Jake has been wearing his beloved pink polka dot boots pretty much non-stop for over a week now.
We have engaged in successful negotiations about removing them for bed time and bath time (for which he even removed his swim diaper the other night, suggesting he is finally over the traumatic poop-in-the-tub incident). But otherwise, on they go—over his footie pajamas, to the alpaca farm where we bought our Christmas tree, pretty much with anything or to anywhere that allows a boy to proudly display his most prized possession.
He picked them out on a family trip to the new REI situated in a nearby suburban complex of shiny box stores still smelling of plastic and glue, condominiums for the type who grow faint-hearted at the prospect of walking more than a block to get a cup of coffee, and the first stadium-seating movie theater in town. (Asheville has lots to offer, just not, regrettably the ArcLight.)
Much as I shuddered as we came upon the brightly lit buildings and manicured intersections of the Biltmore Woods development, I must say I also felt a hush of calm fall over me, not unlike those times during my 1990 backpacking foray through Europe when I'd walk into a McDonalds just to use the bathroom and feel at home. I was even moved to suggest to Mike that we schedule a date night there.
After some time spent traipsing along the REI aisles and charming the very patient employees, Jake stumbled upon the boots. There they were, displayed on a wall of children's shoes, along with some heavy duty hiking boots and, notably, the "boys" equivalent of the boots he chose.
I pointed out the navy-and-green option just to make certain he was aware of all the possibilities.
"No," he said, hugging the pink polka dot version to his chest.
"These would match your football shirts better," I said hopefully. Which, honestly, was my main concern. Gender roles bother me not in the least, but a well coordinated outfit is of great importance. And, yes, Jake prefers to wear a shirt with a football or baseball on it every day. I did not teach him to do so.
Mike came upon us as Jake responded by trying to put the sample pink polka dot boot on his foot.
"He won't try the other ones on," I said apologetically.
"You like these, buddy?" Mike asked, as Jake made it perfectly clear that it was a ridiculous question. "Should we try them on?" Then, a tad sheepishly because he really isn't all that caught up in gender conventions either, he added, "Should we try the others too, just to see if you like them better?"
We flagged down a salesperson, a young guy, outdoorsy in the suburban-outdoorsy way of REI employees. And we practically tripped over each other to explain that Jake just preferred the pink boots. It was as if we needed to prove to this 22-year-old stranger than we knew those boots were meant for girls, it's just that our child didn't.
I didn't get the sense the salesperson cared too much one way or another. He certainly didn't make any untoward faces as he helped Jake try on various sizes in the pink, and he handled the entire transaction with the same professionalism I'm sure he would have shown had Jake chosen a more manly option.
So why, I ask myself, did I recount the story of Jake refusing to try on the navy-and-green boots to his teachers at school the next day? Why am I still recounting the story today?
It is, I think, more complicated than a gender thing. Rather, it seems to be an identity thing. Or, rather, it's about Jake's innocent display of how we do, to varying degrees, for better or worse, define ourselves by the things we own.
I Know I'm Not What I Own, But . . .
I don't think there's a person among us who doesn't recognize in at least a purely intellectual way that the things we own don't define us. I am, theoretically, the same person in these pregnant-mother-of-a-toddler days of baggy maternity pants and stretched-out tees that I was when I slipped on the slim, flattering Tahari pants and just-clingy-enough eggplant-colored sweaters of a young and hip law school professor. (Yes, yes, yes, they do exist. One or two of them, anyhow.)
And yet we all know that what we wear presents us to the world in a particular way. So does what we drive, where we live, what we do for a living.
I recall with great fondness, for example, the Sundays we had off from yoga teacher training, when I'd drive into Boulder in my floaty Indian-print skirts and dangly earrings. I'd wander into aromatherapy shops and drink nonalcoholic beverages in street cafes with a blissful sense of being a true yogini. And yet, I knew, once I returned to St. Louis those Indian-print skirts were unlikely to leave the closet again, and the dangly earrings would give way to the basic good-fake diamond studs that go with everything except Indian-print skirts.
It is—as I fretfully try to explain to Mike on the days it takes me way too long to get dressed—a matter of how I feel, not how I look. Of who I want to be that day in that setting.
I sound not the least bit yoga-like right now, I know. But come on. How many new coordinated yoga outfits do you see in class each day? How many hip, BPA-free water bottles? I'm proud to say I spent the first seven or eight months at my Asheville studio practicing on an old mat that sprayed me with little blue pieces of rubber with every move. But now I own the trendy new mat the teacher has, as do half the students in the class. And, yes, on days like today when I resort to wearing a bright red tank that happens to cover my belly because I don't really have any other options I feel like a big, yoga-practicing cherry tomato.
So here's the thing. I have come to terms with the fact that a flattering yoga outfit or a nice hair cut with a little highlighting makes me feel good. I went through the cost-cutting phase of going to Supercuts, where I—like, I have discovered, most other Supercuts customers—wouldn't let them touch my bangs because I felt I could trim them just fine myself, thanks very much. I ended up with vaguely green hair from an ill-advised home hair-coloring experiment with Lush henna and the sort of looks from strangers on the street that differs markedly from admiration for the streaked-blond California gal I felt like when I got my hair done in Beverly Hills.
I've pursued freedom from material things in other ways as well. I've purchased all my clothes at Marshalls and Old Navy—and then withered as they faded and shrank or simply sat in my closet mocking me with the very idea I'd ever wear something with geometric shapes printed all over it, no matter how easy it was in the store to imagine looking sexy in it on a date with my husband.
And I've learned from these experiences. No longer do I need to shop at Saks (except for the Clarins face products that I swear I will forgo every time I see how much the Extra-Firming Night Cream costs and then change my mind because, come on, wrinkles?). Gone are the days when shopping was a pleasure-fest, when the mall felt welcoming instead of stifling, when I needed my new-clothes fix monthly.
In other words, I've made progress. And that's what yoga's about, isn't it? Following the path, not necessarily making it to the final destination.
Does that mean I get to keep buying the Clarins?
On the Meaning of Enlightenment
Some believe that to attain enlightenment through a spiritual path devoted to yoga, one must lose attachment to all things. After all, we seek the truth inside, separate from the bodies and personalities that carry it. The less attached we are to these personalities—you know, the ones that shop at Saks or drive a Prius as much for its cool factor as its impact on the environment or hesitate to wear threadbare yoga pants when they could buy a lovely new pair that makes their hips look much slimmer—the closer we are to our own truth. And when we finally let go and grasp that truth, we attain enlightenment.
I actually believe all of this. But I have also chosen to believe that our souls travel through many lives before we attain enlightenment. I find great comfort in this belief. Because it means I get to buy my Clarins in this life and attain enlightenment in the next. It means I get credit for the progress I've made away from depending on things to make me feel good about myself and I don't suffer for still needing a fix every so often.
Another way to look at it comes from T.K.V. Desikachar, one of the great teachers of yoga philosophy. He explains brahmacarya, or movement toward truth, as about more than just abstinence. If we understand brahmacarya as fostering relationships that bring us closer to understanding the highest truths, then we can accept that sensual pleasures may be what take us in that direction. The lesson lies in not allowing ourselves to be distracted by the sensual pleasures so that we lose our way. Not in abstaining from them entirely.
Okay, fine, lovely ideas to think about. But what about normal people who just need to live and use a little yoga to find calm and mindfulness?
Then I'm back to where I started: It's all about progress. It's about recognizing when that purchase truly makes you feel better and when you are using purchases to define yourself. It's about giving yourself credit for the time you passed up the Chanel mascara and bought some cheap stuff at Target—even if you find yourself blowing 25 dollars on a fancy lipstick a couple of weeks later.
It's about being human. Some days we feel complete and whole and beautiful without having to resort to make-up or washing our hair or anything that takes more effort than pulling on a pair of sweatpants and breathing in some fresh air. And some days we need to spend way too much money at the mall. Most days, we live somewhere in between, somewhere that is comfortable for us.
Much like that point in a yoga pose where it's comfortable. If our bodies are up to it, we can push a little deeper. But if we push more deeply than we're ready to go we end up injured. We lose ground. We have to relearn the pose.
So why can't life in a modern world be the same way? Why not embrace the fact that, yeah, I need my hair highlighted sometimes and I prefer Lucky Brand jeans to the ones I can buy at Target and I happen to think driving a Honda CRV is cool even if it does have a child safety seat in the back? The self I'm presenting to the world is the same self who understands that it doesn't feel good to me any longer to wear expensive designer clothes and Jimmy Choo heels. It's the same self who understands just what it has found from yoga and what it will continue to find. It's the self that does indeed continue to move, daily, toward the peace and joy that come from within.
And, perhaps most importantly, it's the self that recognizes that sometimes pink polka dot boots bring with them the purest joy of self-expression and nothing more sinister than that.
Find Your Comfort—Practice Your Favorite Pose
I offer you today the gift of practicing a pose you love. Let go of the notion that you should really keep trying to do pincha mayurasana (forearm balance) without a wall. (I probably never will, and I need to be okay with that.) Don't worry about whether navasana (boat pose) is really what you need to flatten your abs. Don't think about what you think you need. Do what you love.
It might be a restorative pose like balasana (child's pose). Or simply engaging in the joyful motion of surya namaskar (sun salutes). Personally, I adore agnistambhasana, or double pigeon, even though just about the rest of the world hates it.
So find a pose that appeals. Find your way into it. Experience comfort. And then see if you can go a little bit deeper. Find the spots where you are still tight or struggling. Find a way to make progress in your practice. Gauge the difference between moving beyond comfort to discomfort—where we learn—and moving too far into pain—where we injure ourselves.
In other words, fully explore how what makes us comfortable can often lead us to the deeper truths even more profoundly than doing the things that challenge us.
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