Yoga Church

My favorite yoga teacher, Jordan, has a gift of teaching class in such a way that I leave refreshed in mind, body and spirit; I've long thought of her classes as yoga church. Earlier this year, she started leading actual yoga church once a month. (She calls it that and everything.) I've been wanting to go, but have been out of town; was finally able to make it to yesterday's meeting. 

We started with a meditation on compassion, which, sadly, I can remember very little of because that's how meditation works when you're me. I do know I loved the message, which mostly bypassed my brain to settle into my heart: Be kind to yourself. Be kind to those you love, even and especially when the relationship is struggling.

By the time she'd finished speaking, I just wanted to stay in my peaceful place there on the floor. And she would have been ok with that. But asana also called, so I joined in the next hour or so of gentle flowing movement, the kind which eases the aches in my joints without my body having to work very hard. It allowed my body to join my mind in the peaceful place. 

We finished church by gathering in a circle to raise our voices in melody. Christine took over leadership; she first taught us a simple melody, then ways to harmonize with the melody. Far from the structured hymns of the formal church services I'm used to, we were free to sing any part we wanted - or none - or any other note that followed the harmony. The sound flowed, organic and free, until it was complete.

One of the songs comes from an ancient Hawaiian tradition seeking forgiveness and reconciliation. The melody escaped my memory, but the words remain. 

Ho'oponopono: 

I'm sorry.
Please forgive me.
Thank you.
I love you.

The chant hung heavy in the air, and also floated free. Weaving a pattern, inside and outside my heart; touching my yearning to heal. To heal my relationship with myself. To heal my relationship with those I love, have loved; my soul sent out a beacon of hope beyond hope - may they hear my prayer, my wish to set things right.

Amen.

Counting Sheep

I've been fighting fatigue for a long time; it's gotten predictably worse since I started taking aromatase inhibitors last year. (They purposely stop my body from using the estrogen it produces, which makes more of a difference than I'd think, given I'm several years past menopause).

So, I was heartened, rather than dismayed, when the results of my recent sleep study test came back showing I have mild sleep apnea. Finally, something, anything, which might be able to be fixed!

Now, I've known I shouldn't sleep on my back for the past decade, since my first sleep test. They wired me up, watched me try to sleep in the lab, then told me not to sleep on my back anymore because I was having trouble breathing there.

And so, for the last decade, when the question came up, I answered that yes, I'm aware I have trouble breathing when sleeping on my back, and no, I no longer sleep there. The recent test, done in the comfort of my own bed, made a liar out of me. Turns out, I do sleep on my back. 31% of the time, the night in question. So much for those delusions of control. Hmph.

Clearly, my sleeping position is on the list of things I cannot control, and I decided to follow up on the sleep specialist's recommendation to get help. In the written summary, she said one of those dental appliances would be a good option, so I called their office to make an appointment so I could find out what I need to do to get one. They're a bit backed up, but gave me their first available opening, in May. 

Of 2027. *sigh*

I'm thinking waiting a year won't be helpful, so I called my dentist's office to see if he makes the appliances. He does, but insurance needs pre-authorization and a prescription before they'll help with the cost. (These appliances are not cheap, so having help with the cost IS my preferred route.)

I turned back to the cardiologist's office to see if they could write the prescription. Nope, but my PCP should be willing to help. So, I called my PCP. Nope, the cardiologist ordered the test, the cardiologist needs to follow up. Neither is willing to budge. 

I'm beginning to think these doctors don't actually care about my health, because they gave me no useful guidance; just kept tossing the hot potato. (Is this supposed to be this hard??? I'm beginning to think I'm doing something wrong!)

Frustrated, I called my insurance company again. They said the dentist can PROBABLY file the paperwork for the pre-auth, depending on what the doctor's notes on the sleep study say. I crossed my fingers, and sent his office (what I think is) all the required documentation this morning. Here's hoping.

In the meantime, I've been turning myself into a pillow sandwich at night, which, since there's a wall in the way, lessens the chance I will roll onto my back while deeply asleep. It's a bit hot and claustrophobic but I've been waking up fewer times during the night, so I think I'm onto something. 

One step at a time.

Happy Easter!

Alleluia! 

As happens more and more lately, especially around holidays, I am struck by the many versions of myself living within.

There is the child, thrilled by the chance to eat lots of candy and look for eggs and wear a pretty spring dress. The church songs on Easter were happy ones - they tried to kill Jesus, but it didn't work, and he came back to show us "The Way To The Father".

There is the teenager and college student, going to church mostly out of habit, buying my own chocolate rabbit and jelly beans. I found the ritual of mass comforting, echoes of a time when I trusted the world to take care of me.

There is the young mother, working to pass the story of death and resurrection to her children, right there along with the eggs and the chocolate and the Easter Bunny; the happy mass and the pretty clothing.

There is choir-member me, immersed in the beauty of the Triduum - the three long services commemorating the Passion of Christ. The music lingers in my soul. On Holy Thursday, Jesus implores God to let this cup pass from him; asking his people to stay with him to pray. On Good Friday, stark and barren, death and darkness loom - Jesus is broken on the cross. On Holy Saturday, we sing songs telling us death is not the end. Jesus has risen, triumphant!

I heard echoes of these three days a lot last year, as I traveled again down cancer's scary road.

There is post-camper van me. The version of me who believes the arc of the story, but not the literal words. There are days when I miss the certainty of my childhood faith. I wish I could lean on it as I once did, trusting in The Way.

And.

The current version of me knows only that there is much I don't know, and a few things I do.

I know last year would have been SO much harder without my people. I know that sometimes, for some people; this time, for me; death and darkness back away and we are given more todays to live. I know that sometimes, for some people, death comes and they go ...  away. Their leaving leaves holes in the fabric of my life.

I know when spring comes, and the flowers come back to grace my garden, the leaves to feed the trees, my heart believes in resurrection and redemption; in the chance to grow anew.

Alleluia!

No Kings!

I wasn't sure what had me leaving the house last Saturday just after noon to join the No Kings Rally down near the Plaza. I had plenty of excuses not to go. Since I hadn't made plans to meet anyone there, no one would miss me if I didn't show up, and I was already tired from my earlier exercise class. Besides, I was already late - the rally was half over.

But the voice in my head wouldn't quiet down, so I got my keister out of my chair, put on some sunscreen, and walked out the door and down to the rally.

The weather was perfect; the crowd filled a good portion of the park and lined the nearby sidewalks. There was almost a carnival atmosphere; the people watching was fascinating. People had put a LOT of thought and work into their signs. Some words were just angry, but most displayed the sort of barbed humor I like. 

I made my way about halfway through the park to the edge of the crowd, then sat down to give my feet a rest and took a look around. While the crowd leaned heavily to the side of older, white-skinned folk, like myself, there were also a lot of younger adults. A few teens, very few children. I saw no counter-protesters, which didn't really surprise me - though Missouri leans red, I live in the middle of a blue bubble.

There was a tent with a speaker off to my left. I couldn't quite make out what they were saying - but the chants from those in the crowd better positioned to hear than I assured me I agreed with the gist of what was being said. I saw no need to give up my vantage point to hear the actual words. 

In front of the platform was a line of putative handmaids, dressed in their trademark red dresses with white bonnets. Even though I knew they were free to remove their costumes, I found the sight chilling. The story spooked me back when I first read it, and still does today. 

Even separate from the crowd as I was, I was glad I came. Everyone there had many choices of ways to spend their time, and chose this one. It was good for me to be there; to see I have so much company when I say, 'there is a better way.' 

I joined the crowd when the time came to march around the Plaza, but slipped out and turned aside when I came to the street which would take me home. I was tiring quickly, my stamina is still not back where I'd like it to be.

While part of me still thinks marches like these are not good for much except creating a bunch of noise, another part of me begs to differ. There was a LOT of restless energy in the air - I can only hope someone will find a way to harness and direct it for good. 

I do hope.