, they kept saying they needed more strategies to deal with him because they "wanted him to be able to stay," thus implying to me that they were going to kick him out of the camp. They also suggested that he needed an aide (I assume me or his father) for the field trip, which is Thursday when they go to Cedar Point Amusement Park--it's an amusement park science camp--which is probably the least of their worries because he will be fine at CP. He loves the movement, and he feels secure when he is strapped into the rides. I told them that financially I don't know how that would work (at nearly $60 for one adult ticket!), but that I would come back in the morning and have some more suggestions for them after I talked with Gavin and figured out what happened from his perspective.

He tells me it was too loud and that he was not comfortable because he doesn't know anybody and now he doesn't want to go back, but he knows they won't refund our money and he doesn't want to waste it. I am kind of upset because the more I think about all this, the more it feels discriminatory. I know they have a behavior agreement for the kids, but Gavin is not trying to be "bad"--he is trying really hard and he wants very badly to be the model of good behavior. He is very hard on himself when he loses control. I know they can do whatever they want because there's no law saying they have to service a child's special needs, but still. Also, the counselor for his group said she studied special ed, so I would think she might have more sympathy, but like I said, it sounded like they are threatening to kick him out. She should see this as an opportunity to learn what she's going to be dealing with for the rest of her career as a teacher. 

So we stuffed his backpack with half of the items in his sensory box and now I get to sit down and write a list of suggestions that could end up being a mile long for all I know.  One of the hardest things about dealing with my son's autism is that what works this afternoon may not work tomorrow morning.  Sometimes it's a crap shoot.  That's why I spend so many hours holding my breath, hoping that he will catch the next baseball that comes to him or be able to jump off that diving board without freaking out or that he will be able to get out in a game of tag without majorly tweaking.  You just never know.  

We had to scrape up a lot of money for this and I just wanted him to have a good time and enjoy himself in an educational setting for a change. So I don't know how exactly I should approach them in the morning. But moreover, I am very frustrated and sad because I can foresee his quirks causing people to discriminate against him for the rest of his life.  It truly breaks my heart to have had this sudden new awareness about Autism.  

Enter the Yoga Rock Star

The yoga zone is a place of non-judgment, which is why I thought this post over for about 11 hours before ultimately deciding to go ahead and write it.  The truth is that 99% of the time spent on my mat is spent focusing on no one else but myself.  I don't notice or care what anyone else is doing.  But when one chooses to make a spectacle of one's self, well, it's hard not to notice.  And people, seriously--being noticed on your mat is not what this is all about.

Enter the Yoga Rock Star.

Now mind you, I love yoga, and I love rock stars, but what I have a very hard time stomaching is a Yoga Rock Star.  First and foremost, in my experience the Yoga Rock Star is always a male.  I have no doubt there are females of the type out there as well, but I haven't encountered them.  The Yoga Rock Star is the guy who, as you are laying on your back waiting for class to begin, sets up next to you and decides to do--you know, just as a little warm up--a freaking headstand.

Really?  You warm up with a headstand?  Who does that?

Someone who cares more about looking cool on his mat than he does about anything else, most likely.

I get very, very distracted when some Yoga Rock Star sets up next to me with his fancy Lululemon or Manduka mat, strips off his shirt, and starts showing off.  This one time I was next to a guy who felt the need to kick off into a handstand after every. single. downwardfacingdog.  (And if you've ever been in a vinyasa yoga class, you know there are a lot of downward facing dog poses.)  It is distracting, Yoga Dude!  Please stop!

Listen, folks.  Friends don't let friends be Yoga Rock Stars. And the chicks don't think you're sweet just because you are rockin' it out and dripping sweat all over your mat while the rest of us are just trying to hold a tree pose.  Your rapid movements in my peripheral vision are keeping me from holding my drishti.  No one is here to impress anyone, okay?  Okay.

This is a yogi who also happens to be a rock star.  You are not Adam Levine.  Please stop.  

Practicing Ahimsa. Badly.

“In the presence of one firmly established in non-violence, all hostilities cease.” 

– The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, Sutra II.35

Ahimsa is the first of the Yamas, the yogic discipline of compassion and non-violence, the tenet which calls for us to cause no harm to ourselves or other beings and challenges us to dwell in the absence of pain.  I am afraid I am having trouble with that today.  Today I am in need of grace, as I my feelings are less than pure toward all of you parents who received your childrens' grade cards this week and then posted to Facebook about how many A's your kid got.  

And if the me 10 years ago heard the me today saying that I am made angry, jealous, and sad by your joy, I would really consider myself a complete jerkwad.  An anti-intellectual.  A giant bunch of sour grapes.

See, I was that kid, the "A" kid, when I was in school.  Things came pretty easily for me.  I conformed to rules as expected.  I had minimal emotional outbursts.  I did my homework, I studied for tests, and I loved to read.  I liked to please my teachers.  I raised my hand to answer lots of questions and I rarely ever missed school.  I was a parent's dream.

So I find it really, really hard to understand my autistic child.  I find it hard to understand why he finds school so emotionally tumultuous.  I don't get it when he clams up with anxiety and refuses to act.  I am perplexed when he cannot make simple choices about assignments, nonplussed when he has a meltdown over having to write a couple of sentences, and exasperated when he refuses to do work that I know he is fully capable of doing.  And I am left angry, defeated, and damn near despondent when his report card comes home with the news that this quarter, because he basically sat in the corner of the classroom reading books and generally being avoidant, he has failed all but one subject.  Or rather, his progress was "insufficient"--so he got all "I's," not "F's."  Whew!  That makes me feel better.  

Let me come clean and tell you what the devil on my shoulder wants me to think when I see you post that little Janie got all A's, or little Dickie is at the top of his class.  The little devil wants me to be rude and disparaging, and say that my kid is probably twice as smart as your kid, because my kid can break down words into their Latin roots and problem solve to understand new vocabulary, such as today when he figured out that a geosynchronous satellite will always stay over London, no matter what time of day it is, because it travels in time with (synch) with the earth (geo).  It wants me to say that my kid has a notebook full of inventions he wants to create someday, and that his heroes are Einstein and Tesla, and that he knows that starfish have thousands of tiny feet and that the peregrine falcon is the fastest animal on the planet, diving at up to 260 mph to catch prey, and that he will kick your butt in Minecraft knowledge any day of the week.

But the angel on my other shoulder knows that I should be celebrating with you, just as when my child has victories, I would want you to celebrate with me.  The angel tells me that someday, we will get beyond the need for headphones and sunglasses for sensory processing issues, he will learn to properly interpret social cues, he will learn to manage the anxiety that so often causes him to quit before he even begins, he will ride a bike without training wheels, and he might actually take, and finish, one of those stupid standardized tests so that the school district can have an accurate picture of his abilities for their stupid files.  And the fact that he doesn't do any of those things now isn't anyone else's fault, and it is wrong of me to take out my frustrations about it on other people and their children.  Their perfect children.  Children who get A's and win dance competitions and make home runs and take first place in spelling contests.  

And the angel tells me to be nice to myself, that I can't possibly do any more to help him than I am already doing, that it isn't my fault, and that I need to stop beating myself up over it.  I need to start practicing ahimsa--not just toward you, but toward myself.  

So please forgive me when I don't "like" your status update.  It's not that I don't like your child's successes.  It's that I can't stop seeing your child's successes as failures in my own.   

Where the Money Goes

We have a neighbor who keeps criticizing the condition of my house.  Among his observations:  We need new windows.  The porch steps aren't being repaired quickly enough.  We need to paint the exterior.  But on second thought, we should just get vinyl siding.  Etc. Etc. Etc.

I suppose that if we were amazing and old like him, and we had grown up in a time when people made a living wage and their unions made sure that their employers paid for their health insurance, and only one member of the household had to hold a job, and a college degree was a luxury and those who were working on one could work a summer job to pay for the next year's tuition, and people still had money to save at the end of the month, perhaps we'd have been able to plan better and we'd have the money to get a grand paint job and hire someone to finish the porch at lightning speed and put in some shiny, clean, energy saving new windows.  But we grew up with Reagan and Bush--both of the Bushes--so never mind all that.

I guess I just don't manage my money well enough, eh?

I am terrible at managing my money.  Let me come clean and horrify you with the breakdown.

I take my kids to science classes at the Great Lakes Science Center and the Cleveland Museum of Natural History so that they can learn the constellations, dissect starfish, watch giant Omnimax films about wild animals, and put together jars of water and clay and stones to see how the earth settles into sedimentary layers.

I get pool passes and swimming lessons so that we can spend all damn day at the pool getting good doses of exercise, vitamin D, and books.

I buy ballet shoes and send my daughter off to dance her little heart out.

I buy baseball mitts and watch my son run bases all summer.

I let my daughter get pink streaks dyed into her hair so that someday when she wants to do something her parents would consider rebellious, she will have to just go to mass or something lame like that.

I expedite shipping on my daughter's outgrown shoes, as well as the hair barrettes she has grown too old for, so that my cousin's little girl can enjoy them, too.

I pay extra for fresh, organic food so that my family will be healthy and will not go hungry.

I tip more than 20% to servers because they make less than $3 an hour.

I take the kids to ride roller coasters at Cedar Point.

I buy apps like Oregon Trail for the iPad.

I take friends to yoga.

I buy books.

I throw birthday parties.

I take my children to see The Hobbit in the theater.  And I let them buy expensive popcorn because it is part of the experience.

I let the kids buy overpriced hot dogs at Indians games.

I send the cub scout to day camp.

I buy plants and seeds and mulch and humus so that I can grow beautiful and tasty things, then share them with  the people I love.

I let the kids get Icees when we go to Target.

I get the grande soy latte at Starbucks, because dammit, I deserve it.

I pay a majority of the bills so that my husband can get the education he was meant to get.

And I go to yoga so that I can (more) gracefully cope with people like my neighbor.  And I bought a top notch mat, too--because I'm serious about this shit.  

So I am sorry that the paint is peeling on my house, and that the muffler on my car is loud, and that the porch is an abomination against your senses.  It must be awful to have to live near that, to see and hear it every day.  But in the meantime, I'll be enjoying some Zen with my kids at the pool.

This is my daughter, wasting money on water so she can run through the sprinkler.  We could have spent that money on paint.