Broken

Broken: Adjective: reduced to fragments; fragmented, ruptured; torn; fractured,not functioning properly; out of working order.

When my son, Josh, was a toddler, Cheerios's came out with a new twist on their oat cereal. Instead of just having the famous and signature "O", they also came out with "X's". It was cute. It was clever. It tasted the same and had all the same healthy reasons for putting the new gimmick on my shopping list. Josh, however, was duly horrified, as only an 18 month old can be. I thought it was so charming to put the X's and O's on the tray of his high chair. Josh looked at the cereal, looked at me, and then began precisely picking up the X's, tossing them off the tray to the waiting vultures (masquerading as dogs). With each flick of his chubby baby wrist, he'd say "Broken!". Nothing I could do would persuade him to even taste one. In his one year frame of reference, his beloved "O-eee-o's" were not supposed to look like that.

This was a parenting annoyance at the time. But, now, 19 years later, I can understand completely how Josh felt. There was a way that his neatly ordered world was supposed to be. He was accustomed to his snack looking a particular way. It gave Josh stability knowing what he should expect. His passionate rejection of the 'different' was not unlike how an adult might feel when her world is turned upside down. What Josh experienced as baby, on a much smaller scale, many of us discover, to our horror, as grown ups. "Broken" can mean a wide variety of things to us. It might be that a marriage fails. Or a family member dies. Or a debilitating, scary illness is diagnosed. It may be being downsized from a career. It could mean that our belief system is shattered, our hearts are crushed, our friendships aren't steady and our mind can't grasp the changes. Broken can mean that the worlds we work so hard to create for ourselves are in nothing more than a gossamer scarf, holding together the fragile pieces that fit together within the delicate folds. 

Over the past year, I've been exploring the concept of brokenness, as it applies to body, mind and spirit. This wasn't intentional. I had no choice in the matter of my body. Cancer is an all powerful, indiscriminate leveler, particularly when one has had the disease more than once. My strength through yoga failed me. I was physically broken, emotionally drained and intellectually flummoxed. How does a non-smoking, organic eating yogini get a rare form of cancer more than once? I was angry. I wanted to power through, to be the little engine that could", to deny that this disease would have any long term effects on me. I refused to allow myself to be broken. I wouldn't stand for it. How very wrong I was! How naive, and how foolish. I wish I could back in time. I wish I could take myself by the hand and say, "You will be broken. You will be challenged. Nothing will be easy. With every step forward, there will be two steps back and to the side. You will not reemerge the same woman. You will be different. You will be changed. You will be splintered. But, you will survive and create something new from the pieces."

After yet another setback last week, I wanted to cry out to the heavens, "Seriously?" But, I realize that there is still more for me to learn. There is always more for me to learn. Perhaps that's the lesson in all of this; no matter how well I think I've put the pieces back together, they seem to twirl out of my hands, crashing to the floor and creating even more fragments for me to contemplate. It's not the breaking that matters. Regardless of how I feel about it, I'm beginning to realize that the brokenness itself may very well be the lesson. It may be that I need to continuously learn humility; that I must deliberately look at each fragment and wonder what it has to teach me. It may also just be a crappy deal that I'm stuck with, and if I don't want to end up as a bitter, hate-filled old biddy, I'd better learn how to dwell with what is, rather than focusing on what is not.

Like a mosaic work of art, made from bits of shattered glass, I need to learn how to see the beauty in brokenness. I need to appreciate what is broken. Why? Because it's healthier than the alternative. One never knows: something exquisite may yet be created. I just have the humbling task of trying to discern what 'it' will be.

Awake

A brahmin once asked The Blessed One:
"Are you a God?"
"No, brahmin" said The Blessed One.
"Are you a saint?"
"No, brahmin" said The Blessed One.
"Are you a magician?"
"No, brahmin" said The Blessed One.
"What are you then?"
"I am awake."
~ Zen Lesson


While I was lying prone in bed last week, I came upon this lesson former yoga teacher training books. I'd first read the quote about 8 years ago, just as I was beginning my R.Y.T. program. I found it to be enlightening, encouraging, helpful and compelling. I was excited to become a yoga teacher! I knew that I'd be "living what I love" in my new career. The extraordinary concept that I could actually get paid to practice yoga, and to share it with others, was still a novel concept to me at that time. I studied the wisdom words by everyone from Moses to the Buddha to Thomas Merton. My program of study was especially wide ranging. Not only did I learn an incredible amount about anatomy, but I also apprenticed in the 15 most common forms of yoga practice. It was both overwhelming and edifying, and unnerving and revitalizing. I had phenomenal teachers and surprisingly nasty ones. I met lifelong friends in my classes, as well those who took competition (in a 'supposed to be non-competitive' atmosphere) far too seriously. Through all of these lessons, over my 8 months of study and practice, I kept coming back to this first lesson: I asked myself if I was "awake". I felt, at that time, that I was. Every cell in my body told me that I was finally waking up from my lifelong trance-like slumber.


Now that I'm older, more jaded and, hopefully, a bit wiser, I've learned how unconscious I am most of the time. My thoughts of being awake, 8 years ago, are laughable in their innocence. What I had envisioned to be a "one time alarm clock moment", even a 'born again' experience, was simply not the case. I think that, regardless of one's religious beliefs or personal practices, the art of being awake isn't a singular event: it's a lifelong goal for which to strive. I can't possible undo decades of absent minded and heedless practice overnight. In our culture of repetition and unconscious habit, it's tough to remain mindful in everyday life. I seem to operate on auto-pilot through much of my day. Before I'm even aware of it, I'd gotten up, made breakfast, gotten the kids to school, taken the dogs for walks, done the errands, paid the bills and even taught a yoga class, all without consciously being aware of these actions. Living mindfully aware, in the present moment, requires a great deal of practice, I've discovered. I tend to get so caught up in daily routine that my sense of being 'awake' slinks into the background.


I'm no longer a yoga instructor. Unfortunately, my surgery last December made that career impossible to continue. However, I have discovered a bit of a tough lesson: even being a yoga teacher did not make me immune to falling into daily amnesia. I often taught six classes per week, in addition to my other 'jobs' as mother and wife and committee member and volunteer. My daily practice and classes simply were added to my 'to do' list. 


It's my hope to find a bit of time each day to "wake up". I'd like to have my reflections and prayers become more than my 'wish list' of 'wants'. I would to get out of bed each morning not just stumbling towards coffee, but as a conscious experience of the new day being the precious gift it is. I truly understand my ignorance of 8 years ago as a wistful enthusiasm. I just hope I can poke that same hopeful, eager, but exhausted woman I was back then. Perhaps in my gentle (or even forceful) nudges to my psyche, I can revivify that former earnestness, but temper it with cautious awareness.


The alarm clock has gone off! I'm awake!  But I'm learning that waking up is easy. It's staying awake that's much more challenging.

Happiness in Balance

“Happiness is not a matter of intensity but of balance, order, rhythm and harmony.”   ~ Thomas Merton 


Tonight will bring in the first official day of Summer. I have to admit; I'm a much bigger fan of the first day of Summer than I am of the first day of Winter. Here in Maine, our weather is governed not by a calendar, but by our windows. What we see happening outside tells us which season it is. Snow isn't unheard of in late October, nor is it unreasonable in April. To people in southern areas, this would be a travesty in Autumn and Spring. Frankly, it's just a normal part of life at my home. Because our Summer season is so very short, our celebrations are all the more meaningful up here. We try to embrace and hold onto each moment of warm weather, every trip to the beach and all the memories will keep us warm all winter long.


Because I was so unwell this past Winter (and since Spring is a stealth season, much of Spring, too), I have to admit that I was looking forward to today's  'annual summer kick off beach' excursion even more than usual. There is something about digging my toes in the sand, listening to the waves on the shore and smelling the salt air that just makes me happy. The feel of sunshine on my cheeks, a lovely picnic lunch and a good book is honestly all I need to feel completely at peace. And yet, if it wasn't for the lousy way this winter had gone, I wonder if I'd truly appreciate how magical today was? Would I feel the same amount of appreciation for a simple day on the ocean, if I hadn't been in and out of the hospital? Would I smile, just hearing my daughter laugh with her friends, if my house hadn't been empty and hollow all winter?


I wish I could say that I'd have the exact same amount of joy, on the first day of Summer, if I lived in a warm climate, but I'm not entirely sure that would be the case. Without the dark, there is no light. I imagine that it would be very exciting for a while. The ability to eat on the deck every night would be wonderful. The giggles rising up from the bonfire, as my kids make S'moes with their friends most nights, would be heart-warming. The idea that I could sip my coffee in the sunshine each morning would be pretty delicious. And yet, I know myself well enough to realize that I might take each one of these summer favorites for granted before long. As healing and delightful as I find the sunshine right now, I can just as easily imagine that I could stop noticing it if I had it in spades every day. Why? Because there are times I fail to appreciate living at the ocean. Not long ago, my husband and I were walking our dog along the cove and ran into a very nice family from inland Virginia. They wondered if we just were in awe, every single day, about living in such a gorgeous place with such exceptional views. The fact is, we drive in and out of our neighborhood so many times every day that we don't often look up, as we're driving towards the ocean. Our brains are set to get into the garage as quickly as we can. 


Maybe it takes a certain amount of Winter before we can fully appreciate Summer. Maybe we have to be diagnosed with cancer before we stop and realize that life is miraculous. Maybe we have to be completely off kilter and out of balance in order to appreciate having a harmonious symmetry to our days.


Whatever the celebrations will bring this Summer, I promise myself to strive for balance...to appreciate the small things as much as I do the grand ones, and to seek out quiet for every period of revelry. Maybe, this way, I'll just be able to spread out my sense of equity.

Whatever happened to customer service?

You’ll never have a product or price advantage again. They can be easily duplicated, but a strong customer service culture can’t be copied. ~ Jerry Fritz

Despite the fact that I'm a yoga instructor, a bibliophile, a blogger, a wife and mother, a frequent traveler, a daughter, a friend and a dog owner, I'm also a customer. I have various needs (and wants) that I shop for...and like most people, I would like to go to those places in which my needs can met for the best prices.We're on a strict budget, as just about every other family is these days. Why overpay if I can purchase a gallon of milk at half the price? Why go somewhere out of my way, if I can save a few pennies closer by? What's the point of frequenting a series of tiny, "Mom and Pop" stores, if I can do all my shopping in one place? The answer is simple: customer service. The smaller Main Street stores, for the most part, tend to honestly care about what the consumer's experience is when she walks into their stores.

This subject, which is not a typical Preppy Yogini inspirational sermonette, is an important one: smaller stores, whose owners truly have a personal interest in each of their customers, are being forced out of business. I have always believed in healthy competition in the business world. Despite my love for excellence, I have always held with a belief in the freedom of choice in the marketplace, a "laissez-faire" attitude in business and the survival of the economic fittest. I never understood why folks would picket and protest when a Home Depot was going to go into town, or why a K-Mart would hurt Main Street shops. Having recently experienced, by far, the worst shopping experience of my life at Wal-Mart yesterday, I now understand the cause for concern. Having been met with empty shelves, a surly and bitter staff and immovable lines to pay, I realized that my choices for finding decent bath towels are now almost gone. The nice home goods store in my small town has vanished, simply sliding out of existence in the presence of the big box stores' shiny beckoning packaging. But once the luster of having everything from athletic socks to window cleaner in one place wears off, we are left with no other choice but to remain hostage to an apathetic, unpredictable and inferior place to shop. And, that's our only option.

Customer service, in everything from large stores to postal shipping, has taken a downturn. It's hard to get anyone to answer the phone when you call a consumer hotline. After meandering through a maze of non-applicable numerical choices, we're still left with our problems regarding a broken dishwasher we've only just purchased. At some point, the bottom line of saving money became more urgent than accountability in service. As such, the market responded, and we, as the public, are left without help, without caring and without the ability to buy bath towels when we need them. And, we really only have ourselves to blame, since we, ourselves, showered the consumer market with our response to "Low, low prices". Sadly, with those rock bottom deals, comes rock bottom attitudes. We can't get the manager behind the service desk to make eye contact, while she's on a personal phone call, we can't figure out why our television cable won't work because the local office no longer accepts incoming calls and we can't understand the reason our gas card has stopped working, even though the payment is up to date.

Is it too late to feel valued as a customer? Have the times progressed beyond helpfulness, cheerfulness and problem solving? Are we willing to live with substandard responses to our queries just to save a dollar? I don't believe so. It is my opinion that people are fed up with a lack of appreciation and choice. People inherently want to feel enthusiastically welcomed and esteemed. Consumers want to know that they are highly respected for choosing to shop in any one store. I'm not a businesswoman. I don't have an MBA from Harvard Business School. Yet, I know that, as I talk to people who come to my own yoga classes, they understand there are many choices in yoga teachers, and I make certain that each student feels cherished when she comes to class. Additionally, I feel the same way when I make my purchasing decisions. Do I want to be insulted and left to fend for myself at an immense concrete city block of a store, or do I want to have a positive experience...even if it's slightly more expensive? The place that I have arrived to, in my own consumerism, is that I'd rather have better quality, a more positive experience, and fewer "things".

Many years ago, my father, Jim Lavenson, wrote a speech called Think Strawberries. In it, he movingly tells the story of his own career in the hotel industry, and how powerfully exceptional customer service can make, or break, a business. Because I grew up with my dad's philosophy, not just at work, but at home, the ideals of friendliness, hospitality, helpfulness and going 'above and beyond' for those with you, became second nature to me. Dad was lauded for this spech, and it went on to be published in several magazines, as well as included in most college Hotel & Restaurant Management courses. I grew up immersed in "quality over quantity", with the belief that caring about other people really does make a difference and customer appreciation makes an enormous difference. My own inability to pass up a 'bargain' here and there led to my own discount shopping. Sadly, this decision by me, and by thousands of other shoppers like me, has led to fewer choices for us.

So, what do we do now? We make a point of shopping at the remaining, or newly opened, stores in which we feel valued. We take the time to go to a variety of stores, rather than 'one stop shopping', in order to support small businesses. We seek out locally grown, locally made and locally sold products. We thank the companies that *do* appreciate us, and let them who, on their staff, was especially helpful. Above all, we tell the larger companies exactly *why* they are losing our business. We even drive a little out of our way to frequent stores that fit our standards.

This will not change the world. It will not end wars, famine or disease. But, it will be bring striving for premium services back into vogue, and give rise to a movement towards higher standards in our shopping. As the notable Bill and Ted have said "Be excellent to each other". I believe this applies to customer service too...even if strange things are not afoot at the Circle K.

A series of moments...

Motherhood has a very humanizing effect. Everything gets reduced to essentials. ~Meryl Streep

From the moment I held my first baby doll, I knew I wanted to be a mother...and not just a mother: a "Mommy". I couldn't wait to have my own children. I wanted to push a baby carriage. I wanted to help make macaroni necklaces, push around Matchbox cars and cut out Play-doh with 'tools'. I wanted to read to stories to tiny people sitting in my lap. I wanted to be a 'room mother' for their classrooms, a Brownie Troop leader and a healer of scraped knees. I wanted to be the cookie baking mommy in the neighborhood. I wanted to be guardian angel, advocate, time keeper, feeder of tummies and bestower of hugs. I wanted to make sure that all would be right in my children's worlds. I saw our lives as a consistently unfolding series of moments, interwoven and unbreakable.

Yet, what I failed to realize is that the moments that weren't perfectly in keeping with my ideal vision are the ones that have made the most unanticipated impact on my life. I've learned to be grateful for the non-Hallmark moments. These less than stellar times of motherhood have taught me that being a mother is far more than just 'looking' the part. It has made me immeasurably thankful for the journey we've taken together. I have fallen short and failed so many times. But each experience has taught me not to be the mother of my dreams, but the real mother my children have needed in each stage of their lives:

• I'm thankful for the sleepless nights when I had a two-year-old and a newborn. Those were the days I questioned my sanity, my ability to parent and my very sense of reason. Every moment I was up with my toddler or baby gave me extra time to cherish the tiny sizes they were...and to understand they would never be this small again. I realize that, as sleep deprived as I was, my senses were heightened to their needs and I am overwhelmed that I was able to sneak in extra time of babyhood with them...even if it came at 2 AM.
• I'm thankful for quiet days spent curled up with both kids and reading aloud on the couch to them. I realize that I could have been cleaning my house, paying bills or doing something special for myself. However, watching their faces as the "The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe" came alive within their imaginations was priceless. I'm thankful that, as exhausted as I was, hearing them say "One more chapter, Mama...PLEASE" with those two sets of big brown eyes melted my heart against any selfishness I may have felt.
• I'm thankful to have been an enthusiastic, if completely sports-illiterate, spectator at countless Little League games, gymnastics lessons, tennis matches, 5 am hockey practices and soccer tournaments. I'm thankful that I learned to keep extra blankets, Deep Woods Off, water bottles, snacks, first aid kits and camp chairs in the back of my car. Win or lose, close game or blow out, I'm honored to have been able to share in both victory and defeat with them. Dairy Queen to celebrate, or to comfort, will always be source of a laughter for me.
• I'm thankful to be the one my children came to for their broken hearts. I cried with them. I hugged them. I was there to try to give a mother's heart during those first experiences with dating. I wish I could have taken their pain onto myself. But, I feel blessed to have earned my children's trust enough for them to share with me.
• I'm thankful for the times my children said "You're the meanest Mom in the whole world" because it meant I'm not a pushover. I'm also thankful when they tell me they love me because I know those words aren't hollow, but truly meant. I'm thankful that I've had to say "Clean your room!", "Home by midnight!", "Finish the old milk before starting the new!" and "Be nice to your sister!" because it meant that I was able to actively parent my children.
• I'm thankful for our long car trips...even when I had to say "Nobody touch anyone ever again!" in response to "I'm not touching you!" taunts from the backseat. In between the construction of the Berlin Wall between them, I'm thankful for our wonderful conversations, our dancing and singing and our road trip games as we traveled. I'm thankful for both Josh and Caroline's 'adventurous' attitudes when we flew to new places, and their willingness to try new foods everywhere we went. I'm so proud of what good travelers they both are now.

Despite how much I wanted to be an ideal mother and to teach my children everything I could about the world around them, I'm exceptionally thankful not for the lessons I imparted, but for those I learned. My children have enlightened me in more ways than I can count. Motherhood is nothing like I imagined. It's far richer.