being right

I was at the country club with 5 of my kids. That sentence is actually a little misleading. Country club sounds like an elite den of tennis-playing, tanned, bouncy wealthy individuals. In Israel, they call every gym/community center a country club. It does have its share of tanned exercise loving shiny people, but I didn't want to give the wrong idea of what brought me there. My kids take random classes there - pottery, soccer, zumba. While the three bigger ones do that, I let the 4 year old swim while I wrestle with the 11 month old to keep her from plunging into the pool. I could theoretically take her in also but that would involve me being wet, and in this rainy, chilly weather, that just feels deeply unappealing.  

So, I’m juggling the kids and my cell phone rings. I see its my oldest, home, off from the army. I had asked her to bring the kids here so I wouldn't have to deal with the two littles here - its one of the most draining 3 hour chunks of my week, and I was hoping to skip it. She had responded that with her bad PMS, she’d rather not. I sighed and accepted that. So, when I saw her name on the caller ID, I had a flash of hope that she was coming to switch spots and relieve me. “Ima, can you get me some pads?” Grrrr. I responded, basically, no way. Im juggling 5 kids including an overtired baby - there is no way Im walking into a store with them after this. I suggested she ask her boyfriend, who was hanging out with her and (presumably) not busy at the time. 

At home an hour later, I see her. I say something along the lines of, why would you call me when I’m out with 5 kids rather than asking your boyfriend who is not doing anything?? Granted, mega PMS time was probably not the best time to call her out on that particular point. But to be honest, I was far from at my best. I was drained and kind of bitter after having just endured two 8 day slots of my husband being abroad in one month. I had been fantasizing about his first day back being a relief, and it just wasn’t. Mostly because I didn’t ask and make that happen. (Will I never learn to ask for what I need rather than expecting him to know?? But thats an aside.) Anyway, cue the explosion. I am accused of resenting her having the nerve to ask me for something, she didn't know I was at the country club, clearly I have an issue with her boyfriend who isn't doing anything with his life, etc etc etc. Being, as I mentioned, not at my best, I yelled back. She stomps upstairs, and then, I was gifted with a strange moment of grace. I see my phone buzzing. There are 9 whatsapps waiting. Puzzled, I see that she accidentally sent me her ranting messages meant for her boyfriend, about me. 

Its a strange feeling, to see how your child speaks about you in her moment of intense emotion, to the one person in the world she trusts the most, the person she has basically replaced you with in her life - not precisely, but also not untrue. It was a mix of rage and shame that bubbled up inside of me. Was she right, was I trying to communicate my broad issues with her boyfriend through our fight? I didn't really think so. But, did it matter if I was right or wrong? Choosing to be right rather than to be loving was something Ive stumbled on in my parenting. It used to infuriate me that I could never win, never be right, no matter how I twisted and fought, in an argument with my dad. SO, unsurprisingly, I recreate that, only this time I get to come out on top. I’m aware of this, but it doesn't help in moments like these, where I pick up my cellphone with shaking hands, and write back, you are NOT RIGHT. 

Its the next day now. We still haven’t spoken. I know we will. I know we will talk this through, I know we will find an understanding, find peace. Neither of us are at an easy place in life, and we do have a deep bond - with a little time to calm down, we always always work through things. But my mind keeps going back to that moment, that little mistake. How do I not squander that? What do I do with that glimpse into her uncensored emotion? How do I use it to mother her better? Its a hard thing being the oldest, every single bump in the road, every single challenge, is brand new. She absolutely broke my heart wide open, changing my life forever, but its kind of wild to me that she continues to do that, with every new stage - she draws me into new waters entirely and forever. I don’t really know yet what to do with what she wrote. I guess, like every other new thing we’ve weathered, it will unfurl itself and make itself clearer with a little more time.

facebook christmas

The last time I lived in Israel, Christmas came and went without so much as a single wreath or Rudolph reference in my awareness. Fifteen years later, I'm feeling the holiday spirit. I’m seeing the sprinkle cookies, tinseled trees, the raw, too-bright festive smiles, with the concurrent grief of not having, in this time of everyone-everywhere having. 

I feel like I live in a million worlds all at once. 497 actually, to be exact. My Facebook feed colors my everyday perspective. I wake up to it and go to sleep with it. I kind of feel owned by it, to be honest. There is a long list of things I would love to do with my spare moments: read all the books, learn photography with the online course I bought on a black friday whim, do yoga, make more eye contact with my children, just be quiet and present. I know that i am not alone, probably by a factor of several million humans on earth that feel this way maybe. 

I’m grateful that I have a weekly 25 hour break in the form of the Jewish Sabbath, but somehow that doesn't translate to different choices during the week. I listened to a podcast yesterday while mopping my floor. They were talking about U-turns in life, about change. They quoted song lyrics: “no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, alright, yes.” It was so perfect that I had to smile. I guess I haven't hit enough “no’s” quite yet. Until then, it will have to be “ho ho ho” for now. 

core work

I’m standing with my back to the wall, eyes closed. The Avett Brothers are keeping me company this morning, the first morning in months that I’ve relegated entirely to myself. Bending my creaking knees, I slide down till I’m sitting on an imaginary chair. My brick red yoga mat stretches out before me, its rubbery edges curling up from the floor. I feel the right side of my upper back pressing into the wall, the left, concave side, has a gap which I struggle to correct with endless tiny shifts. My legs are burning and I’m frustrated, in shock that my 15+ years of yoga practice have come to this, starting over.

In the strange way that things sometimes unfold, I decided to start going to a weekly local Pilates group a few weeks ago. There are 3 or 4 women in the group, and to be honest, I have never taken an interest in Pilates before. The one class I tried years ago felt like everything I hate about exercise: boring, repetitive, and relentlessly painful. I didn't WANT to focus on my core, my weakest muscle group. Though I could do fabulous and impressive yoga poses till the cows came home, I compensated for a weak core by being ridiculously gifted with absurd flexibly. I didn’t want to think about what real strength is and where it comes from. I wanted to keep showing off to myself, doing what came naturally and easily. 

I was lonely with this latest move across the world. In this coastal Mediterranean town, Pilates seemed to be everywhere. I joined a group that had some women I thought I might become friends with, because a simple outing for coffee seemed too hard to arrange. The group was happening weekly, so it seemed like a natural way to see people regularly. Making myself vulnerable socially by reaching out just didn't feel like something I wanted to have to do, all the time. I can do it sometimes, but I didn’t want to rely on myself to keep it up - my moods fluctuate too much here, my energy levels tank randomly with a baby that won’t sleep, and I just didn’t have it in me to keep doing the work of building new friendships. So, to Pilates class I went. Immediately the teacher noticed my scoliosis. I literally hadn’t thought about my scoliosis for 20 years, maybe more. I was diagnosed at twelve, told I was too old for a brace. My parents chose not to do the aggressive four hour surgery that would place a metal rod into my spine. So, we ignored it. I figured I would just live my life, do yoga to strengthen my back and hope for the best. By the time I would be old enough to develop a noticeable hump, I figured, with the arrogance of youth, I’d be too old to care what I looked like. 

On the eve of my 39th birthday, I realize what a crock of shit that idea was. Leaving aside the very real pain involved in structurally deformed musculature, of COURSE I would care, at whatever age I developed a more noticeable hump. With every new wrinkle I develop, I marvel at how inside I continue to hold onto my image of myself at 20, with unshakeable faith. THAT is what I look like to myself, probably forever. The need to feel good in my body, beautiful (even if only) in my mind, was basic, elemental, part of my core. A pronounced hump, scoliosis that can be seen just by glancing at the way one side of my ribs protrudes slightly more than the other, the way one shoulder rises just a tad higher than the other, suddenly bothered me profoundly and deeply. I felt like there was something flawed about me, exposed and raw, for all to see, and I did not like it. 

Googling led me to the next problem. Numerous websites, with all sorts of expert testimony, declared that yoga poses can worsen existing scoliosis. Photographs of my beloved Half Moon, Cobra, Scorpion poses flashed across the screen, big X’s stamped over them, words like “exacerbate” and “contraindicated” casually displayed. I did not want to believe it - I felt betrayed. My yoga practice, my years of studying and teaching, collapsed around me. I taught yoga, for godssakes. How could I have missed something so basic, so essential, so core?

I felt like I was breaking up with a beloved friend. No more yoga till I figure this thing out. I read the articles, I downloaded books onto my kindle. It turns out that I can still do yoga, I will just have to bring a very specific intentionality to every single pose that I do, and some poses I simply will not be able to do. I will have to rebuild my practice, relearn poses that seemed so basic and obvious just days ago. I realize, in the scheme of world problems, this is so tiny. Minuscule, really. I just found it interesting how humbling this week has been. How we can go through life thinking we’ve got this, and be missing the entire center of whatever “this” we might be talking about. 

damn snapfish

Every November since 2005, I make one of those cheesy Snapfish family calendars. It takes a few weeks to find the best pictures from both sides of the family over the past year, double check all the birthdays, holidays, and yahrzeits, and get all the pictures uploaded and arranged in a reasonably coherent and attractive way. Then, relieved, we can get it printed and sent out as an end of the year gift to family members. Its usually a fairly pleasant and sort of meditative process, as long as I dont start last minute and have a full on freak out. WHY do they ALL need their birthdays remembered EVERY single year??

The last bunch of years, my eldest has helped with the project, logging into our account and doing lots of photo editing and arranging. To be fair, she did the bulk of the work the last two years. So this year, with her living on the other side of the planet, I wasn’t sure how it would go. To her immense credit, she logged in whenever she had a few free minutes, and did a lot of work. It was kind of sweet and touching and insistent, reminding me that despite her very palpable absence in our house, she is still so very, very, here. My 10 year old got in on the act too, having some photo editing fun, and causing her sister to re-assert exactly what the hierarchy was here - there was to be NO messing with her work by a younger sib.

So, all was cruising along in a lovely sort of mother-daughters long distance ball of energy and flow, until I got to the part I hate most in the making of the calendar every year, the yahrzeit dates. For the vast majority of family members, I add the same dates year to year, often using the same photo taken of them in various stages of old age. It makes me sad every time, but I accept that this is a positive way to remember them, and so we do it.

But a year and a half ago, I lost one of my oldest childhood friends to suicide. Last fall, I added her picture, numbly, even though she is not in the family; it felt right to do. This year, I found myself adding her picture AGAIN. I had to use the same picture I used last year, because unlike every other category of picture, there would be no more updated versions.

Its a picture of us sitting on the couch together, with my two eldest daughters, one a seven year old, and one a baby. We are leaning towards each other, and laughing at something, and I cannot make myself remember what was funny, except that she was always laughing, a full-throated, booming, life-affirming contagious laugh.

It made me suddenly absolutely furious at her, to have to use this happy picture, again and again and again, for the rest of my life. How did it happen that I was collaborating with those two tiny girls in the picture, creating this massive monument to memory and years gone by, and needing to put her glowing, laughing face into the yahrzeit slot: 29 Tammuz, over and over and over again. I am just raging at the unfairness and impossibility of what she did. My brain still reels, 18 months later: how can it be that there will never be a new photo again?