Yoga Tales from Rural Maine: Gratitude

Recently, in one of my children's yoga classes at Acadia Hospital, our theme for the class was gratitude. I taught the children that when we focus on feelings of thankfulness, we tend to feel more relaxed, more happy, more present, more well. Gratitude raises our vibration. We sat in a circle on our mats and when it was his or her turn, each child held Share Bear and shared something for which they were grateful.

All of the children in this class were between the ages of 7-10. The girls were all thankful for their homes, their families, or their pets. The boys were all thankful for members of their families who are serving their country as soldiers. Except for one little boy who was deeply and vibrantly grateful that he had recently been taught how to sing "Jimmy Crack Corn." :-)

If you want to support this work we are doing at Acadia Hospital, watch the Children's Miracle Network telethon on WABI on Saturday morning April 2nd. (Or you can also ask me how to donate more privately or more directly.)

Namaste! (And may you learn a new song today, for which you feel deeply and vibrantly grateful.) :-)

[NOTE: None of the children in this photo are patients at Acadia. For privacy reasons, of course I can't share any images of them with you. But the sweetness and light in this private yoga birthday party for Little Naomi (which is shared by permission) captures what goes on for us on our mats at Acadia, although in a less sunshiney environment.]

Yoga Tales from Rural Maine: Gratitude

If you are in the habit of practicing gratitude--saying "thank you," counting blessings, being aware of all your gifts and all of the good and beautiful things happening in the world today and feeling the warm sensation of gratitude in your body (a daily I practice I highly recommend!)--then here's one more thing to add to your list: Starting this Thursday night, the inpatient children at Acadia Hospital (the little kids who spend their days and nights in a mental hospital) will get to have Yoga with Naomi at bedtime!

Thanks to generous support from the Children's Miracle Network and the guiding lights at Acadia Hospital, including most especially Nichole Wrightwhose beautiful mind and heart work on our behalf in philanthropy, these children will hear my voice and have my love and move gently in their bodies before bedtime once every other week.

My hope is that they will find their way to comfort and peace; that they will learn self-soothing skills and ways to find a sense of safety and well-being, even amidst the things in their lives that are scary and hard, and in an environment that isn't home. Yoga helps us to find a safe home within ourselves, even when the the world outside is painful.

I offer my thanks to Nichole and to everyone at Acadia who is helping to make yoga part of mental health care for children and adults.

What started two years ago as a pilot program with outpatient kids and teens, has now grown to include a women's trauma group, and now the inpatient kids. I don't get to see them often, but I get to see them, and that's what matters; a little love/yoga can go a long way.

Om shanti, my friends. Add this to your gratitude list and know that the more we focus on what is good, the more good things expand. The next time you're freaking out about violence in the world or bonkers presidential candidates or whatever else absorbs your fear, invite your mind to remember that there is goodness growing through yoga like a flower in pavement, and the more you notice what's good, the more what's good can grow. Find the cracks, plant your seeds, and put your mind where gratitude thrives. And think of us up there at Acadia Hospital breathing our breaths, singing our OMs, finding our smiles, and tucking ourselves in.

Namaste

Yoga Tales from Rural Maine: Bedtime

On Thursday night, I taught my first Yoga with Naomi bedtime yoga class to the inpatient kids at Acadia Hospital in Bangor. Acadia Hospital serves children and adults with mental health needs, and these children all live in the hospital. One of them had been there for three months.

None of the children were forced to come. They each chose on their own. There were six children, four girls and two boys. The youngest was four years old; the oldest were sixteen. Two of them were dressed in scrubs. One had an arm striped with cuts from wrist to elbow. One of them, the littlest, didn't want to take off his Batman flip-flops. I said that was okay. I said everything was okay.

For 45 minutes, these children had peace and kindness. They were brave and curious. Some were silent and big-eyed. Others tested the boundaries. Everything they did or said or asked for or felt during our time together was okay with me. Everything.

There was no other staff in the room. Just me and these kids. I met each challenge with softness, with sincerity. "I am here to help you keep yourself safe on your mat," I said. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. And I will do my best to notice if something doesn't seem right for you, but you are the only one who can really know if a movement or a moment is okay. Notice how you feel. And stop or change or ask for help if something doesn't feel right. That's your practice."

The most oppositional child, a nine-year-old girl, tall for her age, pushed back a lot. She complained about the brand of crayons; she expressed resistance, vocally and with her body throughout the first half of the class. And everything she did was okay. Everything. I met all of her resistance with warmth and kindness.

About half-way through, she began to soften. She interrupted my instruction to ask, "Do you know pretzel pose?"

"I don't think I know that one," I said. "Would you like to teach me?"

And she and another girl jumped up and taught me and the rest of the class "pretzel pose," which is a kids' version of Eagle Pose.

"Wonderful!" I said. "I love that one. Do you know any more?"

And they taught us two different kinds of pranayama (breathwork), which they know by other names.

"That's so good!," I said. "You know some beautiful yoga. Do you have another yoga teacher?"

"No," she said. "We learned in Coping Skills."

Yoga is being woven into the lives of these children at the hospital, not just by me, but by other practitioners; even when it is not called "yoga," yoga skills help kids (and all of us) to cope, to heal, to be.

Outside the room, other children were suffering. There was screeching, screaming, an interminable cry of anguish that went on and on and on and on.

But inside our room, it was more quiet and safe. It was peaceful and creative and fun.

"I'm here to help you feel peaceful at bedtime," I said.

"Bedtime is hard," said a nine-year-old boy. "Because that's when the bad things happened..."

My heart clenched. Bedtime is when the bad things happened. To this sweet, brave, bright, outgoing child. With painted fingernails and an endearing smile. The bad things happened at bedtime. And now he is here.

I took a deep breath. Breathing helps. But I never let my gaze leave his eyes. There are no words for a moment like that. So I made an instinctive, warm noise, a sort of compassionate hum. And I nodded. "I am here," I said. "I am here with you...would you like to make a bedtime wish?"

And he said, yes, he would. Everyone said yes, they would like to make a bedtime wish. I gave everyone a stuffed animal, a Beanie Baby, to hold--this little boy chose a ram because he enjoyed it's articulated legs. Each child also had two butterfly scarves to use during practice, and he wrapped his ram safely in one scarf, swaddling and snuggling it.

The kids got comfortable and safe on their mats. Gentle music played. I talked to them. And I moved around the room, inviting each child to close their eyes, to breath, and to focus on their wish. Then I spritzed "magic bedtime spray," (lavender water) around them (first asking permission each time) and then they opened their eyes and blew "pixie dust" out of my palm, to seal the wish, and then I sprinkled pixie dust on their resting bodies.

Every single child made a wish. Even the teenagers.

Before she left, the little girl who had been so oppositional in the beginning asked me, "Did I disrupt this group?"

"No, darling," I said, with full sincerity. "You were just right."

She smiled a big smile and glittering slightly from the pixie dust, she took away all the gifts I had given her: a picture to color, a brand new box of crayons, even the name tag she made for herself out of construction paper...and, I hope, the gift of a little more peace and safety at bedtime.

Yoga Tales from Rural Maine: What is peaceful

The work I do at Acadia Hospital is hard. Any work where you have to face the suffering of children is hard. Any work where you have to face the suffering of children and try to make a difference in 45-minutes every two weeks with large groups of multi-age kids with a full spectrum of special needs is *hard*. I'm telling you. Hard.

The end of class with the "littles" is especially hard. It's meant to be peaceful, quiet resting, safe, gentle, still...and today it was especially bonkers. I really felt I'd let them down. I kept thinking that I haven't unlocked this puzzle and I should have by now. But how *do* you get TEN little boys ages 6 - 10 (and two little girls) with hyperactivity, attention deficit, autism, trauma, and other social and mood disorders to rest in stillness? Agh. The thing I tried today worked for four kids (deeply peaceful, resting, yes, success!) but the others? It was like being inside a popcorn popper. A popcorn popper filled with little boys in their stocking feet!

So I'm thinking...damn. I've failed. Again. They're gonna fire me. How do I fix this? What can I do next time, so they get what I'm hoping they'll get? So that they'll have some peace and rest and understand how to help themselves feel better--and feel *loved* and worth loving...and a little more okay...

And then...amidst the chaos, this little one came up to me. It was his first yoga class at the hospital. He's six. He just lost one of his baby teeth. He didn't sit still the entire time. But he came up to me, as I was cleaning up crayons and helping to tie shoes and repeating the instructions for what to do with your yoga mat...he came up to me, this tiny little thing with his missing-toothed-kindergarten-smile and he stood *still* right in front of me and he said, "I like you."

"Oh, my darling (I said his name), I like YOU, too!" I exclaimed. And I stopped what I was doing, so he could have all of me for a moment.

"Can I hug you?" he asked.

I wasn't sure if hugging was allowed. I thought maybe it wasn't? So I asked the occupational therapist in charge. She nodded yes.

"Yes, yes--we can hug!" I said, and I bent down and he wrapped his sweet little arms around me and sighed.

Here's part of why this matters:

During our sharing time at the start of class, I had asked everyone to share something that made them feel peaceful. When it was his turn, this little boy held onto our little blue bear, Share Bear, and he started talking. The words just poured out of him.

"'Peaceful' makes me think of crying," he said in his little voice. "I cry because I lost my dad. My father. My dad...he's never coming back. My dad. And I'm so sad...this is me, crying to be peaceful, because when your dad dies, it's really sad. And crying...peaceful."

I said his name and I said, with deep, gentle kindness, "Thank you for sharing that your heart is sad and that when you think of 'peaceful' you think of your dad and of crying. Namaste..."

And then it was the next kid's turn. And this little one handed over Share Bear so the next boy could share.

So at the end of class, I was troubled because this little one was among those who had rolled himself up in his yoga mat (as I had instructed--be a burrito!), but instead of feeling swaddled and peaceful and still, he went rolling all around the room in his burrito (as did most of the kids). And I thought this meant that I hadn't given him (or them) what was needed.

But really? If you're six. And you have lost your dad. And you are spending your days in a mental hospital. Then maybe what you need is someone to listen to you, someone safe. Maybe you need a bear to hold onto and lots of smiles...and the chance to roll around in a gymnasium wrapped up in a bright blue yoga mat like you are some kind of a Smurfy mobile burrito...followed by ...a hug.

What I learned today is that "peaceful" doesn't always look like what I, as a yoga teacher, might intend or expect peaceful to look like. Especially for these children, "peaceful" and the path to "peaceful" are going to diverge from the thing I now realize I was rigidly working for.

But just because it doesn't look what I expected or intended it to...it doesn't mean we didn't find it.

Om shanti, my friends; peace.