Ahhh.....ouch....ahhh....OUCH....AHHH.....

Ahhh.....ouch....ahhh....OUCH....AHHH.....

The sound of a good massage.

My thoughts ricochet like a pinball wizzard  between "this is heaven, please never stop" and "WTH?!?!".

Blissful images flood my mind as the therapist's expert hands glide, without resistance, from tight muscle to tense muscle.  He deftly takes the knotted remnants of my day accumulated over my life and deposits them into some cosmic communal vessel where all unused stress goes to be recycled into something wonderful.

But then, "OW!"  He hits a spot, just to the left of my right shoulder blade, where all of my responsibility and worry and angst take refuge, hoping to hide behind my "should"er. That place in my body where obligation and regret reside.

Yes, nestled between what I think I should do and what I really can do, my frustration and fear are allowed to fester and furrow deep within my fibers. There they hibernate and marinate only to arise at 3 in the morning causing me to lie awake or fight myself in restless dreams

Ahhhhh..... but when my magic man presses his thumb, or his elbow, or all 180 pounds of himself deep into that recess, damn, that hurts.  And it feels so good.

Why is it that when I get a massage, I like the pain?  I'm not a masochist (although I might like to star in my own version of "50 Shades of..." but that's a different blog post).   But I do.  Like the pain I mean.  I know it hurts, yet I lean into it, I breath through it, and in some strange way, I relish it.  It hurts, but it hurts with purpose.   Sometime, somewhere somehow my mind learned that at the end of the pain is release. It is pain with purpose.  In fact, the pain in a good strong massage is one of taking control of the latent pain, squeezing in "Take that!" and with sheer force of will, chasing the pain of "You didn't do that!" away.  The pain is good, directed, healing.  Afterall, without the trigger point pain, the knot just stays there and rots, turning septic and oozing its poison not only in my shoulder but my neck, my head, my back, my entire body.  So during a massage, I don't simply tolerate the pain, I yearn for it, beckon it and embrace it because i know that without it, I will never find sweet release.

Is all pain the same?  Is it not bad at all, but simply the final holding on of the negative right before the huge release?  Is it a precursor of growth?

If it is, then why do I constantly fight it?  Set my life mission toward "AVOID PAIN AT ALL COST"?  I'm not thinking I should look for pain, but rather, perhaps when I feel it, like in a good massage, I should lean into it, breathe through it, welcome it, and wait in giddy anticipation for it to be over (which it will) since I KNOW on the other side is sweet, sweet release.

The Buddha is credited with saying "Pain is inevitable.  Suffering is optional."  In massage, my pain does not yield suffering.  Quite the opposite.  Can I move this learning to other sufferings in my life?

Ahhh...ouch...ahhh...ouch....

In between the shooting flashes of pain release, my kids pop to mind.  Ever since they were little, I did everything in my power to shield them from pain.  I sheltered them and if that didn't work, I fixed whatever it was that went wrong.   I wrote notes, and demanded conferences, and fudged a thing or two.  As teens, I escalated and began solving problems they didn't even say they had.  All they had to do was text a question "Do we have roadside assistance?" and I would have the mounted police on their way with a jump, new tire and a hot thermos of cocoa.  "Mom, do you ask your students to do narrative essays?" BAM!  I was googling the components, downloading examples and before you could say "I only need a rough draft" was providing prompts to overcome my daughter's writer's block before it could manifest.  As a parent, I worried, and stewed, and frantisized all sorts of calamities so that I could outrun, out takle, and out perform them in my supermom quest to save my children from pain.  

"I got this mom."  "I love you but stop..." "If I need help, I know who to call."

As children they would insist "I can do it!"  As teenagers, what I called rebellion, they called doing it on their own.  They've been trying to teach me that my job as a mom is not to suffer on the way to avoiding their pain.  In fact, without pain, they can't grow.  Without pain, they can't feel the sweet release of growth.  They need the pain.

I think I finally get it.

I love them so much.  I would do anything for them.  I would give them anything.

And what I need to give them now is their own pain.  Their own mistakes.  Their own choices.  Their own lives.

They are smart, and resourceful and resilient.  They will make some bad choices but more good ones. And like my massage, any pain they experience will allow them sweet, sweet release.  

Pain is inevitable.

And I am here for them.  Leaning in.  Breathing.  Loving.

Suffering is optional.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.................

One more day...

My body is wracked with the reverberations of a tension filled world. 

My mind is cluttered with a to do list of things I can do nothing about. 

My soul stretches out yearning to entwine its edges 
                                               in the universal consciousness of grace. 

Just another day..

Go placidly...

Today, my newsfeed is full of fear emanating around  a world I barely know. 

Over my coffee, on a cold, rainy and gloomy South Florida Sunday, I am taken back to my stint as  a child soldier of the Cold War.  Certainly, my earliest recollections of school include learning to skip, and sing, and the musty cloakroom where they checked us for chickenpox.  Fond memories of learning and playing and trusting.  But I also remember the scary world; the one where we were indoctrinated to believe the Russians were out to get us. School was our boot camp and there we were trained to take cover under our desks during air raid drills, to toss boos at the Russian Olympic athletes,  to arm our astronauts with prayers that they might conquer space first.  But being a soldier was scary. It was scary to be so scared.  But I stood up straight, looked straight ahead and tried to march with the rest.

Thankfully for me, my mom taught me so much more.  She took my face in her hands and lovingly shifted my gaze to the right and the left.  She showed me a home always open to those who needed a place to stay, a meal, a drink, a shoulder, a laugh.  She showed me friends from all walks of life, all countries of origin, all places of worship, which in the white homogeneity of Green Bay Wisconsin, was quite a feat. She demonstrated every day that love forms us, love unites us, love wins.  She taught me that I didn't have to be in march step with those around me.  

When I was a teen, filled with the heady belief I would change the world, my mom hung a poem by Max Ehrmann on the wall of my room.  Like the pledge of allegiance to the United States of America I espoused each day in class,  I recited this poem daily, my pledge to the world.  My pledge to me.  It gave me strength and courage and hope.

“Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.”

It still gives me strength and courage and hope. 

Forty years later.

Thank you Max.  Thank you Mom.

I cheated last night.

Why?  It was New Years Eve.  It was the last day of what was a challenging, scary, yet overall wonderful year. 

2016 was my year.  It was the year I embraced being alone. 

To say I loved embracing being alone is a stupid.  As stupid as “give yourself a hug”.  I’m sorry but you can’t hug yourself.  That’s not a hug.  That’s not the unconditional feeling of safety wrapped in someone else. That’s not the overwhelming letting go cause someone else has got you.  That’s not the “I don’t ever want to leave here” feeling you get wrapped in love. 

No embracing being alone is not the same feeling of joy as being with someone who takes your breath away.

Embracing being alone is strength.  It comes right from the core, and surges through every inch of your being.  It is the confidence knowing that you can do anything.   You can handle any situation.  There is nowhere you can’t go.  There is nothing you can’t do.  You see, once you learn to live with silence, no one talking in your ear, you can start to hear the thoughts in your head. 

Now that is scary shit.

I don’t know about you, but my thoughts often times are made up of the voices of every doubt, every fear, every criticism, every negative that ever swirled in my vicinity.  Like leaves taken up by a cold winter wind, they join forces and create a vortex of disapproval.  Individually, they simply side eye, but once they are flying together, as one, their cackling and braying builds to a crescendo of failure. Anxiety grips my soul in a chokehold. So I use the voices of companions to distract my hater thoughts while I run from them.

To be alone, is to face them.

That’s what I’ve been doing.  Facing them.  Hearing them.  Feeling them.

And it’s been really, really hard.  And scary.  And lonely.  And liberating.  And fucking incredible.

It started with the Beyoncé Formation Tour.

Remember the Superbowl half time show?  Poor woman got more exposure than Janet Jackson’s boob a few years before.  She was called a hater and the Miami police called for a boycott of her concert saying she glorified the Black Panther’s with her anti-police message.  The president of the Miami Fraternal Order of Police is my FaceBook friend, and I heard it all.  On the other hand, SNL applauded “The Day Beyoncé Turned Black.”  Of course, as a political scientist, this intrigued me.  Here she was, finally finding her black voice, and she got all sorts of backlash for it?  I had to go to the concert.  Had to see if the police would show up.  Had to see the protest.  Had to be in the middle of it.  But no one would go with me.  Damn.  Another experience I would have to read about later. 

Or I could go. Alone. 

That was the scariest thing I ever did.  Who would I talk to?  Who would I dance with?  Who would I look in the eye while singing along? No one.  I had no friends.  No one wanted to be with me.  I was unloved.  Unlovable.  All of the fears of the last few years came flooding forward.  The divorce, the friends who chose him over me, the friends who didn’t know what to say so they hid, the bad dates, the flirting that ended in nothing more than dick pics …all of it began whirling into a hurricane of hurt. 

But this time, I didn’t run. 

I bought a ticket.  I went to the concert. 

“Up in the club, just broke up, I’m doing my own little thing!”

I was empowered.   There was no stopping me now.

I booked a 21 day tour to Spain/Portugal/Morocco and I went.  Alone.  I went to the full moon paddle board event.  Alone.  I went to the movies.  Alone.  I started cooking amazing food that I ate.  Alone. I learned to be.  Alone. 

And I discovered alone and lonely are not the same thing. I spent a year learning to live in the honesty of where my life was.   Accepting it.  Embracing it.

And then, on the last night of the year, I cheated on me. 

I ate a jar of cake. 

It wasn’t the eating the cake that was the juxtaposition from the year of authenticity I was ending.  No it was choosing the short term fix over the long term game.  It was in the attempt to deny that immediate distraction came with consequences.  You see, I’ve been journaling my food in an effort to live better, be healthier, control my migraines.   And I had already eaten my healthy level of carbs/fat/sugar for the day.  I have learned that exceeding a certain threshold results in an ice pick to my brain. But last night, it wasn’t about my brain.  It was all about my mind.  And my mind fixated on an unclaimed cake jar.  The one we loving made for a family friend who didn’t have time to see us over the holidays. It was a cake jar of love and it taunted me with how unloved I was. 

It called up the fears that had sparred with all year.  

Like a knocked out boxer who somehow struggles up from the mat, fists in the air, all my loneliness rose to taunt me from that jar. One last sucker punch.  It got me.  

I ate the cake.  

And now, on New Year's Day, my head hurts.

But it’s not a migraine. 

It’s a dull ache that is simply a reminder that as strong as I am, I am human.   It’s a throbbing that says the temporary ache of aloneness won't be stuffed down with food.  It’s the tension that reminds me that it is better to let go and feel the lonely rather than to hold on to the fear.  Choose feeling sad, lonely for a minute over hurt for hours the next day.  Besides, eating cake didn’t bring my friend over. It didn't love me. It didn’t even taste that good.

But it’s not a migraine.

Know why?  

I’m stronger than a year ago.  Loneliness only got off one little punch, it didn't take me to the ropes or bring me to my knees.  

I’m better than a year ago.   I only ate half the cake and then did something good for me....went for a long walk, alone.  And drank a ton of water to flush the sugar from my soul. 

So I have a take-two-tylenol headache.  I'm ok.  I'm more than ok.  Even though I do dumb stuff sometimes, like think that love comes in a cake jar,  and I lose the round, I'm winning the bout.  I'm strong.  I'm brave.  And I love that.  I love me. 

Sometimes I go off, I go hard

Get what’s mine, I’m a star

Cause I slay.

All day.

We gon’ slay, gon’ slay, we slay,

I slay.

Happy New Year.  Happy New Me. 

 

Merry Christmas!

Oh how those two simple words change over time.

When I was a child, they meant excitement and delight.  Those two words held the promise of everything that was right in the world.  Growing up in Wisconsin, nearly every Christmas was a white Christmas.  I remember the way the snow would hang on the trees and bushes, the colored lights shining through the blanket of peace.  Snow is so quiet, and coming home from midnight services, the crunch of the tires on the unplowed streets laying a bass line under the carols on the radio.  The smell of the air was a combination of freshness, pine and firewood.  Running into the house, throwing off our coats, we couldn’t wait to put on our new Christmas pajamas and grab the book Mom bought us every year.  The faster we went to bed the faster the magic happened.

When I was a newlywed, those two words held the hope of a future filled with love.  Our first tree, our first, Christmas morning, crawling back into bed with a fresh pot of coffee and gifts snatched from under the tree.  The toasty warmth under a down comforter combined with the notion that it would last forever wrapping around the two of us…

When I found myself single again, “Merry Christmas” did not seem to be for me.  But I put up a tree and placed the gifts for my co-workers under it.  It didn’t seem right to place the crèche I received for a wedding present, so it stayed in the box with my joy, as I went through the motions.  Alone.  With my dog.  Who opened the meticulously wrapped candles I had lovingly chosen, ate the wax out of them, and then left a trail of vomit throughout the house.

When I moved to Florida, those two words seemed hollow as I tried to acclimate to Christmas shopping in shorts.   No snow.  No family.  No traditions.  No wonder. 

Andrew’s first Christmas…. He was so little.  He didn’t understand.   But these two simple words were again filled with excitement and delight.  Those two words held the promise of everything that was right. New sights.  New sounds.  New smells.  New family.  New traditions. 

And then, the Christmas when Andrew turned two…. My family came to visit.  My brother Bob, his wife Lee Ann and their three kids.  My mom and dad.  It was going to be amazing.  Bob and I were going to recreate the Christmas’ of our memories for our kids… without the snow and cold.  We talked about it for months, got all the kids new Christmas pajamas and books.  Found the recipe for Tom and Jerrys.  Planned, and schemed and dreamed of a picture perfect Christmas…

The only thing good about that Christmas was that Lee Ann and I were both skinny.  First, my mom insisted on talking about how she was going to die soon, probably at age 62 just like her mom did, although there was nothing wrong with her.  She detailed who should get what- designated beneficiaries of her jewelry.  It was morbid.  And depressing.  Next, Bob hit a parking meter with my car leaving a huge dent.  Then, I lost my diamond tennis bracelet while shopping at Best Buy. 

And on Christmas morning.  Andrew died. 

We were all up, getting ready to unwrap presents (or had we already done so?).  I was sitting on the floor by the tree and in surveying the scene, realized Andrew wasn’t where I had left him.  I got up, and went off to bring him back to the party.  When I passed the sliding glass doors off the kitchen out of the corner of my eye, I saw something in the pool. 

What the….? 

And then it clicked.

The life literally left my body on the scream that burst from my heart and exited my lips-my lips that had kissed every inch of my baby every day for the past 18 months.  I jumped in the pool. The shock of the unheated water heightening my senses in the very moment I did not want to feel.  I grabbed his lifeless form and passed him to the waiting hands of my husband while my brother called 911.  I sprang from the pool and assessed his blueness my mind screaming,

“He’s got to breathe. He’s got to breathe.” 

I tilted his head back, pried open his jaw, and reclaimed my son.

Once again, my breath his breath.  One more time, my life his life. 

And within moments, he reclaimed me- rejected the water, spewing it out, and then, like the moment of his birth, took his own breath.  Became not me, but him.   The blue from his lips returned to his eyes and my baby was back.  My life returned. 

When we were in the ambulance on our way to the hospital, he put his hands on my face and said, “No cry mama. No cry.”   Oh how I loved him.

Oh how I love him.

And that’s Christmas. 

Some suck.  Some don’t.  Some are picture perfect.  Some are messy and scary and nothing like we want.

But it doesn’t matter. 

Christmas is about God loving the world so much. 

He showed it through his son. 

He shows it through my son.

Merry Christmas.

  

I brought beef jerky to a yoga ashram.

Right there, under the ashram rules it states:

“…non-vegetarian foods, eggs, onions, garlic, and coffee are also

forbidden on ashram premises”

Crap.  I have canned tuna in my bag too.  

At least I left the bottle of wine at home, although with this view and a glass of burgundy, I would certainly reach nirvana.

We live in a world of zero tolerance.  A world where even here, at a yoga ashram where the guru was credited with saying, “There is something good in all seeming failures.”  Even here, at his ashram, we are handed a list of rules, we sign a multitude of consent forms and waivers, and are subject to the threat that our non-violent, personal behavior may “result in immediate expulsion from the ashram.”

The world wasn’t always this way.

When I was a kid, we made soooooo many mistakes.  We pushed the boundaries, we messed up, we got yelled at (sometimes with a belt), apologized, and learned.  But we weren’t expelled, banished, or left without another chance. 

We got caught smoking behind the grocery store one time.  I was probably 10 and I am quite certain it was my cousin Jim’s idea.   The police caught us.  Did he arrest us?  Did he write a citation?  Did he call our parents?  No, he made us get on our hands and knees and pick up every cigarette butt in that alley way, hold them all in our sweaty fists, the mixture of fear and stale, burnt tobacco seeping into our pores, nose and consciousness.  He never said a word.   When we were done (and it took quite a while), he simply held out an empty lunch bag and we reluctantly opened our hand, the evidence of crimes from countless kids spilled into that sack.  He looked us in the eyes, rolled the top of the bag closed, got in his car, and drove away.   We were petrified not knowing what would come next.  Would he tell?  Quite possibly as my mom worked for a circuit judge.  Would he tell?  Quite possibly since Jim’s dad, my uncle, owned the liquor store not a block away and the cop stopped in there after work nearly every day.  And then what?  We had no idea… so we talked, we analyzed, we beat ourselves up.  We fantasized, we frantisized, and we swore a blood oath we would NEVER smoke again.

But that’s not today. 

Today kids have to be perfect.  There is no tolerance for nearly anything.  The rules are no longer a line in the sand but instead are etched into stone tablets that describe nearly every possible offense and are annotated with an accompanying matrix of consequence.  This is good, right?  Kids don’t have to think about what might happen or even consider the chain reaction of their choices.  No, they simply can look it up, and as rational actors, weigh the pros and the cons in advance.  If only they were emotionally developed to do so. They’re not, so instead, they are corralled by their parents, helicopter moms and drill sergeant dads who spend every waking moment hovering over their children to make sure they know where the lines are and run interference should one toe come close to being out of bounds.  And moms and dads of means are able to make parent patrol a full time job.  But what about those parents who can’t?  Maybe there’s only one instead of two or maybe they they have to ride three buses to and from work morphing an 8-hour day into 12?  Or maybe they just think kids should be kids?  When those kids fuck up, and they do- after all, they’re kids - the consequences are extreme, life changing, and permanent.

That almost happened one time to Derek. 

He was in the 6^th or 7^th grade, I’m no longer sure.  But one day, at work, nearly 60 minutes away, I got the phone call. 

“Is this Derek’s mom?”

Without waiting for my complete reply, they continued:

            “First, Derek is fine.  He is not hurt…”

Then why in the heck are you calling me in the middle of my shift?

            “…however, there has been an incident.”

I am not sure if I responded, or even if I could respond since they had punched me in the gut, forcing the air out of me. 

“We will be conducting a crisis evaluation according to the code of conduct matrix found in the Student Handbook you were presented with both online and in orientation or you may friend us on Facebook for a copy.”

Seriously?  What?  I snapped to attention:

“WHOA!  You aren’t doing anything until I get there.  You are not talking to him.   You are not evaluating him.  You are not matrixing him until I get there.  Do you understand?”

            “Well, Mrs. Choate, I can assure you this is all a matter of protocol…”

            “I said, I am on my way.  Do. Not. Talk. To. Him.   Now, put him on the phone please.”

            “Derek, are you ok?”

            “I think so.”

\

            “Don’t say anything more.  To anyone, and I mean anyone.  I am on my way.”

When I got there, I found out Derek had been accused of having a potential weapon at school and there is zero tolerance for that.  Automatic suspension, expulsion, and quite possibly a scarlet letter etched into his forehead with Sharpee.  Red or black.  Your choice.

The weapon?  A hollow plastic “bullet” from his Halloween costume.

I only had one thing to say.  Zero tolerance.

Of course, once I was there, nothing happened.  The principal apologized.  I took Derek home.  And I tried to explain the crazy ass world he was living in.   The world that was so afraid of being unfair, they had to have one size fits all rules. The world that was so litigation prone that every incident came with its own cover your ass protocol.   A world that no longer operated with “it takes a village” but instead adapted “not in my school” or backyard or city or town or state or country. 

And to make it even worse, I had learned to navigate that world.  I learned to demand my rights to protect his.  I learned that as the white mom of a black boy, my built in privilege sometimes would balance the cumulative disadvantage of his race, and gender, and age. I learned that I had to defend, advocate and fight for my kids instead of working hand in hand with those in whom I entrusted his care.  I learned there were no silent cops willing to take the time to offer a life lesson.   I learned there is no longer room in our society for my kids to analyze, frantisize, and swear a blood oath to NEVER make that mistake again.

So here I sit.  My beef jerky and canned tuna disguised in plain unmarked brown wrappers.  Stashed under my yoga pants and Namaste tshirt.

I learned all right. 

But it’s not all right.