We went to a party yesterday! A real, live, social, people-who-speak-adult block party.
Granted, I spent the majority of the festivities chasing an increasingly bold and energized Jake down the hill, into the yard where he found the prize of a whiffle ball half-buried in rotting leaves, in front of the band to whose rendition of "Psycho Killer" he performed an impressive, hand-waving dance, across the street to Daddy to show him what fun we were having, and back down the hill to begin the circuit again. But we were out, having fun, acting like our lives are more than time snatched for ourselves while Jake is at school (also known as "work"), exhausted evenings seeing what Jon Stewart has to say about the election, and rushing to bed so we can spend a few precious hours sleeping next to each other before Jake ousts one of us (almost always Mike) with a coughing fit.
Amazing how good I felt running down the street with my winsome toddler to the strains of my era music played by my era dads having too much fun to really care whether they were as cool as they hoped. No one but Mike would have guessed that just a few hours earlier I was throwing clothes on the bed and sighing with such deeply felt exasperation that Mike had to ask me what was wrong.
"I'm just not as young as I used to be," I confessed in what didn't come off nearly as lighthearted as I had intended. Best, I knew, to joke about it, because I was unlikely to find any sympathy from my life partner.
In fact, I didn't have much sympathy for myself myself. After nearly thirty years of desperately trying to recreate just the right young, hip, casual-yet-not-sloppy woman for every single social gathering I've ever attended, I had to admit it was getting old. You'd think, in thirty years, I would have just once managed to buy that perfect outfit I tell myself I should have hanging around for such occasions. The one I know will look good no matter what. I could swear I buy it a couple times a year. But when the occasion surfaces . . . it's dematerialized, my closet suddenly resembling that empty chest/box/briefcase the heroine has pursued for most of the movie only to find it does not, as she had thought, contain the Holy Grail/Maltese Falcon/secret to saving the world.
And so, yesterday afternoon, there I was, my hair stringy rather than swingy, my make-up no longer the right balance of made-up and un-made-up it had been when they put it on me at Nordstrom, and my hips bulging over the top of my skinny jeans. Okay, so I did fit into my skinny jeans. But that didn't make me feel any better about myself, and it didn't keep us from leaving the house a good hour later than we had planned.
I hate it when that happens, I really do. It's just that it happens all the time.
Just Don't Say No
It doesn't seem right, does it? Someone who goes around applying soothing yoga philosophy to the normal anxieties of approaching-middle-aged, trying-to-be-hip motherhood does not gain great credibility by confessing that when faced with a party (or dinner with her parents) she becomes ridiculously -- embarrassingly -- insecure about her face, her figure, her wardrobe. You want a thirteen-year-old girl dispensing YogaMamaMe advice? I doubt it.
I truly do wish I were one of those women who has come to peace with who she is, who is beautiful purely by dint of being comfortable in her own skin. I should, by all rights, be embracing the little signs of age, surrendering to the permanent effects of bearing a child, glowing with the freedom of shedding the chains of my slavery to fashion magazines and Pretty People sitcoms. Else what has all this yoga brought me?
My frustrating pattern last night (which ended, as they nearly all do, with me feeling pretty darned great once I got away from a mirror) reminded me of how Jake LOVES to push the button to turn the television on and off. Over and over, for months now. And the more I tell him NO, the more he does it. In fact, he thinks it's pretty darned hilarious when I raise my voice, which I guess is a good sign that he can't imagine I would actually yell at him because I'm mad.
But, see, I'm going to stop yelling at both of us now because I know it will do absolutely no good. My need to beat myself up while getting ready for a party is just like Jake's reaction to that lovely button on the front of the t.v. set. It is, quite simply, irresistible.
It's not that I want to end up a self-hating wreck every time I try to undertake what should be the relatively un-fraught activity of getting dressed to go out. Nor, I suspect, does Jake find it a hoot to turn the t.v. on and off, considering his attention span for any other amusing activity. We don't do it for pleasure any longer. We do it because it's what we do.
Telling myself to just stop, then, is likely to have just as much of an effect as telling Jake to just stop. That is, if anything, it makes it even harder to resist.
I hit upon a good old-fashioned Mommy solution to Jake's television on/off button OCD the other day, when I decided I was tired of making both of us cry and worried that one of the neighbors would call Social Services if I continued to yell. Our television set now sports a most becoming piece of masking tape over the on/off button.
Believe it or not, it works. Jake can return again and again to the scene of his usual crime. But there's no button there for him to push. Either the t.v.'s or mine.
There is, I believe, a lesson in all of this for me, something I can use next time I'm faced with the frightening prospect of a social gathering. The best thing to do, I've decided, is to crudely blot out that tantalizing button.
Letting It Happen
A few years ago, when I had the time and space to be really, really obsessive about yoga, I went to a mysore practice six or so times a week. In mysore, one practices an astanga sequence -- a set of poses followed daily -- at one's own pace. You walk into the room and just start.
The teacher's job is to go around the room helping individuals. In the case of this particular teacher, it meant helping me to push myself. Really hard. It meant he made sure I left every class slicked up with sweat and not much good for anything more taxing than a shower for the rest of the day.
His instructions to me invariably had to do with moving a body part in a direction I just couldn't make it move. I put tremendous effort into it, and maybe eventually saw some progress. But when I think of my practice now what I marvel at most is my raw determination.
I wish I could recall getting ready for a social outing during my mysore days, but I can't. Still, I can't help suspecting that I didn't do any better then than I do now. Because, you see, I was in the habit of telling myself how to find my way into a pose or peace or a yogic state of mind.
More helpful, I find, is reminding myself -- and my students -- to let things happen in a pose. Rather than straightening that back leg to support a lunge position, I let my leg straighten. Less brute effort ensues, as well as a clearer sense of just how far my body can go. Because, you see, I am letting it tell me.
Yoga is, as I've said before, about respecting your body's limitations as much as its abilities. It's entirely possible to do that while telling it what shape to assume; you just have to stop telling it to go further when you become aware that you've reached your edge. But how much easier, how much more effortless, how much more in keeping with the "whatever" attitude one must adopt when living with small children, to simply let your body do what it can. This, it seems to me, exhibits a greater respect for limitations -- a trust, if you will, that your body won't lie to you.
It also feels like more of a kindred relationship between me and my body. I'm not policing it; I'm not going through my watching, telling mind to reach it. I'm simply going with it. This, I am starting to think, might be key to feeling comfortable in your own skin.
I don't have any social plans for the immediate future, but I promise to try it when they come. I'm going to let myself be who I am as I get ready. I'm not going to scold if I don't like what I see. Instead, I'm going to put a big, figurative piece of masking tape over my desire to go down the road of constructing some person out of clothes and hair and a body I don't possess.
Instead, I'm going to take a big, deep, cleansing breath and -- try it with me if you'd like -- I'm going to jump right into my very own 41-year-old, mother-of-a-toddler, woman-who-has-neither-the-time-
nor-the-inclination-much-less-the-money-to-shop-for-the-latest-trend
skin.
Ujayi Breath -- Drowning Out the Same Old Chatter with the Fresh Sound of Your Breath
Ujayi breath is something we are urged to practice all the time as we go through our asanas. It is a simple constriction of the throat that produces a lovely sound much like the ocean. Breathing this way creates heat, which is important in any asana practice (on the most basic level, your muscles aren't exactly at their most flexible when they're cold, right?). But it also -- and here's the reason I offer it now -- quiets the mind.
Your mind, I assure you, is unlikely to ever stop dancing in the same circles to which it is accustomed. At least, it's not going to stop just because you tell it to. So, to put it bluntly, the best thing to do when it's really pushing your buttons is to drown it out with some good, loud breathing.
Maybe, yesterday, if instead of sighing with exasperation I had taken a few deep ujayi breaths, I would have magically felt beautiful and like I could wear an old pair of yoga pants and a stretched out tee-shirt with panache. Well, maybe not. But I'll bet it would have at least made the ordeal of putting together an outfit and deciding whether to wear my hair up or down kind of -- I'm warming to the idea already -- fun.
Practicing Ujayi Breath
Try this simple exercise to reconnect with your ujayi breath so you can whip it out next time you find yourself sidling toward that spiral descent into old patterns. (I see myself perched at the top of a twirly slide Jake made me go down with him last weekend, a tube enclosed on all sides that, frankly scared me more than a little bit.) Practicing just ujayi breath alone regularly will make it easier for you to access it when you need it -- or just during a tough asana practice.
1) Sit comfortably on your mat -- legs folded in front of you either in an easy cross-legged pose, in ardha padmasana (half lotus), or in padmasana (full lotus). The important thing is to be comfortable, not to push yourself into a position that you can't hold for a while. If you are in comfortable cross-legged pose or half lotus, sit on the edge of a folded blanket to tip your pelvis forward slightly.
2) Close your eyes and breathe normally for a few rounds. Observe the breath coming into your nostrils and moving into your lungs. See if you can slow your inhales so you can see the breath move all the way down your spine to the floor and follow it back up on the exhale.
3) When you are ready, gently constrict your throat. Send the breath directly to your throat, as if your throat alone were responsible for breathing. See if you can find the place where you hear the sound of the ocean.
4) If you have trouble finding this place, you may try dropping your chin slightly or moving your head from side to side until you find the right spot. Or perhaps you practice the throat constriction without finding the ujayi sound and honor your body's limitations.
5) Start moving the breath more forcefully. Don't be violent; simply be very conscious of it once again moving into your nostrils, through your throat, and into your belly. Let your abdomen expand and contract to help add to the force.
6) See if you can find the peace in this heated breath. Listen to it and let your thoughts melt. Let the sound be a release for tension. Fully explore it and make it your own.
I know I'll be listening to my own ujayi tune next time my mind starts its same old song and dance.
No comments:
Post a Comment