The Fine Line

Practicing compassion, caring for others and sharing their problems, lays the foundation for a meaningful life, not only at the level of the individual, family or community, but also for humanity as a whole. ~ His Holiness, the Dalai Lama


People say that there are only three seasons here in Maine: Summer, Autumn and Winter. Summer is glorious and we revel in it. The long hours of sunlight, filling our days with the beach or boating. Lovely picnics and laughter well into the warm evenings. Autumn is nothing short of magical. The trees turn colors we only see in gemstones; rich ruby, glimmering topaz and vibrant amber. Winter, while seemingly endless, takes on a rhythm and sense of coziness. The snow blankets every surface and shines like diamonds each morning. Spring, however, remains elusive. Gray skies, torrential rains and fields growing nothing but mud seem to be the norm. The past few days, however, have been exceptional. I have taken to walking my dog, Murphy, and have taken full advantage of the sunshine to get back into shape following my surgeries. Walking has been therapeutic for both my own health, and for Murphy's...as he tends to look more like a Hippopotamus, than a Retriever mix. 


Our long walks have taken us into town, exploring streets we don't normally travel. It's been a bit of an adventure for the two of us.We love setting out in the morning, with no particular destination in mind. We may not be ready for a 10K walkathon, but we are definitely improving our stamina. 


However, a recent walk left me shaken, not from over-exercising, but from my own fears. As Murphy and I lumbered along in our usual mediocre pace, I saw a young man on the road ahead of us. He had a tattered coat, an over-sized backpack that was bursting at the seams and a very long, shaggy beard.  His entire demeanor gave off a threatening vibe. I looked around and didn't see another soul on the road, either in a car or on foot. In short, I was scared to death. I was a woman alone with a dork of a dog on an isolated country lane. 


My conversations with my friend, Jennifer, immediately sprung to mind. Jen is a gifted social worker and teacher on womens' issues of  personal safety. I have learned more from her than from anyone else on this subject. Jen taught me to scream "FIRE!", rather than "Help!" in an emergency....people being who they are are far more likely to respond to the former plea than they are to the latter. I learned that, if someone tries to pull me into a car to hold onto something solid, like a telephone pole or, when biking, to my bicycle. Jen explained a number of ways to incapacitate a would-be abductor. All of these scenarios flashed through my mind in an instant. I felt my heart pounding in my throat as the scary fellow approached. I seriously considered turning my dog around and running as fast as I could in the opposite direction.


In the next instant, I was filled with shame. Here was someone clearly down on his luck, and walking to his next destination. My recent theology class discussion about compassion rang in my ears, and I was horrified to have judged harshly when I espouse kindness above all else. Are my lessons in practicing hospitality, generosity, graciousness and consideration just empty ideals, with no place in my real life? Can I say one thing in an abstract setting and another when faced someone in need? My face burned red with embarrassment.


So, where is the fine line between ensuring our personal safety and practicing altruism? How can we remain grounded in a dangerous world, and be mindful of our own vulnerabilities, while still showing tenderness to those in need? With my thoughts on ways to keep myself (and Murphy) safe, I continued walking towards the intimidating man. I made eye contact, I smiled and said a cheerful, "Good Morning!" to him. He stopped and looked right at me. His gentle blue eyes showed nothing of the 'keep away' signs I'd seen before I spoke to him. Though bedraggled, his entire persona seemed to shift before my eyes, transforming him into a handsome, albeit world weary, traveler. He reached down and patted Murphy's immense head before looking up at me and saying, "And, good morning to you, Ma'am" with such kindness in his face. We exchanged another smile, and then went each in our own direction.


I was reminded of the verse from the book of Hebrews in the New Testament, "Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing, some people have entertained angels without knowing it."  I didn't entertain the young man, nor did I invite him home. I knew that that would be foolish of me. But, I am happy that I showed kindness, rather than rudeness, and a peaceful heart, rather than a fearful one.


Who knows? Perhaps I just 'entertained an angel'. Or, at least, brightened someone else's day. In either scenario, I feel both blessed and grateful for the encounter.

A book by any other name is still as sweet

These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves.  From each of them goes out its own voice... and just as the touch of a button on our set will fill the room with music, so by taking down one of these volumes and opening it, one can call into range the voice of a man far distant in time and space, and hear him speaking to us, mind to mind, heart to heart.  ~Gilbert Highet


It should come as no surprise that I'm a book lover, a true Bibliophile. From the first moment I wake up, until my eyes grow unbearably heavy in my head, I am reading. Books, both reviews and in metaphor, have been a large part of this blog, not to mention, my life. I can't remember ever not reading. My mother loves to tell the story of my seething, incensed Kindergarten teacher who told Mom, after my first bewildering day at school, "She knows how to read!", believing that I should be unable to do so, by virtue of my age. To quote Curtis Sittenfeld's wonderful fictional account of the former first lady, Laura Bush's passion for books, "Above all else, I was a reader." I'm sure those who know would feel this is a fitting epithet for me too.


Although I graduated from both high school and college, and was well on the path to an M. Ed., I still maintain that my greatest education has come from reading. I consider myself to be an autodidact. I learned far more about physics from reading "Einstein's Dreams" than I did in class. My passionate love of history was animated far more from essays and fictional accounts than from dry lectures aimed at entrapping fellow students on exams, rather than imparting knowledge. I never knew I could be enamored of geography, philosophy or chemistry, until I began perusing them on my own. I've discovered a world of fascinating subjects simply by turning the pages of a book on a subject about which I knew very little. For me, reading has been a way to shine the light on a world of possibilities...ones I never deemed accessible.


In my blog piece, a couple of years ago, I daydreamed about what heaven would be like for me. I envisioned an English library, with ever changing views to suit my mood. In my interpretation of heaven, every book I've ever wanted to read would be available at my fingertips. I have since gone on to think about my long desire for one of those fabulous library ladders on casters, a la Harry Potter in Olivander's wand shop. I truly stand by this interpretation of my own desire in "The World to Come"...I can't fathom eternity unable to read. 


To Kindle or not to Kindle was a piece I wrote not long after my meditations on heaven. Having borrowed a Kindle from my library, preloaded with a few titles that the staff had picked (two of which I'd already read), I can't say I was impressed. I simply didn't 'get' the big deal of a Kindle. I missed the tactile sensation of page turning. I missed using a bookmark. Silly though it may sound, the ability to watch my reading progress by the advancing movement of my bookmark, gave me a profound sense of satisfaction. I knew I'd miss wandering aimlessly around bookshelves, my hand alighting on a tome that no one had picked up in a long time...feeling as much a discoverer as Christopher Columbus, and realizing I'd come upon a land of treasure.


This opinion of the Kindle recently changed. During my confinement (which I define as an inability to get to the library), my girlfriends banded together and bought me a Kindle and an Amazon gift card with which to purchase e-books. I was in so much pain, and feeling so trapped in my own home, that something I had once 'poo-poo'ed' became a delightfully transporting mechanism. Since simply getting up and walking down the hall was a challenge, I knew that my meanderings around the library or a bookstore would be months off. The closest I could muster would be meandering around the Amazon website, picturing the concept of virtual shelves in my imagination. As tactile as I am, it was a bit of a challenge for me initially. But I came to realize that I could 'pick up' a book by reading sample chapters and I could chose to put that book back down, or to order it on my Kindle. And thus, a new love affair began.


I adore my Kindle now. I bring it everywhere. I can finally travel without having my entire carry-on bag be crammed with half a dozen hardcovers. I can slip it into my purse and sneak a chapter in while waiting in doctors' offices, during boring meetings and ever-so-carefully in the bathtub. I treasure how tiny a space it takes up and how giant a world it opens up for me when I'm reading. I am completely and totally a convert, with all the zeal and enthusiasm of one who has just found a new religion. I now espouse that books, in any form, are still books. I preach the saving of trees to all who will listen. I share the wonder of any book available at any hour of the day or not. I have shown an elderly friend, who is losing her sight, how large the print can be made to suit her. I have helped my mother, who is my soulmate in reading, how to use her new Kindle, and have successfully transformed her into adoring it too. It's become a way of life for me, in just the few months that I've had it.


Given my new creed on the use of an e-reader, has my vision of Heaven changed? Do I now picture something entirely different? No. My imagination, my comfort place and my illusion of where I daydream about is still my wonderful library. I picture Mahogany shelves from floor to ceiling. I can just make out the unbelievably comfortable chair, the side table holding my tea and the beloved wheeled ladder. I can smell the slight mustiness coming from the tomes. But in my eager hands, there is just as much likelihood of seeing a conceptualized Kindle, as there is a leather bound volume. 


As far as my previous opinion, mea culpa. 

When words fail

Words without thoughts never to heaven go. ~ William Shakespeare


One story my mother loves to tell is that I didn't walk until I was close to my 2nd birthday. I did, however, speak well before my 1st. She laughs that I was like a minute carrot, roots stuck firmly into the ground, issuing orders, telling funny tales and making pronouncements. Like a Baby Buddha, I simply sat and spoke. And spoke. And spoke. The power is speech seems to be one with which I was born. The words flowed out, even before I really understood what I was doing.


Speaking became a bit of a problem. My mouth, once fully engaged, never quite learned how (or when) to shut. "Motor Mouth", "Blabber Mouth" and "Gabby" were the epithets my cousins named me. I couldn't keep a secret to save my life. I spoke without an internal censor. I spoke without thinking first how my words would effect others. Words filled my head and immediately found their way onto my tongue. My mother and grandmother, in both frustration and with hope, encouraged me to write what I was thinking, rather than allow my intricate, internal monologue to keep those around me abreast of every idea. It was a great plan. I wrote a prolific amount. My mother and grandmother, both lovers of the arts, helped me "publish" my little books and many of them survive to this day. Writing gave me a way to get out all those ideas, each of those thoughts and every bit of my concepts out of me, without boring the daylights of my family. It also, I'm sure, kept me from embarrassing them further. I was a massive, undulating volcano erupting dramatic stories. These, I learned, didn't have to be told. They could simply be written.


Slowly, I learned what it was okay to say, and what it was better to write. I still put my foot into my mouth a great deal. I still reddened the faces of my parents, when I declared things to others that were best left private. But, for the most part, I learned the valuable lesson of subtlety. I also learned that, when I felt bottled up inside, ready to explode with a torrent of conversation, sometimes it was a wiser plan to scribble in my journal than to loose the canon of my mouth. Additionally, I learned the valuable lesson that journaling taught me; when I wrote how I was feeling, what I was doing or the stories in my head, I could learn from them. Those words remained with me, rather than flowing away forever. I could go back over them, read them, scan them, devour them. I could edit....sometimes profoundly editing my feelings, along with my words. I ascertained that I could write letters that never would be sent....just to get those emotions, that threatened to detonate my spirit, out by writing them down. My writing became a source of inspiration, a private cell for confession and a  medium of self-therapy.


It came as a great surprise to me, and a source of severe discontent, when I found myself unable to write recently. The words, once a white capped, endless ocean, became a dry riverbed, desolate and forgotten. The cancer robbed me of the gift (and curse) of my power of speech. When I was in Arizona recently, while walking around my mother's beautiful desert home, I took a good long look at one of the arroyos nearby. It had every indication that it once held a bountiful current. The lines in the sand were echoes of the water that had flowed freely, leaving behind large rocks and tiny pebbles in its wake. I thought, "I'm that arroyo. I once held water. There are a few nuggets left behind. But, other than that, I can feel where the rushing waters used to course. I can hear the distant reverberation from where the words used to spring. But, now, it's silent and still."


With a bit of regret, and a great deal of grief, I walked back up to the house, missing my words all the more. My words were my comfort. They were my own form of living water within. Without them, I felt unmoored and adrift. I felt fear rising in my throat, with no outlet...either spoken or written. I was once riding a raft over a plethora of ideas, concepts, contentions and conversations, and I now felt stranded, unable to convey the smallest prattle. I felt trapped in silence, and stranded there in the desert. When I tried to write, what came out was infantile, boring, meaningless, confusing and simply unfinished.


I'm beginning to see the tiny trickle of a new stream...the genesis of a brook. I am hopeful that it will expand, stretching out its banks and moving forward. The words, once caught in my throat, are beginning to venture out. In the meantime, I'm learning the value of silence...both of my pen and of my voice. It's been a challenging lesson. Stillness isn't an easy concept for me. My monkey mind usually loves those jumping movements from thought to thought. Yet, I haven't had a choice. My illness and recovery have taken my words from me, and forced me into an internal communication exile. But it's okay. I have faith the estuary of ideas will return. I can hear its stirring. In the meantime, I can also learn to value its absence. Quiet of mind and pen can be beautiful too.

The Blues

No one really cares if you're miserable, so you might as well be happy. ~ Cynthia Nelms

Louis Armstong. Johnny Lee Hooker. Bessie Smith. Etta James. Duke Ellington. Bo Diddley. Howlin' Wolf. B.B. King. Familiar names, to most of us, as blues musicians who have defined what people consider to be the crème de la crème of the genre. Their music continues to appear on soundtracks to popular movies, is played on current radio stations and has influenced scores of other artists. What about Big Bill Boonzey, Blind Boy Fuller, Memphis Minnie and Sippie Wallace? They're not as well known as their more contemporary successors, but their music, style, verve and creativity in blending 19th century gospel and spirituals, with early swing music, forever changed the course of musical history. From the Rolling Stones to Coldplay, the Blues have influenced countless musicians. The Blues has long been my favorite genre...I can easily get lost in the traditional 'four line' repeat. The pace and rhythm draw me back whenever I'm feeling scattered. It's been my mainstay, my touchstone and my musical 'home' during every phase of my life. Even as a 21 year old bride, I had a blues/jazz band, rather than the more popular DJ's, or 80's "wedding singer" style of music, entertain at my big day. 

The Blues has transcended racial, cultural and national barriers. It's powerful enough to speak to people in every country, of every ethnicity and socio-economic class. It's a passionate draw for both men and women, young and old. The Blues is there for the 'taking'...and can be relevant for nearly everyone, everywhere. And yet, the Blues began, in its inception, by conveying sadness, sorrow, depression, loss, heartache and dismay in a creative, culturally appropriate manner. The Blues spoke of injustice, devastation, protest and worry. For those who had no 'voice' with which to express their angst, the music gave them a powerful tool in doing so. It allowed others, who couldn't express what they were feeling, a way to 'feel' along with the music. Depression, sadness and anxiety could be 'listened to'...and allow those experiencing those emotions an empathic vehicle. The success, and transcendence, of the Blues shows me how important it is for us to have outlets during times of trouble.

I have to admit that the non-musical form of the blues has hit me fairly hard over the past few months. I was scared beyond belief during my cancer diagnosis, testing and surgery. I was anxious about my recovery and convalescence. I was frustrated and aggrieved by my physical setbacks. Now? Despite being incredible thankful and appreciative that I'm as well as is possible, I still have moments, lapses and periods of discouragement. More than  half of all cancer patients will experience depression *after* their treatment ends. Why? When one is in the midst of treatment, there is a plan of action. It's terrifying. It's painful. But, it's an agenda for getting well. When treatment ends, and the cancer patient is left with a battered, changed and ravaged body, it's easy to see why loss often hits after cancer is over. Factor in fear of insurmountable medical bills, terror that the cancer will return, loss of jobs and income, overwhelming post surgery rehabilitation and a shattered sense of self worth, and all the earmarks for seriously bruised spirits are in place. 

One of the things I keep reminding myself is that I have a new definition for 'normal'. What ordinary, everyday and fit meant to me 4 months ago are completely different than what they mean for me now. It's not easy to readjust one's expectations. Clothes that were flattering in October no longer work for my new body. Emotions that were easily held in check are now more difficult. My usual ability of looking at myself in a mirror has been altered forever. I don't like my reflection most of the time. I don't like the lumpy, shattered, unalluring woman who gazes back at me. I don't know how to dress, what to do, what to say or what to think most of the time. I am well aware that my bikini days are over. It's disturbing in body, of course, but also in mind and spirit. What do I do with this new self, one that barely resembles the woman from last November?  How do I change the way I feel, the way I look, the way I cope and the way I move forward?

I do have the blues right now. But, the blues don't define me. I don't allow them to take over my life, my spirit or my hope for the future. I have lots of new things to learn. I have new skills to master...many of which were simple for me a few months ago. I have to regain the woman I once was, temper her with what I've experienced and discover improved ways to move forward. A case of the blues will not ruin the second chance I've been given. They do teach me how much I've lost. They also remind me about what I've overcome. I can take my feelings and examine them logically. It isn't an easy process. I realize how tied up in being pretty, being physically strong and being vibrant I once was. I see how much my self-worth was tied up in these feelings.  

I'm not out of the blues yet, and they hit me unexpectedly at times. I do have an immeasurable sense of appreciation for the gifts I have been given. My blues aren't completely pitch black and I do see a great deal of light. I am thankful that I can create shades of indigo, cobalt and turquoise. As Bessy Smith sang, "It's a long old road, but I know I'm gonna find the end." 

Miracles

"There are two ways to live; you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle."  ~ Albert Einstein


I feel incredibly blessed right now. I'm doing very well, and while I still have further to go on my journey of recovery from surgery, I am gratified by how much progress I've made. That said, I have been hearing, with increasing fervor, that my prognosis and recovery are a "miracle". This expression has passed through the lips of atheists and believers in God alike. I've heard it from older people, and from the friends of my teenagers. I know that these utterances of thankfulness regarding my health are meant with love, joy and gratitude. I realize that people are reassured that someone can have a malignant tumor, go through major surgery and then reemerge, healthy, on the other side. I am overwhelmed by how pleased people are on my behalf. I feel astonished that so many have been pulling for me. And yet, I am absolutely, completely and totally, uncomfortable with the word "miracle" when it comes to my recovery.


Why is it that one little word goes down my spine the wrong way? Shouldn't I feel appreciative that, despite sporting a colossal battle scar, I'm one of the lucky ones and therefore, a miracle?  The definition of miracle, according to the dictionary I have next to my computer, is: "an effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause."  When viewed in this way, all I can say "Yikes!". I'm not a miracle in this way. If I am, then why was the woman, in the hospital room next to mine, given the news that there was nothing more that could be done for her cancer, but that she would be kept as comfortable as possible until the end? Why would I be spared and she be taken? Who am I that I should be considered "worthy" by God? I'm no one special. I pay my bills, do my laundry, teach some classes, walk my dogs and write this modest, irrelevant blog. Miracles should happen to those people who have the capacity to change the world, not to whining, annoying slobs like myself. I am completely unworthy of a miracle. I have nothing to offer the world in return for my health. 


Perhaps, my discomfort of the world "miracle" has to do with my own inability to give back to the world what I've been given. How can I possibly repay the universe for more years with my family? What do I have to offer than couldn't be more exceptionally lavished by a woman with more talent, more intelligence, better skills, and frankly, more chutzpah? I'm an inadequate miracle receiver. I can't even make toast without burning it! What can I do to improve the lives of those around me, when I whack off the side mirrors of my car with frightening regularity? I'm humbled and bewildered.


Still, as the French writer and satirist Jean de la Bruyere wrote in the 17th century, "Out of difficulties grow miracles". Had I not been diagnosed with Leiomyosarcoma for the second time, I wouldn't have been in a chance to take stock in my life, my circumstances and the blessings that I had already been given. Maybe the miracle isn't my recovery. Maybe it's in the way I choose to live my life from here on out. Maybe it lies within my ability to smile at those people having a bad day, or being kind to everyone I know. Perhaps, it's the delight I've begun to take in the most mundane of tasks. I have a silly kind of joy at being able to vacuum my own floors again. The miracle in my life, I believe, is not my recovery. I put that solely in the hands of my excellent doctors, as well as in my own stubborn sense of hard work when it comes to exercise. The miracle, I think, is what I choose to do from here on out.


Am I a miracle? No, I am not. I remain the same exuberant, goofy klutz I have always been. The miracle lies in the little bits of love I can throw out, like a tiny pebble tossed into a still, deep pond. The circles, ripples and small currents I create in meager ways, may just produce that phenomenal wonder. I can only sit back and watch it unfold.

My final CaringBridge Post...reposted.

For each new morning with its light,

For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food, for love and friends,
For everything Thy goodness sends.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I am incredibly thankful.

I am thankful for this past weekend's grand tour of New England, during which we accomplished much, including visiting with both of our kids. All four of us being in one state is increasingly rare these days.

I am thankful for safe travels for all of us in my family, for nice places to stay and for far too much good food to eat.

I am thankful for a happy place for my beloved, immense, annoying, overly exhuberant dogs to stay, while I'm out of town.

I am thankful for GPS, even when I yell at it. I am thankful for my ability to navigate without the darn thing when its directions make no sense.

I am thankful for fact that I could sit up at every single game and deal with freezing cold temps, obnoxious hockey parents (from other teams, of course) and minimal pain levels.

I am thankful to have a son and a daughter who bless me beyond measure...and who are far too good for me to ever deserve the honor of being their mom.

I am thankful for a husband who is flexible enough to take conference calls on the road, and never to lose his professionalism or hard work, regarldess of where we are.

I am thankful for a mom who loves me beyond my understanding.

I am thankful for Dunkin Donuts coffee, who kept me going from late night to early morning games and long stretches of highway.

I am thankful for those teachers and coaches who have mentored my kids along the way.

I am even thankful for my puffy hockey mom coat, that keeps me exceeding warm, even when the wind chill is -5. Caroline, I know you hate it as a bad fashion statement. We'll revisit this conversation when you're 45.

I am thankful for those people who have prayed for me, who have pulled for me, who have sent good juju my way and who have thought anything remotely positive for me for the past four months. 

Thank you. Bless you. Over and out for Caring Bridge.

Yoga! Yoga! Yoga!

If I'm losing balance in a pose, I stretch higher and God reaches down to steady me.  It works every time, and not just in yoga.  ~Terri Guillemets


With cancer officially behind me, I am galloping ahead into recovery. Because my particular form of cancer was asymptomatic, the process focuses exclusively on healing my body from both the traumatic and invasive surgery, and the post surgical complications. I've missed yoga more than I can possibly express. Because I've been practicing yoga steadily for 12 years, and teaching for 6 years, having that support mechanism taken away from me was incredibly difficult. Not only was I anxious and in pain, but my usual 'go to' method for dealing with those problems was impossible! So, I'm especially thankful to be back into taking three classes per week. It's given me a way to regain strength in my body, my mind and my spirit.


I've been asked often enough in the past few weeks which poses (or "asanas") seem to be the most healing for me right now. I've put together a little list to give for my fellow yoginis, as well as for those interested in creating a practice. This list is by no means the limit of poses that I am practicing right now. These are only a few of the many that I'm working through during each class. Additionally, my teachers have been wonderful about helping me find what my body is asking for right now. I fully expect to continue to add to this grouping very soon. These just happen to be 'hitting the spot' literally, and metaphorically, at this time. Would I recommend another person to attempt these following major abdominal surgery? Not at all! I went into surgery in pretty good shape. Each person is different, and each procedure effects our bodies differently. So, please talk to your own physician before beginning yoga, or any other exercise program, following any surgical procedure.


Without further ado...here is the list:

Staff Pose (Dandasana) has proven to be the most difficult asana for me post surgery. While it appears to be incredibly simple, the amount of lower abdominal strength that it takes to keep me in proper alignment has been a challenge. I lost much of my involuntary abdominal muscles. What I didn't lose altogether was cut and sewn back together using artificial tissue. Therefore, it's been very difficult for me to sit up without slouching, slumping off to one side or to just give up. I breathe more heavily during this pose than any other one right now. But, I also find that it's helping me to reestablish those muscle, and nerve, connections.

Downward facing dog (Adho Mukha Svanasana) has had the opposite experience in my new 'post surgical' practice. I've found it to be incredibly affirming, exhilarating and inspiring. I've rediscovered strength I was afraid I'd lost forever. Each time I move into Down Dog, I'm reassured that I will overcome these physical obstacles. Additionally, the variations of this pose ("Walking the dog", Standing Split and Half Dog--dropping down to my forearms) have provided me with the ability to work from a place of strength. Down Dog strengthens many different muscle groups all at once. It also has helped me to open up my overly tight hamstrings that had begun to become painful, after all that lying about. I have felt exceptionally motivated to keep moving in my practice when I am in my Adho Mukha Svanasana series.

Sphinx pose has been enormously helpful, as have many of the back bend series asanas. When you lie in a hospital bed, or do a great deal of sitting, your spine compresses. I found that my back became quite painful...simply from doing nothing. Literally. Sphinx was the first back bend I attempted when returning to class. It was as if I had been sitting in the dark for weeks and someone turned on a beautifully shining light! Just opening up my shoulders alleviated nearly all of my back pain. Sphinx pose also was my starting point to move into more challenging back bends, such as Upward Facing Dog, Seal Pose, Locust Pose, Bow and Camel. Back bends, my yoga teacher once told me, are a way of healing the past. Often people who have unresolved issues in their hearts and minds have a very difficult time with them. I found that regularly practicing Sphinx has helped me let go of a lot of the drama the past few months created.

Child's pose (Balasana) was another one that seemed so simple before my surgery, and was such a challenge immediately afterwards. Because my abdomen remained so swollen, and so sore, for a long time, just getting into this position represented some difficulty for me. I began easing into Child's Pose by creating a V with my knees. Now that my flexibility is beginning to return, I'm working diligently to create space by working towards the traditional 'belly on knees'. When used with the 'arms over the shoulders' variation, I've also been able to stretch out tight deltoids. I focus my breath into my lower back, and am able to renew my energy there.

"Legs up the Wall" pose (Viparita karani) has been a salvation for me. I have a very difficult time letting go of my "Monkey Mind". It's as if my brain is constantly flitting from topic to topic, replaying conversations on a loop, creating to do lists and just not turning 'off'. Imagine a Spider Monkey jumping from branch to branch, tree to free. That's the way my brain works most of the time. Regular exercise is the best way for me to keep this bad habit at bay. When that's not possible, my mind runs out of things to think about and begins to worry anxiously and needlessly. Other restorative poses, such as Corpse Pose and Reclining Butterfly, are wonderful. But, they're not as effective in battling my evil Monkey Mind. Legs up the wall gives me a leg up (pun fully intended) in shutting my brain up for ten minutes so that it, too, can relax. Inversions have a spectacular way of taking the guesswork out of restoration. I can't help but sigh in repose.

Finally, if anything is going to get me back into shape, it's going to be Boat Pose(Navasana). I used to be able to hold this pose for ten minutes and carry on a conversation with a class of my own students, and not even think about the difficulty. Times have changed! This pose is now a struggle for me, but it's also one that I've found becomes easier each time I practice it. Beginning with my knees bent in half boat, I have slowly gained strength and am inching my way, slowly, back up to full boat. Am I chatting and laughing? Heck, no! I'm sweating, and would probably swear if if I could get away with it. But, I do find that Boat Pose is helping me to renew, restore and regrow muscle. It just isn't much fun yet.


This series of six poses is not all inclusive to what I'm doing now. But, I do try to include each one of these along with whatever else I'm doing each day. They're helping me me to bring balance back into my life through my yoga practice. I'm mindful to cut out all negative thinking (and this includes "I hate my body now!") because it really does set me back. Full descriptions of each one of these poses are available at Yoga Journal online. Have fun perusing the various asanas! You may just discover a few you'd like to try.


Namaste!