COMPARISON AS A THIEF OF JOY? MAYBE NOT.

Through my back legs, I can see her, one knee balancing effortlessly on her elbow, ponytail gracefully suspended in space, legs extended mid-air, like scissors ready to slice through the atmosphere. Lithe muscles flexing, her perfectly executed side crow demonstrates dedication and likely, years of practice. A drop of sweat hits my mat as I take a deep inhalation.

On my fifth day of hot power yoga, there are moves that I can’t maneuver and moments when I feel like a poser amidst these bendy yogis. As I try to balance my knees upon my elbows, my toes awkwardly touch the mat at irregular intervals, arms gently shaking. Even the elderly woman next to me is firmly rooted in her crow. I wonder how many people notice my misplaced feet and wobbly posture. Maybe I felt a touch of pretension when I unrolled my Target yoga mat, adorned with small chunks pecked away by tiny fingernails... glances in my direction and then quickly off into space.

Shooing away the insecurity with my next exhalation, I remind myself that they once were me and take note of how blessed I am to be here. In spite of a decade-long desire to start a true yoga practice (that wasn’t the result of a YouTube query) the stars had never aligned for me until now, and it was instant addiction on day one.

Instead of shrinking beneath the talent in the room, I find myself inspired. I want that for myself, and with each glance around, I feel empowered to push a little harder.

We’re told not to compare ourselves to others, not to want what others have, but I’m calling bullshit on that notion. There’s a time and a place.

Without comparison, how do we know how much further we can go? When a friend mentions an accomplishment, I’m reminded of my own capacity. When I watch a mother with her children, I take mental notes, using them to improve my own parenting. If handled appropriately, comparison can serve as motivation towards self-improvement. Most feats of greatness are considered unachievable until they’re achieved, and then many follow in their footsteps, pushing the bar further still.

Stagnation is the byproduct of never letting your eye wander to the girl next to you, of not trying the new healthy eating routine your friend feels like a million bucks on, of not attempting that book you always dreamed of writing.

The line gets drawn in the sand when your self-worth is hinged upon how you’re perceived by others. Make sure it’s progress that you want for yourself, not of the variety that keeps you in the loop with the cool kids.

Don’t be deterred or deflated by what you can or can’t pull off. The goal isn't to beat yourself up, but to use comparative inspiration to propel you forward. Try and try again. Tell yourself you can do it, and if you can’t right now, know yourself well enough to call it a day. Sometimes our plates are just plain full. You’re good enough exactly as you are in this moment, worthy of all the Love the world has to offer.

Having said that, part of Self-Love comes with pushing forward, getting a little uncomfortable, having enough confidence to challenge yourself, to believe in what you’re capable of, and being willing to give it an effort. Look fear square in the eye and then push past it, because you know how damn great you’ll feel when you do.

Growth is one of the most loving things we can do for ourselves.

So, I look over to her again, as she rounds the class out with a headstand, feet to the sky, shoulders harnessing massive amounts of energy, while the rest of us roll up our mats. True to the spirit of Namaste, I see my future self in her, heart already swollen with pride.

-Angi

IN DEFENSIVE OF FEELINGS- Why Emotion Leads to Logic.

I blame my grandiose fantasies, of dispelling stereotypes and creating connections through shared emotions, on an adorable cartoon animal of the 80’s. I had a deep affection for my plush Tenderheart Bear. His soft, brown fur and white belly, complete with a red heart at its center, became an affectionate companion of my youth. He was the leader of the other CareBears, the one who helped the other creatures understand the power of their emotions and how to use their feelings to defeat evil.

There is a reason this character is animated and not real; trying to create solidarity among peoples of differing opinions, with an emphasis on respect, is like expecting a zygote and a baby to talk nicely to each other. As the comment sections of most of our social-media confirms, animosity conquers. Nobody cares about your feelings. Sorry, Tenderheart.

Much like my animated, plush-friend, I have difficulty making sense of life choices that are based on pure logic. I get a twinge of angst in my gut witnessing someone drop statistics and data all over someone else’s life experience. It takes a little extra effort to acknowledge the people who do things juxtaposed to our individual choices, but those not willing to do so are really only singing to their own choirs.  

I enjoy being right as much as the next person, but the things I feel most passionately about are the things I want my opponents to consider. I don’t want to scare them off with judgment or condemnation. It also behooves me to learn why they formed conclusions opposite to mine. I want the dialect, the heartfelt reasons someone’s journey lead them to convictions I couldn’t imagine having. Show me the emotions and suddenly I understand. Our disagreements stem from very similar feelings; ones that we routinely stuff down, ignore, or chalk up to pure rubbish.  

I have never birthed a baby in a hospital, but I know what it feels like to be afraid and overwhelmed, feelings that my so-called adversaries have experienced as well. I know that hospitals save lives, but I “felt” more secure birthing four babies at home. We can connect here, in this feeling of security. And, now we are rolling and having a conversation in regards to all the wonderful reasons why someone may or may not birth in a hospital.

Feelings are a valuable starting place, not to be confused as an excuse to make up one’s mind about things. For example, the drudgery I “feel” for routinely removing 60% of my body hair hasn’t immediately lead to me unfurling my expanding bikini line on the masses. The assumed identity of what a “woman” looks like, an opinion held by most (some who have seen my underarm hair and called it “disgusting”),  has led me to question, research, and discuss what kind of perimeters a woman is restricted to. Ultimately, the glorious aha moments come when I discover that my feelings often know things before my logical half confirms it (thank you intuition and Naomi Wolfe).

Not everyone processes the world around them like an INFP (personality type). But I know that I am only unique in regards to the other personalities that I take the time to understand. Knowing myself is a process that takes into consideration the world at large. And the way in which we process this life often comes in the form of emotions; they are absolutely not supposed to be stuffed away. The loveliest thing you can do is share them and simultaneously give someone permission to do the same.

-Emily

HI, MY NAME IS ANGI, AND I'M ADDICTED TO MY CELL PHONE.

I slowly sink down into the tub with an audible sigh, the warmth tucking me in. Slithering forward until the back of my head is submerged, the sounds become muffled as water surrounds my ears, the buzzing forcibly muting thoughts of anything else, sucking me into the moment at hand. I rest there for a minute, taking slow, cognizant breaths, eyeing the ceiling, noticing details I previously had not, like the peace that silence extends and, of course, things that need cleaning.

A few times per week, I take baths. Quiet, warm, and cozy, they’re my winter indulgence. Typically, I grab a book, a bathrobe… and my phone. The intention is always to read, but often I don’t make it there, planning to quickly check email. Mindlessly and with inevitability, my fingers walk from Google to Facebook to Instagram … And then 20 minutes have passed as quickly as they came, my body too warm to stand another second, face damp with sweat, I emerge having squandered my bit of reprieve and solitude.

But what is it, the payoff? To disconnect from life? Responsibility? Or the alternative- connection and the search for stimulation? In all likelihood, a bit of both.

On days when things are rewarding, the phone doesn’t receive a second thought, banished to the darkness of the nightstand drawer for hours on end. Those moments, when my entire family is home and together, brimming with interaction and activity, it acts as an enemy, overwhelming me, reminiscent of a heavy rock strapped to my back. Even a text message can feel like an assault.

Other days, it’s akin to a best friend, offering comfort and distraction amidst the predictability of weekday chores and schedules, a lifeline instead of a burden. 

How can this dichotomy exist, and with such emotional polarity?

The missing link appears to be purpose. But, the to-do list of motherhood IS purposeful. Laundry, cleaning, cooking- all purpose laden because they involve an enormous role that we’ve taken on. We can’t omit them from our weeks. They are part of parenting, but so is going to the park with your husband and children and climbing the treehouse together, or confiscating your five-year old’s scooter to ride as fast as you can downhill.

The difference is that those things are fun, they’re fulfilling. My heart literally feels full after moments of that kind, a balloon slowly inflating, and my chest stays swollen for hours beyond.

Laundry, not so much.

But, we can’t run off all the time in search of satisfying interactions with friends and family. The purposeful drudgery has to happen, to remind us of how sweet the alternative is, and so your son can get back into his favorite sweatpants after you do it, his face lighting up and inflating your balloon of a heart a lil', on a Tuesday morning.

It’s okay to sometimes lose yourself in the phone. The folded underwear and rumpled shirts in front of you won’t mind. Inspiration and information abound on social media, even if a lot of sifting is required to get there. Embrace the connection that can be found as you sit on a to-do list that isn’t nearly as fun as riding fast down a hill or racing your son and losing fair and square with a belly laugh. 

But, on this to-do list day in the tub, my phone was at 1%, so I set it aside and noticed my senses, experienced being unstimulated, and got my hair wet. These moments, alone and silent, shouldn’t be stolen by mindless social media surfing. There's a discomfort with idleness that we've all come to feel because stimulation is consistently at our fingertips in a plethora of forms. Birthing, allowing, and nurturing occasions of nothingness can help center us and rebalance that habitual restlessness. Instead of finishing the bath sweaty and heavy, I felt dewy, light, and uplifted; ready to conquer the list, to answer the calls of the crock pot below, to be present with my daughter and the boys, after they returned from school.

What I’m trying to say is that it’s not about good or bad, yes or no. This isn’t a black and white issue. Sometimes we need that connection, even if it’s vaguely false in its cyber nature. But, it’s important to protect the moments that we can fill up without it, guard them with our heart balloons so that we can be walking on high as often as life permits.

-Angi

*Tips for helping with phone addiction:

-Turn your phone to grayscale. Pictures aren’t nearly as interesting in black and white. Just press the home key 3 times to switch back and forth.

-Move your apps that prove to be the greatest offenders around, so your fingers can’t mindlessly wander to them.

-Commit to keeping the phone in a drawer for the first 20 minutes upon waking. Starting off on the right foot can set the tone for the rest of your day. Of course, this requires nixing it as an alarm clock.

-Make certain rooms tech-free, like the bathroom. (You might have to think in there. Gasp!)

-Give yourself 10 minutes with it at night, and then agree to tune into your spouse instead.

-Never while eating, and please, never with friends.

POST PARDON ME- Sharing the Manifestation of Postpartum Depression.

I looked up through the night that was closing in around our apartment building. The slender crack of light glowing where the curtains wouldn’t touch, in our second story bedroom window, revealed that life was hidden within. That was where my newborn baby was. Moments ago, I’d pulled my aching nipple from her locked lips and then held my breath in anticipation of her cry, as she searched for me, suckling the air between us. This time, peace came to her, and she fell back to sleep. Relieved, I rolled onto my back and freed the sigh held captive in my chest.

“Sleep when she sleeps”

My midwife’s words came to me; tired mothers are weepy, I must maintain a diligence against postpartum. If I am not well rested the wear and tear of becoming a mother might make me sad; the deep red stretch marks etched over my abdomen, the repeatedly fresh, pink wounds resistant to heal on my nipples, the warm tangy smell of spit-up breast-milk clinging to the sheets on my bed, these things could quickly add up to an “unreliably” negative outlook.

I mouthed her name silently, still trying it on, as mother speaking to daughter. I had done this countless times while pregnant with her, rubbing circles on the growing fundus of my baby, and saying aloud the name she would fulfill;

“Haven”

I turned my head to receive the dose of oxytocin that accompanied her very existence, the folds of brand new skin squished together under her protruding lips. My eyes followed the sweet round curve of her cheek that led to a tiny glimpse of her elusive neck. I was well aware that my hormones were adjusting, picturing the trail of neurotransmitters in my body failing to light, lacking the glow that fueled all that bygone pregnant-contentment: estrogen, progesterone, endorphins, all of them once wrapped together in my grasp. Now I felt them dropping like a delicate glass ball that I scrambled to get a hold of before it left my fingers and shattered.

She wouldn’t slumber for long. I had only just stopped sleeping with her in the living room, a nest of pillows shoved around me in the papasan chair so that she could rest with her belly to mine, her cheek pressed into my chest, upright and closer than close. This yielded sleep. This was a solution to the night walks, fruitless burping, and instant spit-ups that splashed us awake when she was vertical. I had an army of supplies encircling our nest, everything was set to be a fingers-stretch away: diapers, wipes, burping cloths, giant glass of water.

“You must stay hydrated.”

Marilyn’s voice again. She told us both, repeatedly, as we sat side by side at our monthly appointments, John’s warm protective fingers laced in mine, that it was up to us to to do all these things (so many things). I didn’t understand at the time that my future baby would hold me personally accountable for all of her needs, whereas John would need me to explicitly ask for backup; assistance in successfully fulfilling all those needs. I had no idea how incapable I would feel asking for the amount of help that I actually needed. So, as I grabbed the empty water cup in my hand and reset it beside me, stuffing my thirst away, I thought of him; his body in our bed, sleeping as he always had, committing crimes with his well rested-ness, smuggling away all the availability to move freely through this world, his potential to pop up and get a drink of water without considering the impact it would make on the universe.

I rolled silently from the bed and stood admiring the tiny lump she made. Maybe we were progressing, this sleeping girl in the middle of our bed, perhaps she would allow our invisible tether to stretch and I could reconnect with solitary me. I retreated to the bathroom, lowering the seat over what was beginning to look like a frat house toilet bowl. I sat there and cried while listening to the soft chuckles from the living-room where John and our roommate, Matt played Zelda. I needed a place that I could wail. I needed a comfort that I wasn’t sure existed anymore. If I took two steps to the right, my reflection would be waiting for me and the ugliness there was too much. I had showered a total of two times, once immediately after birth and once while John paced in the bathroom, fearfully cradling our baby as her cries echoed off the walls. In that moment, I was terrified that she would cry too hard. I quickly rinsed the soap from my head and watched as startling amounts of my hair washed down the drain. Like the freak show I was evolving into, I pulled back the curtains to reveal my naked form, framed by the vapor just beginning to cling to the mirror. Nothing can prepare you for that; the empty womb pouch, extra weight, swollen breasts and stretched skin, nipples elongated and transformed by their productivity, tired, tired eyes and skin and ...ugh.

Those same bathroom walls were now closing in on me. I pulled my bathrobe around myself and walked through the living room unnoticed. I didn’t want to be seen. I left our apartment and carefully descended the cement steps outside and was met with a rush of cold air on my face as I left the alcove. I gasped and choked on my own breath and crumpled. The pitty I harbored for myself at that moment was heavy enough to pull me down. And I cried my fucking face off. I repeatedly mouthed “I can’t do it”, glancing into that sliver of light above me where she was, ashamed of the remorse and angst and confusion that I felt for motherhood.

I couldn’t raise a hand to count my blessings. I was failing at this thing. I had to get it together before anyone knew. I had to breathe. I needed to get up. Just then a shrill whine called from behind that upstairs windowpane. Haven. My body was moving up the stairs before I had time to make a conscious choice. I floated through the living-room in my long white robe like the ghost of woman’s past and disappeared down the hallway. She needed me, no matter how disassembled I felt at that moment, my parts would provide her comfort and nourishment. And, if I couldn’t get those things for myself, I could find solace in being the one who could give them to her.

I revisit this moment in my history, time and time again. There was a very metaphorical ‘window of opportunity’ showing itself to me that night, that view from below, that last bit of light shining through. Hours passed that night and I couldn’t console Haven’s cries; when she wouldn’t latch, wouldn’t stay swaddled, or be rocked, I kneeled over the bed and abruptly released her body from my arms. Then I said out loud “I don’t want you.” Instantly I clapped a hand over my mouth. I backed away from her horrified. I rushed down the hallway and jerked John awake from the couch, confessing the thing I’d done.

“I told her I didn’t want her! I told her I didn’t want her… John!”

He jumped up, putting his hands on my shoulders, looking a little terrified. Realizing that something bad may have happened, he let go of me and ran for Haven. I buried my face in my hands. He returned with an instantly consoled baby in one arm. With the other, he embraced me.

“Emily, shhh... she’s okay. She’s okay. You’re okay.”

He guided me to bed.

“Sleep.”

He tucked me in and kissed my wet cheek. With Haven in his arms, he switched off the light and closed the bedroom door. Sometime in the night he inserted her warm body back against mine, exposing my breast for her. He held me, us, a family. I would learn to depend on him. He would learn to make himself available. Our children would grow from this direct exchange between us. I would continue, from this moment on, to look for those slivers of light and connect them, knowing there would be hardship in between. But, also knowing we would make it.“Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.”

Leonard Cohen

-Emily

PEACE OVER PRODUCTIVITY- My adult ADD diagnosis.

I love me a list.

If it involves bulleted numbers, due dates, and a checkbox that’s even better. Once upon a time, I was rigid about my schedule. Every fifteen minutes of my day was scheduled out in advance and I rarely, if ever, varied from the preset schedule for that day. A model of efficiency, this historical performance-driven behavior explains the shocking (to me) conclusion my family and some of my friends have drawn that I am an organized individual. In fact, I even believed it for a while there.

For about 15 hours in 2016, I considered becoming a professional organizer- like as an actual occupation. I met with one friend who was kind enough to let me practice on her. Four hours and twelve Target runs later it was glaringly obvious to both of us; this was not meant to be. I had so much fun that afternoon, but the reality was we had made zero progress and wasted a good deal of gas. I mean, it never occurred to me to map out the scope of the project as a whole before shopping. My sweet friend broke it to me very gently that she was no longer in need of my services. What she was kind enough to withhold was probably something along the lines of, “Thanks, but I can waste gas and time roaming the aisles of Target on my own, so why would I pay you to do it for me?”

Based on my own circle of girlfriends alone, I am fairly confident I am not unique among women in craving routine. Structure. Beyond purpose, an actual plan for how the day will move from point “A” to point “B.” Maybe it's the hormones, but in about 2.7 seconds my thoughts/feelings can go from, “My children are the most precious things on the planet. I love them so much I never want to be away from them for a second,” to “Sweet Lord, I need 72 hours alone- 24 of them just to sleep...would it be normal to walk into a mental health facility and volunteer myself for a 72-hour hold?” You guys, I’m totally kidding. Mostly.

But seriously, the structure of a schedule ensures that I won’t get lost in every thought/feeling and since those change regularly, and often at the speed of light, that is a good thing. I wish I had $100.00 for every time I walked into a room to do a thing, only to find myself murmuring to no one,“Why did I come in here?” So I do the only thing one can do in that situation; return to the room I came from and try to recover the lost slice of my mind that informed me of what I intended to do next. And repeat.

Clearly, I need my schedule. It gives my days a sense of productivity. And productivity is key, right?  

By nature, I am not organized, but for years I managed to mask that fact with rigidity and sheer willpower. Also, I never cut myself slack. There was no question as to how I would get it all done - I just would. “Yes,” was my favorite response. I would have told you it was because I was capable and reliable. The truth is, I was terrified that if I said, “No,” I would miss out, or even worse, whoever was asking might not like me. (Gasp!) So, I scheduled myself to the minute, never varied, squeezed two day’s work or activity into one calendar day and was perpetually exhausted. I actually believed that productivity was more important than, well, anything. Unfortunately, this pattern continued through the early years of my marriage and into the first couple years of parenting. With my first, I was able to keep up the act and convince myself it was necessary.

Then I had two children.

Personally, nothing else in my life (and I do mean nothing!) has required me to address my innately selfish nature the way motherhood has. At the time I was entirely unaware that I had it pretty damn good with my firstborn. She essentially came out of the womb asking for instructions and clarifying where the boundaries are, so as not to violate them. Had she been an only child, I imagine I might have become an obnoxious version of myself that believes I am far better at this whole mothering thing than I actually am. My second child is my very own slice of humble pie. He has a heart of gold and wants desperately to please me and anyone else he loves. But two children to my one self came with a whole new set of tasks that had to be worked into a whole new routine. And number two, by nature, was simply less compliant than number one.

Turns out, number two has ADHD. I’ll give you two guesses where he got that from?

At 35 years old, I was finally diagnosed with ADD. Much to my own surprise, my first thought was one of intense relief. I finally had an explanation (of sorts) for why I have had to work so hard to stay on top of things. Having a name for this struggle gave me a sense of peace about my reality; without my list and the ability to check things off of it, I wind up feeling unproductive, but now I have a deeper understanding of why. Knowing that “Why” has allowed me to move in the direction of embracing the truth of my own reality instead of circling the drain of the comparison trap. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK...

-Tawni