Usagi?! Ujjayi.

It has been a year now since Grace and I took Mom and Baby Yoga together. And now she’s too old, and I’m back at work, and I miss it.

So, I took one of the only free nights of my week and signed up for an Ashtanga class from the same instructor – this time, without the 40minute drive to another town. Yay.

By the end of the first night, I knew I’d made a good choice for me. Again, I was struck by the overwhelming impression from this instructor of comfort in her own body. She’s a tall woman – and every movement and motion seems to sing, “this is the space I occupy, and I fill it with beauty and light”. I want that for myself- that refusal to give in to the pressure to apologize for the volume of space I occupy.

And, bless her, she talks about opening and strengthening and flexibility and stretching and has never once said anything to suggest that there was any need to make a body (any body) less of anything- except less closed, or less tense, or (when demonstrating easier variations on a pose) less stressed or pained.

Tonight was the third night. I was not, at 6:15, convinced that my 7pm yoga class was a good idea. I was coughing. I was sore. I was dizzy. I was tired. I went upstairs to change out of work clothes and contemplated just crawling into bed and staying there. But I managed to convince myself that it was worth it, and besides, missing a class I’d paid for was wasting money. (gasp!)

So I went, and saluted the sun, and all the achy tension in my back dissipated, and I felt so much better. And our focus this evening was on balance, and sun and moon energy, and a slow, warm, controlled way of breathing.

(And if I sent my instructor this link I hope she’s duly impressed that my google-fu is so strong that I figured out how to spell that, considering that I left the place with totally not that word in my head.)

So- the whole time that I was aware of this Ujjayi breath, there was none of the spasmic breathing that I’ve been doing all day. And then, as soon as we relaxed a bit, and returned to ‘normal’ breath, I burst out coughing. Telling, no?

Usually, at the first sign of a cold, I go running for the Contac-C. I’m a big fan of medication. (I was looking for the Epidural shunt about a week before my due date). The effect of cough meds on me is often not so much to decrease the symptoms of a cold, but to disconnect me enough from my body that I don’t care so much about the coughing and the aches and the pain. Tonight was an amazing chance to intentionally connect to a visibly broken version of myself, to appreciate the not-coughing, not-aching version of me, to honour that this, now, is the state of my body in this moment. And that life is dynamic and ever-changing.

I also really enjoy the opportunity to listen to a spiritual teacher from a different tradition teach and practice. As she spoke about the balance of sun and moon energy- the stillness that frees the heart and the movement that quiets the mind, I started wondering (evidently, I suck at quieting the mind) if there are any parallels in the Christian tradition. And got thinking about various monastic orders, and the balance between labour and prayer, action and meditation. I want to explore that further, I think. Listening to Caroline talk about the yoga sutras makes me keenly aware that for a faith that has Incarnation at its very centre, Christianity doesn’t have much to say about the body. I blame Paul and his greek-influenced dualism. This will be food for thought for me for a while.

Also? I got way further into pigeon pose than I thought I was going to be able to, when she was demonstrating. So that was a pretty great way to end the night. That and stopping at the video store on my way home for my brand spanking new copy of Here Comes Science.

In honour of finding balance between sun energy and moon energy, of growth and expanding knowledge, of openness to more complete truth, I leave you with the answers to two questions.

Why does the sun shine?
And Why does the sun REALLY shine?

In Which I Make Lists

When we bought our house, things were very different. We were different: we had no small children of our own, but two older foster kids. And the place was different: the adjacent property was empty scrub.

5 Years later, things have changed. We have a 1 and 3 year old who want to play outside all the time. And the empty lots have been turned almost overnight into “Adult Lifestyle Condominiums”.

Things that suck about living next to a new development of Adult Lifestyle Condominiums:

• Gorgeous quiet residential cul-de-sacs, and no kids to play in them.
• A small number of neighbours who bought here to get away from neighbours with children.
• A view of roofs, where there used to be small trees, long grass, and wild flowers.
• a park with paths and grass and trees but no play structure.
• feeling guilty about the bit of lawn we don’t maintain, which looks much worse when it is no longer next to small trees, long grass, and wild flowers.
• having the phone line cut as a weekly occurrence during construction.

Things that don’t suck about living next to a new development of Adult Lifestyle Condominiums:

• beautifully paved walkways, built for people who may have or develop mobility issues, but also wonderful for strollers, that connects our street to the nearby grocery store and Zellers, with minimal time spent walking along the 4-lane arterial roads- by way of a small treed park, and quaint little footbridge.
• people doing Tai Chi in the park, triggering conversations about different ways to move that feel good, and about how if you aren’t good at something right away, you should keep practicing  (yeah, if you watch Ni Hao Kai Lan, you know why.  If you don’t, I cannot explain it).
• A lovely flat paved circle in the park, just waiting for a girl to get her first two-wheeler.
• Many neighbours who are happy to wave back to a smiling 1-year old, or wait for the “walking man” when they see you teaching a 3 year old about traffic safety.

My love for my house, its tiny kitchen, fenceless yard, and busy thoroughfare waxes and wanes.  But the fact that we can now embark on an “adventure” that can include waving at puppies, visiting the pet store, whooping it up at McPlayland, buying diapers, choosing potty-chart stickers from the dollar store, and bringing home milk- all without having to use the car, or to stroll with two kids along several blocks of pedestrian un-friendly arterial road?  I’m not about to send love-letters to the developer.

But I might start to mow the lawn.

Rituals and Rites

I’ve been thinking a lot about the role of ritual in my life.

Part of what got this thinky-ball rolling was reading the MFA thesis of a relative-in-law. I am fascinated by this project, and the exploration of the self-defining role of ritual in the every-day living of life. “You are what you eat” has kinda made it as an idiom- but “you are what you do” is probably closer to the truth. Especially “you are what you do over and over and over, such that the doing of it is no longer conscious or intentional”.

That’s… wow, that’s a whole lot to digest, right there. And, as someone who deals in formal ritual fairly regularly, its… wow.

So I’ve been thinking a lot about what I do, over and over, especially the things I just do without thinking.

Oddly, with the things I do around child-care I’m pretty comfortable about the person who is defined and created by the repetition of those acts. I’m particularly fond of some of our bed-time rituals. Partly, I think, because I made some intentional choices about how I wanted to parent. I was forced to articulate those choices and values and underlying assumptions to this other human being who is also their parent.

There are a lot of small rituals / patterns / routines / habits in my life that I don’t really like where they’re headed, if I really think about the person they both reveal and create. Its some serious work to examine those un-examined corners, and I’m putting it off as long as I can.

And I wonder if this is part of the appeal of starting a new diet lifestyle change way of approaching food, for a lot of people. All the unthinking rituals and habits around food get re-scripted and made intentional for a while. Add to that all the external validation of someone telling you that the person who is revealed-and-created by following this new ritual of calorie counting, or food journalling, or point tracking, or WHATEVER is a superior person to whoever you were before. That’s a heady mixture.

I’m not really sure what to do with this, yet.
Except to say that you should all go to Jodi’s Etsy Shop and buy lots of her awesome stuff. Because she’s made of win.

In Which I Compare and Contrast

So, this week has seen an occurrence which happens once every 5 years in my household– and once every 10 years to me. The 60-month loan on our “new” car was retired in July- leaving room to replace my “old” car. My ‘97 Escort wagon was purchased (used) during a drought in the Family Station Wagon market. I never loved it, and liked it less as one by one various systems crapped out on it: a/c, power locks, power windows… I’ll miss it so. (That said, it has always been a reliable was to get from here to there- in the market for a $300 working vehicle with significant cosmetic issues? call me!)

But then there was a glorious few months of “car shopping” on long car trips- seeing what else is on the highway. Everybody in the WORLD is driving a Matrix now, it seems like. I guess the wagon market has revived (even if that’s not what they’re calling it these days).

Then there was some research online, narrowing down my options. Then there was the glorious morning of being sucked up to by car salespeople. Whee! Shopping alone meant I didn’t have to get pissed off about how they dealt with me vs. my husband. Sweet.

I was reasonably convinced that either of my two choices would perform acceptably as vehicles. They would go forward or back, turn to the left, or to the right, speed up or slow down as the appropriate pedals were engaged. So by the time I was test-driving, it was all about the look and feel.

First stop was to check out the Mazda5. (Zoom zoom). It was a beautiful ride. Powerful, sexy, packed with desirable features. Amazing visibility for the size of the vehicle. Tilt and telescoping steering wheel- I would have LOVED that when I was pregnant. I knew on paper that, of the two, it had less leg and shoulder room. What I didn’t know was how that felt. The driver’s seat was narrowed with sides that come forward- I suppose to offer ‘back support’. The effect for me was that my arms felt smooshed in, making my grip on the steering wheel feel forced. I could feel the seat closing in on me on both sides. I fit- but “this fat and no fatter” is a strange enough head-game to play with myself, without my CAR weighing in on the issue. A great car. Just not the right one for me.

So when I got to the Kia dealer to sit in a Rondo, I was predisposed to love it. And I did. And call me crazy- but the seat belt fit. I’ve never had a seat belt fit. They’re long enough, but… the lap belt actually going across my lap, and the shoulder belt cutting BETWEEN my breasts, and chafing neither my ear nor my shoulder. The lower anchor points were just a little bit forward, and the higher anchor point was just a little bit lower. Sweet. SOLD! Oh yeah, and it also had great visibility and handling and stuff.

Yay.

The week didn’t start with car shopping, though. It started with a road trip (in the ‘new’ car, which on Monday will become the ‘old’ car) to visit the woman who, 20 years ago, was granted the title “my mostest bestest friend” and although we’ve drifted over the years, she retains the title. We played in the park- 4 parents and 4 kids. All the kids were adorable in the blonde-and-blue-eyed style of adorable. The two eldest were both articulate, both active, both curious, both madly in love with their baby sisters.

LittleE is 4. He’s deeply into taxonomy- the fundamental question with which he approaches the world is “what is it? what is it called?”. He can name dinosaurs and other prehistoric life like nobody’s business. He knows the difference between dinosaurs and other prehistoric life. He’s awesome. Ruth is 3. She’s into origins- the fundamental question with which she approaches the world is “where did it come from?”. She can name the person who gave her each of her favourite toys. She’s awesome.

These two kids, who looked enough alike to be cousins (or brother and sister, if you squint and look sideways, and ignore their actual sisters, who look far more like their respective siblings) were so incredibly different. E was into roaring and chasing. Ruth was into screaming and running away. Good times.

Such a powerful reminder that people are, you know, different. And that absolutely awesome comes in a lot of different styles. Each in the image of God. Ad imaginem Dei

That’s Breakfast Froog!

Ever since Ruth decided that she was too grown-up for Max and Ruby, and preferred Bo on the Go, I’ve added a new element to my morning.

(Yes, I’m one of those moms that lets the TV occupy my kids and serve as timekeeper while I get ready to go in the morning. If you want to judge me, do it on your own blog).

Every morning, just before Bo begins, MIGHTY MAMMA! saves breakfast.
Mighty Mamma- who in other segments is Mamma Yamma. That’s right- a giant talking sweet potato.

Check her out here (She’s at the bottom of the second page)

She runs a little restaurant with a sign out front proclaiming “Good Food Served Here”

And I love her.

I mean, sure, the segment is indeed sponsored by Kellogg’s, and they seem to eat a lot of toaster waffles. But so do we, frankly. And that was long before we started watching Kids CBC in the mornings.

I had trouble finding a Mighty Mamma segment to share- but where there’s a will, there’s a proud parent with a TV and a video camera!

As Ruth approaches school age, I don’t know what’ll happen when she gets to “health and nutrition” curriculum, if someone will teach her that calories are bad, and a measure of how much unpleasant exercise she’ll have to do to burn off her food. But for now, Mamma Yamma and I are singing from the same hymn book.

Playing is fun!
Food is good!
Food you eat gives you energy to play!
Lots of different kinds of food help you grow!

Seriously, is that so hard?

The knee bone connects to the…

I’ve been having these painful conversations with my mother about Mother of the Bride dresses*.
(She is, just by the way, going to look stunning for my sister’s wedding in September.)

But she’s all upset, because she has three daughters and wore a 12 for my wedding, and a 14 for wedding #2. She’ll allow how maybe she could wear a 16 for #3, but an 18 is just a bridge to far. I tell her that I think she should wear a dress that fits, that she can dance in, that she can think about how happy she is for her beautiful daughter and her wonderful new Son-in-law instead of thinking about sucking in her tummy. She nods, and then says she likes such-and-such a dressmaker because the 16 fits, and the other she’d have to go up a size. But whatever.

“It’s just a number”. I tell her. “It doesn’t mean anything”. Labels are just labels.
If you found this post via that fatosphere feed, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, here.

So…

Here’s what I learned this week.

One might think, given that the mild injury that I’ve finally committed to treating with proper TLC for healing is, according to my doc, all because of the fatz, that there would be an over-abundance of products out there to help the many, many injured fatties of the world treat our poor, overworked joints with the love and respect they deserve.

Not so much.

In the mainline pharmacy, products capped out about three inches shy of my leg circumference, leaving me two choices: a pre-made knee support that rolls, or a badly-wrapped tensor bandage (that might stay put, if I were better at wrapping. But I’m not).

The smaller pharmacy, with the yellow pages ad that emphasized orthopedic braces & supports, carried a brand that, for some items, went up to an XXXL- though not every item. Not the item, for example, I was shopping for. But kudos to them for making products available to a wider (har) range of customers. I’ll definitely be going back there when I need pharmacy items.

A clerk worked with me to find something that would fit properly. Of the products in stock, none of the affordable, low-medium supports for knees was right for me. I could take the giant leap to a higher support, higher cost product. Or…

… a tiny little step to the right, and the next section of the display wall.

I’m now sitting pretty in my new, comfortably fitting thigh knee support. HelpfulClerk assured me that it is indeed doing what I need it to do, to encourage healing. And even had some suggestions for preventing further injury when I get riding again.

Labels?
Are just labels.

And I’m so glad I know that. Because a few years ago, before I found FA, buying a thigh sleeve for my knee would have been simply devastating. Today, it was just a relief. Now can this knee just heal, already- so I can get back on my bike before the snow flies.

*and seriously, what is WITH this catalogue? If you’re going to market your designs AS MOTB dresses, how ’bout using a model who looks old enough to be the Mother of the Baptismal Candidate, let alone the Bride.

Doctor’s Orders

So, I’ve been nursing, since the spring, a bum knee.

Last week, it went from intermittently mildly painful to constantly very painful– which was an alarming new development. I decided to scrap my traditional “bodies are amazing healing systems, lets wait and see” approach to my health, and called my Doctor’s office.

My regular Doc is on holidays, but they fit me in with someone else in the practice for that afternoon. (wow! that NEVER happens!) I came home from that appt with a prescription for anti-inflammatories, and an overdose of unveiled contempt.

Fine. Whatever. This is, I guess, a fairly common injury. I got the same anti-inflammatory-and-tensor advice over gchat from a friend, without the curt “you are a waste of my time” dismissal, or the murmured under the breath commentary, or the weight-loss lecture. (Why do I not listen to her more often… that chick KNOWS stuff!)

According to this fine practitioner of community health care, the initial sprain, and the inflammation of the tendon that resulted from it, was caused by my fat (which places undue stress on joints). Not the strain of towing 2 kids up a hill in a bike trailer- but my fat. And the re-injury that has slowed healing is caused by my fat (which causes undue stress on joints). Not the weekly softball games. Not the playing-on-the-floor-with-the-kids- but my fat. And the tear that caused the escalation in pain was inevitable, what with all the getting on with living-while-fat. And if I don’t lose weight, I can look forward to a long future of repeated sprains and strains and pains.

“For the acute pain, you can take the anti-inflammatories. In the long term, it’s up to you”

Except that it isn’t.

So, again I say, “whatever”.

My work brings me into contact with a lot of different people of many generations. And The Great Generation uses this phrase “doctor’s orders” to suggest that an expert on their body and health told them to do something for their own good, so they’ll do it (or despair over their inability to do it) at great inconvenience. Because they were ordered to do so. And they wouldn’t want to be non-compliant

So, on my hour’s drive home from the doc who’s time I wasted, I had some time to consult with an actual expert on my body and health. “Self” I asked myself, “What has made this injury feel better? What has made it worse”.

And after careful consultation with myself, I’ve scratched myself from the ball team’s roster. (That was hard. Hubby and I joined the team together, and I’ve been sidelined for 4 years, pregnant or nursing) And since long bouts at the computer make things feel worse, and swimming makes things feel better, my guild will have to pwn Ulduar without the priest they all pitched in to gear up. Since I’ll be heading to the Y for lane swim after bedtime, at least 3 nights a week.

An actual expert on my body and health thinks we’ll have more success strengthening the joint than shrinking the body above it, too. So I’m looking into a trainer, so I can move the bike (that I LOOOOVE) indoors through the winter, so that next spring towing the kids won’t be too much for it. (Next spring, Ruth will have her own two-wheeler, which makes my heart a little nostalgic/melancholy, but my knee relieved)

Inconvenient? kinda.
But I’ll do it anyway.

Doctor’s Orders.

Outfit Blogging

The whole idea that clothing could have a purpose other than covering nakedness is kind of new to me.
Well, covering nakedness, and an an indicator of willingness (or not) to play along with social expectations.

So, I’ve worried about what to wear to job interviews, and what to wear to weddings. But on an average day, my clothing decisions are based on questions such as “how hot or cold is it? How many difference places do I need to go today? I am doing anything work related that requires me to show up in uniform? What is clean?”

But I’ve been reading other people’s outfit blogs. And Lesley and others have really made me think about this daily ritual of covering my nakedness.

I claim this other role for my clothing. It has the power to affect how I feel about myself on any given day. Clothing can help me feel comfortable, or confident, or pretty, or… it can make me feel constricted or out of place, or ungainly.

So, I’m going to try something for a while.

Each day, I will wear at least one article of clothing that makes me happy. Some days it’ll be the awesome jeans of perfect fittiness. Some days it’ll be the pretty top of flowy comfort. Some days, when I’m constrained by some of the questions above, it’ll be the purple panda underpants, or the bra of ultimate comfort. But every day, this: one article of clothing that makes me happy. I deserve nothing less, possibly a lot more. And it might mean I get laundry done more often. I imagine that it will influence future clothing purchases.

Today, its the stretchy skirt of paisley comfort. (With a side helping of trying to learn how to use my camera’s auto-timer)
It’s Eddie Bauer XXL, stretchy as all get-out, and came to me second-hand as maternity wear, and I love it. It doesn’t really feel appropriate for work, but its awesome for hanging out with the kids (which is on the schedule for today). If we decide to do something climb-around-y, I’ll go find some bike shorts to throw under it. I like how it looks and feels, but it also makes me feel connected to two dear long-time friends with whom I did maternity clothing swaps. They are raising their awesome kids in another city and we don’t see each other much. I miss them.

So, today, I’m wearing the stretchy skirt of paisley comfort. And a black tank from Reitmans’ end of season clearance last August.
And it’s making me happy.

Members of the Body

This passage from Ephesians has been on my mind, ever since it was the evening prayer reading at an event I attended.

the highlights:

But each of us was given grace according to the measure of Christ’s gift. The gifts he gave were that some would be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ… speaking the truth in love, we must grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and knitted together by every ligament with which it is equipped, as each part is working properly, promotes the body’s growth in building itself up in love.

This language of body to describe the community of faith also crops up in 1 Corinthians. Romans. Colossians. It’s a fairly dominant image for understanding the Church.

This presents, I think, something of a problem.

I’ll admit- I’ve forgotten most of what I ever knew about cultural criticism, and specifically body image in 1st Century Roman Culture.
But these passages read, to me, anyway, in a fairly body-neutral kind of way. Bodies have different parts, they all do their thing to serve the common good. Weaker members get respect. Ultimately- the body grows in building itself up. The body can mostly be trusted to do its thing- with Christ as its head, of course. And we’re like that- if we all do our part, if we all act with kindness and justice and compassion, well- things sort themselves out.

This image takes on a whole different shade of meaning in the current climate of body-hatred. The body is a thing to be tricked, poked, denied, and punished. The body, in most of our current culture, can’t be trusted, and must be tightly controlled.

Apply that backwards, to the metaphorical body of Christ, and membership in the community of Faith is all about denial, unsatisfied hungers, and punishment for anything enjoyable. And hey- who doesn’t want to be a part of that?! Jesus – he’s not a diet, he’s a lifestyle choice. [smirk]

Here is one place where FA and faith come together in a powerful way for me. How I understand my place in the Church- my role in the great cosmic project that is the coming of the Kingdom of God- is intimately connected to how I understand bodies in general. And my body in particular.

I want to love that image of my place as one member of the Body of Christ. One small part of an organic whole that is nourished, that is energized and sustained by taking on what is new, and that periodically rids itself of what is unnecessary*. A body that moves and delights in that movement, that rests, and plays, and holds, and hugs. A body that ejaculates and gestates and nurses.

A body that can be trusted to build itself up, in love.

*Yeah that’s right. I said it. The body of Christ should take a great big dump every once in a while.

Life is Too Short.

When I meet with couples seeking marriage, we sometimes joke about the amount of unsolicited advice they get from everyone, about everything wedding-related. I offer them my own two cents worth: “Life is too short for uncomfortable shoes”.

Do I ever listen to my own advice? Heck no! What would be the fun of that?

I’ve been in pain since the beginning of spring.
Other things I did in spring:
-started a running training program- building up to a 5K
-started wearing my favourite summer skirts, and cute little sandals with them.

So when my feet and knees started to complain, it was so easy to jump right to “I’m too fat to run”. I got frustrated. I quit following the schedule. I dropped out of the race for which I had registered. I stopped running.

And my feet still hurt.

I really don’t like my feet. I never have.

They are wide. And hard to fit. They are ugly, ungainly.
And it has been very easy to just sweep all that foot hate into a much bigger ball of body hate.

If only I weren’t so fat, my feet wouldn’t hurt.
I’m too fat for heels. Too fat for pretty shoes. Too fat for all the cute, cheap shoes at Payless.
Too fat to expect to be able to get through a day spent on my feet without pain in my knees, my toes, the balls of my feet.
Too fat.
If only I weighed less, If my feet didn’t have so much me to hold up, they’d be fine.
Riiight.

What sort of great idiocy is this?!
There are fat waitresses, fat nurses, all sorts of fat people who make it through entire days on their feet. Somewhere they find shoes that enable them to manage it. They exist, somewhere in the world. And dammit! If those shoes are to be had, I need those shoes. I want those shoes.
Dare I suggest it, even to myself? I deserve those shoes.

So I went out on Thursday and bought those shoes.
From a store where I walked in and she started off by measuring my feet (both! Because they’re different!) and then she matter-of-factly and without judgement told me what features we were looking for in a shoe that would work for me. (Adjustable straps at the front was key.) We found a few pairs. Some were waaay out of my price range. Some were only a little bit out of my price range. One pair came home with me. Dressy sandals, for the days that I can’t get away with my ugly but oh-so-comfy 5-year-old workhorses.

It feels like a lot of money to spend on shoes. But I’m embracing the idea of cost per wear, that I learned about from this book I picked up. The walking sandals I bought for a vacation in 2004 (at the same store) have certainly earned their place.

But, the thing is. I could lose 100lb and my feet would still be wide, and my arch would still be oddly placed, and all the little oddities that make one shoe right for me, and another right for someone else, would still be there. It isn’t about fat, or thin. It’s about figuring out what works. I’m working on hating my feet less, honoring them more, and dressing them better.

Life is too short to spend it hating, regretting, or trying to change the reality that is my incarnate self.
Life is too short for punishing myself for not being ‘normal’.
Life is too short for uncomfortable shoes.