My Walk into the Woods

If I were not a physicist, I would probably be a musician. 

I often think in music. 

I live my daydreams in music. 

I see my life in terms of music... 

I do know that I get most joy in life out of my violin.  

  - Albert Einstein

Help. I can't turn off the music. Friends tease me because they rarely see me without my ear buds in these days. I went to the doctor. I was sitting there, shivering in nothing but my paper gown listening to Mazzy Star when the doctor walked in, politely unplugged me from my iPhone and set it aside. He didn't seem amused by the silliness of it all. Just muttered that he thought he would have to surgically remove it from my body. So what if my iPhone is connected to me like an oxygen tank? I tell friends that I'm drowning out the thoughts in my own head with the music. But I think there's more to it than that. My song choice is a better barometer for my feelings than my own head. When I reach for my iPhone and select a song, an artist or a playlist, it tells me something about what I want; what I need at that exact moment. I know I tend towards the melancholy but it's not always so dramatic. Sometimes I just need a zippy tune to motivate me to do mundane tasks. 

Last week, a friend inspired me with Kiss's "Calling Dr. Love" -- a good one for attacking a sink full of dirty dishes. I have a playlist specifically for cleaning the house -- more classic stuff like the Stones, Springsteen, Bowie -- as of late a friend turned me on to Paul Weller. He's good for getting me off the couch. The other day, I discovered the Little Dude rocking out to a tune -- and he was truly feeling the music. No joke. I'm so pleased to say my son has rhythm and was really getting into it. I was amazed. Where did he get those moves from? I asked him expecting he would tell me he was hanging with some new friends at school. Instead, he laughed, kind of embarrassed even, rolled his eyes and said, "youuuu, mom."

Jammin' with the little dude to the Beatles -- that's the lighter side of music for me. Of course there is the other side. Times when I'm not willing to share my music with others. I have to be alone with it in my own head. Am I trying to block out all the other stuff whirling around in my mind? I used to think that but I'm not so sure anymore. Oftentimes my music selection is one step ahead of me -- conscious or not I think the music unravels stuff I just need to get out. And I don't have to work through my emotions alone because I have Ray Lamontagne or Adele crooning about their loneliness, their heartbreak. That's what sets some artists apart from others. They don't hold back, they aren't afraid to show their vulnerability in their music. It's brave.

Bon Iver's Justin Vernon retreated from the real world after his old band broke up, his girlfriend split and he contracted mononucleosis. Holed up in his dad's remote hunting cabin in Northwestern Wisconsin he wrote and recorded one of my all time favorite albums, "For Emma, Forever Ago." He's not always so literal in exposing his heartache. In fact, his lyrics are notoriously nonsensical. I used to pick apart his lyrics trying to interpret the meaning but now think it's a waste of time. He's been quoted as saying he chooses words more for their sound than for their meaning. And yet listening to the whole album, the hurt, the pain, the recovery are so apparent -- it's just there. We all don't have the luxury of taking a walk into the woods and escaping the real world but Justin allows you to come along -- at least for an hour or so. When your own world is crashing down all around you, it helps to know someone's been through their own hell and found their way out.

Nothing delights me more than discovering a new artist or the "perfect song." When I unearth it, I'm as giddy as a school girl with a new crush. The perfect song and I collide in synchrony at precisely the right moment.  It captures everything I'm feeling at the moment and I'm convinced it's flawless and no other song will ever compare. I can get really stuck on a song. Really. I will loop the song continuously for hours, oftentimes falling asleep to it. iTunes counts how many times you play a song and I have some I've listened to over 400 times. And then through no conscious decision of my own,  I'll be over the song. Just like that. The song helps me over a hump, to process something stuck in my head and then I'm done. It's over. And I move on. Great, classic songs can stand the abuse. Someday I'll return to the song. But sometimes I've really killed it. The poor song gave me all that it had to give and there's nothing left. The reason behind my love affair with music? When I'm certain I've found the perfect song, another one comes along -- it always does. I just have to have faith. How hopeful is that?

*****

A Thank You Letter

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My little dude,

We made it through our first Christmas together, just the two of us. I can admit to you now that I moved about it reluctantly. I went through the motions hoping my heart would catch up. I knew it would be different and yet I was so bull-headed about making it feel the same. I tried so hard to keep as many of our Christmas traditions intact. I've never chopped a tree down but we did it. I wasn't feeling the Christmas spirit, but I decked the halls anyway. I let you listen to "Santa Baby" and "Little Drummer Boy" over and over in the house while I retreated to my world between my left and right ear buds. Christmas can be so wonderful when all is well but for some it only highlights what is missing.

I confess I didn't know how to celebrate a Christmas for two. I grew up in a household of seven. It was always loud and full of energy. Our house was the social intersection of the neighborhood -- kids shooting hoops on the driveway or hanging out playing Atari in the basement. I don't recall ever needing a key to the house when I was a kid because someone was always home and the door was always ajar. So you can imagine what Christmas was like - a swirl of moving bodies, a steady hum of noise punctuated by occasional uproars of laughter or discord.

Our Christmas was nothing like that and yet you were fine. You didn't seem any less excited - so much magic in your eyes. You believe and your spirit carried me through the day. Every year I look forward to seeing the expression on your face when you first come down the stairs and see that Santa, indeed, paid a visit. But that wasn't my favorite moment this year.

Do you remember when we were eating our French toast and strawberries? You squealed because you couldn't believe low-carb mom was allowing herself a sugar splurge and mid-laugh, it hit you. Your eyes wide, you looked at me and said, "Mom, you didn't open any presents. Why didn't you get any presents?" And you were right. It was a first for me. I don't recall a Christmas I didn't open a single present on Christmas morning. I admit there was a twinge of sadness about it but surprisingly not so much. It was overrun by the moment.

I was told that your autism would make perspective taking difficult for you and feeling empathy for anyone was a long shot. Before you were born and before autism ever came into play, I made a short list of the most important life lessons I wanted to teach you and empathy was one of them.  Autism stands tall as a hurdle but I will not concede to a diagnosis. How long have we worked with therapists on social skills -- trying to teach you what is socially expected? So many things other children know intuitively, you had to learn. How many times have we played the feelings game or sat in a waiting room or a park watching strangers and guessing what people mean with a simple gesture of the hand, a tilt of the head or hunched shoulders? I went to conferences, lectures and read books about social thinking -- the "why" behind social skills and then signed you up for as many social thinking classes and camps we could afford. And that's when I saw you begin to stretch outside of your own mind. Keep going.

And look at you now. Not only did you see Christmas through my eyes, you felt my sadness with your own heart. You make me so proud. It's true, my dear son, you saved Christmas for me and I am ever so grateful.

Love always,

Mom

b r e a t h e

b r e a t h e

My yoga practice begins not with a stretch or even a down dog, but when the yoga instructor cues us: Start following your breath. In Sanskrit it’s called Pranayama and in vinyasa or flow yoga it’s as integral to the practice as the poses.

“Prana“ is the breath and “ayama” is the ability to control, extend or restrain. (and yes, I got that off of Wikipedia)

= breath control

It sounds simple. Compared to the inversions, the arm balances that follow, you would think this should be easy, right? But my practice on the mat didn’t really evolve until I tuned into the breath, paying attention to what it was doing on it’s own and then slowing it down, evening it out – equal on the inhale and the exhale. The physicians in my family would argue that breathing is involuntary and this is all new agey fluff. But I, on the other hand have found the breath to be a bridge between the body and the mind. And frankly, sometimes, we forget. How many times did I twist into a pose, or balance on one foot, concentrating so hard, teetering, and ready to fall over only to realize that I was holding my breath. Breath is indeed a life force and so often we deny its full potential whether we are aware or not.

Early on, I became fully aware of my breath when I decided to hide in my parent’s linen closet during a game of hide and seek with my brothers. I tucked myself into a ball on the floor under the last shelf and tugged at the door to close it a bit. It refused to close easily – instead scraping against the thick, extra plush carpet. I gave it an extra hard tug and finally the door clicked shut. I immediately pushed on the door but the latch wouldn’t give. I stretched for the knob but the shelf above me blocked the way and my 8-year old arms were just not long enough. I panicked and pounded on the door but my hiding place was too good. My brothers gave up and moved on to another game. And when I needed my loud mouth the most, it failed me. I tried to scream and a feeble yelp was all I could manage. I’m not sure you can suffocate in a linen closet, but remember feeling that way. I bent my head low to the ground to suck in air from under the door but the damn carpet was too thick. I’m not sure how long I was in there but it felt like an eternity until finally my brother heard the thud, thud of my fists and he opened the door. The cool air hit my face and I swear the oxygen tasted sweet.  I haven’t taken a breath for granted ever since.

The breath is iconic in that it signals the start of life in a newborn’s first desperate gasp for air – a moment etched into every mother and father’s minds.  My first words when my son was born? That is soooo crazy. I don’t know if it was the drugs – it was an emergency c-section, after all, but I remember how surreal it was seeing him suck up all that oxygen for the first time on his own, his whole body turning incredibly pink and then letting it all out in an incredible wail. Of course, there’s a last breath, too. And, well, besides my pet hermit crab, Macho, dying on me in the 3rd grade, I can’t say I’ve witnessed the precise moment someone passes on. I’m sure that day will come. I wonder if that last breath will taste sweet?

So it makes sense that when life gets too outta hand I need to remind myself to follow my breath. Everyone goes through his/her share of hard times. I realize that but I like to think that I'm getting through about a decade's worth in six months. Might as well get it all over with so I can coast for a while, right? Have you ever felt pain so intense, it takes your breath away? So I reach for my ear buds to tune out the chaos. And when I feel like I’m about to be swallowed up whole, I find myself going to this song, a mantra of sorts. I give myself a minute and the only thing I ask of myself is to: 1) breathe in 2) breathe out and 3) repeat.

Keep Breathing

Written by Ingrid Michaelson

The storm is coming but I don't mind
People are dying, I close my blinds

All that I know is I'm breathing now

I want to change the world
Instead I sleep
I want to believe in more than you and me

But all that I know is I'm breathing
All I can do is keep breathing
All we can do is keep breathing now

All that I know is I'm breathing
All I can do is keep breathing
All we can do is keep breathing

All we can do is keep breathing
All we can do is keep breathing
All we can do is keep breathing
All we can do is keep breathing
All we can do is keep breathing now

brand new life

My little dude found this artwork given to us by some good friends to mark the blessed day he was born. It's a lovely drawing depicting mom and dad standing in front of a little colonial not unlike our own and all different modes of transportation: train, truck, tractor, plane and rowboat with passengers and drivers waving and welcoming him home to his brand new life.

He stared at the picture intently. "Mom, this is a funny picture."

"Why is it funny sweetie?"

"That's not our family."


At this point, I'm thinking to myself:

Oh no, here we go, he's going to get upset because this picture is a painful reminder of what his life was like before his mom and dad split up. Will this be the first time he cries or gets angry or pleads with me for his old life back? What will I say to comfort this sweet little wide-eyed boy looking to me to make sense of all the upheaval in his life? How do I assure him that it will all be OK, that his mommy and daddy while living apart now, still love him and will always love him. Will I come up with the right words and more importantly can I say them without falling apart myself? Stay strong.

"Why don't you think that's our family?" I ask, as I nervously twist my hair around my fingers. (my big tell by the way)

Long pause.

And then I make the calculated decision to let him do most of the talking, to follow his lead.

"Well, first of all, that's not you, mommy. You don't have a long blue dress. And we don't have a plane either." He gets up, grabs his monster trucks and crashes them into each other.

"You are absolutely right, sweetie."

Big wave of relief washes over me. I know that we will have that conversation eventually. But not today. And just when I think he's moved on, he runs out of the room, driving the monster truck down the treacherously steep hand rail and he yells, "plus that picture doesn't show daddy's house. I've got two houses now."

And I've got a really smart kid.