The Case of the Missing Mala

When I was a kid, I loved Nancy Drew. I loved her so much that she inspired me—and another ten year old girl—to co-author a (very) small “book” of mysteries with illustrations (a limited-edition self-publishing venture that ended up in our elementary school library). In our collection, you can be sure there would not have been a chapter called “The Case of the Missing Mala” because when I was ten years old I had absolutely no idea what a mala was.

            Years later, when my sister went to India I discovered what a mala was (but that’s another story). This story is about a mala I actually lost last week, a lovely mala that I had purchased more than a year ago at a yoga center I frequent. I had been using this mala over the summer while doing a 21-day online meditation. After that mediation was over, I thought I placed the mala on the doorknob of my office; or possibly, put it away in one of my little jewelry boxes. But this week when I was thinking about it, I couldn’t find the thing anywhere.

            I scoured my house looking for that mala. I looked in every box I could find (and discovered to my horror, that I am the owner of many, many little boxes). I looked on every doorknob. I searched under my bed. (As my mother used to say, “It couldn’t have just walked away!”). I dismantled the bathroom closet (where I found things I never even knew I had). But…no mala. 

            And now I began to want that mala, need that mala, desire that mala more than anything in the world. I suddenly could not meditate without it. I suddenly could not go to yoga class without it. I suddenly was obsessed each time I entered my bedroom or home office. The lack of the mala became huge. It prompted me to go through a mountainous pile of papers (thinking that it might be beneath). It prompted me to dust things that hadn’t been dusted in quite some time. It prompted me to think about the fact that I really haven’t been meditating as much as I should be, and that I really haven’t been de-cluttering and letting go as much as I should be, and I really haven’t been clearing out my thoughts or emptying my life of things that “do not serve me” as much as I (even though I hate these words) “should be.”

            Suddenly I realized that the missing mala was a lot more useful than the one that was here somewhere, because the mala’s very absence was teaching me that there are things I need to get rid of and “lose” (work that bores me and takes up too much time for too little money, for instance). Oddly, during this same week my dear sister was going through a similar experience (though she didn’t to my knowledge lose her mala). I found out that she had decided to make a career change she’s been thinking about for years.

            Long story short, last night I gave up looking for the mala. I informed the Universe, “I surrender.” I admit I asked the Universe to help me find my mala because I really like it, but I also decided to give up searching. The mala would re-surface—one day, I was sure-- in a little box I’d forgotten about.

            Minutes after my declaration to the powers that be, I went back into my office to face the work I’d been putting off. But just as I sat down at my desk, I had a sudden urge to take everything off my doorknob one last time. I removed three pocketbooks that I haven’t used in years, and as I did so I had a sudden urge to peek within the folds of an old fabric bag. Of course, there was the mala. Apparently, it had slipped off the knob and fallen inside.

            I fished it out and placed it around my neck, relieved that the mystery was solved!  Then, grateful to the Universe, and to my role model, Nancy Drew, I decided to begin meditating daily with my mala again…beginning…right now.

Nothing Stays the Same

I used to wonder why folks would keep pictures of their babies around on mantels or walls even after the babies had long grown up. I used to wonder, that is, until I decided to do the same thing myself. Yes, I have more current photos of my now-grown sons that I proudly display on my piano. But I also have three baby pictures that hang on my wall that I can’t give up. And each time I gaze at these pictures I’m reminded that the personalities of each were firmly established from day one.

          For instance, without naming names, since I don’t want my kids to be annoyed with me (I procured their permission, btw, before writing about them in my forthcoming memoir), I’ll just say that the expression on the face of my first child is exactly the expression that I see so often now that he is 30 years old: serious, pensive, and just a bit critical (as in, "Why are you pointing and flashing that thing at my face?").

           My second son, 25, can also be clearly identified in his baby picture: joyful, playful, sensitive, and a bit of a joker; the same at 15 months as he is now. The third picture also perfectly captures my youngest son (now 22): Pensive, sweet, and just a tiny bit mischievous.

           It’s often said that nothing stays the same, that people change, and that we shouldn’t get too attached to things the way they are. Yet I take some comfort in the fact that even though my children (and if you have them, possibly yours as well) are no longer cute little babies, they still possess many of the same characteristics and attributes that made me love them from the very start. Certainly they’ve grown and evolved, and would mostly likely prefer a beer to a bottle of milk these days. Yet they still, in some ways, are precisely the same children I met in the labor room, the same babies I carried in my womb for nine months, the same toddlers who climbed on the counters and chased fireflies in the backyard.

             Sure, things change. But some things—if you look closely enough—stay exactly the same. And for that I am grateful.

The Witching Hour

According to ancient lore (and the more recent Wikipedia) The Witching Hour is supposedly when witches come out to do their magic or their mischief-- usually after midnight. When I was a kid, however, my mother used to say The Witching Hour was the hour before dinner when hungry children became rather naughty, or possibly between 8 pm and 9 pm when tired children needed but didn’t want to go to bed. Another word my mother used to employ when I was misbehaving was “witchy,” (as in “She’s acting rather witchy today!”)  so I grew up with the most likely false impression that witches were somewhat undesirable.

            I have found that there are other periods during the day and night that might be called The Witching Hour (excuse me witches, for now that I’ve grown up, I happen to like you all, and perhaps I’m even one of you myself), but there are times when a certain “witchiness” seems to permeate the air—and not in a good way. Sometimes I feel witchy when I’m in a sarcastic or nasty mood. On these occasions, words seem to spew from my mouth that I can’t believe I’m even saying…sort of like frogs! Most of the time, I have only nice things to say about others, but once in a while…well, the witchiness just sets in and I can’t help myself.

            This witchiness can also be inwardly directed. I might be walking down the street on a lovely afternoon, when suddenly I realize I’m thinking evil thoughts about yours truly. I have to shoo such thoughts out of my head with my broomstick (you know the type—“you’re fat, stupid, ugly, incompetent….” you get my drift). Sometimes these thoughts just bubble up for no good reason.

            On the other hand, witchiness can be a positive quality. Quite often, I can predict when the phone is going to ring or what a person is going to say. I also have a knack for manifesting parking spots and Lebanese food. Call it what you want, but one might just as easily call it witchcraft as anything else.

            With Halloween just around the corner, I’d like to give all witches (good and not-so-good) a nod, with apologies for any negative thoughts I may have had about them in the past that were handed down to me by mother, who never had a bad word to say about anyone—except, perhaps--witches.

Walkin' Tall...and Slowly

A few weeks ago I was strolling around town with a dear friend who was having a bit of a walking issue. She was rather slow and lumbering, and her joints and limbs were bothering her. I felt a certain degree of compassion, but also frustration. So many folks I know these days are unhealthy and out of shape. I do yoga every day and walk, too. Rarely do I have any problem moving.

            Until recently. Following a yoga injury I sustained more than six months ago, my walking continues to be impaired. And yesterday as I was walking around Manhattan with my family, I was the one who was behind. I was the one limping. I was the one who had trouble “doing stairs.” I was the one who couldn’t keep up.

            I asked myself, “What is the lesson you’re supposed to be learning from this?” The first word that came to my mind was “compassion.” Have compassion for yourself, a little voice whispered in my ear. It’s okay to take it slow. It’s okay to skip some classes. It’s okay to rest. Another voice also whispered, “Remember how you felt about your friends who weren’t in such good shape as you? Have compassion for them, too.”

            I consider myself to be a fairly nonjudgmental person but the more I limped the more I began noticing the negative self-talk that was going on in my head. “Why can’t you go faster? Stop babying yourself! Figure out what’s wrong and fix it…now!”

            I do believe that sometimes we get an injury because we need to learn a lesson, even if the lesson is only something as simple as “Be more mindful and pay attention.” Or “Let go of the ego.” Or, “Be more patient or kind…give yourself time.”

            I have been very impatient with this injury but I think it’s time to allow myself to rest. Pushing is not always the answer—whether you’re trying to win a race, publicize a book, make a new friend, or get to the top of a mountain. My knee, these days, seems to be little more than an annoying enemy. 

But my knee isn't my enemy; it's more like a girlfriend who's offering advice. We may not always like to hear what she’s saying or admit that she's right, but sometimes we just need to listen, learn... and put our feet up.

Blog With Love 4 Breast Cancer Awareness

As many of you know, October is breast cancer awareness month. As a breast cancer survivor of seven years, I don’t really have to be reminded. I will never forget the experience of having had breast cancer and how it impacted my life.

            Dr. Susan Love’s Army of Women is an organization that is working hard to find the cause of and cure for breast cancer. You can join to help even if you have never had this disease. Log onto www.healthofwomenstudy.org to become part of this groundbreaking effort to gather information that will help make breast cancer a disease of the past.

            In the meantime, Army of Women bloggers have been asked to blog this month about “collateral damage—costs of the cure.” I think everyone is aware of the challenging journey that many women (and men) make when they are diagnosed, as they struggle through surgery, chemo, radiation, and other treatments.

            Collateral damage means more than losing your hair, feeling nauseous, or facing your own mortality. I have seen several friends in addition to myself suffer the consequences of breast and other cancers, and I am more convinced than ever that we must find a cure soon. One of the saddest things I witnessed was when a friend who had breast cancer was forced to miss her son’s graduation from high school. She had worked so hard for her child’s entire life to experience the joy of that day. But instead, she spent her son’s graduation in the hospital dealing with complications from her treatment. 

            So many moms have experienced the physical pains and losses that come with breast cancer. But there are other collateral effects: Missing your child’s band concert, not being there to help your kids do homework, feeling too sick to attend their important sporting and musical events. The year that I had breast cancer my middle son was applying to colleges. Though I tried to give the process my full attention it was difficult to concentrate on my son’s bright future when I wasn’t even sure if I would have any future at all.

            To put it plainly, there are side effects…and then there are side effects. Feeling too sick to hug your toddler, feeling too tired to take your kids to the park, feeling too scared to laugh and smile at Christmas dinner (I was diagnosed a few weeks before the holiday) are things that doctors don’t tell you about and certainly no pill will fix. Cancer can steal away our health; it can also steal away our peace of mind and our ability to enjoy our lives and our families…if we let it. Cancer can also result in depression, anxiety, and fear. For many women, living with the fear of recurrence is a daily struggle.

             Please join the effort to eradicate this disease by going to www.armyofwomen.org and signing on to a study. Remember, it’s not necessary to have or even to have had breast cancer to participate in many of these research initiatives. Sometimes you can help just by answering a few questions on an online questionnaire, or by spreading the word to others. Thank you!