There’s a yoga kid in the crowd.

In a little over 12 hours, my 12 year old will be boarding a flight for her first major trip away from home. It’s a Girl Guide adventure, off to Scotland for three weeks. She’s pretty excited. By nature, she’s a kid who takes every thing to heart and she  pretty much defines a walking anxiety attack. She’s always been the Queen of the What-if scenarios, all of which have grim and horrible endings.

Yoga is not a mother-daughter bonding activity in our house. She took a couple of terms of the Ashtanga viniyasa last year but felt uncomfortable because it was an all adult crowd. She enjoys yoga but understandably, she wants it to be with her peer group.  One of my colleagues in my yoga teacher’s training is gearing up to teach teenagers this fall and I’ll be the first person signing her up for the classes. I think yoga is very useful for young women and with the wisdom of retrospect, I wish I had established a practice as a very young woman. I’m sure my life would have taken a much different trajectory.

That said, I don’t nag about yoga. I’m not her teacher and it’s not appropriate that I take that role in her life. I’m her mother. There’s enough teaching wrapped into that role without adding to the job description. Well, most of the time anyway. There was one occasion some three weeks ago when in the midst of getting ready for this trip and some minor setback arrived, and she was in the midst of the complete emotional meltdown as can only be expressed by a teenage girl. After 30 minutes of it, the Momma snapped and declared “That’s it! Now we’re going to do it my way. Every day between now and when you leave, you’re getting your feet on the mat because otherwise, I’m going to kill you.”  Hmmmmmmmmm, maybe Momma needs to breath a bit too.

But just when I think the whole Momma yoga spiel is sailing right over her head, the proverbial in one ear and out the other, she gives me hope that some of it is sinking in. In the past 24 hours, whenever I’ve asked her how she’s doing, the answer is inevitably coming back as “I’m breathing”.  That’s right, kiddo, when things get overwhelming, feet on the floor, spine straight, chin tucked in, breathe. Breathe in; breathe out. We can talk about it later.

This trip is also a lesson for Momma — aparigraha. As much as I want to cling her to me where I can keep her safe, it is destiny and the way of the Universe that she is growing up and away from me. It doesn’t seem like she can possibly be old enough, mature enough to fly to Europe for three weeks, but here it is and she’s going. It’s a lesson for Momma in letting go and accepting that baby’s starting to find her own path instead of walking behind me like a good little duckling.

Now she’s off on the first flight of testing her wings. Just remember to breathe, kid,  and most of it will work out in the end.

Thanks for reading and Namaste,

Kate

Good grief, it’s bloody 3 am…

Normally, when I’m working dayshifts and am in need of being to work way too early in the AM, I set my alarm clock for 4:15 am in order to get in my practice before biking off to work. Winters are slightly more civilized in that I get up at 4:45 am, as I have not yet developed any psychological disorders that compel me to push my bike through 8 feet of bloody snow.

That said, it’s safe to assume that at 3 o’clock this morning, I was safely as a-snug in my widdle bed, unlike the inconsiderate, low-life, mouth breathing morons engaged in a battle royale on the street immediately outside my bedroom window. Snap — The police dispatcher was awake and ON DUTY. I listened for a minute, long enough to determine that no one is getting hurt, looked at the bedside clock a moment and decided, it’s highly unlikely I’m getting back to sleep anytime soon.

Now it’s been nearly 18 hours since my last practice and let’s just assume the Om has pretty much worn off. My capacity to demonstrate any sort of compassion towards my fellow humans, particularly when they’re stewed in the alcoholic beverage of their choice, is somewhere between nil and non-existent. In fact, I’m feeling pretty judgmental right now.

A word of advice to the world in general and residents of my street in particular: If you cannot handle your liquor, you ought not drink. Hint: anytime you find yourself out on the sidewalk, screaming at your significant other at 3 am and waking otherwise peaceable yoginis from their dreams, it’s a sure sign you can’t handle your liquor. Sometimes God speaks in mysterious tongues. This isn’t one of those times. It’s pretty clear cut. Lay off the booze.

Of course, now that I’ve had a chance to fully wake up and process the entire event …. I’d like to report that I’m all calm, cool and compassionate about it. I’m not. I’ve got a 12 hr Saturday day shift ahead of me and frankly, I could have used that sleep. But the drunks have wandered off and an hour later, I’m still peeved with the events they’ve likely forgotten by now. Seems like someone here is attached to her need to be right (and/or sleeping).

A word of advice to the world in general and residents of my street in particular: Anytime you find yourself still muttering about a minor event an hour after it’s transpired, it’s a sure sign you can’t handle your attachments. Sometimes God speaks in mysterious tongues. This isn’t one of those times. It’s pretty clear cut. Lay off the self-righteous anger.

Aparigraha — not grasping — is a fine yoga concept to drag out of the woodwork right now. Letting the experience be what it was and letting it go. Not grasping it to me and turning it into some emotional soap opera and not clinging to my desire to be right and a cut above the uncouth louts who disturbed my slumber.

It’s easy to see our neighbour’s addictions and their kleshas at work. Sometimes it’s not so easy to spot our own in action. And at some level I just have to laugh… five years ago, in my pre-yoga life, I would not have got out of bed, muttered madly until I had processed enough to write a self-reflective post on the experience. Hell, no, I would have yelled out the window and been launching bookends for missiles if I got any back chat. And I would have wound myself into a state of justifiable rage for the next 24-48 hours (yeah, because that’s so good for the old blood pressure).

Who needs double blind studies to prove yoga works? For me, all the proof I need right now is the fact my bookends are still on my bedside table and not out in the driveway.

Thanks for reading and Namaste,

Kate