Tuning In

It’s been 25 days since I woke up in Las Cuarentas, Nicaragua, to the symphonic sounds of a small village wiping the sleep out of its eyes and rolling out of bed. An army of roosters crowing back and forth to each other across the misty hills and valleys–their calls vacillating between a salute and a one-upping competition. Balancing out the screechy soprano of the roosters’ calls is a bass beat that shows up slow, steady, and rhythmic: my host mother meets the dawn with a melody she knows by heart. Behind the heavy wooden door of the kitchen, she slaps and pounds the homemade tortilla dough into shape before anyone else in the house is even conscious enough to know that breakfast is approaching. Outside, the bullfrogs add to the melody of the morning with a chirpy belch that sounds like a synthesized backdrop. A horse neighs once, twice–and dogs bark here and there like a stray cymbal crash.

In the rural mountains of Nicaragua, there is no marimba-style phone alarm going off. No Al Roker telling you what the weather is like in your neck of the woods. No brakes screeching outside the window or early morning honks to illustrate that road rage does not discriminate against the dawn. But there is also no silky sigh–in and out–coming sweetly from my son’s crib like the breeze blowing through the trees. No complementary snores echoing back and forth ridiculously between my husband and my dog.

I guess every place has its music. You just have to tune in and listen to it.

*Spark*

I walked quickly, recklessly on the dirt path–ignoring the dips and rocks along the way, more focused on distancing myself from the group behind me as I fought back tears. The more the tears welled up in my eyes, the more my stomach and jaw tightened. I was confused and frustrated by the emotion welling up inside of me because I could not articulate its source and that scared the hell out of me. So it seemed in the moment, if I could not explain why I was out of control emotionally, I was going to isolate myself so I could hide it. As I navigated my way back to my host home through a cloudy haze of tears, I heard someone call my name behind me, “Lindsay!” When I turned to see my friend and roommate, Lizz, I didn’t expect myself to soften, but I did. I let my tears out as I explained what was going on with me the best that I could and she listened and held that space for me. I guess it was fear that initially made me want to run for cover and hide, but it was connection that made me soften and let go of the tight grip I had on what was happening to me.

As Lizz had done so many times before for me, she walked beside me and saw and heard me for who I was in that moment, imperfections and all (the definition of connection, for all of your Brene Brown devotees). She showed me that whoever I was and whatever I was holding onto in that moment was okay. Looking back on that moment in Las Cuarentas, I think I have some idea of what was happening then–although I’m still working a lot of it out. I think that the source of the tears was fear–I was scared shitless by the depth of emotion I found in that village and in the people who lived there. I knew rationally that I had committed to this trip to be of service to others, but here’s the thing: you can’t really prepare yourself for the emotional part. What happens during an experience like this is an all-in, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, vivid, raw emotional adventure that you can’t wrap your head around until you’re waist deep in it. And even then, as illustrated by my emotional breakdown, you don’t even really know what to do with it.

I think my fear came from a place of knowing that this experience held so much potential for deep emotion–the heart-opening, fiery love kind and the heart-wrenching, jagged-edged despair kind. But you can’t just open up to the first one without opening up to the other. What I had clearly found in my time prior to that walk down the dirt path was unconditional connection, acceptance, and love from the people of Las Cuarentas, but what I struggled to open my heart to in that moment was all of the other stuff: the tug I’d feel in my chest in seeing the poverty and the lack, the urge I’d feel to want to fix things, and the despair that would grip me when I had to hug my host family and friends good-bye.

I am still struggling with this gamut of emotions five days after returning from Nicaragua and trying to wade through all of it. In my head, I understand that EVERY part of my experience contributed to the exquisite beauty I found there, but my heart is still working on knowing that. Rumi says, “Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames.” I am so thankful for the group of women I traveled with to Las Cuarentas (Maura, Brittany P., Laura, Lizz, Shannon, Charly, Kristie, Michele, Brittany W., and Sarah) for going all in with me even when you were scared too–for inspiring me and fanning my flames. And to the people of Las Cuarentas (Janeth, Jaiyder, Josselin, Jackson, Yericson, Fernando, Rubell, Lester, Irving, Jamil, Thelma, Orlando, Sarita, Johnny, and so many more), I hope you feel my gratitude across the miles even though you won’t be able to read my words. You lit up a spark in my heart. I’ll seek to fan that flame for the rest of my life.

 

Grateful

There’s nothing like having a kid to make you grateful. Giving birth has a way of putting things into perspective for you. It’s funny that this big transition of becoming a mom is this life event that typically makes you feel like a real adult, while simultaneously providing this new, curious, childlike lens through which to see the world again.  I think part of this gratitude comes from seeing this little human you created and feeling like you finally did something indisputably worthwhile in your life…being in a place of genuine fulfillment. And part of it might be how parenting can be so freaking hard sometimes that when you get the chance to catch a little break, the relief changes what would typically be ordinary into something extraordinary. I’m not saying that I walk around counting my lucky stars everyday because some days, I still get down on myself. But all in all, I appreciate my life more…from my son’s laughter to my husband’s support to having the chance to take a nap or even sit on the toilet in silence (because toddlers tend to follow you everywhere).

Recently, I have had the chance to work on a project that has brought me the kind of ultimate fulfillment and gratitude that you can never anticipate until you’re in the middle of it. As many of you know, I have been working with the Beyond Asana Yoga Teacher Training group to raise funds through the non-profit, BuildOn, to travel to a rural village in Nicaragua in February 2014 to build a school for the children there. Although I have not made the trip to Nicaragua yet, my journey thus far with this group and my own community during fundraising has made me feel incredibly lucky. In April, I set out to raise money for a cause I felt passionate about and it felt amazing to commit to creating positive change in the world. But what I could have never anticipated was the love and acceptance I would feel as a result of diving into this project. Telling people about my intention to raise this money was like putting all of myself out there–most of all, my heart–and remaining present in the moment despite the risk of rejection from those around me. What I found throughout this journey was that my community of friends, family, colleagues, and acquaintances came from all directions to deliver a message to me: “We believe in you and what you’re doing.” In spiraling into my own heart to connect with my passion of working with children in a positive, supportive way, I was able to spiral out into my own community to spread the word about my intention in a grounded and authentic way. And their response was so incredible–they invested in my efforts and cause, boosted my belief in myself, and gave me more strength to go out into the world and live on purpose. And the group of Beyond Asana Yoga Teacher Trainees and fundraisers continue to amaze me, as they are a group of individuals of all different backgrounds who come together with the same intention of creating positive personal, local, and global change. And on top of all of that, they make me feel seen and heard for who I am.

There are tons of people to thank for many things: for their belief in me, for their kind words and vibes, and for their generous donations. Below is a thank you card to show you just how many people helped me along the way:

Thank you to everyone who helped to make this experience a life-changing one for me thus far…and to think what the trip to Nicaragua will be like! Please know that I will carry you all with me in spirit as we break ground on a village’s new school. Although I have reached my fundraising goal, our group goal is $105,000 to be reached by October 31st. If you did not get the chance to donate or feel the very generous urge to do it again, all additional money raised on my page will go toward the bigger group goal that will enable our group of 24 to travel to Nicaragua in two separate groups to build TWO schools for two needy and deserving villages.

With love and gratitude,

Lindsay

The Board of Directors

When I came home from my yoga/fundraising meeting Friday night and my husband asked me how it went, I purposefully didn’t go into the details. I just said: “It was great.” If I had plopped down next to him and told him all about how amazing I felt after a night of Kundalini meditation and discussion of personal transformation and social change, he would have burst my perfect, freakin’ bubble. He would have looked at me sideways with some shit-eating grin that would have propelled me into a defensive stance, warning him to back his conservative ass off of my special bubble. And that’s not good. So I said: “It was great.”

I reserve special bubble talk for certain people to protect myself. The work I do in yoga is highly personal–it’s like therapy for me. It’s my time to spiral into myself, to challenge myself, to regenerate myself so that I can then reach out to others in a more genuine and present way. And it’s reserved for people who are down with riding that kind of funky wave with me….which is where my girls come in.

I call them my “Board of Directors” because they are the women in my life that I imagine sitting at a long, rectangular board room table in my head giving me honest feedback on my life decisions in a loving, non-judgemental way. If I’m throwing the deuces up at a crappy job that sucks the life out of me without a plan for a new job, my BoDs aren’t questioning the rashness of my decision–they’re rooting for me as I walk away from a place that doesn’t serve me. If I’m depressed, they shine a light on the good things about me and serve up a typical BoD prescription for healing: a listening ear, raucous laughter, good food, and beer. If I’m making questionable life decisions, they grip me up by the shoulders and give me a little shake and say, “No girl, you’re better than that.” If I need to shake some shit off, they turn up the volume on the music, stand up next to me, and twerk like it’s their job. And you know a girl’s got your back when she’s willing to twerk like it’s her job.

At nearly 33 years old, I have come to realize that a healthy marriage to a husband requires an additional, intimate relationship of a different kind with a circle of outrageous ladies who all at once ground me and encourage me to fly a little closer to my dreams. Thanks for holding it down at the board room table of my life, ladies. Nothing but love for you.

And We All Fall Down

Step-touch. Step-touch. A sideways shuffle. My son looked up at me with anticipation as I recited the verses from memory. As I held his hands and guided him in a circle dance, his steps seemed instinctual and beyond his age.

“Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!” As I lowered my tired body to the ground, he hesitated–smiling–still standing and looking down at me. At 16 months, he had wobbled and stutter stepped and clung to couches with all his might in order to keep himself from falling. Standing was the goal, so I understood why his eyes questioned the fun in falling. But after a few more times through the song, he was letting his bottom bounce to the ground just like me.

Somewhere in the echoed verses of “Ring Around the Rosie”, he had let go of the lesson that falling was bad. He had quickly replaced an action symbolic of failure with fun and he laughed. Kids are flexible. They have a way of reminding adults that change can be as easy as letting go.

The past few weeks have been hard for me. Like where-is-the-positive-lesson-in-all-of-this-shit hard. These days, I seem to find the message in the mess at the most interesting times. Here, it was with my toddler teaching him an old song that lead to this lesson: letting go enough of the familiar to fall down can be fun.

Because we all fall down.

An Open Letter to My Husband on Our Three-Year Anniversary

“I just want to have fun with you. I wanna talk about more than our to-do lists and parenting crap,” I said to you as we laid on the floor of our dining room turned play room.

We had finally gotten our toddler down for a nap that Saturday afternoon and were so exhausted that we did what came naturally once he stopped crying: just laid down right where we were. You were enduring the kind of one-sided conversation that is so frequently revisited when I want to talk about my feelings, a conversation I am not sure you knew you would be having so many times three years ago when you married me. You often try to fend me off when I invite you to join in this kind of conversation, referring to my profession, “Sorry I don’t get paid to talk about my feelings Lindsay,” which inevitably lengthens the conversation as I have to then process my annoyance over you using that excuse again.

That afternoon, like many, we tried to wrap our heads around how to do a good job of working full-time jobs, being decent parents to our little boy, and participating in a healthy relationship all at once. Most times, I talk and you listen. I worry out loud and you reassure me. I catastrophize and you bring me back to earth. We reminisce about the old days seven years ago when we met and how we used to do fun things like sleep and relax. Things are a lot different now and despite our best efforts, sometimes date night is just wishful thinking and we spend a couple days straight communicating in fragmented sentences about dishes, laundry, and schedules. Sometimes keeping up with everything seems pretty freaking hard.

I’m not a perfect wife, mother, professional, or homemaker (please stop laughing about the last one), but I keep trying to get better because of you. Because I know I’m lucky to have found you. And you make up for my imperfections–which is why we are better as a pair. Where I am impulsive, you are a level-headed decision maker. Where I get caught up in emotions and the what-if’s, you anchor me with your calm presence. Where I spend money, you save it. Where I want to stay up dancing with our wild child until way past his bedtime, you remind me that toddlers need schedules. Where I jump to conclusions, you weigh out other options. Where I reach for the take out menus, you cook. Where I stay mad, you apologize–even if it wasn’t your fault.

You’re an awesome father and husband. Sorry I like to talk about feelings so much. But, maybe in this instance, it’s okay–since I’m talking about feeling lucky to have a guy like you.

Here’s to 3 years and many more.

“Balance Schmalance” & Other Quotations from a Full-Time Working Mom

It’s been nearly fifteen months since my son was born and 363 days since I went back to work. Maintaining a full-time working mom status is like a life sentence of feeling like your half-assing everything. Sorry to be a Debbie Downer, but it’s true. There is a hell of a lot to do and not much time to do it.

My mornings are like wrestling with multiple personality disorder until my husband shoves me out the door for our commute. There’s my egocentric teenage personality who we’ll call “Lizzy” (because adding a “y” to the end of any name makes it egocentric-in case you didn’t know). When my husband turns on the light in the bedroom at 6AM or my dog does that annoyingly loud shimmy shake while I still have my head buried in the pillow, “Lizzy” wants to tell them to get lost. There’s my playful, snuggly, maternal side who we’ll call “Lindsay” (because I wasn’t going to assign my own name to a negative aspect of my personality-duh). “Lindsay” just wants to huddle with her adorable son on the couch and sing the theme song to “Little Einsteins” at the top of her lungs and call work to report that she’s developed a last minute case of something terrible. And then there’s my driven, independent, career-focused side who we’ll call “Lynn” (because one-syllable names aren’t messing around). “Lynn” usually tells “Lizzy” to get her lazy ass out of bed and reminds her to make the bed once she’s out of it, then notifies “Lindsay” that if she doesn’t get herself and her son dressed and out the door, “Little Einsteins” will be nothing but a memory because the cable bill won’t be paid.

Like any goal-oriented, hopeful woman, I strive for a balanced, integrated personality, but most days, it just doesn’t happen. Tricks I use to present the façade of balance and integration include a healthy layer of make-up, an outfit that matches, chocolate, and a smile. In addition, if I’m going to cry or bang my head up against the wall, I try to do it in the privacy of my own office or quietly in a bathroom stall.

In any case, these days, when I happen to strike a balance, it is a matter of pure luck. But at least I’m trying (and faking it) as much as possible.

I Ate a King-Sized Kit-Kat for Lunch

It’s happening. As I sit at my desk at work shoveling the delicious layers of milk chocolate and crispy wafer into my mouth, I am slowly screeching down the list of my own priorities. Before I became a mom, my own self-care used to be my number one priority–above my relationship, my family, my friends, and my love of chocolate–because I was a firm believer that you have to make the effort to take care of yourself first in order to be happy with others. Before I was pregnant, I was rollin’ into yoga class four times a week and balanced my indulgences with healthy eating. I was never naïve enough to think that things would go back to the way they were then after Ben arrived; I knew my priorities would change. However, I thought that with some effort, I would still be making time for myself and leading a healthy lifestyle. It was clear to me as I broke myself off a piece of that Kit-Kat bar that the candy’s jingle rang true to my situation. I needed a freakin’ break.
I have become so caught up in keeping up with the hamster-wheel-paced lifestyle that I lead now that I’m just running from one thing to another. Daycare-work-eating whatever lunch I can get my hands on-work-daycare-home-say hi to the hubs-let the dog out-play-dinner-bedtime-collapse from exhaustion. Not even a hamster is fast enough to keep up with this crazy schedule. Not to mention I’ve been forgetting to hydrate throughout this busy-as-hell kind of day and you know what that means–dryer skin=the wrinkles are easier to see. So as I finished my candy-for-lunch meal, I thought, “what does a mom need to do to stop this cycle of madness? How do I get some of my old self back?” My best guess was humor and some smart, deliberate decisions…although the night after I ate that Kit-Kat for lunch, there may have been some wine and crying to my husband involved (ie. dramatic assertion that “I can’t live like this anymore”).
Ed Asner once said that “raising a kid is part joy and part guerilla warfare.” As moms, we have to fight to fit ourselves on the top of the priority list. We have to make time for self-care because, let’s face it, leaving your kid for a few extra hours during the week to go to some yoga classes will make you feel a hell of a lot less guilty than all the expensive therapy your kid is gonna need later if he has to put up with your miserable, unfulfilled, martyr self. I decided that I have to make the decision to put some major effort into taking care of myself because I’ve been doing a crappy job. I want to feel more healthy, fulfilled, and happy in my own shoes–because not only do I deserve it, but the poor gents living with me (my husband, Ben, and my dog Sammy) deserve to experience the best version of me.
So let’s all agree to support each other in stepping away from the King Sized Kit-Kat and the guilty voice in our head that says we have other things to worry about before ourselves. Screw that voice! It’s time to start scheduling “me” time in our agenda books every week and spending the extra time to prepare healthy meals for ourselves and slowing down enough to drink some water during the day. And let’s laugh more too. That always helps.
On that note, let’s all bow our heads for a prayer that Tina Fey wrote for her daughter in her book, “Bossypants”:

And should she choose to be a mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50AM, all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.”

Amen.

One Year and Twenty Days

Ever since the day my son was born, one year and twenty days ago, time seems to go by so much faster than it did before he was around. Okay, let me back up here…the day I gave birth and the first three months of colic hell moved like molasses, but after that, the days started to fly. I think about my life before he was born–the neon, shoulder padded 80’s; that awkward transition from a tween to a scrawny teenager; the years I spent at boarding school and college; the ups and downs of my twenties; and settling down with my husband closer to 30. Looking back, there are all kinds of memories; there were some crazy fun times, but like may people, there were lots of struggles too. There were those periods of time that seemed to last forever–ones full of hurt, self-doubt, and sadness.

I think that time started to fly after my son was born because I was able to experience myself differently. Before he arrived, no matter how hard I tried and despite the crazy fun times, genuine self-acceptance and self-love were my biggest challenges. I’m not saying that I have an easy job patting myself on the back now or recognizing my strengths, but it is easier than before and I’m happier. My son is this indisputably amazing, living, breathing proof that I created something wonderful. And every time he makes a funny face or laughs or opens his eyes wide with wonder, I accept and love myself more knowing that I was part of making this beautiful boy.

Elizabeth Stone articulates my feeling more eloquently in her quote: “Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” He is the best thing I have ever done in my 32 years.

 

When “Dad” Becomes “Pop Pop”

When you get old enough, you start to experience those moments in which your adult self smacks your kid self on the forehead and says: “this is what your parents meant all those years ago. They weren’t really talking just to hear the sound of their own voices. They had a point.” Being a young adult with a baby has its challenges, but one of the perks is how my relationship With my dad has changed. Looking back now, I know with certainty that I wasn’t an easy child, let alone teenager, but at the time, I thought my dad was pretty tough with the rules.
He was always a hard worker and expected the same from me. Around report card time at school, his work shirts always seemed to have extra starch in them and his loafers clicked a little louder down the hallway. He expected a lot of me and I was afraid to disappoint him, but not because I thought he would love me less. It just seemed like he was always holding himself to such high standards–working a little harder than he did the last time–that I felt like I had to push myself like he did. I wanted him to be proud of me because I looked up to him and cared about what he thought of me.
Of course, there were plenty of times that I was not on the straight and narrow path, resulting in moments that I’m sure were far from “proud dad” moments for him. There was the time my dad had to bring my brother and me to work with him when we were about 4 and 5 because my mom was working the same shift. We had been instructed to play nicely with some benign office supplies like paper, pens, and labels, but somehow I caught a glimpse of the intoxicating shine that was the stapler and several minutes later, my father was rushing my brother to the ER. I had decided his fingers were much better candidates for stapling than the copious amounts of paper in front of me. Shortly after that incident, I wrangled my brother and his best friend, Ryan, into the back seat of my mom’s t-top white “Z” sports car and settled myself into the driver seat to show the boys how I could turn the radio on without turning the car on. That night my dad came home to my mom’s car smashed into our garage door. (A very mischievous move on my part, but let me just point out that I had enough unsupervised time on my hands to set this whole joy ride up AND the keys were in the ignition, car was in gear, and no e-brake on. So..perhaps my mom and her friends were hittin’ the wine coolers a little too hard that day and were busy crimping each other’s hair instead of, you know, watching us.) There was the time when I was 12 (a time I detailed in one of my earlier posts) that I attempted to light a Newport Light cigarette on our gas stovetop range for my first smoking experience and singed off the tips of every one of my eyelashes. Talk about instant karma…or just a really poorly conceived plan. And as the teenage years rolled on into the early twenties, there were a couple of boyfriends that made my dad question my decision making skills and mood swings that made him wonder what the hell had gotten into me. And there were lots of days in our father-daughter relationship that seemed so hard that we couldn’t optimistically count on better ones ahead at the time.
At 32, my relationship with my dad has really changed. I’m married to a good man–which has proven the positive development of my decision making skills. And I have an 11-month old son who has acted as this magical lens that has brought everything into focus for me. I can feel the love for a child that my dad felt for me as he held me in my first year of life. I have whispered the same promises to myself and to my son that he whispered to himself and to me. I have accepted the responsibility that he once did to protect my child and to raise him in a way that pushes him to be the best person he can be. I feel scared the same way he once did about my ability to live up to that challenge.
When my dad holds my son and becomes Pop Pop, it feels like one of those full circle moments–a moment in which my mischievous childhood mistakes, teenage trouble, and our father-daughter debates were well worth it. Because in the end, as a daughter and now a parent, I want to make my dad proud. Because I look up to him and I care about what he thinks of me. Here’s hoping I’ll do as good of a job with my son so that he might be thinking the same thing one day.