And not in a good way.

With the exception of my wedding photos, I have done a decent job of dodging the camera for most of my adult life. This drives Phil crazy.  During both of my pregnancies (because “pregnant chicks are hot”) he would literally chase me around trying to catch a picture of my wide ass belly.  When his paparazzi-in-the-bushes strategy failed, he went the guilt-trip route: “What if you die in a horrible accident someday and then the girls have nothing to remember you by?”

Yeah, because that thought makes me want to Say Cheese.

In the past few years I have taught yoga at a few different studios.  This typically requires a short bio for the studio website along with a –yup, you guessed it – photo. This sends me into a panic, especially when the other teachers’ photos involve an advanced yoga posture with a name like “Fallen Angel.”  It feels a little awkward to post a cropped picture of myself at a BBQ holding a can of Miller Light next to some diesel yogi balancing her entire body weight on her pinky finger.

So my solution here has been to just avoid this request from the studio owner as long as possible, until he or she sends me the one-sentence email: “I NEED YOUR BIO AND PIC….NOW.”  It is at this point that I throw on some Chap Stick and call my neighbor to take a picture of me in my front yard. (Thanks Jen!)

I was relaying this story to my friend Danette, a professional photographer who has taken some gorgeous shots of my kids.  She shared a recent brainstorm for a photo project that would involve taking photos of women doing something they love (besides taking care of kids) and are passionate about. Taking some yoga pictures fit the bill, or as Danette put it, “photos of you standing on your kidneys.”

I remembered one of my favorite posts by Emily where she tackles this same topic, asserting that we (as women) crave photos of ourselves that make us feel good – even though we may feel silly or vain or self-centered admitting it.  We immerse ourselves in making sure everyone ELSE looks good.  I make sure that outfits coordinate, eyes stay open, and headbands stay in place long enough to snap that Christmas card picture…yet I am braless and wearing “gently used” yoga pants while taking it.

The possibility of a grizzly, premature death aside, I thought about what effect my lens-aversion might have on Emma and Phoebe.  My dream for each daughter is that she will grow into a confident woman who is at home in her own skin.  I don’t want her to apologize for taking up space or to shy away from the spotlight.  I want her to embrace the quirks and “flaws” as part of the whole perfectly imperfect package that makes her…her.

So last Saturday I headed over the Danette’s house in Manayunk armed with my mat and a lot of nerve.  I started biting my nails at red lights.  What the Hell was I thinking?  I should have watched that You Tube demo of Fallen Angel.  What can I do that is really worth taking a picture of?  My yoga practice is lame.  She might as well take pictures of someone doing bicep curls with 3 lb weights.

But Danette was definitely on to something with the idea of taking shots of a woman engaged in her passion…because you really do lose yourself in that activity.  I love doing yoga because it’s the only time I don’t feel like a marching band geek with her pants pulled up too high. Sometimes, if I really relax into the practice, I actually feel graceful.  It becomes less about me finding the pose and more about the pose finding me. If a pose lands, great, if it doesn’t, move on the next one.  After about 20 minutes I almost forgot Danette was even there…which either means I was high on ujjayi breathing or she’s a pretty damn good photographer. I vote for the latter.

I showed the photos to the girls at dinner, and after her bath I caught Emma striking her best Dancer’s Pose in front of the bathroom mirror.  Mission accomplished.

And I have to admit, when I saw myself in a handstand, I turned to Phil and said, “Do I really look like that?”

And in a good way.

These photos were taken by Danette Pascarella.  If you are looking for a sweet, funny, and creative photographer in the Philly area to take photos of your children, or even better, YOURSELF, I highly recommend you check out her website! http://danettepascarella.com/

I returned from Tulum high on life. My plan following the Live Love Teach training was to swoop in on my magic yoga mat like a benevolent yogi superhero, saving the world one Sun Salutation at a time. I had spent 5 days teaching yoga on the beach, laughing with a group of incredible yogis, eating lots of guacamole and meditating at sunrise. Infused with a new sense of energy and purpose, my Master Plan was beginning to take shape in my mind: “I am going to meditate everyday! Yoga –everyday! Sex with my husband –every other day! This is the new me: Goodbye Clenchy Clencherton, Hello Joyful Jessie! I embrace life with ease, I go with the flow!”

As soon as I stepped on the plane, things started to flow alright. Right into the toilet. Like, 10 times. I was a popular passenger.

Phil picked me up in Philly and we drove straight to New Jersey for my aunt’s memorial service. Between bathroom breaks on the NJ Turnpike, I geared myself up for the emotional event that I had managed to block out of my mind for the past five days. My expectation was that I would be strong and composed during the mass. The reality was that I blubbered from the minute I stepped foot in the church until the moment I went to bed that night. Maybe my chakras were all loosey goosey after a week of yoga, because I was a hot mess.

In fact, a lot of things throughout the week continued to be loose: my bowels, my housekeeping, my schedule, my level of parental responsibility or standards for television programming. It turns out that I brought more than big plans back from Mexico; I brought a big parasite back as well. My expectation of a week of living life with a new sense of passion and presence quickly gave way to my reality of shitting my brains out in between episodes of Dance Moms (a show that may actually kill brain cells).

As the week progressed, nothing turned out as planned. I stayed up late gluing glitter and feathers on what was supposed to be Emma’s Princess-Ballerina Turkey, only to send her to school with something resembling a Drag Queen Mummer Turkey. Because diarrhea without a colon ultimately yields extreme dehydration, I was unable to teach my first yoga class since returning from Mexico. I started to feel really bad about things- that I was letting everyone down, I couldn’t do anything right, everything I touched turned to shit. My attitude began to deteriorate as my image of this began to fade: and all I could see was this:

But then something weird happened. I caught myself.

I caught myself mid-judgment and realized that the only thing worse than the parasitic pooping was my mental diarrhea. I suddenly recognized what a train wreck self-judgment is; how one judgment leads to another judgment until it becomes one big giant pileup of neurosis.

Byron Katie says, “Life is simple. Everything happens for you, not to you. Everything happens at exactly the right moment, neither too soon or too late. You don’t have to like it- it’s just easier if you do.” Move with the tide or fight the current, either way the river is going to keep on flowing. When I feel myself thrashing around like a drowning chicken, it usually means I am judging myself for things not being the way I think they are supposed to be, rather than simply surrendering to reality. When I take out the judgment, when I just take a breath and say to myself:

it actually leaves a little crack in the craziness for sanity to enter.

Stacy Dockins, a yogi with a heart as big as her home state of Texas and co-founder of Live Love Teach, made a case for teaching yoga passionately when she said, “I’m here, you’re here, we might as well make a big freaking deal about it.” Of course, by “here” Stacy meant a yoga class.

Or did she?

Maybe when she said “here,” she meant wherever you are RIGHT NOW…

…which is on the couch, sick.  So I might as well make a big freaking deal about it .

So maybe this wasn’t the week for teaching yoga passionately, but it was the week of being sick with a parasite passionately. I snuggled with the girls on the couch, where we watched the original Annie (with Carol Burnett)…twice. I beat Phil’s highest score on Angry Birds, nibbled salty pretzels and sipped ginger ale. I caught up on my DVR episodes of Oprah’s Lifeclass, which filled me with gratitude –because while I may have a parasite, at least my husband doesn’t put rat poison on the condom before having sex with me. Now that’s a SITUATION.

Life is what it is, there’s a lot we can’t control. Being pissed about that doesn’t really help. So this week I slowed down. I allowed others to take care of me.  I had the choice to say “F@#* it” to the laundry, or, “F@#*!! I need to do the laundry!” So I just said “F@#* It,” because either way, the laundry was still not getting done.

It’s easier to admit it than fight it. Plus it frees up time to watch movies and have snacks.

When life hands you a parasite, just say “bring it on.” And, “pass the remote.”

I love yoga.  It is the one thing in my life that keeps me grounded, makes me aware of my body, and stops me from hurling heavy objects at my husband.  In the past decade, my yoga practice has expanded my life:  I have great yogi-friends, a calm(er) mind, and pretty nice shoulders.   I was drawn to teach so I could share my Prozac-alternative with others. 

Unfortunately, once I started teaching, I required a  Xanax.

There are an infinite number of teacher trainings out there in the world of yoga: Bikram, Ashtanga, Power, Anusara, Baptiste, Kundalini….it’s a veritable spiritual smorgasbord.   One training may promise to give you a yoga butt with a Buddha mind.  Another may aim to balance your chakras while eating according to your dosha, while another guarantees radical happiness through the unleashing of your inner Goddess. 

My goal was to stop throwing up 10 minutes before teaching a class. 

I have a long standing relationship with performance anxiety.  In college, my nickname was Clenchy Clencherton; my uptight, perpetually constipated alter ego.  Recently, Clenchy has taken up residence at the yoga studio. The more I study and prepare for teaching a class (and Holy Shit do I PREPARE), the more nervous I am walking into the studio.  My mind goes blank, my voice becomes pinched, my “Oms” sound like a cow giving birth to triplets.  Plus, I forget how to stand or walk and my arms feel really long. I typically leave class feeling elated not because I taught an awesome class, but because I can go home and have a glass of wine. 

A few months ago I decided something had to give or yoga was going to become about as fun as balancing my checkbook. That is when I discovered LIVE LOVE TEACH, a vinyasa yoga training that “offers rarely taught teaching skills with an emphasis on teaching passionately, all while expanding on natural gifts and strengths.” 

Translation:  They are not going to let you escape until you get your ass up there and teach an awesome class.  WITHOUT vomiting.  Or standing like you just got off of a horse.  But the thing is, they do it in a really loving way, kind of like your favorite middle school softball coach who stayed after practice to hit you high pops to center field until you actually started catching them.

It has been my experience that yoga trainings can be either exceedingly practical or over-the-top spiritual; you are either memorizing every ligament surrounding your femur bone, or channeling your inner child by re-enacting your 4^th grade band recital when your dad feel asleep in the front row.  LIVE LOVE TEACH is a nice combination of both.  I learned the proper use of techniques such as breath and flow; of building tension and well-timed release.  That part was easy.  It was acknowledging that I was teaching from fear (hence the vomiting) that was a little tougher to admit. 

Part of the training’s “homework” was to read The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle.  I have tried to read this book in the past, but usually gave up in frustration because I had no idea how to tune into my “inner body.”  And while I get that Tolle is brilliant, he kind of reminds me of a lawn gnome.  Anyway, I gave it another shot and was struck by his 2 cents on the topic of “transformation.”

Transformation is a big buzz word in yoga-speak. Whether it be through speaking to your students’ spirituality, aligning their bodies, or calming their minds through mediation, all teacher trainings strive to cultivate teachers who inspire their students and facilitate transformation.   No pressure, though.

But Tolle (and the folks at Live Love Teach) come at it from a different angle.  Tolle claims that there is nothing you can DO about transformation.  You cannot transform yourself (so you can stop trying, YAY!) . All you can do is “create a space for transformation to happen, and for love and grace to enter. ”

 However in order to create space for anything – in your closet, in your suitcase, in your life – you need to throw something out, preferably something that doesn’t work or has shoulder pads.

So, thanks to LIVE LOVE TEACH, I say Adios to Clenchy Clencherton. I thow out the idea that you need to be hypervigilent in order to succeed… that you need to cover your bases and have eyes in the back of your head in order to get “somewhere.”  I ditch the notion that you need an outline, flashcards, a spread sheet…that you need to travel with wet wipes, highlighters, trail mix, tampons, 4 Chapsticks, 2 books, a magazine…you know, just in case.  I relinquish the belief that everything requires preparation, planning, and scripting – because somehow you believe that this will safeguard you from being FOUND OUT.  That somehow you will distract people from discovering that you are not that smart, not that talented…that you are always constipated and  kind of disorganized and really suck at math.

Because if I really stop and look at some of these old ideas about myself, I realize that most of them are not even true (and the ones that ARE true….like sucking at math…who really gives a shit?)  This week I taught some awesome yoga totally on the fly, and actualy had fun doing it.  I was relaxed, tuned-in, and decidedly unclenched. And unlike some of the participants on the training, I was not constipated.  I actually poooped in Tulum.

Everyday.

Then I had a kid. 

By the time Emma was 2 ½ and enrolled in morning preschool a few mornings a week, I started to get my yoga groove back, attending classes with some regularity.  I was so grateful to be back on my mat that I signed up for a teacher training and became a Registered Yoga Teacher.

Then I had ANOTHER kid. 

So now I have Phoebe home with me, and because I have yet to find a studio with babysitting, morning yoga classes are out.  Emma is in school all day, and because I spend the late afternoon/early evenings managing her nuclear post-school day meltdowns spending quality time with her, evening classes are out.  So what does that leave me with?

The dreaded Home Practice.

Many Master Yogis will claim that a home practice is the key to taking your practice to the next level.  It is an opportunity to not rely on a teacher’s direction, to tune into your body and allow it to lead you where it wants to go.  My problem is getting past my MIND instructing me where IT would like to go, which is pretty much anywhere but my yoga mat.

In yoga-speak, a restless mind is often referred to as the “Monkey Mind.”  I prefer “Marley Mind,” in reference to the rambunctious lab in the movie Marley and Me.  When left unsupervised, my mind has tendency to wreak havoc like an undisciplined dog: crashing through screen doors and drywall, ripping the stuffing out of couch cushions, eating my underwear before peeing on the carpet…basically just running amok. 

So when I roll out my mat during Phoebe’s naptime, my mind will do nothing short of humping my leg to get my attention:

“How long have all those Polly Pockets been under the couch?  Is that a dust bunny or a gerbil?  God, does the dog need Rogaine? What dog sheds this much? Did I remind Phil to call Stanley Steamer?  Sh*t, I should take the chicken out of the freezer. Maybe I should take everything out of the freezer….I mean, when was the last time I cleaned out the freezer?”

If and when I finally pull myself back in from that mental noise, some ACTUAL noise enters the picture, determined to push me over the edge.  The phone rings, the UPS truck pulls up, the dog starts barking at the UPS truck, Phoebe lets out a spontaneous shriek over the monitor, or, my personal favorite, some unidentifiable appliance starts beeping.  Incessantly. 

Inhale, upward facing dog…

BEEP

Exhale, downward facing dog.

BEEP

Inhale, fill your lungs…

BEEP

Exhale, let it go.

BEEP

WHAT THE F**K IS THAT???????

There’s a saying in yoga that “your mat is your mirror,” meaning, how you practice yoga is a microcosm for how you live your life: How do you handle resistance? Do you run away or push through?  Do you push too hard?  When you are having a tough practice, are you kind to yourself, or filled with self-judgment?   Are you really present to what is happening in your body in THIS pose, or are you already thinking about what is coming next? 

I am noticing in my yoga practice (and in my life) that I have a tendency to want reality to be different than it is, which author Byron Katie says is like “trying to teach a cat to bark.”  It’s a waste of time.  In my un-reality, I have a full 90 minutes to practice yoga uninterrupted.  In my un-reality I can do arm balances like the chick on the cover of Yoga Journal. In my un-reality, my house is neat as a pin and sparkling clean.  In my un-reality I always remember to make my kids’ dentist appointments, I know how to make a bed with hospital corners, I know what a double boiler is, I meditate every day, remember people’s names, practice good listening skills, have sex every month week and know how to bake a pie.

I want perfection.  And perfection ain’t real.

I have two kids who make messes and a dog who sheds…that is real.  I have a house where things break and beep and collect dust…that is real. I am here, on my yoga mat, breathing, moving, feeling my feet on the ground…that is real.  I am a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a friend…that is real. I am a woman who has a body that can see, hear, taste, touch and hold -be touched and be held.  That is real.  All the shoulda, coulda, wouldas is just me making stuff up and then believing my own bullshit.

In meditation, a mantra is a word (peace, compassion, Om) or phrase (I am present, I am peaceful) that is repeated silently to quiet the mental chatter…to calm the frenetic activity of the Marley Mind.  My new mantra is “So What?”  I am not going to win any Good Housekeeping awards-so what?  I may not learn how to do Flying Crow in this lifetime – so what?  My house might never be free of dust bunnies, my baking may always suck, my husband might never come home to find me wearing edible underwear unless I’ve taken an Ambien – to which I say, SO FREAKING WHAT?

And you know what?  My Marley Mind has yet to answer.

You may sense that this is going nowhere good.

On Friday, somewhere between squeezing in one last yoga practice, grocery shopping, and cleaning, I felt some, ummm…pressure…and then a pop…you know, DOWN THERE. 

Not. Good.

I’ll spare you the details, but the gist of the situation is one organ in my pelvic floor region (who shall remain nameless) herniated into another organ who lives nearby.  After a short period of denial followed by a phone call to the surgeon on call at Hahnemann Hospital, the impdending outcome became clear:   Montana: No Hahnemann ER: Yes

No yurt for me.  I need to be barred from buying plane tickets until someone spackles my pelvic floor with some plaster of Paris further notice.

Now, I am not going to lie.  I did not take the news gracefully at first.  I felt like a kid with her bag packed for Disney World, only to get her plans shit-canned due to a nasty case of Chicken Pox. 

Hanging out in the ER gave me a lot of time to watch TV think.  In recent years, I have avoided the media coverage of the anniversary of 9/11.  It was still too painful, too unthinkable, too difficult to re-live.  But this year, with lots of time and nowhere to go but the couch, I found myself immersed in it: the events of that day a decade ago, the stories of heroism and heartbreaking loss.

Over the course of the weekend, I was given the gift of enormous perspective by allowing myself to remember.  I willed myself to hear the details of how the tragedy unfolded, rather than turn away in horror. I cried for those who died and even more for the families they left behind.

September 11, 20001:  I was a student and grad assistant at Rutgers in New Brunswick, N.J.  At about 8:00am, I entered the office of the professor I worked for, Melanie, to gather some materials for a grant-funded literacy project we were working on.  Not even an hour later someone came running down the hallway, shouting about a plane and the World Trade Center. 

We had no TV, so the whole department huddled around a little radio.  I remember being so confused about what was being said; I could not craft a mental image to accompany the events being described.  I tried to call my friends who worked in the city, but phone lines were all tied up, you could not get through.  Still huddled around the radio, the news broke about a plane hitting the Pentagon.  My sister was a senior at Georgetown at the time.  I started to feel panicky.

“Let’s leave,” Melanie said.  “I think we should go, I think it’s best if we all go home.”  No one argued.  Home is such a safe word.

I was still living with my parents. I planned on moving into Hoboken on October 1. I drove home in a quiet fog.  I couldn’t listen to the radio anymore; I needed to see what was happening with my own eyes.  But the somber silence combined with the absolute pristine beauty of the bluest sky I had ever seen was eerie and disorienting. 

“What is happening?” I remember thinking.  “Is this the end of the world?”  I rolled the windows up in the car.  Driving on a gorgeous day with the windows down used to mean freedom; that day it made me feel vulnerable and unsafe.

The reality began to set in the days to come, especially when I moved into Hoboken less than a month later and you could still see the smoke billowing up from Ground Zero.  It hit you every time you heard about someone from your church or golf club or neighboring town who never came home on the train.  I still think about the family members who had to retrieve their loved one’s car out of the NJ Transit parking lot. 

In preparation for my yoga teacher training, I was required to read a book called The Untethered Soul. One of the last chapters is called “Contemplating Death.”  I felt a little weird reading it while getting a pedicure.  But after this weekend, I revisited this chapter, and the following words jumped out at me:

“Anytime you’re having trouble with something, think of death.  You should be experiencing the life that’s happening to you, not the one you wish was happening…appreciate the moments you are given.”

What if I knew this morning was the last time I would see my husband alive?

What would I do?  What would I say?  I am pretty sure it wouldn’t be “When the Hell are you going to get the microwave fixed?”

I remember a few days after the attacks, I went for a run and saw a dead butterfly on the sidewalk and started crying.  Yesterday Emma called me out to the backyard to show me this:

She had covered it to keep it warm. The same reminder of life’s fragility, one decade later.

We sat silently for a minute. Then she said, “Mom, I’m sorry your tummy is still messed up but I am happy you didn’t leave us for Hannah Montana.”

I would still love the chance to do the training – and if I am meant to get there, I will. But for now…I know this is where I am supposed to be because I am here.   

And that’s a lot to be grateful for.

In the words of Willie Nelson, “It’s been some rough and rocky travelin’ but I’m finally standin’ upright on the ground.” 

As a newbie parent to the whole school gig, I am open to helpful tips….until they no longer feel helpful. 

Everywhere you turn you get accosted with “Back to School Checklists” about what to buy (backpack, lunchbox, uniform, clipboard, headphones), appointments & dates to remember (pediatrician, Back to School Night, New Parent Orientation), and rules and procedures to memorize (busing, pick-up, drop-off, emergency contact, technology waiver, hot lunch). 

Supposedly, these gentle reminders are intended to “ease the transition” from summer to school.  To me it feels like getting doused in ice water at 3AM…accompanied by strobe lights and sirens and a voice screaming into a megaphone: “WAKE UP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?  THERE’S NO TIME FOR SLEEPING!  YOU NEED TO PICK UP VACCINATION FORMS!  WHERE ARE HER SNEAKERS?  DO THEY EVEN FIT?   WHAT TIME DOES THE BUS COME?  DO YOU CALL THE TEACHER PATTY OR MRS. KEEFER?   GET UP!”

We started out strong.  Preparation started weeks in advance. I actually shocked myself with my uncharacteristic organization.  School supplies were bought and labeled; uniform shirts and shorts ordered and monogramed, the Old Testament substantial packet of forms completed.  And all this done BEFORE 11PM the night before school starts!  I was impressed with myself. 

Perhaps I was too busy micromanaging this whole operation to notice how my obsessive compulsive list and label making was affecting Emma.  There were signs of anxiety (a.k.a. incessant badgering) the night before the big day. As I gathered my belongings to head out to yoga class, she was on me like a fly on dog shit:

Emma: “Where are you GOING?”

Me: “Umm, yoga.  Where I go every most Monday nights.”

Emma: “MOM! This isn’t ANY MONDAY NIGHT!  Are you forgetting that kindergarten starts TOMORROW!  Its’ a BIG DAY!  How can you just LEAVE?   For YOGA?  Is that really NECESSARY???”

Me: “I am not forgetting.  We spent all day trying on your uniform, packing your bag and making your lunch.  We are all set.  And I’ll be home before you go to bed.”

Emma:  (deep sigh) “Well…FINE.  But I really wanted to model the uniform again WITH my lavender backpack, you know, because I am still on the fence about going with the lavender since I usually get pink….”

In typical Emma fashion, she pulled herself together for ShowTime. She bounced into that classroom with a smile on her face and blond ponytail swinging.  Unfortunately, as an INTENSE, creative type, Emma struggles with what I call the Rock Star Syndrome…when “on stage,” she’s delightful, fun, and charismatic. 

However when the show is over….let’s just say she has a tough time coming down from the high.  The minute I picked her up, I should have known we were headed for a major meltdown.  The cues were all there: crazy eyes, talking loudly to the point of screaming, biting the heads off birds.

As Phil is fond of saying, rats don’t have mice the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  The clingier she got, the crazier it made me.  With every whining complaint I could feel the muscles in my jaw clench.  Couldn’t she see I was busy pureeing sweet potatoes to sneak into her Mac and Cheese??  How can I be a good mom when this damn kid won’t leave me alone?

Then, with Phoebe upstairs sleeping, Emma started bellowing, “I am so FRUSTRATED!” I must have had a psychotic break, because before I knew what was happening, I was clutching her by the shoulders screaming, “STOP!  SCREAMING!”

Clearly not my shining moment…but I blame those damn checklists (ok, partially). Sometimes I think there is such a thing as being too prepared.  The build-up, the anticipation….it is like Christmas laced with paperwork and performance anxiety. 

So I have compiled my own checklist:

 Back To School Necessities For The Flustered, Flaky & Hopelessly Flawed

1. A Trusted Mentor(s): This is your seasoned veteran, the experienced school Mom you call text for the inside scoop on the parents of the other kids in the class school rules & procedures.  These fairy godmothers are like black yoga pants; you simply cannot have too many.
2. A Reality Check: If you lived on hamburgers and watermelon all summer, don’t expect to morph into Paula Deen just because the leaves are changing color.  So put away the Cuisinart until everyone gets into the swing of things.
3. Perspective: Each day Emma came home with a new bright purple (jelly, popsicle, juice) stain running down the front of her white uniform shirt.  When I reminded her that she needed to wear these shirts EVERYDAY, she replied, “Hey Mom, relax. That’s what kindergarten is all about: having fun and getting dirty.”  Fair enough.
4. Bleach/OxiClean: For the purple stains.  And if these don’t do the trick, bury it in the bottom of the trash and go buy a new one. No one needs to know.
5. A Shut Up Button: My trusted mentor Julie, (see #1) advised me to fight the urge to pull a Diane Sawyer the minute Emma gets off the bus: “How was it?  Whad’ya do?  Where did you sit?  Did you eat your lunch? Did you make a new friend?”  No one needs a Spanish Inquisition.  If she has something to say, she’ll say it.
6. A Shut OFF Button: On Day 2, in an effort to exorcise my inner Joan Crawford, I vowed that by the time I picked Emma up from the bus, I would leave any unfinished household duties until the next day.  We came home, lounged on the couch and flipped through the Pottery Barn Kids catalog.  After we had settled in, I allowed myself ONE question (see #5): “What was your favorite part of today?”  To which she replied:                                                            

          ”Right now.”

Sadly, this is not the case.  Some people may go so far as to call me “uptight” or “clenched.”

Despite the doubts of these haters well-meaning critics, I strive to achieve inner peace…someday. 

Although on the path to enlightenment, I don’t think you are supposed to be striving….or achieving…or trying to get anywhere fast. I think you are supposed to be allowing?  And I am pretty sure thinking about “someday” is bad too because you are supposed to be living in the present moment, not the past or future.

When I meditate, I should be wearing a helmet and elbow pads.  I am Frank Costanza from Seinfeld in the episode“Serenity Now.”  For those of you who haven’t seen it: Frank’s doctor prescribes some relaxation tapes for Frank to listen to when his blood pressure becomes elevated.  The tapes instruct Frank to repeat the mantra “Serenity Now” whenever he feels like he killing someone  faces internal resistance to life as it unfolds.  However, every time Frank tries to use the mantra, he throws his arms up in frustration, looks up to the sky and screams, “SERENITY NOW! SERENITY NOW!” at the top of his lungs.

As I blogged about a few weeks ago, Phil and I decided to take a spontaneous, much needed, kid-less vacation to Jamaica. I fantasized about waking up sans alarm, doing yoga or taking a leisurely walk, and then planting my butt on the beach with a good book.  Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

We booked the flight, an awesome hotel, arranged for the kids to stay with my parents.  We were all set.  Until 36 hours before departure, when the following conversation took place:

Phil: “Where’s your real passport?”

Me: “That is my real passport.”

Phil: “This passport expired in 2004.”

Serenity Now.

This was an unfortunate discovery, but we refused to murder each other with kitchen knives be deterred from our quest for relaxation.  Five hours and many phone calls later, we were booked for a romantic trip to Viegas, a rustic island off the coast of Puerto Rico.  I was impressed with our resiliency.  As I closed my suitcase, I waxed philosophical about how it all works out when you just go with the flow.  Then, the phone rang.  It was Phil, driving home after depositing the kids with my parents.

“They cancelled our flight.  Something about Tropical Storm…Eileen….or Irene?”

Serenity Now.

As I stood in my empty, eerily quiet house, all packed with no place to go, I decided it was time to bring out the big guns.  It was time to seek guidance from a higher power.  It was time to make a Gin & Tonic meditate. 

I am not the best meditator. I am not even sure my “practice” qualifies as mediation…it’s more like Psychic Charades: a mental guessing game between me and…myself.  But I headed outside, plopped down on the deck, closed my eyes…and let the game in my head begin:

Topic: Where to go on vacation

How many words? (next door, a car horn beeps twice)

Ok, two words.  First word, first syllable (a bird chirps)

Ok, bird…”B”…..It starts with a B! Bermuda!  Barbados!

(A dog barks twice)

Oh right, two words….Baton Rouge!  Boca Raton!  Bora Bora!  BLOCK ISLAND! 

Ding ding ding!  Block Island, that’s it!  We’re going to Block Island!

So we packed up the car and headed to Rhode Island.  We were going to make the best of things if it killed us.   One earthquake and hurricane later, I am surprised it didn’t.  

Serenity Now.

 Now I love Block Island, but it doesn’t carry the same….forced relaxation that comes with, say, an all-inclusive resort in Jamaica, where the biggest decision you are faced with each day is “Beach or Pool?”  When left to my own devices, I tend to fill any space with something – making plans, scheduling activities, finding inner peace.  So my tropical itinerary of soaking up some sun was quickly replaced by my somewhat chilly New England itinerary of hiking to old lighthouses and biking to a secret labyrinth. 

By the time we reached the labyrinth, a meditative walking path, my peaceful veneer was beginning to crack.

A sign posted at the base of the labyrinth suggested setting an intention or choosing a sacred word before commencing. While walking the sacred path, my mind was more chaotic than contemplative: “What should my intention be – to be peaceful?  Centered? Empty?  Should I be thinking or not thinking?  If I am not thinking, then aren’t I just thinking about not thinking? What is this supposed to symbolize- a journey to the center? Center of what?  Yourself?  WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN??  OH SHIT! I’M ALMOST DONE AND I FORGOT TO PICK A SACRED WORD! PEACE! LOVE! FAITH!  F***!”

One of the last lines from the Seinfeld episode is “Serenity Now, Insanity Later.”

Perhaps my intention should have been to just watch my mind do it’s thing rather than try to ride it like a mechanical bull. 

Maybe my sacred word should be “allow.”  Remember when you drank from a warm keg of Natural Light were a kid with a stomach bug, in total denial that you needed to puke? Then you finally puke…and while it may have been unpleasant, it’s done, and it feels so much better than trying to pretend like you don’t have to puke.  Well, I think pushing down negative feelings is like refusing to admit you need to puke…Soul Puke, if you will.

Maybe the most Zen practice is not trying so hard to be Zen.