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.]

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: "When do we do anything alone?"

During our most recent training weekend at Fire Academy, we arrived before 7 a.m. and spent a long time standing in the cold as the cars were prepared for our extrication lesson. I was sick and I kept having to take off my gloves to blow my nose, exposing them to the well-below-freezing air. I was standing with a group of my classmates, fellow firefighters, and I was actually growing concerned about the intensity of the pain in my fingers and toes. I shifted and stamped and scrunched my fingers and toes trying to get them warm.

One of the firefighters noticed, and the next thing I knew, he was taking off his gloves and telling me to put my hands inside them. They were warm with moist heat and toasty! (Like the inside of a Ton Ton?!) And then another firefighter told me to give him my gloves and he put his warm fingers inside of them, so that when I gave back the first firefighter's gloves, my newly warmed fingers could go inside warm gloves. My hands stayed warm for the rest of the day. Neither of these men are in my company.

On the day when I got most beat up, the second day of our most grueling weekend, when my knees were bruised to the bone and the rest of me was smashed to bits and I was reeling from the trauma of having gotten trapped in a confined space (wedged between wall studs and tangled up so badly my helmet and mask slipped off while people screamed at me to go faster--twice!), and it wasn't even lunch time yet, I stumbled out of the building looking for all the world like what I was--a woman in shock and about to pass out--a firefighter spotted me and immediately asked if it would be okay if he helped me. He himself has two bum knees, but with respectful kindness he slipped an arm around me and helped steady my gait. We made it to the staging area and as I focused on keeping all the black spots in my vision from swarming together and dragging me down, he went for help. While he was gone and I swayed stubbornly on my hands and knees, refusing to pass out, but unable to do more than that, another firefighter noticed me and brought me water. And two minutes later, after I had been checked out and was back on my feet again, another firefighter offered to change my bottle for me. Again, none of those men were in my company, which means that they had no necessary obligation to notice or to care how I was--and yet they did; they noticed, they cared, they took swift and effective action on my behalf.

On Thursday night, Orland Fire responded in mutual aid to a fatal motor vehicle accident. So far two firefighters from my class have checked in on me, because we have been taught that is important to ask someone if they are okay after a night like that.

I had to do the confined spaces maze two times in one day on our second weekend at Academy. When it was time for the second trip through, I was so exhausted and overwhelmed and borderline hysterical with fear just at the thought of going blindfolded back into that terrible, relentlessly small space that I (embarrassingly) started crying--and not just a little. I was crumpled faced and sobbing. I could't stop; my defenses were broken and I was leaking fear. I didn't want to go back in. But my lead instructor told me, firmly, that if I didn't get back in there (NOW) then I wouldn't graduate. And I want to graduate...so I gathered what was left of my inner resolve, I climbed back into that dark maze and my lead instructor came behind me, barking at my heels.

The second time through was harder. I was more tired. More scared. My vision and breathing were more obstructed. I was carrying a heavy axe and had to sound the floor constantly as I crawled and felt my way through the tunnels and turns. They threw more unexpected and terrifying obstacles at me--snagged my bottle and held me down--and I completely lost my shit twice. Once I even begged to be let out.

But they didn't let me out. Eventually I stopped screaming and I overcame all the obstacles and I got myself out. But it was not pretty. And I assumed that I had failed. I was devastated.

That night I barely slept. I had night terrors about the maze all night, and shame and grief about my failure. At the end of the next day, I asked my lead instructor when I would have to try the maze again. Tears sprang to my eyes and my chest constricted in panic just to think of it. But I swallowed that fear, determined to graduate.

"You don't have to do it again," he said.

"But...I didn't do it...?" I said. I was very confused.

"You did do it," he said.

"But...but I cried? And I panicked," I said.

"You overcame some big fears yesterday," he said. "You're too hard on yourself."

"But...you mean I passed? I don't have to do it again?"

"That's right," he said. "You demonstrated adequate proficiency."

I was still very confused. "But...I didn't do it alone...?"

He looked me in my eyes and he asked, "When do we ever do anything alone?"

My eyes teared up again and I swallowed a little sob. "Never," I said. "We never do anything alone."

Beyond any of the hundreds of important skills we are learning--like how to tie a life safety knot or bail out of a burning building on a charged hose line or throw a ladder--it is these other moments that will stay with me forever. As much as I love knowing how to rescue someone down a ladder or how to tie a clove hitch or how to put water on a fire, of all the things I am learning about myself and being a firefighter, these lessons about what it really means to be a firefighter are the most profound.

As a volunteer firefighter in a very small, rural town, I will most likely never use most of what I am learning. I will probably never rescue an unconscious firefighter from a burning basement or be the one to deploy the roof ladder. And I expect after my end test I will promptly forget the names of all the different sprinkler heads.

On its face, of course, firefighting is about putting out fires. But at its heart, firefighting is about so much more than that. Our biggest promise is not that we will put out a fire, it is that Everyone Goes Home. And the only way we can accomplish that is to understand that we are, in each and every moment, from fatal car crashes to training exercises to explosive conflagrations...never doing anything alone.

Tales from Rural Maine: We are bigger than we think we are

March 30, 2016

Last year, around this time, I stood in this open-air room overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Costa Rica and I wept. I had become overheated, drained and worn out and was unable to attend my surf lesson earlier in the day. In my mind, I believed that if I couldn't make my body do every single thing I wanted to do in Costa Rica--especially take this surf lesson--then it would mean my condition had gotten the better of me and I would be a failure.

My teacher Jillian Pransky talked with me gently about how untrue this was. She said to me, "You are bigger than you think you are."

And then, we practiced.

I came home from Costa Rica and I wrote in my journal, "What if I am bigger than I think I am?"

And then, I practiced.

I practiced every day. I practiced loving and accepting myself; I practiced noticing that I am bigger on the inside; I practiced noticing that I am full of vast, untapped potential; I practiced trusting that I am full of great big beauty; I practiced knowing that I am so much more--so very much more--than my mind's most limited stories can imagine. I practiced being kind.

This year, while my beautiful friends and my teacher returned to Blue Spirit to practice together, I stayed home...to continue the work I began in January of becoming a bona fide interior firefighter. That dream (interior firefighter) seemed far away and very nearly impossible last year. It was a tiny speck on the horizon of a distant shore. I saw myself as too weak, too frightened, too tired, too old, too heavy, too small, too inadequate, too feminine, too sick to even really allow myself to fully dream of such a thing.

But then I went to Costa Rica. And I began to wonder..."What if I am *bigger* than I think I am?"

You can talk yourself into your dreams, or you can talk yourself out of them.

This weekend, I will enter my fourth month of Fire Academy training. It was hell for me from the get-go. But it's getting better. I'm getting better. I have more confidence, more self-respect, more fire! And for the first time since I began, I am not afraid. (Which is lucky, because I will be facing the biggest fire I will probably ever see in my life on Sunday.)

And it all began when I sat right there, on the far side of this open air room in Costa Rica and I listened when my teacher said, "You are bigger than you think you are."

I am bigger than I think I am. I am more capable and courageous and kind and full of light than I ever thought I could be. I am bigger than I think I am.

And so are you.

#changedbytravel

Tales from Rural Maine: Time capsule

April 21, 2016

Are you ready for this? One of my yoga students handed me a copy of the Bucksport Free Press...from 1990! It's the graduation special edition featuring, that's right, the Bucksport High School Class of 1990. (Also a story I wrote in my debut as a sports reporter...) She didn't have a child or even a relative in our class, and yet somehow, like some sort of yoga-rific time capsule, she got that issue, held onto it for 26 years (!) and then handed it back to me before yoga class. If that isn't Throwback Thursday-worthy, I don't know what is! #TBT Rock on, Golden Bucks, rock on! "You Can't Touch This!" June 1990. :-) (I still have that watch.)

Tales from Rural Maine: Au revoir, sweet Prince

April 21, 2016

It’s possible that I got drunk on margaritas and listened to this entire album while remembering every good thing that ever happened while listening to Prince and lamenting that he will never make me pancakes. 

Electric word life
It means forever and that's a mighty long time
But I'm here to tell you
There's something else
The after world
A world of never ending happiness
You can always see the sun, day or night

au revoir, sweet #Prince…

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: I believe you can

May 13, 2016

<<Best. Training. EVER!!!! Sadly, no photos this time, but: first time in structure fire turnout gear, first time running pump truck (yay, physics--thank you Mr. Bradford!), first time riding in tanker truck, first time at pump house, and the crowning glory...first time at the end of a hose!! Screw bungie jumping. You want a thrill? Latch onto the end of a fire hose and lean into a friend. My arms feel like jelly, but I am happy as a clam--a clam that fights fires!>>

Facebook just reminded me that three years ago today, I donned my turnout gear for the first time, went for a ride in our tanker, felt what it's like to send water out of a hose...and apparently, I liked it. (A lot!) :- I suspect this was one of the first appearances of the "shit-eating grin" my chief has come to know me for.

I keep thinking that becoming an interior firefighter came out of left field, but apparently I've been loving it since the very first second.

I keep thinking that that girl--the three-years-ago-living-in-trauma girl--who joined the Orland Fire Department would never believe that I am actually standing here today, a bona fide interior fire fighter with Orland, about to complete Fire Academy and potentially about to become a state certified Fire Fighter I and II.

But...I also know that you don't get what you hope for, you get what you *believe.*

So, at some level, there *must* have been a part of me, even when I was broken and afraid (of everything!), that *believed* this was possible. Isn't that amazing? That underneath all of that life-or-death fear of the daily basics, underneath all of my physical illness, injury, and weakness; underneath all of the trauma; there was a part of me who believed she could rise up and accomplish something that at that moment seemed (to everyone, I'm sure) impossible. (I bet that's the same part of me that got into and through Smith College, when going to college was among the most deeply unlikely things for a girl born into my circumstances to do.)

I was also lucky enough to have a few friendly fire fighters around me, who believed it even better than me. Lt. Dave Sukeforth, chief among them. He was the first to suggest that I should go to the Academy this winter, and the fiercest advocate for getting me in. I have never understood why Dave (or anyone else) thought I could do the Academy...but if Dave hadn't insisted, I'm not sure I ever would have tried. When my own belief was thin on the ground, the belief of others filled in the gaps. If you have a dream my friends, finding and trusting as many pairs of believing eyes as you can manifest is essential. **It's the belief that makes wishes powerful.**

Marcus joined the OFD and sixty days later, he was at the Academy. It took me 2 1/2 years to get to that same starting point, but we did it together. And I think if he hadn't joined the department when he did, I might never have gone. Knowing he would be there made it possible to begin. The timing of his decision to join was a tremendous gift to me. (And when I felt like I might have to quit the Academy because I just couldn't take the abuse any more, he told me that if I had to quit, he would sign up and do the whole thing over again with me, because he knew I could get through.)

But, I didn't quit. I did the opposite of quitting. When faced with a choice between quitting and standing up for myself, I made the radical (for me) choice to stand up for myself and ask for change. Fear + courage = progress.

And now...it's almost over. Tomorrow, the roller coaster reaches its peak and we start zooming down toward the end of fire academy. Two classroom days of haz mat. Followed by two days of OFD obligations (and studying). Then two more days to study as much as possible. Then Friday, another live interior burn, Saturday forestry work (lots of digging in the sun), and Sunday, our grand finale...our Open Day, when we'll run through the practical end test (where we try to remember every single thing we've learned to do)...and then my classmates and teachers will roast some meat for eating...and the next day, Monday, I'll teach at Acadia and then sit for my State FF I & II exam...

...three years and ten days after I (very enthusiastically) first donned my turnout gear. :-)

If you have a dream, listen not to the constant radio chatter of voices broadcasting reasons you can't; especially don't listen to the ones inside your own head. Listen instead to that one faithful voice inside you that says, "Yes. I believe you can."

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: Never alone

May 24, 2016

Last night, my Hancock County Fire Academy classmates and I sat for the state written exam. If we pass it, we'll be half-way to our Fire Fighter I and II certifications. The second half is a skills test in June. (This does not affect our status as graduates of the Academy; we are all graduating, regardless of the results of the state exams.)

The test is hard. And long. 200 questions in three hours. It can cover anything from our 1100-page textbook, like for instance how much steel expands at certain temperatures or which NFPA standard covers fire fighter training regulations or what you would find in an MC-305 tanker truck or what you should do with the doors on a car while you are displacing the dashboard so you can free an entrapped passenger. (I didn't know the answers to any of those, by the way except that the standard covering training regulations is NFPA 1001. I'm sure that will be incredibly useful in my career as a firefighter :-)).

There were 19 of us sitting for the exam and as each one finished, he or she left the room. When the first people handed in their tests and left, I still wasn't even half-way through the first exam. By the end, there was just me and one other fire fighter slogging through the last part of our Fire Fighter II and watching the clock.

It was nearly 9pm when I finished. I'd had a long day and a long week and a long six months. And it was a little bit of a lonely feeling to know that I was going to walk out of that exam that we'd been working toward for six months, and there would be no one waiting for me, to say "How did it go!" or "We did it! Let's get a drink!"

I hung around in the exam room, darkening the circles in my bubble answer sheet for a while, so that my classmate wouldn't be all alone in there as he worked on finishing. But eventually, after going over and over all those bubbles, I started to get very anxious. Like I wanted to take the whole test out and start over, but there were only fifteen minutes left! So I decided to call it...and leave. My classmate and I gave each other a big smile and a thumbs up and I decided I'd go down to the fire bay and wait in the quiet darkness for him to finish, so at least he wouldn't be alone when he came out.

I walked down over the stairs and I had this little pang of sadness, to be second to last and all alone...and then, I caught a glimpse of my lead instructor standing between the trucks, in front of the open fire bay doors. Of course, he would still be there, I realized. He wouldn't leave us alone. But I wished that everyone else was there, too. So we could celebrate and share and mark the moment. But I also understood why people wouldn't want to hang around after they'd finished. Some of them had finished almost two hours before me.

When I rounded the corner, I saw that I was wrong to imagine I was alone. Almost every single member of my 19-person class was standing there, smiling, waiting for me and Jeff to finish our exams. My face lit up when I caught sight of them. I was not alone. I was never alone. I only imagined that I was. If there is one true thing that Fire Academy has taught us, it is this: we never do anything alone.

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: Graduation Gifts

June 3, 2016

I just ironed my dress uniform and made sure all of my insignia were present and accounted for and in the right place. And then I enjoyed these two little friends who arrived in the mail today to tell me “congratulations!” and how proud their senders are of me. 

And then it hit me! This is actually happening! I did it! I’m graduating from the Hancock County Fire Academy. I am an interior fire fighter!! I totally *did* it!! Holy fucking cow!

Tomorrow is the second biggest day of my life…and it took everything I thought I had and a whole lot more I didn’t know was there to get to the end (which, it turns out, is really just the beginning!)…and…I did it! I really and truly actually did it! Holy crap.

I don’t have a partner or a family to come with me to graduation, but I am a fire fighter, so I know I will not be alone. Apart from my fellow cadets and our instructors, people who love me are showing up.

Peter hurt his back badly this week, but when I asked if he would still be able to come, he said, “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” At least three of the officers from my department are coming; and my dad and my stepmom; and Karen and Crystal are giving up their Brandi Carlisle tickets to come! The Wombachers will be there and my grandparents may even show up. And Titch is coming all the way from Portland! She’s coming even though she won’t be able to arrive in time to catch the whole ceremony. That is love, my friends; that is *love*.

Fire Academy was long and hard and there were a lot of lonely moments for me. But every time I drooped from fatigue or had to push through pain or fear (or both!), I pictured all the people out there, all the friends and family from across the whole span of my life who were rooting for me and believing in me. I would close my eyes and picture you all, standing up and cheering, and smiling at me at my graduation. And I would smile, too. And then I would open my eyes. And I would keep going. I can’t believe that that magical moment on the horizon, which kept me going through it all…graduation…is finally here!

I had a great deal of support from the members of my department. One of our captains logged a *lot* of hours coaching me to do everything from swinging a sledgehammer to crawling through confined spaces to climbing up on a roof and using a chain saw. And my Chief not only taught me how to don my gear, but had my back in every way throughout my journey. And whenever I wavered, everyone at the OFD always said, “You can do this!” And they meant it.

But even with all of that, I’m honestly not sure how I would’ve gotten through this experience without the support of all the believing eyes I knew were out there, thanks to Facebook. You, my friend, you who clicked Like or made a supportive comment or sent me a message or a letter in the actual bonafide came-from-the-post-office-mail because of something you saw me post on Facebook, you! *You* helped me get here. Last week 1,000 Smithies gave me a virtual standing ovation!

Today, these sweet gifts came from friends, a fire fighter gnome and a dozen fire fighter rubber duckies; a beautiful card magically arrived at my front door with a meaningful message from a fellow fire fighter; and even my mother, who hasn’t spoken to me in years (and told me she considers me dead), sent the most beautiful card.

The card from my fellow fire fighter said this: “May you have the courage to serve, the compassion to comfort, and the strength to perform your duties whenever you are called.”

And my mom’s card said, “You’re a woman who makes things happen. You’re a woman who gives her best to everyone and everything. You’re an inspiration to so many, and you deserve every happiness because of the wonderful woman you are.” She even signed it, "Lots of love."

It will be no surprise to my Fire Academy classmates that I cried a little when I read both. (Well, maybe it will be a surprise to them that I only cried “a little.”)

Thank you—Thank YOU—for everything you did to make this graduation day possible. I promise to serve with as much compassion, courage, and strength as I can possibly muster.

And just in case you want to see a whole bunch of fire fighters in their very finest: HCFA graduation is at Ellsworth High School, 6pm, 6/4/16 with a party to follow at Finn's. There will be bag pipes! And I’ll be so very glad, if you can come.

Tales from Rural Maine: The Auntie Brigade

There are some things in life that bring me joy. (Lots and lots of things!) Teaching yoga. Practicing yoga with a kind and illuminated teacher. Serving as a fire fighter. Training as a fire fighter. These things top the list. But among the other, most extraordinarily powerful things that bring me joy, is the opportunity to give unconditional love to children.

I am lucky enough to have people in my life who are willing to share their children with me. To allow me, sometimes professionally and sometimes simply as a friend, to love the socks off their children. They let me play and listen and comfort; they allow me to share in meal times and bed times and holidays. We play at the fire department. We play at home. We enjoy one another and take good care. We are enthusiastic in our warmth and appreciation.

It has often seemed such a cruel twist of this particular life's fate that someone with such a virtually limitless capacity for love and loving kindness and nurturing and patience and joy has no surviving children of her own.

But, there is also this beautiful side to that. I am part of what Liz Gilbert calls "The Auntie Brigade."

"Even within my own community, I can see where I have been vital sometimes as a member of the Auntie Brigade," she writes. "My job is not merely to spoil and indulge my niece and nephew (though I do take that assignment to heart) but also to be a roving auntie to the world – an ambassador auntie –who is on hand wherever help is needed, in anybody’s family whatsoever. There are people I’ve been able to help, sometimes fully supporting them for years, because I am not obliged, as a mother would be obliged, to put all my energies and resources into the full-time rearing of a child."

Last night, when my friend Kathleen handed her fussy toddler to me near bedtime, he felt upset. There was also a nearly five-year-old bouncing around, avoiding sleep. As his mother left the room to go make up my bed for me, nearly five-year-old daughter tagging along behind, Graeme and I were left alone. I held his warm little self, fresh from the bath, wearing only a diaper, and he reached out his arms after his mother, disappearing down the hallway. "Ma-ma!," he said. Distress building in his face, in his voice, in his body. "Ma-ma!"

I softened into his upset, holding him gently, and I murmured, "Graeme...let's go find the moon..." As soon as I said the words, his body relaxed into mine. He got quiet and rested his sweet little head on my chest. I walked to the window and looked out into the night. I rocked gently, tenderly, and his breathing slowed and softened. His eyelids got heavy. Softly, steadily, he fell asleep.

I stood there for a long time--an Auntie, tired, back aching, but available completely--happily rocking, holding that beloved little boy...and looking for the moon.

Tales from Rural Maine: Sleep tight, little squash bee

"Male squash bees sometimes sleep inside the blossoms in hopes of encountering a female." Aww...I am totally picturing a sleepy, amorous squash bee waking up each morning after a cold night alone in his squash blossom hoping that today will be the day that he encounters a friendly lady bee. (Source of quote: Mother Earth News)

:-) I still feel totally inspired by male squash bees. If I had talent as a visual artist, I would totally illustrate this so sweetly and cleverly. Oh, wait. I can write? Maybe I'll write a story about this and then someone wonderful can illustrate that. Sleep tight, little squash bee. I hope you find love in the morning...

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.

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: Fire-Fighter Up

It was not until she was about to board the Sandia Tram that Naomi realized that she had, perhaps, neglected to ask some important questions. She had, for instance, not exactly grasped how *high* off the ground the glass container would be carrying her. And now it was too late to turn back.

900 feet above the canyon floor, is the answer, by the way. A confined space at a drastic height...her heart began to pound a little faster and, for a moment, she thought she might panic.

But then? She remembered. She can do heights. And confined spaces. If she has to.

"It's okay," she said to her friend. "I'm going to fire-fighter up."

And as she traveled up 3,819 feet in elevation over 15 minutes on the world's longest tram (a double reversible jigback aerial tramway, it turns out), she was glad once again, that she had done her fire academy training. Because it meant that she could stay calm and enjoy views like these, even when the conductor pointed out they were up so high it would take 8 seconds to hit the ground if we fell.

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: May 22nd

On this day, May 22, twenty-two years ago, I graduated from Smith College. Today, I will complete Hancock County Fire Academy by taking my Academy practical and written exams. I will need to remember everything I have learned these last six months...in one go. And then...I am done.

This is the third hard training day in a row. And the fifth of six training weekends in a row. And tomorrow, I will sit for my State pro-board exam. My body is bruised so badly it's alarming. My feet are swollen and sore. My right knee is swollen and achy. I am sunburned. My back hurts. I still have sand in my ears from when the helicopter took off and I stood too near, because I wanted to see what it was like. I am so very, very tired.

Last night, I didn't feel as though I could do one more day. I got home from training with feet so tender I couldn't walk without flinching.

It took me a few hours--and some arnica, and an epsom salt foot bath, and some anti-inflammatories and some ice--but I finally rose to go out to my car and organize my gear for today. I was so exhausted and in so much pain, I began to whimper. I stood in my driveway behind my car, surrounded by gear and I just kept thinking, "Three days in a row is too much. It's too much. I just can't...I can't possibly do what is necessary to be ready for tomorrow. I can't do another day. It's too much..." And I gave myself permission to cry.

I let out one little sob. But no tears came. And then I picked up my helmet and I smelled the smell of smoke. I smelled the rich odor of the previous night's interior burn evolutions. And my face broke into a smile. I hit the dry bottom of my deep well of exhaustion and instead of crying, I smiled. I smiled because I can. I picked up that helmet and I held it to my face and I breathed in that beautiful scent of fire; of teamwork and fortitude and smoke and gratitude and grit and accomplishment and pain. And I knew that whether or not I remember how to tie a becket bend at my end test--or any other particular skill--I will always remember this: I am a fire fighter. And that means that no matter how tired or sore or worn out or afraid that I am...I can. I can keep going. I can get it done, whatever it is. I can do it.

Yesterday, by the way, I asked to do the confined spaces maze again. My albatross, my nightmare, my horror, my thing. I wanted to try it again. Six months after the first tries, which broke me, I did it again. Twice. And I was fine. Six months later, that confined spaces maze is my friend.

I have more to say about this, but no time this morning to say it all. But I will say this:

College was never a "given" for me. My grandfather couldn't read a newspaper. I was the first in my family to get a four-year degree. And I received no help in figuring out how to get into, pay for, or get through one of the very best colleges in the country.

May 22, 1994 and May 22, 2016

I found out when I was 14 years old that I would be on my own when I was 18, and that if I wanted to go to college--and I did!--that it would be entirely up to me to figure out how to accomplish every aspect of that, from applying to schools to applying for financial aid to getting through all four years without financial, practical, or emotional support. I cried when I learned this. And then...I went to work.

The girl who did that is the woman who is doing this.

Whatever happens today...I did it! I completed the Academy. And regardless of how I perform on my tests today...I learned what I was truly meant to learn: I can. Sometimes you need to cry. But then...you go to work. My young self knew that deep inside, and she got me to where I am today. I'm so grateful for whatever makes that possible.

And I am grateful for today.

Wish me luck!

Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: The Fire Swamp

I had a hard day today. It was the last day of Fire Academy, and in some ways, it was the worst one, which is really saying something. It was the fifth of the last six weekends in a row that we had training, and the third of an unprecedented three-day training weekend. To say I was running on empty is to say that the Titanic hit an ice cube.

What is the word to describe indescribable fatigue of body and mind? Also? My blisters have blisters. Oh, wait. Not any more. They all ripped off today. But my bruises definitely have bruises. And my exhausted self was taken by surprise by a confined spaces challenge first thing this morning, which did not go well for me, and I never really recovered. As a result, my day involved several rather severe crying jags, which always leaves me feeling raw, embarrassed, and pathetic. But several very kind and generous firefighters said and did some things that lifted my tired spirit enough that I was able to arrive at a moment just now where I realized that I can think of today--and perhaps Fire Academy, in general--as being like a journey through the Fire Swamp. As in, after falling into the Lightning Sand and almost dying, Princess Buttercup says to Westley, "We'll never succeed, we may as well die here!"

But Westley says to Princess Buttercup, "No, no! We have already succeeded. I mean, what are the Three Terrors of the Fire Swamp? One? The Flame Spurt. No problem. There's a popping sound preceding each, we can avoid that. Two, the Lightning Sand, and you were clever enough to discover that, so in the future, we can avoid that too..."

See, after this weekend, I know that a career in wildland fires is not for me. That's handy knowledge. (Hanging around with forestry guys/gals is like going to the zoo, by the way--they are a totally different breed from us structural guys/gals! It's fascinating to watch them, with their lean bodies and their beards and their green pants. Well, not a zoo, more like...a forest. A mythic forest full of animals who genuinely like to dig fire lines for ten hours at a stretch for days at a time in the middle of nowhere in intense heat, and often deadly conditions. Weirdly, they think it's odd that *we* want to go into burning buildings.)

Second, I think it's clear that I don't have a future in search and rescue...and rather than feel bad about that, I can be pleased that I was clever enough to discover it, so that I can avoid that in the future.

That really just leaves Rodents of Unusual Size. And I'm pretty sure they don't exist.

You can watch this film clip on YouTube here.