Grateful

Following is a poem I wrote in the wee hours of Thanksgiving morning, while my dad was in the hospital with a terminal cancer but still offering guidance and beauty to our world. I'm grateful he was able to read this poem while he was still in the form of my dad, and that he heard between my lines of poetry all of the love and appreciation I hold for him.

Thank you flows between souls,

like a pact to see and be seen.

Grateful, graceful. You helped,

and I noticed. Your selflessness

met my openness and a moment

of shared intention synced us,

like a song, with a lovely line

of deep bass harmony

holding it up.

Thank you bubbles out

when a door is held,

a cookie is offered on a tray,

or a hand lifts a weary soul

from a sunken spot. My need

and your need meet.

A giver cannot exist

without an open hand, or a heart,

ready to receive.

The two sides of gratitude

can get complicated,

when a receiver doesn't see

the reason for the gift,

or doesn't think to like

the method of delivery.

The massive sneeze

that delivered the head cold,

that showed me rest.

No! thank you. I don't want

experiences that bite and sting.

I want sunshine, not a storm.

Yes! please. I'll take another

of that playful day when all was well.

Just the rainbow, pretty please,

I'd rather skip that thunder part.

What's that, you say?

There isn't this, without that?

Crap. Somewhere deep,

beneath desire, I see

that a song of glad falls flat,

without the deep, pulsing

harmony line of sad.

A lotus blooms in mud.

My happy is stuck

without the muck.

Contrast offers clarity.

Thanks for that. Ouch.

Louder, please? Yes,

thank you for the hurt!

Because of pain I know comfort.

Pinch me, I'm real.

Gain and loss are bookends

to my life. Breathe out

to make space for in.

Weary collapses, like compost.

The thanks that I'm giving

this year is deep, and dirty,

Thank you, world, for showing

me what it feels like

to be. In all of its complexity.

The raw, red-eyed reality

of love and loss.

I'm grateful for the opportunity

to feel. Grit/Great. Full. Real.

Foundations for Flow

When I talk about surfing with people who haven't tried it, I often hear, "Wow, that must take a lot of balance." Actually, balance is the end game--a flourish at the finish. A surfer's journey onto a wave starts with courage and fortitude, paddles through a tremendous amount of strength and swim training, and requires methodical study of waves and currents. That magical place of balance, that few seconds of ride that photographers capture, comes when a surfer's momentum synchronizes with the ocean's energy. It takes tremendous commitment and practice to finally reach this spectacular moment of suspension on water. You can't just pop into  balance on a board and expect to ride.

Similarly, a yoga pose (asana) is a much richer experience than the placement of body parts into a particular shape. And this is why a practitioner at any level can benefit from a well-structured foundations class, where asanas are built and understood from the inside out. Resting at the core of each posture is intention, an energetic presence where projections of the mind are illuminated by action from breath and muscle. Once you feel the origin of a pose, you can access the energy that radiates from that point. Sometimes the energy spirals or bows. Sometimes it flows in straight lines. Feeling and visualizing the angles, swirls and lines helps the torso, limbs, breath and mind slide into synchronicity. You can feel the waves and currents of your own body. You are not imposing a form onto the body, but growing a form from within yourself. As the form gains strength, you can begin adding more complicated adaptations without losing the ease from which the original pose was born. If you skip these steps and rush to the peak of a pose, you risk getting injured, but also you miss the best part of the ride. As defined by the Yoga Sutras, postures are "steady and sweet." When you develop a pose with patience and commitment, you feel strong, comfortable and confident. Jon Kabat-Zinn wrote, "You can't stop the waves, but you can learn to surf." With the right foundation, your yoga stoke can give you the ride of your life. 

Savasana

I can be tough, puff up my chest,

and say, "Your hurtful words bounce off."

I can laugh, tuck that shard of meanness 

deep into my heart, or belly, or shoulder, 

out of sight, far from the light.

But when it's quiet, dark and cold,

and I wrap my arms around myself,

I notice a prickly feeling there,

where the hurt burrowed in.

To light it up brings back the pain.

I can hide it deeper, build a shell

of hardness around it. "I'm fine!"

I shout. I stay in motion. It doesn't hurt.

I'm well protected by my strength.

So proud of that, pat my own back.

And so it goes, a hurt forgotten,

except in that place, where the sharpness waits 

and watches for a tender place to poke.

The only way to clear it is to feel it, 

pull it through, finger its pointed tip.

That hurt. My body remembers.

I shudder in savasana. Tears come.

I can't recall the words, or their source.

It's just the feeling of an ancient ache.

I fall in deeper. Movement stops.

I make a choice. With courage,

I sink inside my own tenderness.

And when the hurt passes, 

the feeling left is stronger than any

puffed chest, clenched fist or rigid jaw.

I let go and feel as though I can float 

through all the ages I've ever been.

My body time travels while I breathe.

And then the chime brings me home.

I am right now. My smile is real.

Cape Kiwanda is a lovely place for serenity, even when it's windy

Yoga at the Ocean, Retreat 2014

L to R: Claire Howard, Katie Berge and Joy Lyons

The sun was warm, and Joy Lyons' face glowed with, well, JOY, as she practically skipped her way through the campground. Dripping in my wetsuit, longboard in hand, I asked her how her afternoon was going. Her eyes sparkling, this long-time yoga student who recently had struggled with family/work/fun balance, explained that she and a few new friends had just climbed the giant sand dune that shadows the beach at Cape Kiwanda, on Oregon's central coast. "It was hard," she said. "And it was awesome!"

Kong's Head at sunset

Laughing, I shared the sentiment. The surf outsized my own comfort zone that day, and I'd just returned from a challenging session that started with a tough paddle through persistent whitewater but ended in a rewarding overhead ride that shot me to shore in a stoke-boosting rush. "That's it!" I told Joy. "It’s the perfect theme for our weekend. Hard. And. Awesome."

Joy Lyons was among 12 participants at my "Yoga at the Ocean" retreat Oct. 3-5. The quaint seaside town, framed by Cape Kiwanda on the north and Nestucca far to the south, is beloved for its views of the west coast’s largest monolith, a giant rock a mile offshore that locals call Kong's Head and map makers label Haystack Rock. Surfers love PC for the cape that shields north winds and sets ups a sweet ride when the swell hits right. With campground cabins and a clubhouse right across the street from the beach, PC is the perfect spot for my retreat, now officially "annual" with two years completed and plans for a third, Oct. 2-4, 2015.

L to R: Maggie Evanson, Claire Smith and Jeff Wagner

The 11 women and one man who registered knew they would be challenged. At our opening circle Friday evening, each shared a perception about her/his relationship with the ocean. Biggest on the fear list was whether the wetsuit would seriously guard against the Pacific's chilly waters. Yes! (My assurance was easy to offer, as a warm swell had upped the water temperature from a usual 50 degrees to almost 60.) A few had trepidations about stepping into a forceful ocean with unknown elements. We talked about using the experience as a metaphor for moments in life when we need to step into our fear with confidence, trusting our strength and our skills. And that same ocean that could knock us down could also cradle us and wash away our tensions, some noted. Its vastness provides perspective to the troubles in our lives. The conversation stayed away from where we work, our kids, responsibilities. These souls were ready to play with their planet--and each of them was all-in!

New friends united by yoga and a love of water

Our yoga sessions at the Cape Kiwanda RV Resort clubhouse were set to surfer tunes and offered plenty of opportunities to practice "popping up" and taking a surfer's stance on our yoga mats. We stretched and strengthened our paddling muscles and imagined ourselves swimming through a glassy sea and crouching "in the barrel" of a wave. Recognizing the power of "mirror neurons," which can alter body chemistry when one body mimics the motions of another, I knew that pretend surfing could build almost as much stoke as the real thing. Our funky little clubhouse positively buzzed with energy and was a cozy home for practice, meals, early morning meditations--and suiting up to hit the surf.

Maggie Evanson

The actual ocean waves that weekend were potent, bigger than I had "special ordered," but a good example of how we can't always get what we want but we can choose to climb aboard or instead complain--oh, how the ocean can teach! Theodore Roosevelt famously said, “Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty… I have never in my life envied a human being who led an easy life. I have envied a great many people who led difficult lives and led them well.”

Throughout the weekend, the yogi surfers washed away some personal troubles. A few brave souls dove in with only their bathing suits! We chanted Om to an epic sunset and burned our intentions into a campfire. Small groups took turns traveling to Tillamook for paddle board yoga on a warm lake with a local friend of mine, Jodie Dodge. And the weekend ended with a windy sunset (easy on the eyes but tough on the biceps) "Serenity Paddle" at the mouth of the Salmon River near Lincoln City.

Laughs after a SUPer time on the lake

My husband, Matt, and I offered 1-on-1 surf lessons, and all 12 yogis suited up to ride on long boards, boogie boards or just their bellies at some point during the retreat. Sue Barham, a regular student and member at Elements of Health, walked out with me through some pretty rough shore pound. We barely got her turned around on my long board in time, but Sue belly-rode a beastly wave like a rodeo queen all the way to the beach while I floundered in the whitewater worrying that I'd just broken one of my best students. No worries; stoked and smiling she turned back to the sea to paddle out for more.  "I want to do that again!"

It was hard....and awesome.

Click the following for video highlights from our 2013 retreat:

Surfing Yogis 2013 Extended Version

Clowny's Convocation

I had a mother's urge to tuck my baby boy into bed with a little extra comfort, so I looked around his room in search of a logical and safe option. Next to his crib was a clown toy that my mom had given us before Calvin was born. He had an embroidered face (no buttons to choke on) and a fabric body, and if you pulled on his legs a sweet little music box played, "You are my sunshine..." I started the music and tucked the clown into Calvin's curled arm. He wiggled his legs and cooed. An important friendship had begun.

Of course Clowny went everywhere. He rode the zoo train, went camping, visited the hospital when Calvin suffered a serious croup cough. A favorite old snapshot shows Clowny peeking out next to our sleeping toddler in the REI backpack that my husband shouldered down many coastal trails. A misplaced Clowny at nap time created a serious crisis. After getting tumbled and tossed too many times, the music box eventually broke. Clowny's subsequent "lobotomy" allowed him to go into the washing machine, which whitened his grimy terrycloth face but never eradicated the homey smell that was, of course, his most critical feature.

Clowny was lost and found too many times to count, most notably by a curb in Los Angeles after a day at Disneyland. But Clowny did eventually lose himself for good--again in Los Angeles--somewhere between the hotel and the Jeep, we presumed. Our five-year-old wore his sorrow courageously and sobbed himself to sleep until the loss lessened. A parade of other toys became companions as needed.  

I missed Clowny, too. He represented a link to my boy's babyhood, a simple way that I'd been able to offer comfort when life hurt or felt scary. His cheerful song perfectly echoed my motherly feelings: "You'll never know, dear, how much I love you..." I treasure a portrait of the big-headed Clowny that Calvin crayoned in preschool--one of the most carefully rendered art pieces my very verbal child ever made.

So I listened in wide-eyed amazement as "Clowny" matriculated into the keynote address at Willamette University's opening convocation August 22 in Salem, Ore. Here we were, saying good-bye to our son--and, symbolically, to his boyhood--and the renowned author and cartoonist Lynda Barry started talking about this stuffed creature called "Mr. Banana."  Some friends, it seems, had tried to disown their child's tattered beloved while on vacation--only to discover that Mr. Banana was way too important to toss. The smelly, awkward, everywhere-toted toy represented so many things: Safety. Home. Love. Comfort. Sweet Dreams...an endless list. A hotel concierge had saved those parents from a world of pain by preserving Mr. Banana and returning him into the right little hands. If only a similar soul had returned our Clowny to us 13 years ago! After Convocation, we reassured Calvin that Clowny's demise had NOT been by design.

Barry's speech at Willamette met me at every turn. Now an artist in residence at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, Barry, 58, has spent decades studying objects and images that are much greater than their parts because of our perceptions and our interactions with them. She offered fascinating insight about the role of imagery in healthcare, a topic close to my yoga teachings. For example, she described a doctor who helped an amputee "unclench" his missing fist by seeing his healthy hand open up in a mirror-lined box. The reflection helped him perceive his phantom hand opening, and the pain and associated anxiety that had caused years of trouble dissolved. This story immediately worked its way into my yoga classes, where we've spent the summer discussing mind-body links to healing and how we can feel better by perceiving ourselves in a more relaxed state. We all have something to unclench!

Me with author and cartoonist Lynda Barry

Of course I felt a little knotted up at my baby boy's college convocation, and Barry continued to touch my tender mommy emotions with her speech. A graduate of Evergreen State College in Olympia, Wash., the Seattle native gathered her points up around the subject of entering college with a curious spirit and enthusiasm for a lifetime of learning. Listen for the questions that could inspire a career, she advised, noting that her own scholarship began with the question, "What is an image?" from a respected professor. Then the comic added, "Don't forget to floss. It doesn't matter how smart you are if you have gingivitis." (I relished telling Barry at the book signing later that I had that very morning bought my son a multi-pack of dental floss!) With a bright smile, she said to the 500 new students before her. "Don't forget to monkey around!" And, she encouraged, "Make time to sleep. You need to sleep to keep your mind sharp." All the moms in the crowd nodded approval, including me. And there I was, back on thoughts of Clowny. Of course I hadn't tucked my son into bed for years, but still I'd been there to know when he was sleeping or studying or worried or excited....

Before we waved goodbye we helped Calvin set up his dorm room. We bought a rug, filled bins with tea, Emergen-C packs and protein powder. I delighted to know that Willamette's cafeterias are filled with organic produce from its own local farm. I made his bed with the college-length linens I'd ordered from the online store. I tucked as much comfort into those corners as I could. I plumped his pillows.

As we pulled away from campus, headed to the Oregon Coast for some end-of-summer surf, I grinned at the mysterious, mind-blowing end to Lynda Barry's speech, which seemed uncannily directed at us. Eyes twinkling, she closed her mouth and began to sing like a goofy ventriloquist: "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You'll never know, dear, how much I love you...."

Good bye, Clowny. And good luck, Calvin.

A post script about Willamette's past and present:

Convocation included a drum group from the Confederated Tribes of the Grand Ronde Indian Nation. The drum beats were beautiful, haunting and a marvelous reminder to honor history with honesty and humility and to move forward with integrity.

Willamette University was founded by a Methodist whose original mission was misguided in a manner typical to his generation of white evangelists. Jason Lee started a school to "educate and civilize" Indian children of the area, which had been farmed and hunted sustainably for thousands of years before white settlers brought diseases that decimated the tribal communities. Like many others of its kind, the school quickly failed and Lee (a distant relative of mine) sought an alternate use for the property. His Indian Manual Labor Training School was sold in 1844 to the Oregon Institute, which developed a school for children of missionaries and settlers. That Institute evolved into Willamette University.

Knowing that my father's ancestors had married into the Lee family, which had ties to my parents' tiny home town in southern Kansas, I read this history in my shiny Parent Handbook with extra curiosity. I had to chuckle at the honesty with which the booklet explains that Jason Lee and his followers at some point after 1844 "determined to use Feb. 1, 1842, as the founding date for Willamette University" (making it the oldest university west of the Mississippi River).

I recently read James W. Loewen's remarkable book "Lies My Teacher Told Me" about dubious history taught by high school textbooks that leave out unpleasant details about racism, Indian genocide and U.S. imperialism in order to downplay ugly pieces of our past and reassure patriots that our allegiance has always been well placed. (If you haven't already done so, please read this important book.) During Convocation I was enmeshed in Loewen's chapter about our country's 300-plus years of war between white immigrants and Native Americans, so my ears were perked for how Willamette (named for the river that the Indians named) would handle this tender topic at opening convocation. I was hopeful that the school might honor its history without dumbing it down just to keep things comfortable. The drum corps felt respectful, and a Grand Ronde chief offered a "Welcome to the Land" speech after an extraordinarily non-denominational Invocation by the University Chaplain. The chief choked with emotion as he spoke about his ancestors' land, and I'm pretty sure I remember him using the word "stolen," though he kept to passive voice. The outdoor tent hummed with tension for a few moments before the chief smiled and welcomed the students, expressing gratitude that this sacred land now houses a place for enlightenment and higher learning. I felt a balance between honesty and friendliness that seemed appropriate and forward-gazing.

Oddly, the vice president for academic affairs had just introduced the University President, Stephen E. Thorsett, as a proponent for healthier relationships with local tribes when the outdoor tent's power source blew. Hmmm. It felt like a nice, 5-minute pause to consider that promise.

Positioned directly across the street from the Oregon capitol, Willamette houses a premier law school and has educated many government officials and leaders. An archway on campus is engraved with the words, "Education brings national security." I hope so. I hope that true learning, based in fact and careful analysis, will lead our country toward more intelligent use of its land and resources so that we can secure clean food and water for everyone--for a long, long time. I hope that our leaders, with well-informed ideas about how to live companionably on a shared planet, can create policies that lead to more peace and less war. I hope that enlightened conversation about our human likenesses and differences can lead to more friendship and less animosity.

Calvin plans to study political science and law. I'm so grateful that Willamette has welcomed him. I know he has the intelligence and the passion to improve the world he lives in. And I'm hopeful that the book he might write one day would be "Truth My Teachers Told Me."

Eating Strawberries with Marcia

The pint of strawberries was on the kitchen counter, just out of site from where we sat on the porch. But the shiny perfect red of those spring berries was in both our minds as we talked about Marcia's illness. And her fear. "I can feel that the angel of death is near," she reflected.

The irises were in perfect bloom, not yet raggedy from wind or rain. Spikes and blooms drew my eyes across the well-tended back yard on the sunny Saturday that I visited. Her husband is the gardener, explained my dear friend. And he’s been taking good care of her too.

Marcia's diagnosis is a mouthful: mesothelioma. The cause is often asbestos exposure, years before illness. Why she landed in this spot is mostly a shoulder shrug. Fluid in the lungs got drained, biopsies confirmed the multiple lesions as cancer. It’s inoperable but maybe slow to grow.

"I want you to know I am meeting life on its terms, and there is goodness here," Marcia wrote in an email to friends.

I was honored to be on Marcia's list. Her yoga teacher for many years, I was well aware as I read that letter that Marcia was stepping up to be guru for me and many others as she navigated this challenge. She was allowing herself to become transparent with her fears, her yearnings, and her acceptance of an unknown ending.

I'd stood with Marcia in a charge toward fear before. Holding her hand, I walked with her out into the surf last fall to give her a ride on my longboard. In her late 60s, she'd never ridden a wave and it seemed like a good way to try something frightening and visceral and, well, potentially fun. So she had joined 11 other women for my surf/yoga retreat in Pacific City, Oregon. "I'm really scared," she admitted as we hopped through the waves, heading out. "But I trust you."

Marcia with Olga LaFayette in Pacific City last fall

As we moved into waist deep water, I wrapped my arms around Marcia so we both could get our hands onto my board to push its nose down and slide it through the two- to three-foot breakers. "Push and jump," I taught her. That turned out to be her favorite part of surfing. Joy and fear merged in Marcia's giggling smile that morning. "Push and jump. Wheeeee!"

I helped Marcia lie down on the board and spun her around, sighting for a good wave. We'd done a dry run on our yoga mats, and Marcia knew she was going to ride on her belly in a cobra position, chest up and legs straight back and tight together, using her arms to steer the board like a sled. We didn't have long to wait. A perfect three-footer stood up behind us and I cued Marcia to "get into your best cobra position. Go!" I pushed her down the line and watched her sandy blond head disappear behind the face of the wave. As the water cleared, I saw her cruising toward the beach in perfect form--all the way in. "Yippeeee!" I cheered and waved and sputtered from the water, a bobbing body without my ride. It was among the greatest moments I've experienced as a surfer.

And now, seven months later, this woman who had blown my mind with her courage and fun-seeking spirit at the sea, was telling me about a much scarier ride--one that she would never choose but one that she could face with that same indomitable spirit. "I've become very careful with my time and energy," she said that morning on the porch. Inconsequential projects had been packed away for good. Each choice felt rich with meaning. Yoga and swimming would get top billing. She would prioritize a prayer book for favorite poems, essays and cards. Her grandsons would be visiting that very afternoon. She wanted to watch them play and picnic in the yard.

We talked for a good while about choice and time. It had been the subject of many philosophy chats at yoga--shouldn't we always choose that which matters most? Certainly, but it's so much clearer when death comes knocking. Not long after our chat, Marcia wrote a beautiful essay about letting the Angel of Death in the door, asking for his patience.

“Oh, I wondered when you would arrive,” she wrote. “I am glad to know you are near, yet will you wait awhile? I have a nice chair on my porch so you can witness the life around you. I need some time to linger, to write and to appreciate. There are three little boys I would like to watch a little longer and receive their real hugs. We ask a few more trips. I need to thank more. I want to learn more.  I have been told that the time you are on the porch is a rich time for learning. So, rest here…it will take me awhile to pack.”  

Clearly, the taste of life is rich for Marcia. As we held our own seats on the porch that sunny Saturday, our minds turned at once back to that pint of strawberries I'd picked up at the farmer's market. "It makes me think of that old Zen story," she said, and I smiled. Exactly that. Running for his life from a hungry tiger, a man drops down a cliff wall and catches a vine—that a mouse then slowly begins to gnaw away. The gist is that he's trapped. No way out. But just within reach is a perfectly ripe strawberry. And so, he eats the strawberry.

The story melded with Marcia's to be my lesson in yoga classes that week. Ah, how we want a different ending to the story! We want to imagine that while he's enjoying that strawberry, the solution to his puzzle becomes clear and he escapes and lives happily ever after, right? RIGHT? Nope, it's just that the strawberry was perfect and ripe for the picking and he didn't waste the deliciousness because of his predicament and his fear.

My visit with Marcia that Saturday ended with her sharing a favorite poem: "Different Plans" by Brian Andreas:

"I don't know how long I can do this, he said.

I think the universe has different plans for me

& we sat there in silence & I thought to myself

that this is the thing we all come to & this is

the thing we all fight & if we are lucky enough

to lose, our lives become beautiful with mystery

again & I sat there silent because that is

not something that can be said."

Thank you, Marcia. I’m honored to eat strawberries with you.

Life's Wild Ride

A wave cannot exist without the water from which it was born.

A wind cannot blow without the air to give it form.
When the vast ocean bumps into underwater hills and valleys just so,
and when that agitated water rises to meet the wind, a wave can grow.

Its shape is distinct, unique as a snowflake, a feather, or a person.

The wave has power, the strength to move a chunk of sea from A to B.
The organization of the ocean is forever rearranged.

A tumbled starfish bumps into a particular cliff’s edge and clings.
A cup-shaped stone tips and offers the perfect hidey hole to a crab, just in time.
A seal follows the wave’s crest, in search of fish, and dives past its perfect mate. Hello!

The wave travels along for a time, sometimes miles, redecorating along the way,
affecting all of the creatures gathered up by its strong guidance,
occasionally swapping energy with other waves that cross its path.

Sometimes, near the end of a wave’s life in its hopelessly transient form…
Occasionally, with the shoreline as witness, a particular wave meets a surfer.

For an instant, the surfer and the wave share an energy that stops time.

Water, wind, flesh and fiberglass travel together.
Pure synergy. Earth and God embrace. No before and no after.
In the presence of such being, All One is the only message that makes sense.

Then the surfer kicks out, or tumbles, and the wave tosses its last gasp upon the shore.

The water particles that made the wave are pulled back into the sea.
The surfer climbs back onto her board and paddles back into the sea.

A particular set of conditions brought that surfer and that wave together for a romp.
They shared the rush of life in the moment of their joining.
Each one’s experience would have been incomplete without the other.

We are all waves, and all surfers. Our source is the same. 

Forever shape-shifting, our particles of water, earth and air gather and break apart.

The memory of bonds remains within our cells.

Our souls evolve from all the combining, grow hungry for another rush.

We scan the horizon for the next big ride, ready for a new wave’s birth.