My entire yoga practice and perception of my yoga practice has changed tremendously since the birth of Bodhi. After numerous failed attempts to practice yoga like I did pre-baby, I realized that I had to completely transform my yoga, physically, mentally, emotionally (and especially time wise).
Aside from the obvious difference physically, where I now humbly feel like I've started over again in asana because of the intense recovery of the C-section, the difference in focus is astonishing as well. I spent the first 3 months of her life trying to squeeze a session (in vain) into an already insane day in between her feedings, my pumping, laundry, work, etc., I had to remind myself for about the eight thousandth time in my life that (duh) sadhana (spiritual practice) is in every moment, not just on the mat.
When I'm singing to her, nursing her, folding her tiny little laundry (oh, how I love that baby laundry detergent that smells like what the color pink should if it had a smell), I am attempting to cultivate my mindfulness, being in the moment. When she is cranky or fighting sleep, I hold her against me, rocking and engaging in deep pranayama - I've found Ujayyi breathing (Darth Vader) to be her favorite (and the most effective in soothing her - must be most like the womb!).
When I am lucky enough to be able to roll out my mat, I combine it with her playtime, taking the opportunity to stretch into some wide leg forward bends and other floor asanas while I stretch her legs and roll her from side to side and do other "mommy and me" exercises. I have these little funky finger puppets that I'll put on my index fingers and dance them around as I breathe my arms overhead. As I exhale them down, I tickle her arms and belly as she giggles and cackles.
I spend a lot of my yoga time now smiling. I used to be so serious during my practice. Now, any session with her involves giggling, laughing, singing, and the occasional poop interruption. Not too far from the yoga I experienced in India...
Before her birth, I purchased a few "Mommy and Me" yoga and exercise videos. Though I was religious about using prenatal yoga and exercise DVDs, I have to say this hasn't been the case postpartum. The only one I've really managed to use is Shiva Rea's "Mama and Baby" yoga (which is adorable) but even that is mostly put aside while I put on a groovy CD and she and I do our own thing.
Very rarely, usually when she's decided to take a longer nap and I somehow will myself to put aside the laundry, dishes, grading, and all the things that never seem to end, I am able to have the unbelievable luxury of a 45 minute or hour yoga session to myself.
When this happens, I am so excited and overwhelmed with the possibilities of it all that I can barely contain myself. I lose myself in the deliciousness of this quiet, unencumbered time and I absolutely lose and find myself simultaneously, going so deeply into that place where my body, mind and heart unite and it reminds me...reminds me of a strength that I do possess, both in mind and body, that is so easy to forget when you are weepy and exhausted and post partum and carrying around extra baby poundage and feel like the world is crashing in around you.
A couple of days ago, I was weepy and irritated and trying to figure out a new car seat with a squirming, cranky baby who was ready to MOVE this vehicle right now (she does not like an unmoving car!) I was swearing and in tears. I finally got it figured out and as I passed the dock on the lake, I stopped the car because the sunset was so alarmingly stunning, a deep orange and burgandy expanse against the black silhouette of the trees. I could hear a large group of geese honking and making all sorts of chatter. Many more flew in overhead and I could hear the soft "wffftt" of their wings flapping. As they landed, the collective "sssshhh" of the water splashed against their wingtips and I breathed it all in, smiling. I could feel God taking me by the hand, "Look, you dummy. This is your practice. Peace is all around you. Just take it in. This is your yoga now."
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Life in Extremes
I spent the majority of my time in India in a baffled state of trying to reconcile the extremes. A land of contradictions, there was a Grand Canyon sized gap between those who have and those in utter poverty, those who were giving and those who would steal and take you for everything you had, and the beauty and the raw ugliness. India was bizarre, filthy, appaling, maddening, unfamiliar, yet at serendipitous times, overwhelmingly beautiful, unchartered, exhilerating, full of surprises, and capable of moving my spirit to a level that is undefinable. While the darkness could be so hopelessly abymsal, the spiritual beauty soared to a level so transcendent, I couldn't help but cry on a daily basis. Against the constant chaos and despair, India gave me some of the most breathtaking, miraculous, God-filled moments of my life.
I have come to the conclusion that having a newborn is kind of like India.
In both, I have gotten little to no sleep, have rarely gotten a hot shower uninterrupted, suffered complete physical exhaustion and emotional breakdowns, and of course...there is so much poop everywhere!
The lows can be so low. The up all night sleep deprivation, moving through your blurred days as a stained, disheveled, frumpy, sore, spit-up covered zombie. Those disheartening times when nursing isn't quite the beautifully perfect, effortless beatific experience La Leche makes it out to be. Instead, there are times when she is screaming, arching, her mouth no longer belonging to a soft baby's, but instead has been taken over by an angry pirana in a purple sleeper who is fiercely pulling on your painful nipple and stretching it like it's taffy. Her tiny balled fists are curled in fury, her face beet red and her cries like a machine gun. She's crying. You're crying. The dog is hiding. Night comes and you wonder with anxiety how you are going to do this all night again with no sleep. It starts to feel like Groundhog Day. It all seems hopeless...
But then, the morning light comes. She wakes up and smiles at you, beaming at you in recognition. She laughs when you make raspberries on her little tummy and she reaches out to your face, exploring your jaw and nose as if it's the most amazing thing ever. She looks deep into your eyes in recogition, just straight into your soul, as if she's the only one in the world who really knows you. These moments, when she is warm and squishy and soft and loving, there is nothing better. Except when she is warm and squishy and soft and loving in your arms while completely asleep, peaceful with her soft whispery breaths.
And then there are the magic nursing moments when everything gels and she latches on seamlessly and effortlessly. She reaches up with her free hand, touches your jaw and then smiles at you. Then, she closes her eyes and sighs contently and it is as if God's divine light is pouring right through you in all of its transcendent glory.
Or it could be the oxytocin release...
Either way, as my friend Emily says, "It's a good thing, at 3 a.m., that they're so damn cute." Word.
And she is cute. And I am so blessed. And again, God never said it would be easy, only worth it. And she is worth it. My God, is she... I have never known such love. There needs to be a bigger word for this kind of love!
I have come to the conclusion that having a newborn is kind of like India.
In both, I have gotten little to no sleep, have rarely gotten a hot shower uninterrupted, suffered complete physical exhaustion and emotional breakdowns, and of course...there is so much poop everywhere!
The lows can be so low. The up all night sleep deprivation, moving through your blurred days as a stained, disheveled, frumpy, sore, spit-up covered zombie. Those disheartening times when nursing isn't quite the beautifully perfect, effortless beatific experience La Leche makes it out to be. Instead, there are times when she is screaming, arching, her mouth no longer belonging to a soft baby's, but instead has been taken over by an angry pirana in a purple sleeper who is fiercely pulling on your painful nipple and stretching it like it's taffy. Her tiny balled fists are curled in fury, her face beet red and her cries like a machine gun. She's crying. You're crying. The dog is hiding. Night comes and you wonder with anxiety how you are going to do this all night again with no sleep. It starts to feel like Groundhog Day. It all seems hopeless...
But then, the morning light comes. She wakes up and smiles at you, beaming at you in recognition. She laughs when you make raspberries on her little tummy and she reaches out to your face, exploring your jaw and nose as if it's the most amazing thing ever. She looks deep into your eyes in recogition, just straight into your soul, as if she's the only one in the world who really knows you. These moments, when she is warm and squishy and soft and loving, there is nothing better. Except when she is warm and squishy and soft and loving in your arms while completely asleep, peaceful with her soft whispery breaths.
And then there are the magic nursing moments when everything gels and she latches on seamlessly and effortlessly. She reaches up with her free hand, touches your jaw and then smiles at you. Then, she closes her eyes and sighs contently and it is as if God's divine light is pouring right through you in all of its transcendent glory.
Or it could be the oxytocin release...
Either way, as my friend Emily says, "It's a good thing, at 3 a.m., that they're so damn cute." Word.
And she is cute. And I am so blessed. And again, God never said it would be easy, only worth it. And she is worth it. My God, is she... I have never known such love. There needs to be a bigger word for this kind of love!
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