Letting Go of Pain

A true friend stabs you in the front
--Oscar Wilde

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Releasing a painful past is difficult, especially since the event causing the pain had so significantly defined us for a short but intense period.

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In releasing the pain, do we release the event altogether? Does releasing the pain deny that the event occurred? Is it time to begin redefining ourselves? I ask these questions using plural pronouns as I cannot separate my individual struggle (yes, pain) from my family’s struggle (in whatever ways it manifested but, in the end, pain).

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In August 2008, in celebration of three friends who turned fifty, a group of fourteen took a one-week cruise up Alaska’s inside passage. Four amongst us were teenagers, one of whom turned fifteen at sea. The trip marked the first time Michael and I had traveled together without our children since their births. It took careful consideration, coordination, and collaboration. It was significant.

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These people are my “Big Chill” group, the name coming from the 1983 movie. Aboard ship we were once again that group of young men and women living in the Haight-Ashbury, Noe Valley, and Castro District of San Francisco in the first half of the 1980s. Our past took place in the midst of an AIDS epidemic, struggles with graduate school, lovers with all preferences of lifestyles, seeking careers and the individual paths that would later define us--or, at least, would define us for a moment of time. We have managed to keep in touch with each other through marriages, lovers, childbirths, and adoptions. We try to see each other once a year and succeed about 50 percent of the time. But this trip required 100 percent participation. We did it, and we were grateful for the week we spent at sea with each other.

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The days were filled with adventures. We all ventured off the boat in different directions: ocean kayaking, cycling to blue glaciers, dog sledding, helicopter rides, train rides to sites that Jack London had used as settings for his stories. Between the fourteen of us, we covered a lot of ground.

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Our group dinners every night at 8:00 P.M. celebrated the events of the day, and our table of ten was always the last to leave so the tolerant wait staff could clear it. The volume of our laughter consistently exceeded acceptable decibel levels, but not once were we reprimanded. It was the time spent around the table that meant the most to me. These friends had supported Michael and me through our cancer adventure.

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When it came time to sign up for the “On Deck for the Cure” walk around the ship, we all walked or ran at our own pace. With whales swimming off our port bow in the still, blue-gray waters, I could think of no better place to let go of my pain. In releasing remnants of whatever I held onto from the past three-plus years, I gained more in love and faith of these friendships sustained. It was this group who showed me,

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“We’ll share your pain until you feel it no longer.”

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And they did.

Meeting Michael

The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt within the heart.

--Helen Keller

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I’ve gone through life making a billion decisions, not always knowing what lay breath to any particular one. Sometimes, decisions don’t seem to lead me where I intend. Then there are times when everything falls into place, and I find myself blanketed in gratitude for making those very uncertain decisions, because they had led me to that place of welcomed grace, that loving place of balance and benevolence. Nevertheless, I’ve found that if my intentions were toward love, pure and simple, then, that’s what I’ll inevitably find.

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When I was once looking for help, I found Michael, my husband—the love of my life. When I first met him, I was a high-school teacher for the Deaf and hard of hearing in California. As part of my curriculum, I introduced my students to one of my own great passions: rock-climbing. They weren’t motivated by the typical teenage need for thrills or attention-seeking. These were youth who needed—excuse the expression—a “crash” course in confidence. They had chosen rock-climbing out of a smorgasbord of choices, and they were all on-board to give it a go.

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I had been turned away from three different rock-climbing gyms, and their instructors all reported back to me the same excuse: “We feel the ‘situation’ causes too much liability.”

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I became more persistent. From my own experience with rock-climbing, I was well aware of its confidence-boosting benefits. My students came from many cultures--one of these cultures being Deaf. More often than not, students’ parents never learned American Sign Language; and parents would come to rely on their teachers and interpreters for all of the life lessons their children received. I had Vietnamese, Laotian, African American/Cambodian, Taiwanese, and Hispanic students. Students’ parents spoke their native language at home. If able, they would speak English when they were meeting me at school. Most parents saw deafness as a disability rather than a cultural difference.

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The combination of this perspective on deafness, combined with traditions carried from their native countries, often left their children with poor self-esteem that, by high school, resulted in many poor and uninformed choices. One of my students was raped because she got into the car of a stranger who was good-looking and smiling. Another became pregnant for much the same reason. Two of my students stood on the verge of getting kicked out of their homes, and all of these choices were linked to a lack of communication and education.

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I managed to persuade all of the parents to sign permission slips so I could take them on a city adventure--climb a wall and build some confidence. It was my desire that this experience would eventually lead to their honoring themselves, which would lead to making better choices. The Deaf community was more than willing to cooperate with me. They assisted me with organizing interpreters and even found experienced rock-climbing instructors who were Deaf. The hearing community gave me the most difficult time!

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It was 1991, and indoor climbing gyms, though on the verge of becoming popular, were not yet abundant. My Deaf students were still considered a “challenging” group. The sport of indoor-climbing and access to the sport were new; so were the rules that governed the walls. Furthermore, few supervisors and store owners knew what the rules were. I understood why they erred on the side of caution. I just didn’t agree with them.

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Michael’s position as rock-climbing manager at the Sport Chalet in Huntington Beach offered him some latitude for creativity. For example, he had designed a climbing wall on the outside of the building, rather than inside, which was the typical placement. He had nine routes of various difficulties enclosed in a fenced-off area in the back. This climbing wall drew customers to the shop, making it a win-win situation for everyone.

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Michael didn’t hesitate when I asked about lessons for my group of students, instructors and interpreters. What he didn’t tell me, until later, was that he, himself, had been taking sign language courses at the local community college.

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We placed one interpreter at the top of the twenty-five foot building, so the climber/student could look up; we placed another at the foot of the wall so the climber/student could look down. This triangulation enabled my students to climb, as well as communicate toward their desired direction. Because both signing and climbing require use of the hands, all students were top-roped, allowing them to let go of the wall and still be supported.

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I like to find metaphors in everything, and this one was significant to me. I wanted my students to know, “You can let go of everything for just this moment in time and still be held up. We won’t let you fall. We won’t let you down. Tell us what you need!”

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The day was successful in many respects. It marked the beginning of relationships that laid foundations for trust. I was able to take these same students to a YMCA Deaf Camp for five consecutive years following that first rock-climbing experience. I was invited to eat dinner with my students’ families, who were often too poor to feed themselves adequately. I felt honored and cherished to join them, in full Cambodian tradition, on a beautiful mat laid out on the floor of their apartments. Communication barriers persisted, too, but we ate in celebration of our shared belief that we simply must begin somewhere and that sharing food was a way of sharing love.

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In my pursuit for a rock-climbing facility for my students I had met my angel: Michael. I had not told him for, at least, two months that I had recognized him instantly as I walked down the aisle of the sporting goods store. I actually had the thought, “Oh, this is the guy for me!” I fell in love with him instinctively. Michael and I married three years after that rock-climbing Saturday afternoon. At our wedding, we included two interpreters (one for the male voice and one for the female voice). The service was on the grounds of the Long Beach Museum of Art, overlooking the ocean. Catalina Island glistened in the distance. We made our vows as the sun slid over the horizon, before our friends, family, and students. Our cake was shaped in the form of a mountain with a bride and a groom (iron, welded by an artist friend) portrayed as rock climbers. The groom (with welded top hat) was belaying his bride (bedecked with a white lace train) to the top of the mountain.

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Michael’s best man, during his toast, bestowed on Michael his own title of “Best Man.” There was no man better: a man who was willing to help, to support, to lift up…. “It’s just who he is, because it’s the right thing to be.” And so he is. Michael’s goodness is completely evidenced in his willingness to remain present. Regardless of sacrifices involved, he has never altered his commitment to remaining present. That is my definition of a hero. I have been sure of this since the beginning of our relationship together. We entered the cancer adventure as a unit, each present and ready to accept the challenge of the climb.

Benjamin's Window

From there to here, from here to there,
Funny things are everywhere.--
-Dr. Seuss


When cancer found us, we were living in what I fondly called our “San Francisco house.” Our Salt Lake City home was an old one built just twenty-five feet wide and forty feet deep. You could have a conversation with our neighbor through the bathroom windows. (Thank goodness for our neighbor’s SF modesty!)

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We loved this house. We worked on the backyard for five years, making it comfortable for entertaining guests. We ate almost every meal there during the summer time. Michael had installed a misting system that lowered the temperature 20 degrees during the hot summer days and early evenings. We had one herb garden and a second tomato garden. We built a swing set with a fort for the children and a two-car garage with a workshop for Michael, and I had my rocking chair glider. This was all that I needed to watch the nature in the yard, feel the breeze, hear the sounds of my family. This was a great place!

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One of my favorite spots in the house, however, was my son Benjamin’s room. His room was the size of a large closet. We put a mattress on an elevated platform. Underneath was storage for his toys. Michael built a bookshelf with a bulletin board as a head board. On the very top we built another shelf that held sweet treasure boxes and a night light that twirled around and projected stars upon his walls and ceiling. I painted clouds on a blue sky on the ceiling of his room, to be seen by day, and stuck glow-in-the-dark star stickers, to be seen by night. I painted a city scene with Michael’s fire truck and his station number on it. I painted our home with our whole family, including Mazzie, the dog, and Mildred, the cat, standing beside it. It was three-year-old perfect. Benjamin loved this room and so did I.

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He had a small window, just two panes, that we upgraded so he could open it safely without any chance of falling out. The open window let cool air in and allowed him to lie on the edge of his bed watching the world go by. These were the moments that I loved best about my son’s relationship with his room and his window.

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When I asked him what he could see, he would say, “I see our neighbor across the street dancing in the rain. Sometimes I watch our neighbor’s family play football on the grass island in the middle of the wide street. I see kids riding their bikes. I like riding mine. I see cars going by, and Mazzie running back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the house. I love the dragonflies best, Mom. They are spirits from heaven. I think they have chosen our house to fly in front of. I don’t see them anywhere else. . . . They are like Snoopy and the Red Baron diving down and then zooming back up into the sky.”

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The window was very small, but, from Benjamin’s perspective, it was the portal to the world outside. I loved watching the sunset fall on his face and his auburn hair as he watched the kids on the block turn in toward their homes for the night.

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Cancer and chemo occurred while living in this house. By the time I started radiation therapy in September, 2005, we had moved to a new home in our new neighborhood. Recently, I took Benjamin back to our old home and asked him to look at his window.

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“Wow. It’s so tiny!” he marveled, pointing up at the house.

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“You lived in that room from the time you were three until we moved out when you were seven. You loved that room, do you remember?”

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He nods, still thinking aloud, he adds, “I remember Ben T., asking me, ‘Is your mom okay? Has she grown any hair yet?’ I remember that he would ask me a lot. He is my best friend and I think he was worried about me.” I can see that he is thinking about this time.

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I get a little nervous about how different we looked when we left, our bald heads and all.
But Benjamin is sharing his way of remembering: “It was funny having Dad have a bald head, too. Dad always makes funny faces. He crosses his eyes and does something funny with his mouth. I remember getting a black marker and drawing on the back of his head. I drew a face on the back of his head. Our friend, Lu, drew a sheep on the top of her head.” He’s cracking himself up now. “I wanted you to have hair again, but not Dad. It was fun to draw faces on the back of his head.”

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“I remember you lost your mind for real, Mom.” He elbows me in the ribs. “You had chemo brain and we needed to get you a board to remember things.” There was an aquarium at the cancer center that had a fish that looked like the absent-minded character Dory from the movie Nemo. “That was funny. Mommy was Dory.”

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He then started running lines from the movie with me. “Why are you following me?” Dory would ask. He laughs at himself. I laugh with him, because everything he says is absolutely true.

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“I remember the dogs that would visit while you had tubes in your arm. I remember seeing other people getting chemo, too.” He says these things, trying to make a connection in his own memory bank of experiences. I feel that if he can do this, then the memories will magically become ‘okay’ for him.

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“I remember when I got my tonsils out.” He’d been nine for that operation. “It hurt like getting tubes in the hand--like what you got.” He pauses, then smiles, “Oh, yeah, and I got to ride in a wheelchair. That was awesome.”

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Cancer shifted all of our perspectives that spring, summer, and fall. Unexpectedly, we found a house that could fit our growing bodies that brought all our activities but Michael’s fire station into one neighborhood: our home was close to our school and also near my hospital. In addition, it gave Benjamin a larger window and it’s the house we still live in.

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We moved when he was almost eight, and now his bedroom window has sixteen panes through which he sees sunrises rather than sunsets. Mountains, rather than street intersections. He can view the backyard and things that are private to him. He tells me, “I’ll be able to see the seasons change from this window.” His perspective seems to be more in balance with this new portal to the world. He tells me not just about what he sees but about what they mean--his interpretation of what the world is. “It’s odd, Mom. A pleasant day can equal bad dreams and then a bad day can equal pleasant dreams.”

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How quickly he shifted, I think. It’s been just a matter of months. . . but suddenly, I realize what lies behind his meaning, as if a horse’s blinders were finally removed. Benjamin was saying that his view had widened--that he could see from a broader scope. There is still wonderment and magic in his sight and in his mind, but he is no longer limited to just the differences of “what is” compared to “what can be.”

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The Work behind the Work

"Without courage,

we cannot practice any other virtue with consistency.
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We can’t be kind, true, merciful, generous, or honest.”

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--Maya Angelou

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Before practicing Anusara yoga, our teacher will often set a “heart theme” or an “intention” for the practice of that particular day.

Our work on the mat most assuredly settles our minds, but what our work on the mat accomplishes also translates into work performed off the mat as well. Salkalpa, is the Sanscrit word for our intention and is likened to planting a seed--the work behind the work.

An analogy that I think best describes this practice is that of the work of the farmer. At first, the physical labor (or work) of the farmer may be thought as tilling the soil and planting the seeds. The farmer knows this type of work so there is ease in his routine. With intelligence and forethought, the farmer has mixed his soil with organic material, bringing it to the right temperature, and setting the ideal foundation for a seed to send down its roots, then send up shoots toward the sun. This is the work behind the work: establishing the perfect environment for his crops, which will then go on to feed a community. With the completion of harvest, the cycle begins again with a turning toward the next spring’s preparation and planting.

In my yoga practice, I work to get my body to feel that it’s not work--in other words, to find the ease within each pose to align my body so that my body works together and not against itself. Yoga helps me become mindful; assisting me in placing my body, mind and spirit in a consciousness that allows me to do something about my intentions. Western civilization has the tradition of “powering” through the process, forcing an outcome to occur whether it be the intention or not. From the farmer’s perspective, this would be similar to planting a bean seed but insisting on seeing a watermelon pop out of the ground.

Shashumna is the process of removing the kinks from our line of breathing. When we breathe with efficiency and without effort, from top to bottom and then back again, we find ourselves moving prana (life force) through our body: heating our body, nurturing our body, allowing the energy from within to be extended and exerted outside our body, to the community. When this happens, we allow ourselves to get out of the way of the true work behind our intention. We find ourselves planting a bean and being perfectly content when a bean plant rises up from the ground.

Abigail's Swing

Abigail’s Swing

Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet
and the winds long to play with your hair.
-- Kahlil Gibran

When the world gets too noisy for my daughter, she retreats to her swing or to a rocking chair. She puts everything else on hold, then rocks it into perspective. Or perhaps she prefers to be part of the audience, not a participant. In either case, she has always done this, since the moment she could sit up independently.

Me, I’m a bouncer. I bounce against the backs of couches, love to rock in rocking chairs, and recall, as a child, the transition of outgrowing my swing set as difficult. I loved my swing set and consider my time spent swinging a significant period in my life. Like Abigail, I loved watching my brothers and sister play. I liked being in the audience once in a while, not always interactive. Swinging was my moving meditation.

Abigail can swing for hours at a time. She needs to think, and this is her place.

“I need to take a break, Mom,” she’ll suddenly say to me.

“Okay.”

I would have no idea what was jarring her world, but I understood her need instinctively.

“Have fun. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

Moving backward and forward helps her mind open up to imagination, to the clouds, to the sky where her mind takes her body to fly. She loves watching kids play. She loves watching her brother entertain the other kids. She loves being the audience to his performances. Swinging is her moving meditation, too. It’s a peaceful place for her to think. Seeing the good and feeling the peace.

This movement of back and forth has helped her cope with any perceived stress she experienced.

“I lose my mind,” she told me once.

“I feel like a cloud floating in the sky. When I look backward, it feels like I am flying.”

Then we were building a garage, and half of the swing set was in pieces. It doesn’t balance right and she frets.

“I miss being on the swing.”

One summer night the kids spent the night in the fort that separates the two swings (a boy swing and a girl swing).

“The fort was fun, cold, scary,” she told me.

“We watched two movies and I got bit by a million mosquitoes, but I loved it! Can we sleep in it tonight, too?”

During treatment when our schedules got crazy, I brought Abigail to my yoga classes for my own practice. She was five and had mastered the concept of “quiet time” while I got “mommy time.”

She explained:

“I remember I would play puzzles in the yoga room until it became time for savasana. Then I would lie on your belly and fall asleep. You would scratch my back. Sometimes I would get a mat and practice next to you. I remember the other people would smile at me. I felt shy when this happened.”

School let out early on Fridays, and sometimes, if Michael and I couldn’t juggle the schedule enough, I would bring the kids to the hospital during my radiation treatments. No flexibility in that schedule.

“One time, during radiation, I remember the nurses were sitting with me and teaching me how to draw good ghosts,”

Abigail continued.

“Benjamin wasn’t there. I remember the puzzles. I liked the puzzles. One had a sunset and a sky. I finished one by myself.”

During the latter half of October, and with two weeks left in my radiation schedule, the kids had prepared their costumes and our house for Halloween. By now, hospital visitations were so thoroughly integrated into our routine that memories of a time when we didn’t need to schedule it into our lives seemed long, long ago.

“I remember watching Mommy on the radiation table with red, green and blue lights everywhere around the room. I think they were coming from the machine. I thought they were lasers. It was a little scary.”

I’m sure the theme of Halloween and my general appearance played a large role in their world of people becoming something that they’re not.

I wore my radiation costume:

“You were wearing a bandanna,”

Abigail told me,

“And you had no hair on your face. It was weird. It was cuckoo to have both parents who were bald. I felt embarrassed at times. I wanted you both to have hair. It would make better sense for me.”

We snuggled together on the couch in our living room prepared to read a book, she curled against my body. Although we both knew that a “normal” looking mommy lived in our past and not in our present--yet, the weight of her relief of knowing that I could still BE her mommy pressed into my side heavily. I held onto her, able to maintain the strength that she required.

My brave daughter.