Today in the change room, after 90 minutes of Bikram, a sister yogini came up to me and said, quietly. “I don’t mean to pry, but I saw that you were upset earlier, and I hope everything turns out all right for you.” I smiled at her. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.” She walked out without a backward look. But it helped.
In the busy of world of business-y Bikram yoga, in the change room full of women surreptitiously checking each other’s between-the-legs hairstyles and comparing the thin-ness of the other girl’s butt floss (or maybe that’s just me?), I love finding (and making) the connections. Wendy, a friendly teacher whose philosophy I appreciate, pressed on my sweaty back during rabbit pose today. “Let it go,” she said into the mike around her ear. “Let go. Release. Whatever it is, it’s OK. Just let it go. There it goes.”
My intention for today’s class was this: I want to learn what it is I need to let go of so that I can write. I’m talking write. Blog. Articles. Novels. Publish. Sell. Succeed. What came up was that I have to let go of worrying about my kids when they’re not with me. I have to let go of feeling guilty when they’re not with me. I have to BELIEVE THAT THIS IS ALL WORKING OUT PERFECTLY! I have to trust that the two of them – two and five years old – have enough mummy, though they have me 70% of the time and it’s dropping to 60% next month.
God, just writing that on the page chokes me up. During class I was bawling. Quietly, mind you. But the tears were flowing, though I could hardly tell the difference between them and the sweat. Toxins – mental, emotional, and physical – released in those salty body fluids.
As I cried, I pictured their faces. That’s how I pull the weeds from my mental garden, as my friend Raj Pal Singh recommends. I saw Primo’s smiling face, all pink and healthy, highlighted by his long white-blonde hair that curls as it touches the back of his neck. And Secundo, still baby chubby, he is sturdy and so yummy I could eat him up. He is a happy lad, at home in the world, confident, secure, with an infectious chuckle. I know they’re both good. They have me. They have their dad. And they have Andy, my new partner, who is developing a beautiful bond with them.
So, what am I crying about?
Maybe it’s just an old pattern. It’s a habit, worrying about stuff. I’ve lived with anxiety for a lot of years. Probably since I graduated from Grade 13 and didn’t know what the hell to do next. Am I safe in the world? A lot of things eat rabbits, you know. And I’m a rabbit from way back.
As I lay in sivasana after tucking my head between my knees and lengthening my spine, I realized that I’ve made it through seven days without being terrified. That’s a record. After twenty-five years of anxiety, a week without worry is strange. No wonder I was worrying about the boys. My mind was struggling to get back into a known pattern.
Life without anxiety is very smooth. It’s peaceful. Calm. Quite nice. Maybe even a little boring? The trick is to learn to feel comfortable with feeling at ease. That sounds strange, but it’s part of neuroplasticity – creating new neural pathways. The new healthy pattern is going to feel weirder than the old crappy one that you want to discard – at first. After a while, the new pattern becomes the norm.
So I shed a few (pounds of) tears. But I didn’t wallow in the pain. I practiced visualizing happy, healthy boys in the context of my new life with Andy. Putting the children first, that’s the secret to successful uncoupling. When mama’s happy, so are the boys. I pictured the boys with their dad, they need him and he needs time with them to build and maintain their relationship. I know they are fine. So am I. Better than ever.
Everything is turning out all right, thanks, I want to tell my friendly yoga sister. But she’s already pulled on her panties and gone home. So I do the same and I head out into the sunshine too. And home to write.
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