Day 44 Breathe… Listen… Be….
On Tuesday, the Vancouver Sun ran a story of two boys charged with sexually assaulting and murdering Kimberly Proctor, and I’ve got to say, stories like this knock me off my pins. Such tragedy, such waste. For the girl, obviously. But also, in a lesser way, for the boys. What on earth happened to turn them into monsters capable of this kind of cold-blooded horror? Was there a point in their young lives when they learned to deny normal emotions, to subvert things like humiliation, loneliness, lust and anger into something so much worse?
Or were they just born sociopaths?
Understand, I’m no expert. I just read, watch people and ask the question “why?” a lot. (I’m an ardent fan of CSI and Criminal Minds, too, but don’t hold that against me. I know a plot device when I see one.) Mostly, I try to listen to my instincts and intuition. Turns out, they’re often pretty reliable.
One of the things we’re told regularly in yoga class is to listen to our bodies. Yoga isn’t supposed to hurt, they say — despite the somewhat confusing instructions to find “that stretching-pain sensation all down the backs of your legs.” (Stretching-pain? Uh, check.) So, if this means I can’t keep my knees straight on forward bends, well, so be it. The important thing is to do it correctly, and trust that my muscles, tendons and ligaments will lengthen over time.
Right. Apparently I didn’t listen in Monday’s class, because within hours, my right hamstring was in a bad way. A grab-my-ass-and-moan-with-every-step kind of way. And just when I thought I was making progress, too! Which is, I suspect, where I went wrong. I felt unusually tight that day, and instead of listening, and accepting, I pushed through. “Oh no you don’t,” I told my hamstrings, through clenched teeth. And now I’m paying the price.
Turns out, my muscles may well have been warning me that not all was well in the kingdom of Roxanne. There’s a virus going through our family. I’ll spare you the gory details, except to say that, between my aching hip, and my gurgling tummy, Monday was another restless night. Instead of listening to my body, I responded with a show of power – and got a revolt.
And I know better.
When my children were small, I worked hard to help them identify, understand and accept their feelings, physical and emotional. For instance, it’s okay to be mad, sad, frightened, etc. It’s not okay to brain your sister with a Playmobil barn. I tried to avoid such phrases as “You can’t be hungry, you just ate.” Or, “Say you’re sorry! And mean it!” Or my favourite: “Smile! Be nice!” Which is, I think, especially meaningful when said in a low, menacing tone.
This kind of cognitive dissonance – “I feel cold but Mom says I can’t be, because I’m wearing a jacket.” “I’m so sad that my hamster was eaten by my sister’s cat but I’m not supposed to be upset because it’s only a hamster.” – sets us up for all kinds of problems. Like, “I’m gonna get that cat. I’m gonna get my sister!!”
It’s normal to feel pain, sorrow, anger, fear, anything. It’s when these powerful sensations are denied that we get into CSI territory, because they don’t go away, any more than my hamstrings can stretch by force of will. Disappointment is ignored in favour of revenge. Loneliness turns into that biting determination to never let anyone get too close. Humiliation becomes rage.
I suspect that those two boys haven’t faced anything with emotional honesty in a long time, if ever. And now? It’s probably too late for them.
It’s certainly too late for Kimberly Proctor.
It’s the simplest task – and a life-long challenge – to pay attention. To actually feel our feelings, experience our own lives.
To breathe, listen, be.
Day 39 I’ll Take It
My practice today was strong. Even Standing Western union fees Head-to-Knee! My right hip is still stiffer than my left, but I can tell I’m making progress. One millimeter at a time, perhaps, but I’ll take it.
I’ve been told that in the first 30 days, you notice changes in your body, but they’re subtle. Deep, even cellular-level adjustments that might not be obvious to anyone else. You’re doin’ the work, you’re smokin’ Bikram’s Torture Chamber, but is there anything to show for it? Not really. Your ass is still your ass, even if you’re now aware that there are muscles in it.
In the second 30 days, the changes continue, becoming more evident as muscles grow accustomed to being longer, stronger. In the second 30 days, as the changes turn from temporary to permanent, others might start noticing. Your ass becomes ever-so-slightly unrecognizable. In a good way.
But we’re talking 40, 50, 60 days.
That’s a lot of days, is what I think. But then, on my way out this morning, my daughter told me today that my legs were looking good.
You bet I’ll take that! 40 days, here I come!
Day 37 Reduce, Reuse, Recycle… Reinvent?
When I was a kid, we lived by many rules, one of which was “use it up, wear it out, make do or do without.” Yes, we were environmentalists before it was cool. My people can stretch a dime, an onion, a teabag, a pair of jeans, like you wouldn’t believe. My mother sewed our clothes, patched holes, let down hems, and when the garments were truly unwearable, cut them into squares for quilts. And despite their deep distrust of all things artistic, Mennonites make quilts of breath-taking beauty.
Long-time tillers of the earth, we also take pride in growing and/or creating our own food. (Which leads to an aspect of stretching-the-jeans that isn’t so admirable.) I love to garden, but I’m married to a pave-paradise-put-up-a-tennis-court kind of guy with a deep distrust of things without UPC codes, so I mostly keep this to myself.
Crunchy-granola type things just excite me, though. I can’t help it. It’s in my genes.
I’ve been reading Katrina Kenison‘s memoir, The Gift of An Ordinary Day, recently, in which the author transplants her family from their comfortable urban home to a tumble-down rural saltbox, to live a “simpler” life. Their house is quickly deemed unliveable, however, and the project takes on a raze-and-rebuild complication, which she describes with guilt and mourning, as if it’s a kind of euthanasia. At the last second, however, they are able to salvage some of the 200-year old bones to incorporate into the new structure.
Perhaps because I spent a few formative years in a rehabbed school-house, I can understand this desire to “rescue” a building. (I’m a sucker for lost causes. Always have been. I once tried to save an abandoned, epileptic Pomeranian puppy, who turned out to be a nasty little land-shark. Sweetest, most adorable ball of fluff you’ve ever seen in your life – when he wasn’t convulsing or trying to take your hand off.)
So I was intrigued this morning to read in the Vancouver Sun about Barry Joneson. A self-described skid-row addict who dissolved after the death of his little boy, he now combines “social reconstruction” with his “deconstruction” project, in which houses slated for landfill are instead salvaged, and kids heading down a rough road are given a crowbar and a second chance. Talk about your reusing and recycling – and social justice too! This guy could be Mennonite!
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By the way, for those of you joining me recently, this day marks 37 consecutive days of Bikram yoga, my personal foray into fitness, personal growth, self-awareness and mid-life inner peace. 90 minutes every day in a room kept at a minimum temperature of 104 degrees, and 40% humidity. It’s hell on hamstrings, but that’s kind of the point.
I’ve reached a stage in my life where I need to change things up, body and mind. A rescue-and-reconstruction project on myself, you might say, and this is where I’m documenting the journey. Thanks for joining me.