Feelin’ Squirrelly

Some years ago, my beloved yoga teacher told our class a story about her trip to Mexico. Every morning she was awakened at the crack of dawn by a rooster, and day after day she was annoyed. Finally, she just decided to accept the rooster for what he was and enjoy the morning. “Why get mad at a rooster for doing what a rooster does?” she pointed out.

            The same applies to many other things: For instance, why get annoyed with a two-year-old for being two? Why get irritated with a 16-year-old for acting like an adolescent? Or feel angry with your middle-aged spouse for sometimes behaving like an old fuddy-duddy?

            And all this goes as well—in my experience of late---for squirrels. Squirrels which are some of the most annoying pests around.

            This year the squirrels have especially tested my patience. In the past, they’ve snacked on my tulip blooms and buried their nuts in my potted plants. But lately, they’ve found a new and especially aggravating habit. Over my deck is a beautiful pear tree, which bears tiny Seckel pears. And every day the tree is full of squirrels, who nibble at the pears, spitting out at least as much as they consume. Though I sweep the deck a half dozen times a day it’s always covered with pear droppings. Forget about going go out there with bare feet. Even sitting in a deck chair is chancy---unless you don’t mind plucking pear bits out of your hair.  Why not pick the pears myself? I don’t spray them so they’re on the wormy side. And anyway, the squirrels always get to them first.

            I’ve tried yelling at the varmints, shaking the tree, even shooting at them from the bedroom window with a super soaker squirt gun (please don’t rat me out to the PETA folks). But the squirrels munch on. Why? Because they are being squirrels, of course; they’re doing what squirrels do.

            It seems that I have some crazy kind of squirrel karma going on and I suppose there’s a lesson here that I need to learn. I guess it’s just that the pears are ripe for a relatively short period of time, and if I have to sweep the deck more often, well, what’s the harm in that? Accept the rooster, the groundhog, the teenager, the colicky infant, even the mosquito, for what he, she, or it is.

 Come to think of it, compared to those nasty, stinging mosquitoes, squirrels are remarkably cute. Just maybe I’ll buy them a bag of peanuts.

           

            

O Linden Tree

Ever since I’ve lived at the top of a tiny hill on a dead end street in a mile-square town in New Jersey (which is more than twenty years now), a particular aroma has wafted through my windows every June. Without fail, somewhere around the third or fourth week of the month, the beautiful aroma of a huge, blossoming linden tree pleasantly awakened me. Until now.

            Yes, this is the first year that the aroma was absent, because early last fall the owners of that tree had it removed. Apparently, the roots of the ancient linden were wrecking havoc on their house foundation. And so, one sad, dark, rainy morning, I awakened to the sounds of saws and machinery, and much to my dismay by the end of the day the tree was gone.

            I knew I would miss its shade when I trekked up the hill with a bag of groceries on a hot July morning. But even more, I knew I would miss that particular perfume, a smell that, for me, has heralded the beginning of summer for the past two decades.

            I tend to mourn things that change, leave or--might as well just say it-- die. And even though I know that nothing ever stays the same, I cling to the belief that I should have my linden tree each June. I know that I can’t control the ages of my kids (or my own age, for that matter), but I’ve always felt that something as simple as a tree blooming in springtime would be mine forever.

            Yes,  I'm aware that nothing ever says the same. And yet, there are times when I feel that even if something can’t stay exactly the same, it can still be in some form or another (other than in memory). So this June when “my” linden tree should have been blooming, I took a walk around the neighborhood, and lo and behold I found another beautiful old linden tree. After a few visits, I finally arrived on an evening when its aroma filled the air, and I stood on the sidewalk doing a kind of improvised yogic pranayama (breathing technique) which I have now named “Breath of Linden,”  and is a sort of breathe/sigh/gasp combination.          

            We must accept that things change, this I know. But occasionally, I believe we can “tweak” this message, and discover new ways to make the person, thing, experience, (or in this case, mammoth, blossoming linden tree) still part of our lives. The wafting, sweet aroma of the linden tree will never again come to me in the home that I live in now. But for as long as I can walk, drive, hobble or crawl, I can go to it.

The Bunny Wars

On many summer evenings after dinner, my husband and I take a walk. As we stroll through a particular neighborhood not far from our home, we often see bunnies. The critters are often hard to spot as they quiver beneath a hedge or blend into a sandy spot beneath a tree. At dusk, they’re even often hard to identify in the grass. Of course, it’s the ears that usually give them away.

            As we walk, chatting about our day, our kids, and other subjects, we invariably try to spot bunnies, and we usually end up engaging in friendly competition, though I must admit when my husband sees more bunnies than I do, I’m miffed. Why do I want to win the bunny war? Beats me, because there’s absolutely no reward for winning, other than getting to say, “I saw more bunnies than you!” And no one keeps track, so night after night, the war repeats, with neither of us coming out ahead in the longrun.

            I never considered myself to be a particularly competitive person, yet the annoyance I feel when I’m behind in the bunny count seems to indicate otherwise. I’ve been examining this quality lately, too, because of my yoga practice. I’ve finally come to realize that there is absolutely no reason to look at what anyone else is doing on their mat (unless you’d like to learn how to do a particular pose that you’re having trouble with). But there’s no point, in yoga, to compare and compete. Your practice is your own.

            I’m sure there is something called “healthy competition” that does exist. There’s nothing wrong with beating someone at tennis or squash, or winning at a swim meet, or getting awarded a bid to build or design a house. And I’m sure it’s okay to audition for an orchestra and win because you’re absolutely the best flute player around, or to come home with the Pulitzer Prize for writing the great American novel. In fact, it’s probably natural and normal to compete, and that is probably why, as soon as I round the corner to what my hubby and I affectionately call “Bunny Lane,” my ears and eyes go on high alert.

            But….on the other hand, I wonder where competition leads. Are we doing it to better ourselves and our world, or to make someone else feel small or inferior?  And when we lose, do we accept our loss with grace, or do we stomp around feeling thwarted and insignificant?

            In spite of my penchant for rabbit counting, and my tendency to let my gaze stray to another yogi’s form on the mat, I have a feeling that competition isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. I’ve seen it too often in parenting (as in my kid’s an Honor Roll student), and in folks who compare everything from granite countertops to doorknobs. Competition is a cousin to envy and jealousy—two qualities I struggle to avoid.

            This is not to say that I have any intention of giving up on the bunny wars. In fact, I’m heading out right now, and I’m completely determined to spot more bunnies than my spouse.

           

            

Save NYCO

Please sign and pass on this petition to help keep the New York City Opera in Lincoln Center. Thank you!

How Times Change

Photo: Stefanie Duerr

Thirty years ago (or thereabouts) I worked at a magazine in New York City; for a time, our offices were a block or so north of Times Square, which was a pretty seedy place back in the day.  Never in a million years would I have believed it if someone had told me I'd one day be sitting in Lotus pose (well, maybe it's verging on Half Lotus) on a yoga mat smack in the middle of the place, gazing up at the skyscrapers and listenting to "Om" reverberating from the mouths of thousands of yogis.  But such was the case last week when I attended Solstice in Times Square, a celebration of the longest day of the year.  Over the course of the day some 8,000 yogis took over the center of Manhattan, spreading their mats up and down three city blocks and practicing yoga together.

           The point of this event was, in part, to prove that if one can find tranquility in the heart of New York City, one can find it anywhere. It was about finding your center, being strong and focused, with life swirling all around you. And that’s what I discussed on another blog I write http://montclair.patch.com/blog_posts/staying-centered-in-the-center-of-times-square if you’re interested).

           But for this blog, I’d like to focus on what this event brought home for me personally, and it wasn’t just the realization that yes, I can hold my Tree Pose while 1000s of tourists pass by in busses or stand on the sidelines taking pictures. It wasn’t just the realization that yoga helps me to find inner strength and inner peace even while sirens are wailing, horns are honking, and folks are rushing to the subway.

            For me, the event brought home the fact that there is just no predicting where the river of life will take you. Thirty years ago I didn’t know what yoga was (if anything, I imagined it had something to do with boney old guys walking on nails). I wasn’t an exercise freak back then nor was I a “spiritual” person. I pretty much believed that everything that happened in life was the result of chance and that my chances of having a whole lot of bad stuff happen was just as high as having anything good come my way. My outlook on life was actually quite negative, even though I had plenty to be happy about.           

            Today, sitting on my rear, plunk in the middle of the busiest part of New York City, I am profoundly changed. I won’t bore you by listing all the ways that is so, but let me just say that I now believe that life will deliver exactly the lessons we need to learn. One of the most important things that I personally needed to learn was to slow down, have confidence in myself, and to believe that the goodness in life would find me. For me, yoga was the route that brought me there.

            And so I found it fitting and astonishingly “right” that I was sitting in Lotus just yards from the very place where I once rushed, feared, doubted, and eagerly sought success and happiness. Back then—young, ambitious, and driven—I wanted more than anything to “succeed” in life. Today, as a yogini, I define success in very different terms, and know with all my heart  that it is mine. 

A Father's Love

College graduation, way back when.

Last week at a Kundalini yoga workshop, a memory from my distant past popped into mind. We’d been asked to write about a time in our early lives when we felt that our voices had not been heard, and then to write about a time in our childhood when we felt respected.

            I immediately thought of my father, who was a conservative Republican, a Nixon man, and a supporter of the Vietnam War. During my teen years there were plenty of arguments around our dining room table; arguments about interracial dating, about war, peace protests, capitalism, and about the holes in my favorite blue jeans (which my father actually threatened to throw away, though he never managed it). Had my dad not been extremely proper, he would also have argued about my lack of a bra. But this was something we did not discuss. During those years I often felt as if my opinions were falling on deaf ears; it seemed to me that no matter what I said to my father about politics and the turbulent times in which we lived, he disagreed.

            When the Kent State shootings occurred and college students were struck down and killed by our own National Guard, I was outraged. I remember sobbing over the news, unable to pull myself away from John Filo’s unforgettable photo of a teenaged girl crouching in anguish next to the body of a felled student.

            Already a writer (I’d known this would be my profession since the age of five), my first impulse was to pen a letter to the editor of my hometown newspaper. When I announced my intention, my father sat me down at the dining room table. I was expecting a lecture. Or at least, a fight.

            Instead Dad pulled up a chair next to me and said, “Here's a pen and paper--let’s get going. I’ll help you write it.”

             The thing about my dad, you see, was that though he disagreed with my opinion, he supported my right to express myself. I was never told to be quiet, or to shut up. I was never told that my opinion didn’t matter, or that I should keep my thoughts to myself.

            In that moment at my dining room table, I realized that Dad did hear everything I’d been saying over the years, and he did respect and support my voice, even when he disagreed.

            I remember the warmth, the relief, and the honored feeling of that moment, when I knew for certain that my father would always stand by me, no matter what.

            And so he did until the day he died. My father’s love—and his support of my independent nature--was one of the greatest blessings of my life.

           

            

Cluttered Nest

I’ve often heard of the empty nest—in fact, I dreaded it for years. But now that it’s nearly here (I still have one offspring home from college for summer vacation) it seems that the empty nest is not nearly as empty as I expected. In fact, I have more “stuff” than ever!

            There are reasons (and excuses) for this, of course. For one thing, kids coming and going over the years have brought a lot more stuff into the house than I could have imagined. Instead of those cute little Legos and Matchbox cars, for instance, I now have closets full of mammoth architectural models (impressive, but terrible dust collectors) and an inordinate number of shoes (being a shoe-lover myself, I can’t really fault anyone on this). But with rugby, running, and other sports come cleats and other various forms of footwear. Books and papers are also a problem—and always have been. And then there are hair creams, gels, and lotions, Sonicare toothbrushes (the old kind certainly took up less space), computers, and –in spite of the fact that the US Postal Service may be going broke—tons and tons of mail.

            When my children were little I used to be able to at least see the surface of my kitchen table on occasion. But now it’s so loaded with huge tubs of protein powder and other curious substances (oh—did I forget to mention the weights in various shapes and sizes?), that it’s hard to find space to put a plate down in order to eat a meal.

            Do I sound like I’m complaining? Really, I’m not. It’s just that no one ever warned me of this when I had kids (just like they didn’t really warn me about the pain of childbirth). “Oh, you’ll be fine,” I remember my mother saying with a knowing smile.

            Yes, everyone always warned that I’d be sad when my kids left home, and they were right. But they neglected to tell me that kids would leave so much stuff in their wake. And they neglected to tell me that my own life would become so full once my kids were gone that I can hardly find spaces for everything. Because with the kids gone I have a lot more time to read hundreds of books, write hundreds of pages, and yes, drag home even more shoes.

            Empty nest? Not so much.