We Yoga. Do you?

I did it. I joined the gym, again. Truth be told, I’m a little disgusted at myself for not having done it sooner. I allowed by membership to lapse after a minor stomach surgery this summer, always using the excuse that I didn’t want to come back too soon. The truth is, now it is harder than it ever has been to drag my butt to the gym because I have more legitimate excuses than ever. It’s tough to make myself go while the kids are so little. It requires a lot more schedule juggling. It’s tough to make myself go when I have physical issues, like stomach surgery or aching knees or a shoulder that really could use a scope. It’s tough to make myself go when I already feel stretched so thin and out of spoons, like I don’t do all of the things that I NEED to get done, so how can I justify taking out more time for myself?

But the truth of it all is that those are absolutely the reasons that I need to get back in the gym! I need to keep my strength, stamina, and health up to keep up with my little girls. I need to get my muscles strong and limber again in order to support my body better and to be a better dancer. I need an extra hour, every other morning, just to recalibrate, to do something physical with no distractions, so that I can come back to my role in our family refreshed and ready to tackle the day.

These days, my exercise of choice is yoga. I believe that yoga is a great mode of exercise that EVERYONE should do at some point in his or her life. I started practicing yoga 20 years ago. I took yoga as a PE class at Cal State Long Beach, and our instructor was what I believe is the stereotypical Yogi. She was older and thin, she wore long flowey skirts over her leggings, lots of bracelets, toe rings, and anklets. Everything about her was ethereal: the music we listened to in class, the way she glided across the ground, the whispery way that she spoke, and the smell of incense that followed her around the classroom. She was a strict teacher, there not to just lead us in some stretches, but to teach us the proper alignment in each pose, as well as the Sanskrit name, meaning, and origin of each pose. It was hard, but I loved it. And I’m grateful for her instruction, for at various times in my life I have practiced yoga without a teacher or studio, and had a good understanding of what I was doing.

I got out of my first yoga class in months on Monday and I immediately texted Jen, “I need to write about yoga!” What I love about it is that for an hour, I not only turn off my phone (or leave it in the car), but I also turn off my mind to everything in the outside world. Rather than being stuck on an elliptical machine or treadmill, then some lifting machines where the TVs and music are blaring, competing for more of my already fragmented attention, the yoga mat offers me a time to pause and turn inward. I don’t think about what’s for dinner, or what I have to do that day. I don’t catalog the things that I haven’t had time for or the projects that I have yet to start. For that one hour, I focus on breathing in and releasing the tension in my tight muscles. I check my alignment in my poses and when that little voice inside my head begins to chide me for not being able to touch my toes, I tune her out. One of my favorite parts of every yoga class is the final pose that we take, Savasana or Corpse Pose. Though it takes some practice to really clear one’s mind and not let it wander to the day that lies ahead, lying completely still in mind and body is for me, the most restorative thing that I do.

Most gyms offer some kind of yoga class on their schedule, and those are a great place to get a taste of what yoga has to offer. Oftentimes the classes are filled with people of varying levels of knowledge, but what I love about gym yoga is that the instructors are always so accommodating and helpful. Often, gym yoga is not as “serious” or as technical as yoga studio yoga, nor is it as “Zen,” but still offers a place where strength and stretching meet, where physical activity and spiritual restoring can occur.

For those who are more looking for a little more technical instruction, yoga studios are often really neat places to jump in and become part of a yoga community. The studio I have practiced at here in our area (The Yoga Den, Corona, California) offers a wide variety of classes and times, even prenatal yoga, but also offers other events at the studio. There are special concerts, potlucks, and groups that get together outside of the studio to do other fitness-related things. Truth be told, I would join the studio again, if we lived a little bit closer. It really is a special place to belong.

If you’re curious about yoga, please try it!! It’s great on its own or in conjunction with other forms of exercise. It’s low impact, but still offers cardio and strength building. And it’s absolutely for every body type and fitness level. If you do, let me know how it goes. Afterward, let’s get together, listen to Enya, and have a nice cup of tea. Come on, we can put off meal planning and mopping for another hour.

The Top of the Hill

I recently watched a video by Father Robert Barron, of Word on Fire Ministries, where he used a powerful analogy to describe the difference between faith and wisdom. He said faith is crawling on the flat land, where our perspective is limited—we see what is in front of us and next to us and sometimes above us, but our vision is often blocked by structures and people and noise. God feels like a nice idea that we hope is real, but we can’t devote much time to Him because of the buildings and the noise and the people.

Wisdom is like finding the high ground, the top of the hill, where our perspective is wide and encompassing. We can breathe. It allows us to see the connections and the reasons and the sense. It helps us understand how small and many are the pieces of the puzzle, but how important.

As I watched, my mom brain kicked in: Man we have to teach this to the kids.

I don’t know about you, but having a 9 year old and a 7 year old under the same roof is not exactly a recipe for calm.

I know I kind of do it already, when I step in between and talk them out of the fierce protection of what is theirs to slooooooooooowly seeing the other person’s perspective.

Too much lately, it doesn’t work and I banish them to the basement and pour myself a vodka.

The old words are falling on deaf ears. They take too long to get out of my mouth. And require me to be too close to a child who is begging for a whoopin’ for anyone to be safe.

So yeah, new words.

Then I realized, Here comes Lent.

The ultimate reset button.

It’s the perfect time to introduce a new way of talking about how we are in the world.

Are we crawling on the ground, surrounded by tall buildings, in the shadows where it feels scary and we think everyone wants our toys?

Or are we walking to the top of the hill where we can see the whole picture? Where the air is fresher and we remember we are not the only people who want or need something?

Down below, we’re angry and defensive and selfish.

Up above, we find wisdom and grace and compassion.

It’s a lot better than giving up chocolate, if we can make it work.

Mother of mothers

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with Mary.

It gets less complicated as I get older. Motherhood has made her more real to me. After Dana’s post about the spoons, I wondered if Mary ever ran out of spoons.

A two year old is a two year old is a two year old, right? Plus there’s the business of the missing teenage years.

Part of what I struggled with for so long was my church’s characterization of her as small, meek and sugar coated.

Because I’m not.

I resented the Renaissance depictions of her that hang in churches and museums all over the world, beautiful in form and face even as she grieves at the foot of the Cross.

I wondered, if she is the ultimate example of womanhood and obedience, in all her delicate beauty and grace, then what are the rest of us?

Then I became a mom and I knew the truth.

She was a lot like the rest of us.

She labored and gave birth.

She felt mama fear, as we all do. Probably more, after meeting Simeon in the temple and then being forced to flee in front of the slaughter of the innocents.

She felt mama anger, too. The bible tells us that she searched wildly for her son for three days when he was lost. And when she found him in the temple, she spoke up to him, in front of the men surrounding him.

The strongest word I could find to describe her tone is “questioning”.

Yeah, I bet. She probably wanted to question him all the way home and into his room until he was 30.

Which would explain the missing years. Huh.

She was Immaculately Conceived, gave birth to the Son of God and lived a sinless life (hey, I said she was a lot like us, not just like us), which makes her the Mother of mothers. She walked our path and then some. She gets it.

That’s what matters—not how she is depicted in a painting from 700 years ago.

When I descended into the darkness after Annie was born, and my counselor told me that meditation would quiet the loud and ugly voices in my head, I turned to the rosary.

For Catholics, the rosary is meditation. It’s also closely connected to Mary, and I needed the Mother of mothers badly at that time in my life. On the nights when the fears were chasing me, I let the beads slip through my fingers, begging Mary to pray with me for peace in my heart and thoughts, to add her voice to mine and ask God for healing.

I never made it all the way through before falling asleep. But when I awoke in the morning, my rosary curled up in bed with me, I felt peace and knew that Mary was with me in my struggle.

My friend Steffani is the one who brought me closer to this understanding of Mary. She’s a homeschooling mom with eight kids, and her family is a great big joyful bundle of noise and love. In the midst of this, she is a very calm and wise woman. I used to think this was because she’d seen it all. But then I realized it’s because she gives it all to God. And she asks the Mother of mothers on a daily basis to pray for her and her family.

So I started praying the rosary beyond bedtime, looking for support and wisdom. I do feel that those moments of quiet reflection bring me closer to God, help me clear out the distractions and listen for the answers to questions and prayers.

A few weeks ago, my 36 year old rosary broke. I knew right away what I wanted to do. I had a rosary handmade for my godson Owen, out of his birthstone, for his First Communion last year. I got it from ClaresGift (Agnus Dei Creations) on Etsy.

I went back to the same shop and asked Ellyn if she could make me a mother’s rosary out of my birthstone and the birthstones of my kids. But of course. It arrived on Saturday:

I love it.

I love what it represents, a powerful way to pray for my babies.

I love that it connects me to the Mother of mothers, who is ever ready to pray for me and with me in support and love.

I love that it brings me closer to God, and creates a quiet space where I can ask, honor and listen.

It’s another way to remember I am never alone.

I’ll bet Ellyn can make any kind of custom rosary—mother’s, grandmother’s, dad’s, godmother’s, First Communion, Confirmation, Wedding, Quincineara, etc. Or she has a standard collection of Catholic and Anglican rosaries at https://www.etsy.com/shop/claresgift.

I’ve Run Out of Spoons

One of the things I was looking forward to most about my daughter starting preschool was the opportunity for ME to meet new friends. I was really hoping to find a really cool group of women who have the same kinds of values with different backgrounds, and that we would all hit it off amazingly well and have coffee together and talk about the trials of Mommyhood. And guess what… it happened! I have met the neatest people at this preschool. I really like them, and I really like their children.

Now, when I say that it happened, I mean the first part happened. But it’s just amazing how, no matter how hard we try, we just can’t seem to find the time to get together for a cup of coffee, or sometimes even for a 5 minute chat after drop off. So when there was a flier in my daughter’s cubby for a Tuesday morning group called Moms Supporting Moms, I was all over it. We’ve started reading a book by Lysa TerKeurst called “The Best Yes,” which is about learning to say no, and learning to say yes to the best option for you and your family.

The other day, our conversation turned to the fact that many times, we all just feel overwhelmed. The other ladies in the group and I are all in different situations: a mom who works full-time, a mom with a child in grade school and a preschooler, me, the mom with a two-year-old and a four-year-old. I said to the other ladies that sometimes I feel ridiculous saying that I feel overwhelmed. I stay at home with my girls, who are still little, so we don’t have a million activities to do or practices to attend. We have family and friends that are close by who are always willing to help out. And yet, especially for the last couple of weeks, at the end of every day I sit down and realize that I didn’t get half of the things done that I wanted to, and yet, I can’t really put my finger on one thing that we did do.

One of my new friends in the group, Becky, said that she read an analogy recently in which a woman said to imagine at the beginning of the day, you have a handful of spoons, like a handful from the cafeteria line. And every task that you need to do takes a spoon. Make breakfast? There’s a spoon. Get yourself and the kids dressed? Another spoon. Grocery shopping? Spoon. But where it gets tricky is when extra things pop up that take an extra spoon. Breakfast takes one of your spoons, but what about when the two-year-old keeps playing with her cereal milk, even after you’ve told her not to, and just when you get up to get another cup of coffee, the bowl ends up on the floor? That takes up one of your spoons. A tantrum at the grocery store? That takes up two spoons, on top of your already allotted grocery spoon. Sometimes at the end of the day, you reach in your pocket for another spoon and there are no spoons.

Let me tell you, lately, I’m out of spoons by, like, dinner. Violet is shaking off her nap, which means that she needs to nap, but has realized that Mazie and I do stuff while she sleeps, and she’s missing out. So by about 4:30 on days that she doesn’t sleep, she is losing her mind. And Mazie is at the age where she super wants to help with everything: mopping, washing the dishes, making homemade bread, cleaning the toilets, folding the clothes. It’s really sweet, but those of you who have a four-year-old know that when they “help” it isn’t really help, and the task itself then takes minimum twice as long. Throw in teaching SAT tutoring classes, blogging, hosting essential oils classes, and a ton of other things that I want to do, and I’m all out of spoons. There was a day last week that I woke up and reached for my spoons for the day, only to find that my stash had not been replenished. Perfect.

And honestly, I just hate when I get low on spoons. I feel my patience slipping away and it seems like my kids just can’t do anything right. In my worst moments, I feel like they must just see an angry face in mine all of the time and it breaks my heart. Because I have great kids, and they are so enjoyable. I look around the house and I see the things that I just didn’t get to. My floors need mopping, I forgot milk at the store, and I haven’t replanted my vegetable garden. My friends are noticing that I’m out of spoons. Jen called me on it last week, which is how I know she’s really my friend. She didn’t let me off the hook when I said, “I’m ok, just a little overwhelmed.”

Unfortunately, I don’t really have the answer at the end of this blog post. But I will say that it helps to talk about it; it helps to know that it isn’t just me who is drowning out there in Mommyhood. There just might not be an “answer.” In “The Best Yes,” TerKeurst writes that we often fly the flags of things that we have overcome in our past, but that we rarely talk about the shortcomings that we are struggling with in our present. So here I am. I’m waving the white flag of the Overwhelmed Mama, hoping that you will see it and take solace that you aren’t alone. I asked Grandma Betty once how she survived being a single mom of two little kids who were only 15 months apart and she looked at me and said, “Some days I didn’t.” While that seems a little bleak, it was also very comforting. It means that I’m not some horrible failure as a mother, as a woman, or as a person. It means that we all go through valleys where the struggle is real. It also means, though, that we will come out on the other side having survived after all.

Redwood Highway

We’re beach people. Even more than that, we’re So Cal beach people. With a big dose of Maui thrown in the mix.

So when we decided to move to Oregon, a state in which there is one major freeway in the entire state, and only about three highways that turn left towards the beach from that freeway, it was a big gulp moment.

Saturday, we drove the first of the left turn highways.

Yeah, it’s January. So? You can take the girl out of So Cal, but you can’t take the So Cal out of the girl. Or her kids. They packed bathing suits.

We took the Redwood Highway, which is the 199, from Grants Pass to Crescent City, CA.

(Oregon fact: Oregonians do not say “the” in front of the highway name; when I do, it instantly identifies me as a California girl. I want my Oregon readers to know that I know that. But if I go south for a visit and say I’m taking 710 to 91 to 15, people are going to want to know why I’m talking like a caveman.)

The beauty of this drive was remarkable. I thought I’d share. I took all of these pics with my HTC smart phone and only some of them are filtered with Instagram. That’s when you know it’s good, right?

Take a look: