The Princess Of Garbage Day

I am cleaning out my basement. I clutch my box of Hefty Ultra-flex Garbage Bags, inhale the musty aroma and repeat the mantra – it’s good to let go.

I unearth achievements from old newspapers and unopened gifts that I kept out of guilt. I exhume the exalted size four jeans, with a hole in one knee. I stumble over my college textbooks; their bindings as pristine as the day I purchased them.

I come across a 1995 instruction manual for the telephone system, where I was an office temp in between acting jobs.  This reminds me, my agent hasn’t called in seven years. They dropped me the day I told them I was pregnant.

One of the things that surprised me about motherhood was the unanticipated disappearance of my old self.  I attribute it to many things; weight gain, lack of sleep and time to myself, giving up a career that I loved, but I felt deeply that I wanted to be home with my child and that required letting go of things that I identified with.

I sift through an old photo album and admire myself in costumes or at parties with other youthful, enthusiastic performers and I wonder what happened to “that girl”.  It is as if she was absorbed into the fabric of who I am now. And somewhere, in the process of that melding, I released much of her sarcasm, selfishness, and anger.  Though sometimes I miss that feisty, sharp tongued, do almost anything on a dare, girl.

Yoga teachers often talk about cleaning out our inner closets. The practice helps us to uncover physical and emotional baggage and release what does not serve us.

We sometimes hold onto what we know because change is frightening and challenging, and staying with the familiar, even if it makes us ill, and unhappy, feels better than venturing into the unknown.

Springtime is filled with cultural and religious traditions that symbolize rebirth. Lent, Maha Shivaratri, Passover, and Songkran all pay reverence to a time of renewal; as we attempt to purify the mind, heart, and home, remove negativity, and celebrate.

Feng Shui is a practice that urges us to live in harmony with our environment. Feng means wind. It represents the unseen in our lives. Shui means water and symbolizes the manifest.  It teaches, what we amass reveals something about our inner health; old letters and photographs prove that we are loved and befriended.  Heaps of things that might “come in handy” signal a lack faith in the future.

Too many things hanging from hooks or door jams indicate depression, an excess of spiky plants or sharp corners make visitors feel unwelcome and create anxiety, cracked or dirty window panes can affect the way you view life, restrict insights, and even create eye problems.

Equally important is where we accumulate our clutter. If our basement is brimming, we may cling to the past and the subconscious mind weighs us down. An overcrowded attic often restricts high aspirations. Jam-packed junk rooms might represent the experiences we haul, and constrains choices for our future.

The home reflects the spirit. The list of things that need repair, and the objects we cling to for security or status—leave us feeling stuck and drain us of Prana.

I empty out another box and hear the familiar jingle of my old dog’s collar. I read the tag, hold it close to my heart then put it in the keep pile along side my son’s red handprints shaped like a heart, and my fathers copper bracelet that he wore to ward off arthritis pain in his hand.

The next plastic vault reveals documents that may tie my family to Sicilian royalty. I scrutinize the details in an old family crest and make a note to join Ancestry.com. My grubby baseball hat seems a feeble proxy for my tiara.

I am not so enlightened that I can let go of all my memorabilia but choices strengthen my connection to the things I decide to keep. Somewhere between the cobwebs and the keep box I realize that if everything is “important” then nothing is.

The day I entered my first yoga class I was under the impression that I had something to acquire; a fit body, a spiritual path, like-minded friends.  But I have not attained, I have let go; releasing beliefs that do not serve me, forgiving myself and others for mistakes, and relinquishing control over life’s moments, allowing them to flow through me, as they are, not as I insist they should be. (I guess I am still a little feisty.)

Yoga creates space in the mind and body, which allows us to receive, process and offer energy– unencumbered by fear. Inside this sacred space we can develop the faith that we will be provided for and cherished without the aid of material things.

Releasing the past with reverence and intention creates room for the new and cultivates faith in the future.

Practice letting go; you may not discover a jewel-encrusted crown, but you might find that you are a princess on garbage day.

 

Sing Out, Clara

Clara walked onto the stage and took the microphone in hand. She glanced at her first grade teacher in the wings. The mike clunked, and scratched as it brushed up against her purple, pleated skirt.

“Smile” chirped her teacher and gestured for her to hold the mike to her mouth.

The pianist played the intro to Rogers and Hammerstein’s “Getting To Know You”, but Clara’s vocal cue was met with silence. The lyrics escaped her. She stood motionless.

Seven hundred students, teachers and parents filled the gymnasium. There was no snickering, eye rolling, or elbowing from her fellow students. They supported her with smiles and unwavering attention.

Her teacher came onstage. She got on one knee and put her arm around Clara. “Would you like to try it again next week?” Clara stood in the spotlight, white knuckles wrapped around the microphone and nodded.

Then, as if on cue, the student body yelled out “THAT’S O-KAY” and cheered for little Clara.

My son sat criss-cross on the floor clapping and looking around the room. He was learning, thanks to Clara, about success and the balance needed to realize it.

I overheard Clara’s teacher talking to her backstage. “It’s okay.” she said. “When we love to do something we have to stick with it and keep trying. You have a beautiful singing voice that’s for sure. Now we also know that you need to practice a little more before getting out there. See? Today wasn’t a failure. Today we learned how to be the best we can be. How great is that?” Clara smiled and hugged her.

Watching Clara made me think about the meaning of accomplishment on the mat and off. Too often we equate the merits of our work with a tangible outcome; money, praise, achieving a difficult asana or in the case of cyber-blogging, hits.

The struggle to keep a goal balanced with an intention can be challenging, but Yoga’s Niyamas and other basic principles are a powerful resource.

Collaborating with your Sangha (community) and asking for support is empowering. It takes humility to ask for help and you cannot underestimate what can be learned from others.

My husband taught me the rules of writing and more importantly how to think about writing. He says, “Don’t miss an opportunity to do what only writing can do.” He and my friend Elizabeth edit and give valued opinions.

Elizabeth knows a lot about search engines and how it all works so I ask her for help with every piece and then send her chocolates. I take another friend to dinner and recruit her to post for me for an hour the next day.

Other friends support me with social media, emails, and inspiring comments. My husband and son are my source of inspiration. I write about the many yogic experiences I have as a mother and each story is a lesson in Svadhyaya (self study)

A Sankalpa is an intention or prayer and is meant to lead us to our spiritual purpose, one that benefits all.

Salkalpa broadens perspective, takes us out of thinking small and cultivates faith. It opens the heart and mind to greater possibilities while non-attachment is practiced.

I send each piece off with an intention, which has less to do with “clicks” and is infused with the desire to leave something behind for my son. It is my wish that one day he will look back and understand the depths of his parent’s commitment and love for him. If in the process I get a high readership then naturally, I feel excited and proud but I endeavor not to become attached to the outcome.

Do The Work and Then Surrender.

I spend about 25 hours getting each piece out. Writing it is only half the work. I comb the Internet for anything remotely related to what I have written. I find every webpage that has something to do with, parenting, schools, yoga, spirituality, empathy, and children. I contact radio stations, schools, fellow authors and yoga teachers.

Facebook, twitter, and Google are my constant companions for two days. Then I practice Ishvara Pranidhana (surrender) and trust that it will reach those that it is meant to.

Clara got back up on the stage the following week. Her teacher walked her out, handed her the microphone and kissed her on the top of her head. Clara looked out at her fellow students, opened her mouth and sang right on key. The entire school jumped to their feet and gave that seven year old her first standing ovation.

When I lived in New York and was a performer, I believed that inspiration and talent were the only requirements for success. I dismissed my failures as someone else’s lack of awareness or imagination. I understand more clearly now the meaning of Tapas (self-discipline) and I apply it to my writing and my yoga practice.

Clara’s teacher is showing her, at seven years old, something I didn’t understand until I was forty; you must find your passion, share it with your friends and family, who will always be your most fervent collaborators, do your work, face your fears, understand your intentions, and sing out!

 

The Apprentices Gift

The Apprentice’s Gift

My five year old was disappointed. He sat on the small elf chair at the Christmas worktable. “Mine’s not good at all. See? All the colors are mixed up.”

“It’s beautiful, pal.” I held the clear, plastic baseball up and wondered if I could rearrange the sand. I twisted the cap, but it was hot-glued and tacky to touch.  “Your dad will love it!”

“No, it isn’t good, Mom. Look at Cal’s.”  He kicked his leg back and forth and picked at a glob of glittery glue on the tabletop.

Cal, my son’s cousin and best friend, sat at the workbench and poured a scoop of florescent green sand into a funnel. He chose a football instead of a baseball, and worked with elfish attention to detail.

He mapped out the design in his mind, picked his colors deliberately, and in long slow intervals added layer after layer of dyed sand.  He squished his cheek on the workbench, and fixed an apprentice’s eye on the shiny specs that drained into the hourglass.

He overheard our conversation, but continued his work.  He selected snowy white for the final layer and looked at us. His best buddy sat with his chin in his hand.

Cal completed his endeavor and handed the football to the silver-haired lady elf. Her apron had two red-striped pockets. She holstered candy canes in one and her hot glue gun in the other.  She adhered the top of Calvin’s handiwork. “Nice job,” she chirped, “You would make a fine helper for Santa.”  Calvin smiled and joined his cousin at the sticky table.

“Hi,” my son said.  “Yours came out perfect. Look at mine.” He plunked his baseball down.

“I like yours.” Cal put his arm around his friend’s shoulders.  “Do you want to trade?  You can have mine and I’ll keep yours because I think it’s really good”

I looked at his mom and gasped.  She placed her hand over her heart.

“Really? OK, I’ll trade!  Hey Mom!”  My son jumped out of his seat holding the pink, blue, green, red, yellow and orange football high in the air. “Look what Cal gave me!”

“That is so nice of him.  I hope you thanked him”

My boy dashed back to the table, gave Cal a high five and the two friends ran off to explore the rest of Wonderland.

I watched them and my heart opened and ached with gratitude to witness such a moment of authentic generosity. “That,” I said to Cal’s mom, “was true Christmas spirit.”  We laughed at our tears and wiped them away.  “I love him so much” she said, “I just want to kiss his face off.”

This child’s inherent kindness was remarkable.   Empathy and generosity flow freely in him; it seemed natural to give away what he had worked so hard to perfect. He practiced what some refer to in Yoga as the unification of the heart, mind and hands.

Yoga translates to mean unite and one of the goals is to quiet the mind so that we may hear what lives in the heart and then express it to others.

The Heart Chakra (Anahata) houses empathy, compassion and forgiveness.  It is the seat of our loving relationships.

The Crown Chakra (Sahasrara) is our connection to a higher power. It provided the inspiration for Calvin’s gift, but one needs a strong sense of self and peaceful heart to act on inspiration.

And the Throat Chakra (Vishuddha) is the expression of who we are. Its energy is contagious and reveals the way our actions have a ripple effect in the world.

Our day in Santa’s Village was filled with the pandemonium any adventure with three young children provides: glove losses, runny noses, jackets zipping, jungle gyms, head bumps, decorated cookies, sugar highs, gentle scoldings, kisses for any and all achievements, and ultimately the noiseless exhaustion that delights mothers.

We checked into our hotel and swung open the doors to our connecting rooms. The boys changed into super hero pajamas and jumped on the bed while Cal’s little sister, Sadie, whom we call Sassafras, snuggled in between her mom and I in the next room.  We read a book and listened to the boys demonstrate Karate moves.

“Hey Cal,” my son shouted, “’I’ll never forget this day for the rest of my life!”

Once again, Cal’s mom and I caught teary eyes and put our hands over our hearts. Then we laughed as hard as our two little super heroes.

The next afternoon, we packed our bags and prepared for a long drive home.  Cal came into our room and placed the baseball next to the football.  “I think I like mine. Can we switch back?” he asked.

“OK. I kind of like mine, too,” my son said. “Hey, lets go play with flashlights.”

It didn’t matter which sandy globe he went home with because the gift was not the thing. The gift was the moment; that exchange of the Earth’s abundant sand that touched each us and burnished an extraordinary understanding of generosity in my boy.

The holiday season provides each of us the opportunity to cast an eye inward, welcome our highest inspiration, and be an apprentice in the moment.

Letter From A Bully

I wrote this piece in response to the endless, heartbreaking loop of bullying and suicide stories in the news. Its time for a change

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2010/10/letter-from-a-bully–marylee-fairbanks/

I Hate Handstands

“I hate this shirt.” My son takes the grey polo shirt, rolls it up in a ball and drops it.

“What do you mean you hate it?  It’s a perfectly nice shirt.  I just bought it for school. Please put it on and don’t say hate.”

“I don’t want to wear it.”

“Just put it on. We’re late.”

“I don’t like it!”

“Put it on!”

My husband hears this and enters the room. “Hey Bud, let’s go check out your shirts.” he says and leads our boy up to his bedroom. He supports my position. He lays out some clothes and they feel the textures. They talk about the change of season and joke about frozen knees in January. Then, he allows our boy a choice between three appropriate shirts.  Meanwhile, I’m in the kitchen putting a stray plate into the dishwasher, wrapping a freshly baked blueberry muffin for the ride, wiping smudges off the countertop, and fighting back tears.

This is my Monday morning after I invested fifteen sweaty, awareness-enhancing hours doing yoga. I took a weekend workshop with Johnny Gillespie who, with the use of straps, blocks and a 95-degree room, encouraged us to slow our practice and uncover bad habits.

“A slower practice brings a deeper level of awareness.” Johnny says and tightens the straps on our forearms and calves. My muscles fight back with twitches and cramps, but our leader assures us that we were “unwinding dysfunction”. “You will continue to strengthen the very thing that causes you pain unless you retrain the body and mind.” I think, the five-minute forward bend with a cork block wedged in-between my thighs is the very thing causing me pain.

“Okay guys, find a partner because we’re going to work on handstands. No walls!” Johnny announces.  I hate handstands. I haven’t done one since I was a teenager and here I am, in a room with forty people, doing handstands.

My mind lists the things I need to do, check email, call home, eat something. My terrified ego whispers, “Pretend to use the bathroom”. But it’s too late.

My cousin Kim, a strong, admirable yogini and teacher occupies the mat next to mine. She grabs my hands and exclaims “Yeah! I love these”.  I consider slapping her with my sweaty towel.

The teacher uses Kim for the demonstration. She balances on her hands, in the center of the room. Her core holds her steady. Johnny presses his fingers on the soles of her feet highlighting the components of a beautiful handstand. My cousin puts herself upright with grace and purpose and beams at me, “Your turn”.

We reveal who we are in life on our yoga mat. Habits and attitudes limit us. We move quickly and find comfort in patterns, even if they do not serve us. It appears in the yoga studio, the grocery store and when we rush to dress a five year old for school.

I attempt excuses, but Kim is adamant.  “I’ll be your wall.  I won’t let you fall backwards.”

I remain on my hands for a half a minute, but in that inverted moment I glimpse new capability. Yoga uncovers hidden parts of yourself, then shifts your life. It summons the lessons needed lessons for transformation.  We can resist, but the longer we take to see the harder the lessons get.  Until at last, we see the very thing we resist, reflected back at us, by our child.

I left the workshop understanding new things about my shoulders, hips and handstands, but Monday morning I failed to bring them off my mat. I took care of the dog, laundry, dishes, and food and packed up with routine precision.

Asanas reveal our fears, strength and inner resolve. You can fall into patterns and feel pain or you can master each moment with courage and allow inversions in your life; where hands become feet, the child becomes the teacher, and loved ones help you discover balance.

I loaded the car on schedule turned to my son and told him, “I’m sorry we had a fight.” He responded, “What fight?” Daddy’s patience counterbalanced me. I laughed and handed him the warm muffin. “Here eat this and fill up your tummy for school.” My son opened the napkin, groaned, and said, ” I hate blueberry muffins.”

A Sleepless Night

I struggled with this month’s blog.  I have 3 semi-finished compositions on my desktop and was unable to complete any of them.  One was about silence; another was about quieting the mind and looking within to find Truth and the third about self-expression.  Now I sit here in the middle of the night in the dark.  The house is quiet, aside from the rhythmic breathing of my dog and the steady tapping of my fingers on the keyboard.

It is 2 AM. My chattering mind awakened me with thoughts of unfinished work and as I lay wishing on sleep, my thoughts turned to a man laying in a hospital bed in Boston and another walking the streets of Germany with a sore hip.

The man in the hospital is my brother. He has leukemia and it has been a long struggle. It has been a different kind of effort for his wife, young son, and all the people who love him.

Last week he received a bone marrow transplant from a young man whom he has never met.   All he knows about his donor is that he is in his twenties and lives in Germany.  They cannot know each other’s names for one year but this stranger sent an unsigned letter; in it he said “I am sorry you are not well and I hope that this will helps you to live”.

No reason for this gift was given. No payment of eternal thanks was expected.

He may have given the ultimate gift of life, but the truth is, he gave more than that.  He offers the gift of hope and a renewed belief in the human spirit. I believe now more than ever that at their core people are good and given the chance will do extraordinary things.

This man renews my sense that we truly are all one and the suffering or joy of a single person can have effect around the world.  We have an obligation to be kind to each other, in small ways, every day and the results of these actions extend further that we can ever understand.

I have made an effort to learn my lessons well during my brother’s struggle.  I am learning that it is a powerful feeling to take control of the small things that I am able to and an even more mighty is knowing what I cannot have power over and releasing it.

I am learning how buoyant hope feels without the weight of expectation. I am learning to stay in the present moment and to be grateful for the small joys found within it.  I am learning that people want to be of service and that helping others adds meaning to our lives.

Assisting someone can be as simple as offering a yoga class or prayers out to a stranger or as big as giving them blood.

Countless people take time out of their day to babysit for my son or share bone marrow transplant success stories.  They hand over the keys to their lake house, send thoughtful cards and emails or just give an open healing hug.  My husband puts aside his work twice week to shoot hoops with my nephew and keep him busy and happy for a few hours. Three months ago, when my brother was in the ICU a cousin of mine showed up at the hospital, with a cooler filled with the fixing for hot fudge sundaes and dished them out to everyone sitting the dank, dreary waiting room. I saw this generous act light up their eyes and get them talking to each other.

We are all seeking a way to connect.  We have an instinct that we are all together in this life but unsure of how to express the unity to one another.  Every action is powerful.

The act of reaching out to another person allows our hearts to flourish; reminding us that we are truly all one and by helping another we help ourselves to heal and grow.  And the circle never ends.

These acts no matter how big or small are what lead us to our calling.  I have learned that we should not ask how life might serve us but how we might serve life.

I can sleep now.  I can see those three unfinished blogs were leading me to this one.  My home is quiet, my dog is asleep, I have looked inward, expressed this month’s truth and I have a grateful mind.

Squishy Things

My son hates bedtime.  I was the same as a child.  I recall lying with my head under the blankets, blood chilled, the hair on the back of my neck at attention.  I couldn’t tell you what terrified me, but I dreaded being alone in my little room.

I’m lenient with my son’s bedtime because I recall these feelings. I lay down with him most every night, holding him close, answering his many, specific questions until he drifts off into a deep slumber.

People have advised me against it but the truth is, most evenings, I love being there with his freshly-bathed body wrapped in fuzzy dinosaur pajamas.  He awaits his Daddy’s footfall from down the hallway, coming to give him one last tickle or karate chop, a last reprieve before surrendering to sleep.

For me, his bedtime means some much needed time to myself at day’s end. For his Daddy, it signals the close to another day where his family is thriving and protected, but to our boy it is the start of a battle to fend off the night as long as he can.

I know there will be a time not so far in the future when he won’t kiss me goodbye in front of the school, so I take these moments as long and as often as they are offered up to me.

Tonight, bedtime was delicious.  I washed his hair in the bubbly bath, and because the house felt chilly I decided, instead of drying it in the bathroom, we could try something new.  We hurried to his bedroom, snuggled under the comforter, and plugged in the hair dryer.

He giggled. To him, this unfamiliar gesture of drying his wet head while in bed feels like breaking an unspoken rule.  I lifted the covers high to send the gentle heated wind down to our toes. He curled up into a ball and shivered away the last of the chilly air, a big smile on his face.  I dried his head and watched his effort to blink sleep away.

I drifted back to being four again.  My own mother nestled with me under the covers, drying my hair.  This was one of my favorite things.  I felt secure and warm and loved.

“Bed head” became a quirky inclination of mine, something I luxuriate in on occasion, but in this moment I realized that I had not done it in years.  The last time was right after I gave birth and my mom came to stay for a few days.

My first days of Motherhood were sleepless and sore. I was unsure of myself, nervous, nursing not only this new, tiny being but also my own pains from the C-section.  I was frazzled.

One evening, after a hot shower, my mom sent me to bed and entered my room with a hairdryer.  I burrowed under the sheets and the moment I heard the familiar humming, I cried.

A friend asked me at dinner last week what I found most difficult about being a mother. For me, it has been the loss of my old-self.  There was a time when, I was paid to stand on a stage in stunning makeup and costumes.  I sang songs and signed programs at a stage door.  Now I do three loads of laundry a day and play superhero games until my mind is numb.

The alternative is to leave the house every night at his bedtime to make a 7:30 curtain call.  That I could not do.

The truth is, my choice to take a leave from my career has encouraged my spirit to express itself in new ways like teaching yoga and writing.

I never felt the longing to be a parent.  I was passionate about my singing career and adored being on stage.

I had other children in my life — even a goddaughter, but I never held a newborn until I gave birth to my own. What happened to me when I had my son took me by surprise. I fell into Motherhood with more passion and commitment than anything in my past.

I believe that the Universe is always tapping at our front door with life’s lessons.  If we have a quiet mind and an open heart we might hear that tapping early on.  If we refuse to answer, the Universe begins to thud a bit harder and on, until at last, if we are unconscious, the front door is kicked in, the rug pulled out from beneath us, and we are laying on our backs in the living room wondering what the hell just happened.

My challenge, as a Mother, is to hear the gentle calls at the door in the midst of mothering so completely.  My instinct is to protect my son from everything but I am aware that if I shelter him from the quiet tapping he will never learn to hear it for himself.  If I absorb each small disappointment, the lessons that remain for him will be harsher.

Eckhart Tolle says in his book A New Earth “When you play roles you are unconscious.” If I over-identify with the role of Mother I may not allow him to flourish, to fail, to learn his most important lessons. Allowing him disappointments is not easy.

I lay with his back curled into my chest, my nose buried in his downy hair, breathing in the lavender scent. I feel his long deep breaths and wonder if this occasion will remain in his memory. I pray that moments like these instill something in him that will show him how much he is loved by his mom and dad and give him the capacity to one day run his fingers through his four year old feathery hair, his own heart filled, overflowing.

The answer arrives in a squeaky voice that pulls me back to the dimly lit room.

“Mama?”

“Yes, my little angel face?”

“Why are squids squishy?”