Tag: yoga

between two breaths

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Observe your life, between two breaths.
Breath is a wind, both coming and going.
On this wind you have built your life-
but how will a castle rest on a cloud?

Avicenna

Lately I’ve been catching myself feeling the indentation of my mastectomy scars. This is less of a voluntary, thought-filled experience, and more of an unconscious exploration of a part of my body I’d felt disconnected from for some time; not unlike the way a tongue unconsciously makes its way to the opening where a tooth used to be- a way of filling a gap and soothing an empty space without focusing so much on the need for a new tooth. No matter how many times I’ve attempted to intentionally touch my scars or to look at my naked body in the mirror, it’s often felt forced and like looking at foreign territory- like this altered body isn’t quite mine (and in the big, spiritual picture, maybe it’s not….). Somehow, my hand has proven to be more competent at doing the work of exploring my scars without the complication of connecting to my brain.

If I think of cancer and the surgery and treatments as a rebirth rather than as a traumatic series of events that happened to me, then this time, just over three years from my diagnosis, is my cancer toddlerhood. I’m still learning how to fully engage in this body. I’m still exploring an altogether new landscape….and being in a yoga teacher practicum has forced me to push into that terrain and to engage parts of myself that I had buried years ago.

For nearly a year after undergoing a bi-lateral mastectomy, I wasn’t able to practice vigorous asana flow. I relied instead on dance as my physical practice. Dancing was wonderful and healing, especially in the midst of chemotherapy treatments, yet I missed engaging my upper body muscles and experiencing the meditative quality of flowing through sun salutations at rhythm with my breath. As I was able to reach and stretch and put more weight onto my arms, I slowly re-engaged with yoga.

My post treatment yoga practice started with floor poses and transitioned into standing poses at the rate a baby would learn to move from crawling to walking. In class, I often had the urge to squeal with joy for the ability to feel my body engaging in practice. My joy and the occasional moments of frustration have been reminders that this body of mine is ever changing, despite cancer and all of the cancer related issues that I’ve experienced.

Now, I take pure pleasure in noticing the quality of my breath in practice. I’m enjoying the ways my body has been feeling stronger and more physically capable of holding poses I’ve struggled with since recommitting to my practice. This is your body on truth, I continually tell myself. I can’t be anyone else. I will never be stronger or more beautiful than I am in this moment. Or the next. I am fine with where I am- Santosha- which is quite fabulous, when I consider the alternatives.

I fell in yoga class. Which means I fall in life.

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I fell in yoga class the other day. Not in a small losing my balance way, but in a full on fall to my side and rolling onto the mat of the woman next to me way. The class was holding a reversed lunge, and just a few seconds into the pose, I lost footing. I remember thinking that I should steady myself and work at locating the elusive mūlabandha when I completely lost balance. I tipped onto my side and rolled onto my back as though I was in a fire drill. I was mortified. I judged myself. I wanted to crawl to the door and run, not walk, to my car. Instead, I laughed a little and muttered a little apology to my fellow yogi before returning to my mat.

Self-judgment can come up so quickly, and this experience was no exception. I kicked myself in a mental way several times before realizing how funny and human this was. Just another moment in time when I could fall and recognize that falling is just a part of life. In fact, I fall all the time in small and not so small ways; mentally, spiritually, and, obviously, physically. Maybe I’m not better for it, but I’m more uniquely me for it. And I love myself anyway. Because yoga to me isn’t about striving for physical perfection, it’s about seeing the imperfection as a part of me and loving it. Loving me. Becoming more whole. Being authentic. As Brené Brown says, “Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are.”

 I’m awkward and shy, silly, irreverent and a wacky mix of girly and tomboy. Sometimes I feel as though my heart is going to burst with love for the world, and at other times, I lose my temper and say or do something I instantly regret. I’m human and I have so much room for growth. And I’m mostly open to learning and growing, which is about all I can offer.

 So, to the woman in yoga class who had a complete stranger roll onto your mat, and who ignored that stranger when she attempted a tongue-tied apology after class: thank you. I honor your role as teacher.

the slush is melting, and yoga is being made

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The slush is melting. A reminder of the snow that brought such mixed feelings to so many people, from exaltation to revulsion to dread. For me, being the Gemini that I am, each moment held a different feeling. I had moments of absolute giddiness, joy and hope and others when I wanted to hide in a corner sucking on a bottle of wine or run like a lunatic screaming profanity….But regardless of what was happening outside (with the weather) or inside (with my emotions), I bundled up and ventured out to be in it. I wanted to experience the snow and ice and slush- to breathe in the elements and be in the land of the living.

In my snow adventures I was often surrounded by people- a mixture of people of all ages romping and playing as people often do when it snows in Seattle (which is rare). I walked in areas of my neighborhood that I rarely visit, and I smiled at people I most likely ignore on any other given day. This is what snow does for me- it helps to bring the introvert out so that I can look people in the eyes and begin a brief dialogue. It also…brings out the worst in me. The angry me who gets frustrated by people who refuse to give space for me to walk past them on the sidewalk and the me who frets about the homeless, the flooding, and the power outages. I obsess. I ruminate. I “kvetch”. And there’s no rhyme or reason. I’m downright unpredictable and crazed.

Metaphorically, the storm and my ensuing moods related to change in my life are like my experience of cancer. I had moments of insight and recognition of luminous beauty mixed with times when I wanted to scratch incessantly at an itch that never existed. And this is where my yoga practice so beautifully comes in. I can once again feel pain without having to own it as something that will never go away. I can be in the experience of joy or pain or itchiness and trust that this is just this moment. My truth does not have to be dictated by this discomfort or this elation. And when I freak out, I can look at that as another opportunity to learn. Which seems never ending…

Lately, I delight in thinking about Patanjali’s Yoga Sutra 1.1 (that’s right- the very first sutra)- Atha Yogānuśāsanam, or something like “now begins the exposition of yoga”. Even in the slush, yoga is being made.

poster child

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I had the strangest feeling after my fifteenth chemo infusion- a feeling similar to being on dry land after a day of boating. Standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth, I sensed that I was still connected to the tubes and equipment that hold the bags of chemotherapy medications. When I moved, I had the vision of tubing coming from my chest, and I had the urge to wheel the infusion pole beside me. I made my way to bed and curled up in an exhausted heap, thankful that I’m nearly finished with this routine. I woke up unattached to any medical equipment, but with a lingering reminder that I have three infusions in the near future.

Maybe the fact that I’ve finally re-entered a structured yoga class is helping me with the mind-body connection, and this episode was a wakening of my senses. Or maybe it was a reminder that this cancer treatment experience will continue to be with me, even when I’m not connected to tubes. Either way, it was a freaky sensation, and it was a reminder that I hold every detail of this process in my body- every bit of what I’ve been through leaves an imprint, whether it is physical, emotional, or spiritual.

On the physical side, I’m the chemo chick poster child. I’ve become attached to my three cotton turbans, and I’ve decided that I have no time or energy to learn how to tie the proper head scarf (and I’m not as brave or dynamic as I had envisioned I would be- boldly going without any head covering at all). All but my thumbnails are gone, and my fingertips are looking pretty darned unhealthy. I’ve gained a good bit of weight from those pesky steroids (and the food that I can’t seem to keep from eating), I continue to experience daily nose bleeds, my skin tone is pasty, and I have some lovely bags under my eyes. Not the diva I had hoped to be…but, all in all, good spirits.

I’m ready to be done with chemo, though- to have Fridays free and to know that I won’t have the pesky side effects of fatigue, nausea or heartburn- to have the promise of good things in my future.  Countdown: three more infusions. March 6th should be the last one (time for a celebration!). Then it’s every three weeks for Herceptin treatments for one year, PET scans every 6 months, and the beginnings of a new normal. Whatever normal means.

dance

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Dance when you’re broken open.
Dance when you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance when you’re perfectly free.
Struck, the dancer hears a tambourine inside her,
like a wave that crests into foam at the very top,
Begins.
Maybe you don’t hear the tambourine,
or the tree leaves clapping time.
Close the ears on your head,
that listen mostly to lies and cynical jokes.
There are other things to see, and hear.
Music. Dance.
A brilliant city inside your soul!

– Rumi

 In the past two weeks, my body has been reawakening and my spirit lifting. I’ve been integrating moments of spontaneously removing my head coverings, which seems like a small thing, I’m sure, but there’s vulnerability in baring a naked head to the world. Especially when that hairlessness isn’t by choice. And so the times when I take off my hat in the park to take advantage of the sun shining down on my crown, I try to quietly acknowledge this temporary place that I currently occupy- that space between treatment and healing, life and death, internal and external. The present moment, where I am able to recognize that vulnerability is a gift of this human experience, and that I am not alone in it.

This past week, I had my fourteenth infusion, and I celebrated the following day by dancing at NIA class with a community of joyful souls. Even though nobody but me and my friends knew about the countdown of infusions, it was a precious gift to feel secure enough to throw my hat and over shirt to the back of the room when I was too hot. Wearing just my camisole and yoga pants, I spun, leapt, and danced with a smile on my face and my bald head shining for the world to see. I couldn’t have felt more beautiful or healthy, and it was clear from the responses of some of my classmates that they appreciated my honest presence- scars and all.

The more I consider what is important in my world, the more it boils down to the people around me and my ability to be authentically me. I love that I’ve been encouraged to be open and honest in my experience and to continue to be my silly self. Cancer doesn’t always make one wise, but it absolutely encourages one to reflect on what really matters. To me, that includes dancing, even when I can’t keep the rhythm, and laughing, even when nobody else gets the joke. Isn’t that where joy begins? And it flows into the world, creating possibility.