The Year of Giving and Receiving (Okay, Mostly Receiving)

“When we can meet life with an open heart, receiving becomes indistinguishable from giving and we become conduits of grace.”                                       
                                                            --Mark Nepo, Seven Thousand Ways to Listen

Late last year, fresh off my yoga teacher training and full of good intentions, I decided to declare 2012 The Year of Giving. I would give something away every day for a year—and blog about it.

The universe rewarded my hubris promptly: I got laid off, right before Christmas. Oops! How could I commit to 366 days of giving when I didn’t know where my next mortgage payment was coming from? But it was too late; I’d already made up my mind to do it, and backing out seemed too convenient, not to mention cowardly.

So I stayed the course, more or less--giving more, blogging less. Now, on the eve of another new year, I look back at one of the most challenging, rewarding, and yes, happiest years of my life.

But it sure didn’t start out that way. Usually I love winter here in our little lakeside cottage. And with nothing to do all day but look for work, I figured I’d have a front row seat on Nature’s subtlest season. I’d watch the Great Pond freeze, the snow fall, and the cardinals and blue jays compete for the berries in my backyard. Mother Nature would console me while I got creative with this whole giving thing.

Or not.

The (warm) winter of my discontent

Last winter was one of the warmest winters on record in New England. For the first time since my son Mikey and I moved into the house eight years ago, the lake never froze. The snowfall never fell. The birds hid in the trees, out of the dreary fog and depressing cold rain. It was like living in Seattle, without the Starbucks.

But I couldn’t let a little bad-luck weather stop me. I plodded along, applying for hundreds of jobs and giving whatever I could think of away. I purged my closets, donating every third item in my wardrobe—a small mountain of shirts and sweaters and skirts and trousers. I gave away my beloved stash of Oprah magazines and my heavy punching bag and almost all of the hats I’d been collecting for more than twenty years. 

I gave editorial advice and manuscript critiques and pep talks; I taught free yoga classes and did free tarot card readings and hosted free writing seminars. I baked cookies and fried chicken and treated friends and strangers alike to a free lunch. And I blogged about it.

And then my dog died.

At the end of the winter that wasn’t, Shakespeare—the best dog who ever lived—was diagnosed with cancer.  By March he was gone, the quick-growing tumor the vet said would kill him no matter what we did having reached his brain. Shakespeare was a big old shaggy mutt, how old we weren’t even sure, having rescued him from a Las Vegas shelter nearly fifteen years before. But knowing he’d lived a good long life—longer than even he’d probably expected—didn’t really help.

I stopped giving, and started crying. I cried for Shakespeare and so much more. I cried for everything I’d lost in just a matter of months: my dog, my livelihood, my sense of self.

And then, because I said I would, I blogged about it. I told the truth: I was a 55-year-old woman with a dead dog and dead career. I had nothing left to give but my books and my shoes, the two cherished collections I’d heretofore spared in The Year of Giving.

What the f—k.

The Flip Side of Giving

Within 24 hours of posting that blog I had a new job. More than a new job, I had a new career, a new optimism, and a new respect for the flip side of giving—receiving. My dear friend and agent Gina Panettieri read my sorrowful, self-pitying tale and asked me to join her Talcott Notch Literary agency. I emailed her a head shot and a bio, and the next thing I knew, I was in business. I was thrilled and terrified at the same time—the emotional response the very best gifts always evoke.

But Gina was just the beginning. An outpouring of comfort, condolence, and compassion flooded my life—from friends, family, and colleagues, as well as people I’d never even met. My mom and the Colonel gave me the gift they’ve been giving me all my days: an unshakable faith in my ability to survive and thrive no matter where I found myself. My son Greg gave me the gift of laughter, recalling my lost sense of humor. My teenage son Mikey gave me the gift of poignancy, reminding me that the bitter is always accompanied by the sweet. My daughter Alexis gave me the gift of time, sending me a ticket to visit her and my granddaughters for Mother’s Day. And Michael gave me the shoulder I needed to cry on—happy tears as well as sad.

My fellow agents welcomed me with open arms—Katherine Sands, Linda Conner, Janet Reid, John Willig, Rachael Dugas, and Sara D’Emic foremost among them—and recommended me for conferences and seminars. After years of attending BEA as an editor, I went to my first as an agent, and editors like Amanda Bergeron of William Morrow, Phoebe Yeh of HarperCollins, Peter Joseph and Toni Plummer of Thomas Dunne Books, Andrea Spooner of Hachette, Allison Wortche of  Little Brown, Michelle Richter of St. Martin’s Press, Michael Braff of Random House, Christina Parisi of Amacom, and Joan Powers of Candlewick Press gave me my first meetings—and eventually some of my first deals for my first clients. Jill Santopolo, a wonderful writer and executive editor at Philomel, reminded me not to forget I was a writer, too.

My first clients gave me the gift of confidence, especially those who signed with me in the earliest days—Shannon Stoker, Lynn Coulter, Susan Reynolds, Richard Thomas, Dr. Lillian Glass, Vaughn Hardacker, Rich Krevolin and John Drdek, Greg Bergman, Phil Slott, the fab Saulnier sisters,  Emily Coughlin, John Partridge, Omar Garcia, Rachelle Christensen, Jess Anastasi,  and Rob MacGregor.

One good turn led to another and another and another. Chuck Sambuchino of Writers Digest told the world I was an agent—and I received more than 1000 query letters in a week. Queries—the gift that keeps on giving!

Publisher Phil Sexton gave me my popular Writers Digest Boot Camp gigs, and Michael Neff of the Algonkian Pitch Conference asked me to lead workshops in New York City.  Emma Spencer at Dragonfly Yoga Studio invited me to lead my first 5-Minute Mindfulness and Chakra Power seminars. Thanks to these lovely mentors, I learned that I loved teaching—and was pretty good at it. And Brian Kelly of Randstad landed me contract work as a content strategist, proving that you can teach an old writer new tricks.

Giving away the Write Stuff

The kindest words often came from my fellow writers, who reminded me that I am a writer first, and no matter what happened to me this year, it would make a good story. Hallie Ephron, Hank Phillippi Ryan, and Margaret McLean promised me I wouldn’t fall flat on my face; Jane Cleland and Jennifer Basye Sander told me to give myself a year to get acclimated.  My Scribe Tribe preached persistence and praised pages, and the Monday Murder Club rewarded my frequent absences with patience and affection.

And all my friends at MWA, Sisters in Crime, the League of Vermont Writers, the Harvard Medical Publishing Course, Killer Nashville, Writers Digest, the Algonkian Pitch Conference, and the New England Crime Bake chimed in with encouragement whenever I seemed to need it most.

With their support, I kept on writing. And agenting, and editing, and teaching, and content strategizing.

And giving. Yes, I bit the bullet and even gave away more than 50 pairs of shoes and 350 books. But who’s counting.

‘Tis better to give than…maybe not

While the blessings rained down on me every day of my so-called Year of Giving, I was reminded that gifts come in all shapes and sizes and colors, and that, ultimately, giving is just another form of receiving. It’s an endless loop of love that feeds both giver and receiver.

It’s New Year’s Eve, and given all I gained from The Year of Giving, I’m tempted to name 2013 The of Year of, uh, Something Big. But I haven’t come up with anything yet.

If you’ve got any good ideas to give me, I’ll take ‘em.

Embrace the Open Window

“When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.”

--Julie Andrews as Maria von Trapp in The Sound of Music

“Keep passing the open windows.”

--John Irving, The Hotel New Hampshire

The Bible and the Buddha aside, sometimes I think that all you really need to know you can learn from Maria von Trapp and John Irving. I was reminded of this recently, after falling into a funk, due to a run of bad luck which included losing my job and my dog. When our beloved Shakespeare died, I wrote a blog about it—and my misery was met with compassion, kindness, and generosity from you all, friends and strangers alike. I thank you truly, deeply, sincerely.

One of you, my dear friend Gina Paniettieri, read the blog and asked me to join Talcott Notch Literary Services. “When can I start?” I asked. “Now,” she answered. Within hours, I was in business.

When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.

But escaping through a window is neither as easy nor as direct a path as leaving through the front door. A fall from a window can be fatal. Going from a lifetime of staff positions with big companies paying handsome salaries and benefits to the uncertain glories of a commission-based income requires a leap of faith. 

Keep passing the open windows.

Both Ms. Von Trapp and Mr. Irving offer sound advice. But the paradox of life on earth is that we must traverse a world in which both axioms ring true. We must recognize an open window as the escape it is when we see one, remember that jumping is always a risky business, and then take the plunge anyway.

Because life is short, and we need to climb every mountain, even if we are all terminal cases.

Wish me luck!

The Year of Giving Continues

Days 52 – 65

Given in nurturing, care-giving, and mourning to Shakespeare.

Day 66 of 365

Freddie, our beagle, has been very lonely since his pal died. So I give him lots of love and attention and treats today and every day as we mourn Shakespeare.

Day 67 of 365

I send my daughter Alexis a beautiful Seven Chakra Necklace, made of lovely faceted gemstones I’ve selected myself, and strung on a sterling silver chain by my favorite jewelry designer Susan Reynolds. Check it out. (If you want one, just let me know.)

Day 68 of 365

At a networking lunch, I give a struggling entrepreneur a lot of marketing ideas, and volunteer to write some web copy for her.

Day 69 of 365

I donate a dozen pair of jeans—my man’s jeans—to charity. It has occurred to me, finally, that when I’m really at a loss for what to give, I can give away his stuff, too. (Hey, it’s okay, I did ask him first.)

Day 70 of 365

I take Freddie for a long walk in the cranberry bogs. Shakespeare loved the bogs, and we haven’t had the heart to walk there since he passed. But today I dedicated my walking meditation to Shakespeare, and Freddie and I hit the trail. It’s as if Shakespeare is there with us; I hear his spirit in the wind.

Day 71 of 365

I send my sister Pisces Hallie, Renee, and Carol birthday cards—with real notes inside, instead of my usual “Love you!” scrawls.

Day 72 of 365

I write up a quick guide to asanas and chakras for a yogini artist friend to use in her work and email it to her.

Day 73 of 365

My middle child—now thirty-something—is always losing things. Still. So I send Greg another medallion to replace the one I sent him for his birthday six months ago. This time I give him a fossilized quartz stone strung on a dark leather cord. This talisman combines the strength of clear quartz, known as the Power Stone, with the wisdom of the ages, represented by the fossils inside. Let’s hope he can hold onto this one long enough to evoke its mystical properties.

Day 74 of 365

Today’s my birthday, and I give my significant other, who’s on deadline, a break and tell him, no worries, we can wait until the weekend to celebrate. And I really mean it.

Day 75 of 365

I have dinner with a friend, and give her my full attention as she tells me about the troubles she’s suffered since we last saw each other. Mine pale in comparison, and I am reminded that this is always true, and were I to pay as much attention to what’s going on around me as to what’s going on inside me, I’d practice more compassion, gratitude and lovingkindness.

Day 76 of 365

I come up with both a series title and a book title for my Scribe Tribe sister’s new cozy—and encourage her to finish it.

Day 77 of 365

My son Mikey is home from college for the weekend. I give him a big hug and twenty bucks for gas. He disappears with his friends, and I do his laundry.

Day 78 of 365

I give up resenting the fact that I got laid off—and embrace my new opportunities. 

Letting Go of Shakespeare

 “If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.”

                                                            --William Shakespeare

In the past two weeks I haven’t done very much. I haven’t written a blog. I haven’t been to a yoga class. I haven’t walked through the bogs or watched What Not to Wear or called my mother, all tactics usually guaranteed to lift my spirits. Most important, in this my self-proclaimed Year of Giving, I haven’t given away a single thing.

This. Is. Resistance.

Resistance happens when the flow of your life is dammed by your own obstacles, your own obtuseness, and/or your own obstinacy. But, you say, I had a good reason for not being here, not going there, not doing this or achieving that. There’s always a good reason.

And I had a very good reason. Indeed, I had lots of good reasons, all of which amounted to this: I was sitting alone in my too-quiet house with no job and a dying dog feeling very sorry for myself.  

Shakespeare has been my dearest companion since we adopted him in Las Vegas 13 years ago. A big, shaggy black mutt of sweet and even temperament, he’d been abandoned by his previous owners. Nameless and homeless and ageless, he was a grand dog who deserved a grand name—so I called him Shakespeare and took him home as an early Christmas present for me and Mikey. We fell in love with him, and he with us. Everyone loved Shakespeare, he was easy to love.

But ultimately he was my dog. Perhaps because he remembered that I saved him, and he thought it was his turn to save me. And he did save me—over and over again. Shakespeare saw me through lay-offs and break-ups and cross-country moves. He led me on long walks when, blinded by endless tears during my divorce, I took my grief outside where Mikey couldn’t see. He served as my sentry, positioning himself by my bedroom door for his watch every night. He curled up at my feet when I collapsed on the couch after work, too tired to move. And one evening when I fell asleep after putting the kettle on, thereby setting the kitchen on fire, it was Shakespeare who roused me just in time.

Such Sweet Sorrow

So there I was, sitting alone in my house feeling sorry for my poor self, with no job and a dying dog. Dr. B said that Shakespeare had cancer, but given his advanced age, surgery and chemo really weren’t options. He gave us meds to make our ailing dog more comfortable, and sent us home.

For a few weeks, Shakespeare seemed to rally. But then he took a sudden turn for worse. He couldn’t walk, he wouldn’t eat, he cried in his sleep. He was failing—fast. I sat by him, day after day, praising and petting him, as he slipped into the next world.

Resistance was futile. Shakespeare died. And I gave myself the time to mourn.

Who's Afraid of Yoga Instructors?

All the brouhaha over how dangerous yoga can be—or not!—continues. “Don’t Be Intimidated By Your Yoga Instructor,” published on the wellness website  www.beforliving.com, comes down on the yoga-is-good-for-you side of the argument. Check it out, and not just because I’m featured in it:

http://beforliving.com/dont-be-intimidated-by-your-yoga-instructor

Namaste, Virginia Woolf!

The Year of Giving Continues….

Day 36 of 365

It’s Superbowl Sunday, and I gave the men in my life the gift of actually watching the game. Which was a heartbreaker for us New Englanders.

Day 37 of 365

I wrote a poem for a friend, and sent it to her.

Day 38 of 365

I found a local bakery that makes elephant ears—and I bought two pastries to share with a friend who loves them as much as I do.

Day 39 of 365

I helped a friend who had foot surgery recently return the wheelchair, walker, and other equipment she’d borrowed for her recovery

Day 40 of 365

Today I got a reclusive friend out of the house. Since I got laid off, I am beginning to understand how hard it can be sometimes just to get out of the house.

Day 41 of 365

Sometimes the best gift you can give someone is an apology. Today I said I was sorry to someone who was just trying to help. I am not always gracious as I should be to people who try to help me.

Day 42 of 365

Today I gave a friend a ride into the city, and paid the $47 parking.

Day 43 of 365

Today I played chauffeur to a neighbor whose car was in the shop.

Day 44 of 365

Today a former colleague asked for a reference—and I happily agreed.

Day 45 of 365

Today is Valentine’s Day—and I gave my sweetie two beautiful sweaters. But more important, I made him fried chicken for dinner.

Day 46 of 365

Today I gave a pep talk to a friend going through a divorce. Having been there myself, I know it will be the first of many.

Day 47 of 365

My son had his wisdom teeth removed today—and I was his chauffeur, cook, maid, and nurse. In other words, being his mom.

Day 48 of 365

Today I spent the day with my ailing son—and sat through the first season of Game of Thrones with him. Considering that there’s a decapitation in the very first scene, this was indeed a gift!

Day 49 of 365

I really need to give more of my books away, but I resist this more than I can say. But today, going through my bookshelf, I found unopened copies of Bryan Gruley’s well-reviewed books Starvation Lake and The Hanging Tree—and I gave them to my pal Phil.

http://bryangruley.com/

Day 50 of 365

I gave a girlfriend suffering a bout of self-doubt a third-chakra bracelet of yellow quartz to inspire confidence.

Day 51 of 365

Today I volunteered to help do publicity for an upcoming charitable event. More on this to come.

Breathe through Your Superbowl Stress

Bad plays.

Bad calls.

Bad food.

Watching the Superbowl can be a nerve-racking ordeal, somewhere between death and impotence on the stress scale—depending upon whether your team is winning or losing. (Here in New England, where Patriots fervor has reached bikram-fever pitch, even those of us who couldn’t care less about football could use a little stress relief going into the big game. If only to deal with our obsessed friends, neighbors, and significant others.)

But it doesn’t have to be that way. You can breathe your way through every fumble,  offside kick, and incomplete pass. When your offense loses ground, don’t hyperventilate, just breathe. When your defense fails to, well, defend, don’t hold your breath, just breathe. When the very worst happens and that Hail Mary pass falls happily into that scrappy receiver’s clever hands right in the end zone, winning the game with only seconds to spare and thereby cheating your team of yet another Superbowl victory, don’t beat your head against the flat-screen, just breathe.

Here’s a little half-time breathing exercise to go with your chips, dip, and Bud Lite. Close your eyes—or keep them trained on Madonna, your choice—and inhale deeply. Imagine your breath as the perfect throw of the pigskin, soaring through your chest, up your throat, past your third eye and out the top of your crown. Touchdown! Now exhale slowly, emptying your belly completely of breath. Repeat:

Breathe in calm, exhale anxiety.
Breathe in courage; exhale fear.
Breathe in victory; exhale defeat.

Namaste, football fans! May the most enlightened team win.


The Year of Giving Continues….

Day 32 of 365
A writer friend was looking for ideas—and I gave her the seed that she grew into this swell Tom Brady vs. Eli Manning brain-off blog:
http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/prime-your-gray-cells/201202/super-bowl-battle-the-quarterback-brains


Day 33 of 365
I created a special sequence of asanas for a friend with fibromyalgia, complete with its own soundtrack, and taught it to her so she can continue to practice on her own at home.

Day 34 of 365
Another out-of-work pal was depressed, so I planned a Friday afternoon respite for us: a 3D screening of Hugo, the Martin Scorsese film based on Brian Selznick’s bestselling children’s book. A charming story beautifully told, and guaranteed to lift anyone’s spirits.

Day 35 of 365
I picked up a copy of David Mamet’s On Directing Film at the independent bookstore for that replaced the defunct Borders at the mall. It’s for a filmmaker friend of mine out in Los Angeles.

All Play and No Work....

It's been 53 days since I got laid off. In that time, I've wrapped and unwrapped gifts for the holidays, gone to Las Vegas to see family and gone home again, put up and taken down a Christmas tree, and applied for jobs. I've cleaned closets and rearranged furniture, given away some clothes and mended others, revisited two half-finished novels, abandoned them, and started a new story, and applied for jobs. I've had countless lunches with friends, walked the dogs countless times through the bogs, done countless yoga postures, and applied for jobs.

Mostly, I've applied for jobs. 

As if my life depended upon it. Which it really doesn't. I could freelance for a living; lots of my fellow writers and editors do just that. Forgive me then, my compadres, when I say what I am going to say next: Freelancing doesn't feel like work to me. Perhaps it's the solitary nature of the job, or the feast or famine nature of the compensation, or the commute to work that begins and ends in my living room.

Or maybe I simply identify with poet Donald Hall when he says in the very first line of Life Work: “I have never worked a day in my life.”

http://www.amazon.com/Life-Work-Donald-Hall/dp/0807071331/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1328020585&sr=8-1

And not in a good way. 

The Pride of the Peacock

I want a real job. This is what I am thinking at yoga class on Sunday. My shoulders are tight, and I remember what my yoga guru always tells me, that we carry the expectations of others between our shoulder blades. I smile as I settle my forearms onto the floor for the dolphin series that is supposed to prepare us for Mayurasana, better known as the peacock pose. The only pose I hate more than dolphin is peacock.

As far as I know, I am not so worried about the expectations of others, as I have enough to handle with my own. I carry my stress in my shoulders the way others carry stress in their temples or their lower backs. The weight of my world is on my shoulders—and the postures that challenge my shoulders are the ones I struggle with the most. Holding myself up by my forearms alone puts enormous pressure on my shoulders—and my feelings of self-worth.

I make it through the class—just barely—and leave with the realization that my peacock needs work, on and off the mat.  William Blake said that “The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.”

I go home, make a pot of coffee, and work on my new novel.

And apply for jobs.

The Year of Giving Continues….

Day 24 of 365

I sent an autographed copy of my memoir Fixing Freddie to Ilana Krebs, daughter of my good friend and fellow writer Gary Krebs. Enjoy, Ilana!

Day 25 of 365

I gave my BFF John K. Waters my beloved Edgar Allan Poe bobble head, which I got as a favor at a Edgar Awards dinner for Mystery Writers of America a couple of years ago, and kept pristinely in the box ever since. You can take it out of the box, John.

Day 26 of 365

A writer friend serving in Afghanistan emailed me about his latest work, and I offered to read and edit it for him. God bless you, Andy.

Day 27 of 365

My cousin Did emailed me, telling me how much he enjoyed Fixing Freddie, and telling me a bit about his life. We have been out of touch for decades, but thanks to the gift of facebook we’re back in contact—and have discovered a  mutual interest in Buddhism and yoga. I’m sending him a copy of my latest book, 5-Minute Mindfulness.

Day 28 of 365

My next-door neighbor Steve, who lost his house in Hurricane Irene earlier this year, came by to check on his lot, where he is rebuilding. I gave him lemonade and homemade brownies straight from the oven.

Day 29 of 365

Today we gave the dogs a bath. Our big shaggy mutt Shakespeare, whom we adopted from a Las Vegas shelter back in 1999, is at least 14 now, and slowing down. (Yesterday he only lasted one mile on our walk—a bad sign.) Lately he’d rather we bathe him than go to the groomer, so as the weather was unseasonably fair and warm today, we indulged him. It took an entire bottle of Herbal Essence conditioner to render his tangled mane soft and shiny again.

Day 30 of 365

Today I took Shakespeare to see our wonderful vet, Dr. Barrow, who confirmed what we had suspected: Shakespeare has cancer, and there’s not much to be done about it given his advanced age. I bought red wine and chocolate and invited my friend Susan Reynolds over, and gave myself a pity party.

                                                

Day 31 of 365

It’s the last day of January, and I am giving myself the morning to write. No applying for jobs today, as I have a two-hour follow-up interview for a fine position this afternoon. Wish me luck.

Breathing Upside Down

When my youngest child went off to college last year, I asked myself, “Who am I without kids?” Yoga saved me—by helping me breathe in and out, in and out, in and out, while I explored that question.

When I lost my job last month, I asked myself, “Who am I without a job?” And I hoped yoga would save me again. Or at least keep me breathing until I figured it out.

When Life Hurts, That’s When the Real Yoga Begins

The glorious trouble with yoga is, the more you do it, the more you come face to face with yourself. At first you’re flush with the quiet, the peace, the joy that the stillness of Savasana brings you. As you go deeper into your practice, you still experience that bliss during Savasana at the end of every class—but you may have to work harder to get there.

Last week, after a five-hour marathon interview for a job I’d love but may or may not get, I really needed to do some yoga. So the next morning I went to yoga class, intent on release and relaxation. But in true yogic tradition, it didn’t prove quite that simple.

Upside Down Once More

The best yoga teachers choreograph each class as a series of asanas building to a peak posture. My yoga guru, Emma Spencer of DragonFly Yoga Studio, is such a teacher. Just my luck—or should I say karma?—in this particular class Emma was preparing us for Adho Mukha Vrksasana, aka handstand.

I hate being upside down—literally, figuratively, metaphorically, or otherwise. I live by the motto, “there’s a place for everything and everything in its place.” Starting with my head, which I believe belongs right side up. I’m just saying….

Both headstand and handstand challenge this belief—and scare me silly. To graduate from my yoga teacher training, I had to learn to do Sirshasana, the headstand. It took a private headstand class from my other yoga guru, Michelle Fleming of Sanctuary Studios, to help me face my fear, breathe through my panic, and stand on my head. I learned to do it, but I still hated it. And it still scared me.

As for handstand, well, I wasn’t even going there.

But there I was in Emma’s class, my palms pressed against the mat as I willed my legs to make the leap from down dog to handstand. Intellectually I knew that I was strong enough to hold myself up, even when my world is upside down. But each time I swung my limbs up, I’d panic just as they approached the zenith, and I’d drop them back down to earth (where I thought they belonged).

Savasana was sweet as always—and tempered by the enormous relief I felt that the handstand class was over. The same relief I’d feel once I found another job.

The next day I went to class in a particularly good mood, knowing that Emma never repeats her sequences two days in a row, and that we would not be doing handstand again.

I was right: We did headstands instead. Keep breathing, I told myself, as I again prepared for the unsettling prospect of turning myself the wrong way around.

I breathed. I wrapped my fingers together into a basket, placed my forearms on the mat, lowered my crown into that basket, raised my hips, and walked my feet up the mat towards my head. Slowly I raised my legs, and waited for the panic to set in. As it always had before. I was prepared to breathe my way through it.

But the panic never came. I lifted my legs to a full headstand, and stayed there, upside down, for at least a dozen long inhalations and exhalations. Surprised and elated by the absence of fear, I lost count.

Fear of Falling or Fear of Flying?

Getting laid off turned my world—and my self-identity—upside down. But sometimes, being upside down is just where you need to be. Yoga has helped me see that, and taught me to breathe through the falling and the flying, the peaks and the valleys, the highs and lows that mark all of our lives.

Fear aside, I’ll get another job, and I’ll learn to do a handstand. Sooner or later.

In the meantime, I’ll just keep on breathing. May you do the same.

The Year of Yoga Continues….

Day 19 of 365

I gave myself the gift of a manicure today, in anticipation of my job interview tomorrow. I let the manicurist talk me into the deluxe offering, which included a “sugar and lavender massage” described as a “facial for your hands.” I compensated him wildly for the pleasure.

Day 20 of 365

I gave the guy running the Boston parking lot where I parked for my job interview an unnecessary—and unnecessarily generous—tip. 

Day 21 of 365

It stared snowing while I was in yoga class—the first real snow of the year. When I got home, I curled up on the couch with my handsome new roommate from California and watched the entire season of Homeland while the storm blanketed the cottage in white. It was my—and New England’s—gift to our friend from the other coast.

Day 22 of 365

Today, I continued giving up personal space in my home to accommodate my new roommate. It’s the first time I’ve shared my space with anyone other than my own children in more than a decade. This is surprisingly difficult.

Day 23 of 365

Today I gave my son $300 bucks to fix his car (my old Kia, as he wrecked his own car earlier this year). I drive like a little old lady, so the Kia has been in shock ever since the transfer of ownership. Here’s hoping it survives the winter.

The Discipline and Imagination of Giving

When I first started The Year of Giving—in which I pledged to give something away every day for 365 days—my friend Carolyn said she’d never have the discipline to pull something like that off. I didn’t necessarily understand what she meant by that; having just been laid off, I was more worried about not having the resources to give.

But nearly three weeks in, I am beginning to see what Carolyn meant by that. Doing anything every day requires discipline. And coming up with something new to give away every day requires imagination. Right now my day job is finding a new job—and it’s an exhausting effort that also demands discipline and imagination. As it turns out, each ambition—both giving and securing employment—feeds the other.

Day 13 of 365

As a yogini, I am a proselytizer of the worst kind. Wherever I am, whomever I’m with, whatever I’m doing, if anyone mentions an ache or a pain or a symptom, I pounce. “You know, yoga could help you with that.” I’ve got one friend whom I’ve yet to convert. Linda is a writer who, like many writers, suffers neck and shoulder pain from all that “computer asana” (as my yoga teacher trainer Michelle Fleming of Sanctuary Studios calls it). So I gave her my super-duper heating pad, the one made especially for the neck and shoulders. I got it when I got rear-ended by a kid driving and texting at the same time; the heating pad really helped my whiplash. But what cured the whiplash was yoga—and I don’t really need that heating pad any more. She can use it—until I get her back into the yoga studio.

Day 14 of 365

I finally took down my Christmas tree—and gave it to the birds. I dragged it outside to the backyard, down by the lake. This year winter has come late, and the unseasonably warm weather means more birds are out and about than usual. The spruce makes great ground cover for them—and gives me hours of bird-watching pleasure as well.

Day 15 of 365

My son Mikey has been home from college for the holidays. He and his best buds have been hanging out at the house, eating everything in sight and playing video games long into the night. We only have one television in the house, a big flat-screen in the living room (I know, I know, to hear my children talk, we’re practically Luddites). So I whipped up a huge platter of pasta, baked a chocolate cake, and went to bed early so they could feast on spaghetti, Game of Thrones reruns, and the latest Call of Duty in peace and privacy. In recognition of my sacrifice, Mikey proclaimed, “Whatever, Mom.”

Day 16 of 365

Some women collect jewelry. Some collect shoes. Me, I’m the queen of the party dress. For a woman who goes to maybe three soirees worthy of that moniker a year, I have way too many “dress-up” outfits. So I gave away a few of my favorites, including the little black number with the plunging back and the black velvet wrap scattered with deep red roses. I don’t need them, I can count the times I’ve worn them on one hand…but I miss them already!

Day 17 of 365

A writer friend called me today to tell me all about a new opportunity she has to debut her own weekly radio show. She wanted to brainstorm concepts, so I listened to her ideas, helped her zero in on the best of them, and then gave her what very writer needs most when pitching any new project: A Great Title.

Day 18 of 365

One of my many New Year’s resolutions this year is to get a handle on paperwork, once and for all. So I sat down and went through several boxes of old bills, receipts, manuscripts, notes for future manuscripts, cards, letters—you know the drill. Most of it I could just throw away, proving that Napoleon, who  supposedly opened his mail only once a year on the rationale that most of it was obsolete anyway, may have had a point. But I did find a few treasures in the piles of paper, including several postcards depicting famous writers I had intended to pin to my bulletin board for inspiration. But I decided to abandon that plan, and send them to my writer friends instead: 

• Graham Greene to Hallie Ephron and Brian Thornton; 
• Lillian Hellman to Susan Reynolds; 
• Lawrence Durrell to John K. Waters, 
• Pearl S. Buck to Hank Phillippi Ryan; 
• James Joyce to Greg Bergman;  
• Jamaica Kincaid to Judith Green.

To spread the inspiration around, as it were. 

P.S. I kept Colette for myself.

The First Rule of Yoga: Do No Harm to Your Own Sweet Self

Not long ago, I took a vinyasa flow class from a new yoga teacher (new to me, at least) at one of my favorite yoga studios. At one point, while holding a difficult pose in a challenging sequence, the teacher told us, “When it hurts is when the real yoga begins.”

I never went back to that class. And I’ll never take a class from that teacher again.

As I always tell my own yoga students, and anyone else who’ll listen, yoga is not supposed to hurt. Ever.

Too many people are hurting themselves doing yoga these days, as revealed in a recent excerpt from William J. Broad’s new book The Science of Yoga: The Risks and Rewards  published in the New York Times Magazine called How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body:

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/08/magazine/how-yoga-can-wreck-your-body.html?_r=1&pagewanted=all

This story has caused a furor among students and teachers alike. But it’s not a new story. People who treat yoga as a competitive sport and/or a punishing uber-spiritual discipline run the risk of harming themselves—and they’re doing so in record numbers.

Don’t Worry, Be Happy, Skip That Headstand

Yoga is a practice designed to help us attain enlightenment—and causing pain is not an act of enlightenment. Indeed, the first yama—or precept—of yoga is known as ahimsa. That is, do no harm. This principle of non-violence extends not just to other people—and other sentient beings—but to ourselves as well.

To derive the true benefits of yoga—a flexible body, a quiet mind, and a happy spirit—we need to honor our bodies, acknowledge our limitations, and embrace our possibilities.

You don’t have to stand on your head to do that. You just have to close your eyes, empty your mind, and breathe. We practice yoga so we can enjoy Savasana at the end of class—those divine moments of bliss in which we lie on the floor, completely relaxed from head to toe, dead to the world.

That’s what yoga is really all about. So if you ever find yourself in a class where competition—not serenity—reigns, resist. If you feel pressured to wrap your leg around your head, leave. If your teacher reminds you of Jane Fonda circa 1980 proclaiming “Go for the burn!,” find another teacher. Pronto.

Because ahimsa, like peace, begins with you.

The Year of Giving continues….

Day 11 of 365

I gave away my scale today. I was shopping with a friend who was about to buy one when I suddenly said, “Don’t bother. I’ve got a perfectly good scale at home I haven’t really used since I took up yoga and lost three jeans sizes.” Who needs a scale when you’ve got sun salutations?

Day 12 of 365

Tomorrow I’ve got to do a job interview via Skype. (It’s a brave new world, folks.) So I grabbed a girlfriend with good taste and took her to Macy’s with me. Susan helped me pick out two great options for my Skype spotlight. (Wish me luck!) So I gave her one of the blouses that looked far better on her than I.

Howling at the Wolf Moon

Don’t cry for the moon. Even when it shines with the glitter of the New Year, and pierces the cold gloom of winter like the promise of Spring, and begs you to believe that your luck has finally changed for the better.

Those are the words that open my novel Wolf Moon. When I wrote them, I was the happily employed working mom enjoying my last years of childrearing as my youngest finished high school. Now, on this year’s Wolf Moon—always the first full moon of January—everything is different. I have no kids at home any more, my youngest having gone off to college. And I have no job, my employer having laid ne off last month.  

Which means that I’ve got the time to ruminate on the significance of the Wolf Moon, so called by the Native Americans because that was when winter struck hard, and the hungry wolves came howling round the villages in search of food.

Talk about your first chakra issues: Survival, security, safety.

The first chakra, called the muladhara or root chakra, is located at the base of the spine; it’s the energy vortex that is the seat of all manifestation. Block this grounding chakra—through fear, anxiety, insecurity—and you’ll be hard-pressed to manifest anything.

There goes that new job I want/need so much. So I screwed my courage to the sticking place, and did a lot of yoga including specific postures to unblock my first chakra—from standing postures such as Tadasana (mountain pose), Utkatasana (chair) and Utkana Konasana (goddess) to seated postures such as Padmasana (lotus), Supta Baddha Konasana (reclining bound angle pose), and Hanumanasana (monkey god pose).

Hanumanasana—which is basically doing the splits—is a challenge for me. I remember when at 21, pregnant with my first child, my doctor asked me if I was still feeling flexible and fit, and I responded by doing the splits on the floor of his office.

“Don’t do that again,” he said.

That was a long time ago. Now I must use a prop under my butt to ease myself into the stretch. It’s a loooooong stretch.

Thus far, 2012 has been a loooooong stretch, challenging me to reinvent myself from the ground up, pulling my old life out by the roots and unceremoniously sticking me in foreign soil. As if to say, “Survive here, if you can!”

It’s enough to make you howl at the moon. And why not? Howling is just another form of breathing. So go ahead, howl along with me at the Wolf Moon.

And keep on breathing.

The Year of Giving Continues….

Day 4 of 365

I gave my new pair of Converse sneakers to a friend visiting from Europe who admired them and happened to wear the same size shoe. They’re wicked expensive over there.

Day 5 of 365

On my last day with my three-year-old granddaughter Elektra, I tucked the last of the Disney princess “lip gloss” sticks from my secret stash into her “purse” to find on the plane on her way home. This is why, among other reasons, that I am the world’s best grandmother. At least to Elektra.

Day 6 of 365

After taking the red eye home from Las Vegas, I was so exhausted that I gave myself a long nap. Hey, self-care counts!

Day 7 of 365

When I moved from California to Massachusetts more than a decade ago, I was so cold all the time that I dressed like Nanook of the North to keep warm—at least according to my diehard Yankee friends. So today I gave a newly transplanted fellow Californian a pair of long underwear, the better to survive a first New England winter.

Day 8 of 365

I gave up half of my closet to my new roommate. If you’re a woman, you’ll appreciate what a sacrifice that was, no matter how appealing the person with whom you must share your wardrobe space.

Day 9 of 365

I gave my son’s friend and fellow boxing enthusiast, Brian Z, my heavy bag, which he has coveted for many years. There was a time when hitting something made me feel really good—men never tell us women how good it feels to hit something!—but the yogic path offers satisfaction of a different sort.

Day 10 of 365

Today was fun—I got a facebook message from a friend of mine who’d read about The Year of Giving on this blog and asked if I’d give her some free publishing advice. Done!

New Year's Revolutions

Bridget Jones is right. There’s no point in pressuring yourself to start your New Year’s resolution on January 1, when you’re still feeling the adverse effects of too much alcohol. If you happened to spend the night/day/entire holiday season at my mother’s house, you can add sugar, fat, salt, caffeine, red meat, chocolate, and whatever the heck she puts in that chicken pasta casserole (I’m betting on Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup)
http://campbellsoup.com/Products/Condensed/All/2310
 to your booze binge.

So it was with the best of intentions that on January 2 I channeled my yoga guru Emma Spencer of DragonFly Yoga Studios.
http://www.emmasdragonflyyogastudio.com/
I led my entire family—okay, the two people who don’t think yoga is for hippies and/or Communists—in a detox yoga class. With lots of emphasis on twists, to wring the yuletide excess out of our bodies. And pranayama, to breathe in bliss and breathe out angst. And Krishna Das, to underscore our releasing 2011 and embracing 2012.

With all that binging and detoxing, I didn’t get around to considering New Year’s resolutions until today, January 3. Which is way late, even for the likes of Bridget Jones. Maybe it was all that Krishna Das,
http://www.krishnadas.com/
but suddenly the very thought of resolutions bemused/bewildered/bored me. I’d made resolutions for years—even kept some of them. I lost weight, exercised more, ate more vegetables, gave up soda, yadda yadda yadda.

But it wasn’t until last year, when I was so stuck in my empty-nest ennuie that I ditched the usual resolutions in favor of a more radical strategy—take yoga teacher training at age 55—that I really made a difference in my life.

For me, learning to breathe has been a revolution.

Forget Resolutions

Who needs a resolution? Better to make a revolution. Live each day as if it were your last chance to make a real difference. What would such a day look like…a succession of such days…a lifetime?

That’s the question I’m resolving to explore this year, starting today. Take a minute to breathe, and ask yourself that same question.

Because 2012 really is The Year of You.

The Year of Giving continues….

Day 3 of 365

Today was easy: I got an email from a dear friend lamenting my recent lay-off. \

“I’d hire you to do my online marketing and design in a minute if I could afford it,” said this small business owner, trying to reassure me of my talent and employability.

“Done!” I said, “My gift to you!”

Day 4 of 365

Only the second day and I’m coming up short. In desperation at day’s end I gave myself a break, and decided to give my compadres at dinner a bottle of Malbec. Whatever works.

New Year, New Yama

A year ago today I was at my parents' house in Las Vegas for our annual holiday get-together: kids, grandkids, in-laws, and more. I was thrilled to be there, even more than usual; in the autumn, my youngest had gone off to college, and I had been living alone for the first time in my life.  I didn't like it much.

Okay, I hated it. It wasn't just that I found coming home every night to an empty cottage however quaint depressing. It was the fact that I no longer had a reason to get up in the morning. After more than thirty years of raising kids, suddenly they were gone. Game over.

Now what? Sitting there in the midst of all the Christmas chaos surrounded by the fruits of my labors (literally) once more, I knew I'd better find something to do--or my first New England winter alone would be the longest on record.

"There's not enough yoga or gin to get me through the winter," I told my daughter-in-law Eliane.

"You should become a yoga teacher," she said.

I laughed. "I don't think so. I can't stand on my head. "

"You'll learn."

"I don't think so," I didn't like being upside down. Period. Which naturally said more about me than I intended.
Long story short: Twelve days later I attended my first teacher training with Michelle Fleming at Sanctuary Studios in Plymouth, Massachusetts. http://www.findsanctuary.com/

I learned to stand on my head. I learned to teach yoga. I learned to come home to an empty house. Happily. (At least most of the time.)

New Year, New Yama

In gratitude for the gifts that 2011 brought me, I decided to that 2012 should be the year that I gave back. By December I had a plan: The Year of Giving. Starting January 1, I'd give something away every day for 365 days.

I was unduly pleased with myself, and you know what that means: Disaster. My comeuppance came swiftly; on December 9, I got laid off.

What to do? How could I pledge to give something away for 365 days when I didn't know where or when I'd see my next paycheck? I have a kid in college and a mortgage and a car payment and, well, you know the drill.

And you know as well as I do that none of that really matters. God has a sense of humor--or at least a sense of irony. Which means I'm still planning to give something to somebody somewhere every day for the next 365 days. There are all kinds of ways to give back, and some of the most appreciated gestures are those in which no money changes hands.

So today I started The Year of Giving where they say charity should begin: At home. I gave my daughter the tired mother of two a neck massage, my older son the writer a book idea, and my younger son cab fare home from the Las Vegas Strip (where he got stranded on New Year's Eve, along with some 300,000 other adventurers).

I'll be back at my cottage, sans famille, soon. With 364 days to go....

Happy New Year--and may 2012 be a year of giving and receiving the best of everything for you and yours!