THANKFUL FRIDAY

Nothing except

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Thursday evening, I attended a yoga mala to celebrate the upcoming Winter Solstice. I signed up for it ages ago and kind of forgot about it. Then I remembered that I had decided to do this and I regretted putting my name on the sign up sheet. Everything that I could get into the mail has been sent. All the presents have been wrapped. Josephine’s been to the groomer’s. The house is as clean as I can get it right now what with all the snow and Christmas clutter. Despite all of that, I still had a lot to do before we headed out to Mom’s for the weekend. Did I really have an hour and half to spare for 108 sun salutations? Did I really have the energy to spare for 108 sun salutations?

The table in our break room is covered with treats. There are cookies and spicy Chex mix and some sort of homemade chocolate/peanut cup that must be laced with crack because I cannot stop eating them. I don’t understand how there are any still left. They have to be multiplying in the night. I am not a snacker or much of a stress eater, but on any given day this week you could find me shoving a handful of Chex mix into my mouth or two chocolate/peanut cups. Conversations that need to happen are weighing heavy on my mind. I am super busy at work (Do you read the New York Times ?!? Science doesn’t stop for the Holidays). We have a new dish soap that smells like Chris on the day he died and I am filled with anxiety that I will not come close to meeting the expectations some might have of me. Wednesday night, I dreamed that I stepped on the scale and was delighted to see that I had lost weight. Then the number on the scale started dropping. My delight turned to panic as I realized that I was disappearing.

So the real question I should have been asking myself was how could I not spare the time for 108 sun salutations? It is the time of year for self-care gurus to shout the loudest because they know how hard the Holiday season can be on a human. Social engagements, bright lights, loud noises, the struggle to meet expectations. All of these things wreck havoc on our mental and physical well being. Spending an hour and a half on my mat, in a place where I feel the most confident, secure and comforted, is the very least I can do for myself. But this class was not an easy lay on the floor yoga class. This was a physically and mentally challenging class. I mean a sun salutation is the original burpee. A hundred and eight of them with some warrior poses thrown in here and there and you will be left a sweaty mess with noodle arms. The mental aspect was just as rough. We started the class in meditation where Kelly asked us to focus on the 2009 self. “What piece of advice or warning would you give the 2009 you?”

Ha! Seriously? Buckle up baby.

Then we got to the very last round and suddenly Kelly was yelling at us to stay strong. “You are strong. Don’t ever believe that you are not strong.” And there I was pushing myself to stay in proper form as I lowered down through chaturanga, sweaty and crying and doing this. It is tattooed on my fucking wrist. I am strong. All that stuff up there. The hard conversations, the dish soap, not meeting expectations. They are nothing. I’ve had harder conversations. That dish soap can go in the garbage. I don’t have to meet anyone’s expectations except for the ones I set for myself. I am not responsible for anyone else’s happiness but my own. I am doing my best and right now my best is good enough for me. There is so much gratitude in that knowledge.

Don’t ever believe that you are not strong.

I am sending out a wish for peace and joy to all of you this Holiday Season.

GARBAGE

How I spent my Saturday morning.

7 Likes, 1 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "How I spent my Saturday morning."

Saturday morning, I returned from grocery shopping and went straight to work in the basement. I organized the totes that had been pulled from the shelves and riffled through. Michael, when he's on the hunt for something, will open up totes and rummage through them and then just walk away. For ever. I put totes back together, organized old camp gear into one spot, took loads and loads of just plain garbage and placed them in my Bagster bag. When I'd done as much as I could in the basement, I moved to the garage, systematically moving from shelf to shelf and tossing things into a garbage bag. I organized gardening stuff like seeds and bags of potting mix. The animals at one time had nocked over a bag of grass seed and a bag of pebbles. I swept all of this up. Michael showed up just in time to help me haul out the garage garbage pile I had built near the door and to clean off a shelf containing random tools. 

There were two contractor bags full of stuff from our last basement clean out. One of them had stayed down there for so long because it was too heavy for our trash dumpster. It sat there for over a year. Every time I walked down to the basement, my eyes landed right on that bag. It was hard to miss since it was right at the bottom of the stairs. That was the first thing I hauled up the stairs. When I say 'hauled', I really mean hauled because that bag was HEAVY. There was a lot of me talking out loud to myself, counting steps, grunting and sweating, but I got that bag out of the basement and into the dumpster bag. After that, the rest was easy. Suddenly, getting rid of trash, didn't seem so overwhelming. It didn't take long for me to fill up my Bagster bag. The garage is now neatly organized and things are easier to get to without stepping on the wrong end of a shovel or falling into a pile of chicken feed bags. I also have a legitimate laundry space in the basement, where I can walk through with a basket of clothes without bumping into a stack of boxes and trash. The basement floor is clean, so when I drop an article of clothing while moving it from the washer to the dryer, I don't have to re-wash it or throw it away or burn it. The basement floor does not have a five second rule for anything. Now, at least in the area where the washer and dryer are, the floor is clean.

There's still things I need to get rid of, but they are all things that I don't want to throw away. They are things that need to be sold or donated or gifted away. My goal for the weekend was to get rid of the garbage and that is exactly what I did. My goal for the rest of this year and the following year is to remove unwanted and unused things from the house, clean out catch all drawers and never let any of those things make it to the basement. Because if it ends up in the basement, it will be there for the rest of my life. Someday, someone's going to have to come clean out my house when I die or get too old to live there on my own. I want to make things easy for that person. I think of the stuff that accumulated in just the attic of my childhood home. Boxes of papers from our school days, old clothing patterns, wrapping paper, things that had sat up there for so many years that it was now warped from heat and unrecognizable. So much of it was unsalvageable. At the very least I'd like to leave behind a good estate sale and not boxes of useless old mail with mouse chewed edges or carpenter bags of garbage.

At the end of the day, all that will be left to be dealt with will be the furniture, a small closet of clothes, small kitchen appliances, some art work and some nicknacks. All of this makes it sound like I'm planning for my death. I guess, in a way, I am, but really I'm planning for living. I am always thinking about the dirty garage or the gross basement. These things take up brain space whenever I am out doing fun things or sitting still on the couch. I am always thinking "I really should do something about the trash in the basement." Then I let myself get overwhelmed by the amount of work that is going to be involved and I do nothing. So now the filth and grossness has just become a guilt loop that plays always in the back of my mind. Instead of fully just being present in something, I am eighty something percent present and the rest percent thinking about the mess and being overwhelmed by the mess. 

I am stronger than that! I am a doer! When did I forget that? I do not shy from hard work. I tackle. Cleaning out the garbage is just one step towards reclaiming bits of myself that I've hidden away for some reason. It's like I've been in hiding and I don't even know why. Now I'm thinking about the next project that I've been putting off because it seems overwhelming and I'm totally ready to take it on. Look out hedges and over grown vegetation. I'm coming for you next. 

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Grey

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I heard my mother telling the story of my birth to some poor soul at our party on Saturday. It is a story I have heard a number of times and I have heard multiple variations on the story. In this particular telling, Mom said that I would only sleep for five minutes at a time and I broke out into a rash every time the sun hit my delicate preemie baby skin. I think my parents liked telling people the story of my birth because of the three of us, mine was the most dramatic. There's alway lots of oohs and ahhhs when they disclose how much I weighed at birth. I can still see Dad holding out his hand, palm facing up, as he would tell about how my tiny body fit right there and point to his hand. Mom always mentions the beautiful bouquet of flowers that she received from a close friend who also happened to be our milkman. This time though, my mom said something I had never heard her say before. She said "They told us she probably wouldn't live."

In all the tellings of that story, it never once dawned on me that I was in any kind of danger other than just being born tiny. I did not suffer with lung issues or heart problems. I do have allergies, but not more so than any normal birth person would have. I am healthy and despite some broken bones and a tonsillectomy, I have always been healthy. So I never really thought much about my birth as more than a regular birth but just a little early. Like a month and half early. A study of 148 premature infants from 1966-75 that weighed 1000g or less found that 48 of those babies survived. That's less than a 50% survival rate. More like 32%. Not bad, but I can't imagine that hearing your doctor tell you that your baby has a 32% chance of living is all that reassuring. I've heard people say that your birth story plays a big role in defining the person you become. Je suis forte. I guess I just never really saw myself as that strong. Survivor strong. 

Did the Fates see my future and say to themselves "This girl better be strong or die now."? Probably not, but it makes a nice cartoon in my head. I can see Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos each holding my life thread, tugging it between them to see how far they can stretch it before it feels like it might snap. Maybe Clotho and Lachesis kept Atropos from snipping it with her scissors or they found the thread to be too strong to be snipped. It makes a nice visual and I am thankful that I ended up as one of the 32%. I am thankful to have a mother who is strong enough to survive a child like me. I am also thankful for the other women in my life who were part of the tribe who raised me. All of them played a hand in shaping the woman I am today.

Hope you have a wonderful weekend and a truly Thankful Friday.