Tales from Rural Maine: Inauguration Day

There are some serious downsides to small-town life--they are numerous and they are onerous--but among the gifts are the following, all of which I received today:

A high school friend dropped by with dinner for me and Pete, just because she loves us; she was making a meal for someone else we love whose father is ill, so she made us something, too, and dropped it at our door;

my neighbor and I teamed up to get an injured stray cat who hangs out in our yards neutered and healed up; he was hit by a car a month ago and developed a necrotic tail; I don’t even know my neighbor’s last name, but I loaned her a cat carrier; and when she rang the bell at 7am—it was 10 degrees outside—and told me she’d managed to catch our stray, I called the vet, put on my clothes and drove our little friend to Orrington, 15 minutes away; 

all of the techs at my vet's office were happy to see me and chatted like we were pals on both my visits there today; 

my dad picked me up at the garage in Bucksport and then drove me to Orrington and back to pick up the aforementioned cat ("Batty") because my car was having trouble and I felt nervous about taking it to back to Orrington in this cold with a kitty fresh from surgery in my care; he dropped what he was doing and came, happily, to help; 

the guy at the garage--who is also a farmer--greeted me by name with a smile and kept me company while I waited for my dad, during which time I actually learned a lot of interesting stuff about cows; 

my pre-school teacher wrote me a beautiful, compassionate e-mail because she knew the poem at the inauguration would have  made me cry; she was right; it all made me cry; I even cried when they introduced, "Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton"; I felt the extraordinary progress of women in that moment and my heart sang for the suffering and triumph it signified; thank you Lucy Stone; thank you Elizabeth Cady Stanton; thank you Seneca Falls; and while we’re at it, thank you Myrlie Evers-Williams.

My pre-school teacher is a poet, so she understands a lot about how the world feels to me, how beauty cracks me open and progress makes me weep; how justice and equality lift me so high my wings sprout wings; and even though I've only seen this teacher/poet once since 1977, she wrote to me today because she loves my heart, always has done, and she knew we were together in our tears for beauty today.

In the midst of cold and darkness; in the midst of strife and lack; in the midst of all the things that are small in the not-good way about life in this particular town, it is the gratitude that fills me up.

I teach my students that we all have "armadillo magic.” We can build a strong physical and energetic armor to protect us, to free us to have boldly tender hearts.

To every person in my life who ever said I was too sensitive--and you are legion--I say to you now, from behind my armadillo skin (my own Declaration of Independence, my own invocation and benediction, my own anthem, my own inauguration speech): You are wrong. 

You may see my gifts as flaws, and for almost all of my life, I did, too; I believed you when you said those things. But I am a teacher now and a healer. I am forty and you can’t fool me anymore.

And if you don’t believe me, there is a poet here in Maine who has known me since before I could write the poetry that is my own name, and she (and my sweetheart and my students) will stand with me, I am certain, when I say, again, you are so very wrong. 

Little me, at New Alderbrook pre-school, 1975.

Bring what you have

I recently had occasion to visit with a dear friend and her younger sister. I was fresh from a restorative therapeutic yoga teacher training, so yoga was much on our minds as we visited.

The younger sister, a woman in her twenties who lives in New York City, told me that she had found a yoga class that she loved, but that she had stopped going because she started to feel really angry during the classes, and that didn’t seem like the right way to be in a yoga class.

“Were you angry because your teacher hurt you or because something about the instruction felt bad to your body or to your feelings?” I asked.

“No,” said the sister, with certainty. “I loved the teacher and the class. I just felt so full of anger…and I feel like I can’t go back until I’m more peaceful inside.”

I smiled at her. What a lucky girl.

“Go back,” I said, with certainty. “You have found your teacher.”

She was confused. What was I talking about? How could that be? Anger doesn’t belong in yoga. We should feel all Zen and happy when we are on our mats…shouldn’t we?

I say, No. With a big smile and a peaceful, happy heart I say, No. What you should be when you are on your yoga mat is you.

If you are angry, be angry. You must keep your anger inside your own container—it’s not okay to direct angry words, for instance, at a fellow student or at your teacher. But inside of your own Self, if huge anger springs up during practice, throw your arms open to that anger and welcome it, wholeheartedly. That anger belongs to YOU and therefore, it is beautiful.

Yoga is the act of connection to all of you. Not just your breath, not just your body—and not just your Zen peaceful center. Yoga is about wholeness. Bring what you have. This is your practice. And if you find a teacher who triggers big floods of emotions in you--be they happy emotions or unhappy ones--then bless that connection and go back (so long as the unhappy feelings aren’t because the teacher has harmed you in some way).

I practiced many styles of yoga for many years with many different teachers before I found my yoga home. When I finally found the yogi who would become what I think of as my teacher and what became my preferred style of yoga, I hated it. This teacher is the kindest, brightest, most full-of-light person, but I was full of red hot anger in her classes. I hated that she didn’t demonstrate the poses—I felt abandoned, humiliated, angry. I hated the room. I hated everything. I was boiling with anger. But for some reason, I kept coming back. For the first time in my life all of my previously squelched, judged, and silenced anger had a place to be welcome. My feelings of anger were no longer sidelined and excluded from my experience.

It felt awful to be so angry and it felt sort of okay, at the same time—it was very confusing. I wasn’t sure what to do, but the simplest and truest thing I felt was a certainty that I should keep going back. Even though I was angry with her in the beginning, what I felt for my teacher was trust. I could recognize even through the blinding hatred, that this was a safe and good place to be.

I don’t recall specifically what my teacher said or did to help me feel okay about being angry, but something about her teaching welcomed me, all of me, and I kept going back. I didn’t tell my Self I couldn’t or shouldn’t be angry. I thought angry thoughts. And when I felt shame over this anger, I welcomed the shame, too. And when I felt fear, I welcomed the fear. When I felt tired, I rested. When I felt weak, I laid down. For me, this self-care and self-acceptance was a radical new experience.

I went back, week after week after week to my teacher. Until one day, I noticed my anger wasn’t there anymore. It was like how, one day, you wake up in the springtime and it’s just warm again. You didn't try to stop winter (that's fruitless) and winter will come again (if you live long enough), but on that day, it's just warm again. And there you are. With the daffodils and the tulips feeling the sun instead of the cold. 

What I felt instead of anger was okayness. Having spent a lot of my life feeling that I did not deserve to be okay, my practice became welcoming my okayness, in the same way I had welcomed my anger. 

Eventually, after more and more practice, a new thing happened: on my yoga mat, during my yoga practice, with my teacher, I felt so much joy that I saw bright sparkling lights and I wept from the beauty of it all.

This is yoga. The angry part and also the bright sparkling joy part. Remember that you don’t do one to get to the other. You do whichever one is true for you today. This is your practice. Be fully present for your anger and you will be able to be fully present for your joy (and vice versa). Be where you are. Bring what you have. Notice your feelings and your body and your breath. Throw your arms open to your resentment, your guilt, your anger, and your joy. Give your feelings a home. Be truthful. Be kind. And you will wake up one day to find that you have become like a daffodil in the sun, more whole, more connected, more yoga.