Opening | Fear

I have found my drop back, and I can stand up these days. It settles deeply within me as a pure, comforting happiness unlike anything else. Different from my love for family, different from my love for work. There is a joy in the humility of it going away and coming back, of breathing softly through the frustration of "can't" and continuing to practice. "Practice and all is coming." It's hard to remember and have faith in his words. It's illuminating and inspiring to see how we repeatedly forget their truth and then see it again.

I am humbled by the opening that is happening in the spine since Second Series began...today, when my teacher dropped me back he put one of my hands on my own ankle. We will see when the other hand gets to the other ankle... I remember being in the pose and feeling the fear of it. It caught my breath, and I think that's why I let go. Sometimes it's too overwhelming to believe we can do something we never thought we could do. My students are studying "surprise reversals" in writing. Unexpectedly taking one's ankle in backbend is more than a surprise reversal...how can something be a reversal of something you had never really imagined?

Fear...it sometimes wins even in the face of empirical evidence that we can do something successfully. My daughter is just this past week beginning to laugh on a regular basis. She laughed quite steadily in her sleep when she was just weeks old...it was precious. And until this past week, she had really only laughed maybe 5 times. It's interesting...many, many babies have been laughing for months by now. But my child — not unlike her grandfather — has a smile that erupts all over her face. The laugh looks like it's going to spill out...but it doesn't. So her face inflates with happiness to the point where it seems she might burst. Finally this past week, she began to let it out in laughter. And...it scares her. Her laugh is slightly stifled, as if she is uncertain about whether she should carry it on. Sometimes it takes her over, and she reacts to her own laughter as if she might cry. Her face becomes stony and stoic...the laughter disappears. We make her laugh again...and again she seems fearful.

I remember the first few weeks of my relationship with my partner. Bliss and antacids. I was up at night with such belly aches...the fear was sizzling in my tummy, hollowing it out, taking the place of food. Not a surprise reversal...but, again, just a tremendous surprise. I hadn't really seen it coming. It scared the crap out of me.

How often we respond — by instinct? — to these unexpected moments of pure, joyful surprise with fear. We know these things are good. But even my 8-month-old daughter is wise enough to hear her own laughter, to know that there are probably great possibilities in it, and to fear it.

If I watch and follow her wisdom, as I often do, I can see something else — something new — in this old story about fear. I wonder whether sometimes the fear is not fear to be overcome. Rather, as she illustrates, maybe it is fear in the face of something spectacular. Maybe it is not fear at all...but awe. The unadulterated bewilderment we experience when we encounter unexpected greatness. It is its most pure form, I think, when we are in awe of ourselves...the awe never moves to the ego, never becomes confidence or certainty. It just sits delicately as a momentary lack of worldly comprehension — a clear, still awareness of something else. I think that is what the Sutras mean: "Then the Seer abides in His own nature" (The Yoga Sutras 6).

Works Cited

The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. 12th edition. Trans. Sri Swami Satchatananda. Yogaville, VA: Integral Yoga Publications, 2007.

A Brief Refresher Course in Bliss

I know this poem now because my sister chose to read it aloud at school. She was selected to the Out Loud poetry project. My mother read this poem to me over the phone today as I walked down the street from practice back home. I cried when I heard it.

The Orange

by Wendy Cope

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange

The size of it made us all laugh.

I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—

They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange it made me so happy,

As ordinary things often do

Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park

This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.

I did all my jobs on my list

And enjoyed them and had some time over.

I love you. I’m glad I exist. ("The Orange")

I cried because of how this poem just kind of floated into my life, how perfectly it captures one thing and everything, and how I wondered what made my sister want to choose this one (she had choices), and what it means to her. Our difference in age is 20 years, but I am sure we exist on some level in parallel, not because of the poem, necessarily, but because of something else that I cannot identify. I don't even know her that well...but I sort of do. — I wish I had heard her read it.

Last night, my partner and I cheers-ed before our meal, as we always do. Later, I asked, "Did we cheers already?" And he said that we had, but that we could cheers again. I asked, "And what shall we cheers to?" And he said, "To finding new routes." I thought he meant "roots," and I read him my blog "Thoughts on Krounchasana." I did not know until later, because he didn't tell me, that he had meant "routes." "It's okay," he said. It's sort of the same...routing forward, routing downward. Yes...it is almost exactly the same, I think. "We are alike," he said. And that is a great compliment for me.

These unexpected connections make me fundamentally happy; they erase things contrived and take me to the most basic of needs because they quite simply reveal that, beneath all that we spin and layer on top of our pure existence is a pure connection. We can barely articulate what it looks like, or feels like. The seer watching the mind that sees: "Tada drastuh svarupe 'vasthanam," "Then the Seer [Self] abides in His own nature" (The Yoga Sutras 6). As Seers, we are all connected to one another.

Works Cited

"The Orange By Wendy Cope." Poetry Out Loud National Recitation Project. 2010. Web. 26 Jan. 2010.

The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. 12th edition. Trans. Sri Swami Satchatananda. Yogaville, VA: Integral Yoga Publications, 2007.

Thoughts on Krounchasana

Krounchasana is partly meant to stimulate the Anahata Chakra, or the Heart Chakra. But that is not where I feel it the most. Yes...I do understand the reaching up and the opening of the heart that we are striving for with this pose. But for me, much of the power of Krounchasana comes from the Muladhara Chakra, or root chakra. This pose, especially on the right side, is so unaligned for me, it scares me. I feel like my body is teetering on the basic point of my spine: my right hip leans to the right, taking the leg, pulling the left knee — pulling in a way that feels scary. The other day I used a thin block to support my right hip...that helped. So much.

My injury to the upper right hamstring came in college, when after ballet practice I was trying to quickly to find Upavishta Konasana (though that is not what I called it then). I felt and heard a pop, and I have been recovering ever since. Ashtanga is a Great Healer...today I can slowly make my way all the way down to Upavishta Konasana...belly almost on the floor. But the real test of strength, the real upset to the root of my body, is apparent in Trianga Mukhaikapada Paschimottanasana, and so painfully visible in Krounchasana.

I suspect that it may not be the injury itself that creates this imbalance, but years of uncertainty swirling around what should be a clear, red, glowing light at the base of the body: source of belonging, source of survival, source of stability. Connection to family. "Survival" is the word 'they' attach to so many things these days...but I do remember viscerally many times when I surfaced unexpectedly after thinking that it wasn't possible. This surfacing strengthens the chakra. It also wears it down. Nowadays, I feel the ignition of the Muladhara — it was the gateway for my child's life inside and outside of the womb; it is the site where I engage Mula Bandha, in an effort to control and preserve energy, in an effort to heal from giving birth. But even more sustainable is the process of rooting down that is growing from this place — unlike anything I have experienced before.

Lam...Lam...Lam...I should recite this as I reach into Krounchasana. I should recite this in the deep middle of the night, after I have nursed, while I am trying to find my way back to sleep. I do not know if there is an animal associated with this chakra...but I do know that my patronus is a koi fish (this I learned recently when I called it up late, late one night). My husband came wearily to bed, I softly awoke long enough to tell him, "My patronus is a koi fish." He understood.

I suspect that my journey toward Krounchasana is going to run me into lots of unexpected pieces of awareness. I have learned that Second Series often brings Ashtangis nightmares, and I am already experiencing this: a few nights ago I dreamt about a man and his life as a literal road, marked by signs of people he'd lost. Then, I dreamt about finding out that I was pregnant again...raw, exhilarating, haunting. Last night, I was trying to put an IV into two people, one of whom was a child. Last night's dream came after three hours of trying to calm our child and work through some of our own conflicts before finally finding our way back to sleep. Maybe I was the child in that dream...maybe we all were.

My old instincts try to remind me that there is no such thing as this kind of rooting down, not really. The voice in my mind — the conductor for the chitta vrittis that have both rescued and limited my awareness over 30 years — tries to tell me that we are all easily uprooted, conditioned to stay only for a short while before we become bored or tired or frustrated or resentful. That we are all whimsical and untethered. I am every time tempted to believe what this voice has to say — it has proven me mostly correct. But I am learning that these old instincts are not that smart, despite the straight-A student they inhabit.

My teacher tells us in practice, "Enjoy the Earth," and I have often wondered why. What is fulfilling or refreshing about enjoying the Earth? The Earth is not immovable; it creates destruction unexpectedly. But to "enjoy," I think, is to find our fundamental belonging. To reach into the source of the most physical and see the power of being connected in every way to the organic, fluid existence of the ground we live on. This connecting is not easy — in fact, it may be the most difficult of all because it embodies the foreverness (not the ephemerality) of our beginning and ending in the Earth. Simply put, this reality scares the crap out of all of us. And maybe it's this fear that drives people away from those they want to love the most; maybe they are trying to bring the separation before the separation can blindside them first. I get that core fear — I have it, too. Isn't it easier just to be proven right about all of the sadness that we worry is waiting for us?

I have to think — and my practice instills this belief in me — that I have outgrown the instinct to fall away from the rooted balance that belonging to the Earth can bring. Individually, I am sure that this basic connection will unfold a new certainty for me — I think it will have something to do with understanding survival. I think it will have much to do with the merging of my family: me, my partner, my child, the child I wait for. I think to live in this glowing, red, warm, clean place is to see a stillness and a knowing that I have not at all known before.

Milestones

I am surfing the wave of my daughter's development not simply as an observer, but also as a peer. In the last few days, she has come out with an array of beautiful skills that leave me in awe...again. Her talking "Da-da-da-da..." had disappeared for several weeks, seemed muffled under something — what? — and made me worry. She has gotten so sick since she started baby school...last week a mysterious fever that my partner and I — in one of those "duh" moments that I'm sure will return again and again — have finally deduced to be teething. But Sunday, after an awful night of tears and pain, she emerged from sleep with words: "Da-da-da-da," smiles, rolling over by herself, pulling herself up to standing, dancing, opening her arms to be picked up. Where had she been hiding it? On Monday she lay there on her belly, frustrated as usual that someone would put her there, and took it upon herself to roll over, an act that before has seemed so useless to her. I cried as I watched it, not because she had rolled over (she had done it before, months ago), but because she had done it for her own reasons. She watched me cry, noticed...she always does. I was so happy for her freedom.

Today in practice, my teacher watched my jump back and remarked that it was coming together. I smiled...and he asked, "Are you liking it?" Am I liking it? Am I liking my jump back? He might have asked me if I liked the new car I had just bought, or the new city I had just moved to (How is Philly? Are you liking it?). "Yes...yes," I said. Yes...I AM liking it. I am loving it. I am free in it.

Baby girl, how are you liking your words? How are you liking your roll-over? How are you liking this new ability to reach out your arms and be picked up and kissed and taken on a sweet adventure? Are you liking this strength? This ability to be inside your body and feel it doing what you want it to? Are you liking the freedom that strength is bringing to you?

"A Certain Receptivity"

My teacher has me figured out.

Yesterday in practice I was working on my drop backs...sigh. Still stuck on standing up. I'm not sure where it went. When he came over to help me, I told him that my lower back was still wrenched in the process, and I suggested that maybe if I did x, y, and z, I would get it... He sort of laughed at me. Yes, I'm pretty sure that's what it was. He said, "Yes...and it also has to do with a certain receptivity." He dropped me back and talked me through a series of alignment steps. He explained that I could do all sorts of alignment — but how did it feel, he asked? Awkward, I said. And he explained that if it didn't feel quite right, I would need to see what did feel right. "You will have to wait and see," he said. Wait and see...a "certain receptivity."

Later, in Padmasana, I was sitting up very tall, arms extended out strongly, chest puffed. As I usually do. He came over and shook my shoulders and elbows..."See, in each posture, you must soften." And then he said the real doozy: "Be lazy." I laughed at him...be lazy. Right.

Oh.....right.

I've been working with my teacher since October, when I returned to Mysore after having my child. We have exchanged no more than 200 words in or out of practice. But he knows me. He sees right through all of the layers that make many people say to me, "You're hard to read," and he knows how hard I try. Too hard, most of the time. He knows that I tend to put more effort into doing something "right" than in allowing the thing to unfold and seeing how "right" feels to me.

I am comforted by this being known because I was onto this "softening." I had felt this transformation happening. In my previous post, I talked about letting go, going gently. My shoulders ache the most when I am working so hard to be strong with them; my back aches the most when I am tightening it and trying so hard to drop back and stand up correctly. It is powerful, this exchange of knowing: yes, the teacher opens up new channels we didn't know were there, takes us by surprise sometimes. But yoga is so truly a process of finding your way into yourself and staying there; this venturing is allowing me to see where the over-exertion is happening not just in my practice, but elsewhere in my life. I see points of frustration that seemed important and how I can let them go. I see the worries that orbit me, and I feel the pain of holding on too tightly to pain itself. "Intensity without anxiety," says Jill.

Even as I type...can I push the keys more gently and still see an e appear? An a? A ? Yes...

Letting Go While Moving Forward

Last night was tough. My daughter awoke only once, and to nurse her in the middle of the night is but a 25-minute experience, but she was so sad that it shook me. Isn't it amazing how gas can be such a beast. I'm almost positive that that is what caused her such pain. Moreover, I cannot go back to sleep until she is asleep. In general. I sleep with the video monitor next to me, and I check it, and I check it, and I check it again...and once she is asleep, I feel my whole body relax. But not a moment before.

Needless to say, I was uncertain about how this morning's practice would go. I even planned to set the alarm a bit later so that I could squeeze in just a few...more...minutes. But I arose as planned at 6:15, and was out the door in the cold and at the studio before 7.

The walk there is quite something...the city is just slowly waking up, those with early jobs stammer out one by one in the cold, and the light is a dull, glowing yellow in the darkness. But the bus runs as if it has been running all night, and I can usually connect either on my way north or on my way west. Either way, the warmth and safety of the bus, even the few blocks, is reassuring.

My practice is now almost 2 hours. So, to stand in Samasthiti at the beginning can feel like standing at the bottom of a mountain, especially on low sleep. After the opening prayer, I had a short conversation with myself in which I sent myself the following directions: go slowly, go gently. Listen to your body. Be present. I have noticed in these last few weeks especially a couple of the students at Mysore whose practice is so admirably slow and steady. I have wondered how they do it...how do they remain so calm and slow when they know how long the practice lasts? How do they not rush or panic? I tend to propel myself forward with exertion, partly to push through, and partly to wrench my body into each asana. I decided today, on a day when I wasn't sure whether I had enough energy to get through it, to take a leap of faith with their approach. And I am so glad I did.

For me, finding peace in a slow and steady practice meant being present in each asana. Not thinking about the asanas to come. I couldn't avoid this entirely, of course (not when I become so exhilarated by handstand these days), but I was able to do it mostly. I listened to the in-breath and the out-breath and lengthened each as long as the other. I found my points of distraction and gently guided myself back to my breath. I worried not at all about how long I was taking, and more about using the muscles necessary to be in the pose while letting all others go.

And in this process, I felt less pain than ever. I found handstand. I found patience and calm. I found a being inside myself that I had seen in others but had not yet met before: a loving guide, like a sherpa. Gentle, serene. My jump-back clicked in; it felt masculine and controlled and steady. My drop-backs are still struggling, but I did not punish myself in my mind (as I am wont to do). And my strength stayed with me from beginning until end in a constant reminder that "it" was okay.

It reminded me of how I take care of my child.

"I Am Your Mother"

My relationship with my daughter grows more complicated.

Most pronounced is her clear disapproval of me when I am not giving her what she wants. She has frustration when she cannot reach something, and she directs it at me when I want her to try to reach for it. She has developed a kind of hollering at me when I am not understanding what she is asking for. I am noticing the most inner ripples that happen when she is less pleased with me; I am seeing how it makes me want her to like me. In those moments, I tiptoe around her, not wanting to say the wrong thing. I treat her like the cool girl in school whose approval I crave.

In those moments, I have to remind myself, "I am your mother."

"Those are your toes and I can kiss them if I want to. You are crying, and I don't know why, but I'm sure it's for a good reason, and I will do my best to find out. But I am still your mother. And I love you. And I hope you will forgive me for not knowing how to make you smile right now."

I am new to parenting, and I allow myself these old reactions as they emerge in the face of learning how to parent my child. But I know that I am going to disappoint, frustrate, enrage, confuse, sadden her. Sometimes I will do it without knowing...always it will be without meaning to...and often, it will be the expense of parenting her in ways that are in her best interest. There will not be a place to worry about whether or not she likes me.

The challenge, I find, is that I have had the deepest respect for my daughter since the moment she was conceived. I have believed from the beginning that she knows how to grow and communicate exactly what she needs. Her sadness and grumpiness and hollering is, I have believed, all for a good reason. I have marveled at her ability to be so honest, and I have been humbled by what it teaches me about being honest. I have found that I look up to her. In my dreams, while I was pregnant, she was not a baby; she was an eight-year-old girl with a sense of humor and an agenda, an idea of what career she wanted to pursue, a strong preference for certain wardrobe items. Even now, I look at my child as if she already knew how to think the words, how to make decisions...she just doesn't know how to say them yet. I see in her face — so so beautiful — an awareness that is ancient. I wonder if I have it in me, too. I wonder if I passed it on to her, or if she brought it to her life from somewhere else.

How, then, can I find the wisdom and the confidence to know more than she about so...many...things? How will I discipline her, see her marked disapproval, and be able to tell myself that I am doing the right thing?

I don't know.

When my daughter is nursing, she gently pats me as she falls into a quiet sleep — still awake, but deeply calm. I think the patting is her way of calming herself. But...geesh, it also seems like she is trying to calm me. Wise, wise soul.

Vairagya

In the last week, I have turned in my pre-tenure portfolio and begun Second Series. Though I anticipated both, neither has had the effect that I thought it would. Correction: neither has had the intensity of the effect that I thought it would. I am grateful for this nothingness.

In an Ashtanga workshop with Jill Manning in November, we discussed the idea of "intensity without anxiety" in practice, in life. This concept, among many others that I gathered from this amazing weekend, has impacted me significantly in the last couple of months. For years — maybe even always — I have assumed that any accomplishment, any effort toward hard work, required anxiety. That is, if I was not having nightmares or heart palpitations or belly aches or low appetite, then I must have been doing it wrong. Or not putting in enough effort. I have been trying to let go of this notion; the anxiety, I have been learning, is not essential. It has for so long been part of my identity...and now I have been working to let it go.

My mentor has asked, why is the anxiety essential? What happens without it? And I have talked about how I would not know what to replace it WITH. But this worry can be soothed at the heart of yogic philosophy. The 15th Sutra in Book One (2007) discusses vairagya, or non-attachment, as "colorless." Satchitananda assures us that it "should not be misunderstood to be indifference" (23). Rather, he explains, when we detach from selfish "desire" we are liberated and can direct our energies toward others. "Because [in vairagya] you don't have anything, you have your Self always. [...] By renouncing worldly things, you possess the most important sacred property: your peace" (25). We can think about the "things" like our material possessions, but we can also consider the high of success or accomplishment or good marks to be "worldly things." We can let go of these, too. And we can find peace in that letting go.

Don't get me wrong, I still feel pride, accomplishment, relief, success, strength, confidence. I still feel worry that the review will be negative, that my strength will not support these Second Series poses, that I will disappoint my colleagues or my dear teacher. These emotions are all worldly things that I hold on to. BUT...and this is an important "but," I feel viscerally that these feelings have not peaked in the way in which they used to. It could be that this past week my attention have been on my child and on my partner, both of whom have been so very sick. It could be that I have been more focused on trying to get good sleep. And it could be that I was mindfully trying NOT to worry. "Let your brain sink into your heart," says Rodney Yee (Power Yoga, DVD, 2003). I have been trying to let the mind fall. And it is falling.

What do I replace it — the worry, the peaks of celebration — with? Nothing. Non-attachment does not leave a hole. It closes a hole, an emptiness, for these peaks of emotion are accompanied by valleys. We accomplishment the accomplishment, we feel exhilarated, then what? There is a low. But the low does not have to be so low if we are willing to accept that the high does not have to be so high. The gift that comes to the person who lets go is joy, says Satchitananda (26). For me, there is joy in not having to worry. I did not have to worry all along; I could have let go of it long ago (perhaps, if someone had given me "permission"). Yoga invites us to give ourselves permission.

Man...what a trip. I think about how much more sleep I could have gotten, even in the first grade, if I had only know that I could just close my eyes and let go of the present day and the tomorrow.

Works Cited

Yee, Rodney. Power Yoga: Total Body Workout. DVD. Gaiam, 2003.

The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. 12th edition. Trans. Sri Swami Satchatananda. Yogaville, VA: Integral Yoga Publications, 2007.

Small spaces

I am nearing the home stretch of this portfolio. The last element is a 2-3-page "personal statement." Through each of the portfolios (teaching, service, scholarship) I offer lots of philosophy, lots of personal statements. So how does this 2-3-pager make a difference? I'm not yet sure, but I think it is meant to set itself apart as a kind of boiling down of it all. Such a skill, the boiling down. Sometimes, my students complain when I give them no more than 1000 words for an assignment. They say, "If only I had more space." And I tell them how much it will make a difference if they can learn the art of being concise. Choosing one's words wisely — I compare it to the thread-count of sheets. Fitting in as much meaning as you can into a small space, being mindful of the quality of the words, stitching the words together seamlessly.

I have saved this part for last — why? — because I wanted a bird's eye view of the whole thing when I went to make a "statement" about it. The portfolio is due tomorrow and now I have the bird's eye view and a seed of an idea. Something about the interconnectedness of teaching, service, and scholarship: it's all about contribution, but in different forms. There is something organic, even with the notorious land-mind-laden landscape of academia, in one's efforts to tie it all together. It's yogic, isn't it? A balance of effort and ease — an ongoing and active engagement, but also an appreciation of the ever-changing landscape of ideas and priorities. Academia as a ship, not a mountain. Hmmm...

My daughter is feeling better. A bit grouchy, but actually nice to see her sling some attitude around. She has no idea how much I adore being home with her today. It reminds me of summer, when she and I would do this dance of Mommy's work and Baby's naps. I didn't take a maternity leave, and I faced a much larger mountain (ooo, maybe it IS a mountain) of scholarly work than I expected when she came. It took some time to figure this out, but eventually she and I started a waltz of working and sleeping, playing and nursing. She slept in the Moby wrap during her morning nap...there, all snuggled in near my chest, while I wrote and wrote. When she awoke, we played until she wanted to fall asleep again...and then I would help her to her crib and sit in the rocker at my computer while she slept. We did this for weeks. And by the end of the summer, the writing got written and my daughter learned to fall asleep on her own. So much for the criticism of attachment parenting; I swear by it.

She is asleep now, in her own bed. She fell asleep on her own. And I am two floors below her, typing this blog. Preparing a deep breath into the personal statement. I can see her on the video monitor that sits next to me...it's sort of like I am still up there, in her room. I imagine that I can hear her every breath while I work diligently, concisely, to fit my statement into the small space I am given on the page, the small space here in time while she naps.

When she awakens, everything opens.

Tuesday

Last night was thoroughly unexpected. The day began with a lovely night's sleep and a strong practice, with hopes to begin second series the next day. The day progressed steadily with progress on my portfolio. The day felt gentle all around.

But at day's end, when I went to pick up my daughter from school, I took a very hard fall while running across the street. I think I must have tripped...my body went flying toward the newspaper machines. I saw it all kind of in slow motion, willing it not to happen. Foot smashed into sidewalk, pants torn, the force of my fall took out the newspaper machine and the onlookers gasped. The gasping makes it worse, doesn't it? Seeing your mother's shocked face when you wipe out somehow makes it hurt even more. I kept thinking, I have to start second series tomorrow. I have to! My dear sweet husband came to my rescue with frozen broccoli...he practically ran the 8 blocks to where I was. Together we went to pick up our daughter and I limped around the house until bedtime, hoping that the bruises would be better by the morning.

But I was not the only patient last night. My daughter awoke at 11pm with terrible sickness...she vomited her heart out for hours, and then more today. A virus. Sweet little peanut. This is the amazing part of it all, of course...my pain took the way, way back seat as I rocked her and snuggled her, helped her sit up while she vomited and softly rubbed her face to help her back to sleep. She wasn't a baby last night; she was a little girl with long legs and arms, lanky and soft in just her diaper, with a wise awareness that her sickness was awful, with a genuine frustration. And yet, between throw-ups, she smiled at her parents as if she were just glad that we were all together in the big bed. And then, when her sickness had subsided for the night — just for then — she made it clear that being in her own bed would be better. Sweet, sweet little pickle. We all slept a little later this morning, and our dear daughter stayed home today with her dad.

She will stay home tomorrow, too. It fills my heart with bliss to know that I will be there tomorrow to snuggle and soothe her. It is an honor to be her parent.

I know that the day can turn. I think we all know that it can. And it can turn very hard, painfully. On those days when it turns unexpectedly, there is something to be gained from gently riding that unexpectedness. In the moment last night I found a split second to see what she saw in the big bed, and I felt lucky to be there, too. Even with the bruises and the throwing up, the tears and the awe that things happen. I don't know how it has all somehow turned into this — gratitude, clarity. Her perspective is a gift.

Sleep

I have never been so sleep deprived, nor did I expect to be so.

My daughter rarely sleeps through the night, a fact that burdens me with fatigue, but one that also helps to heal me from the pain of not seeing her nearly as much as I would like. Our middle-of-night snuggles make me happy. So, it's not her fault that I am so tired.

The lack of sleep truly comes from my inability to shut down at night. I plan to go to bed at 9:15, and my plan fails... last night, for instance, I could not sleep until 11. My mind is busy, my body isn't ready to be asleep so soon. But my morning practice depends on my sleep; my ease of mind and kindness to my partner depend on my being rested. And yet going to bed at 9pm makes me sad...it cuts the day so short. Why must this body need 9 hours? (It does, by the way.)

My lack of sleep also fuels the sadness of missing her. I am somehow able to teach, write, go to meetings, maintain my practice...but the ongoing fatigue has now become part of the background of my life. Every night is a race to get to bed, only to find that my mind is full, that I long for her while she is sleeping, that I cannot stop checking in on her on the monitor. The grownups say this is normal and that sleep never returns.

My daughter also struggles with sleep.

One of the most interesting aspects of being a new parent, for me, is how long it now takes me to see something clearly. For instance, for months my partner and I have been wondering why our child will not sleep at 'baby school.' It was not until this weekend that I realized how difficult it must be for her to experience such different habits at home and at school. At home, I nurse her on demand in the warmth of my arms and my gaze and our tender handholding. At school, she is fed every 3 hours. At home, the nursing, mixed with the coziness of her bed, the smell of home, the sound of PC Davidoff or the ocean playing in the background, the perfect balance of heat and humidifier lull her to sleep. At school, they rest her whenever they can, and she awakens with a jolt at the sound of another baby's cry. The smells are different; the kindness is distant and slightly detached (though the teachers are sweet to her). It must be so hard.

Guilt and melancholy flood me as I sit here and read my words, while hooked up to the breast pump: my daughter is away from me all day. Other people play with her, feed her, change her, rock her. I watch her online...ugh. It's a blessing and a curse. It's no wonder that she cannot sleep, that she is glassy eyed and dreamy when I pick her up at the end of the day.

The value of sleep is beyond what I had ever thought it to be. It is a necessary drug; it is like blood, or like air. When I am able to find rest, I think the sadness will lift just a bit. I think I will see the two of us — my daughter and me — as independent females who are doing their own learning during the day. (Yes, of course, I would rather have her at a 'baby school' right in my building, but there is no such thing even on my campus.) Maybe when I get more sleep I will be able to be happy for her that she is learning and playing all day. Maybe I will be more alert during the long weekend days and won't need to snuggle her so much and feed her on demand; maybe then I will see the schedule from more of a distance and nurture her in a way that will help her sleep during the week.

The lack of sleep is taking the brightness out of my face. I would like to get that back, too.

Kino MacGregor has written something in her latest newsletter that strikes me. In her unraveling of the extraordinary power of yoga, she cautions her reader not to rely too heavily on the teacher or on the text; the student herself has to experience the window into the soul that yoga helps to reveal. She writes, "No one can live your awakening for you." I think about the needs we have that others can help us with, and those that we must take upon ourselves to fulfill. Sleep is a need — even a gift — that we must give to ourselves. Certainly, others can provide space and time for us...but we must allow ourselves the freedom to fall asleep, to insist on it. Savasana is such an apt comparison here — how challenging is it to stay in Savasana, especially here in the eastern part of the West? As we must allow ourselves to take rest at the end of the practice, so, too, must we seek out our sleep.

Maybe sleep will bring to me a new awakening.