WHAT I LEARNED BY BUYING THE GO WILD PASS

Frontier Airlines does not have the greatest rep in the business, let’s be honest. It’s a budget airline. They have cheap fares and no frills. You want to choose a seat? It’ll cost you. (the alternate choice on the website literally says, “no thanks, I’ll take whatever,” strongly implying you’ll be VERY sorry if you don’t! But don’t, it will be fine.) They usually won’t even bring you a cup of water. Everything is for a
price. It’s reminiscent of the Thenardiers from Les Mis, “Charge ‘em for the lice, extra for the mice, two percent for looking in the mirror twice…”

I lived in the Portland area, which has a small airport and not too many direct flights, but they fly direct to Denver (at odd times, but still direct). My family lives in Colorado, and my dad is old, so I bought the pass mainly to visit. You do have to book the day before to get the Go Wild price of $15 after paying for the pass ($299 – $699, depending on if you buy for a season or the year) I thought it would be worth my while.

So I took the plunge, bought the pass to go visit my dad and maybe go other places, too. I’m retired, don’t have a schedule. Frontier flies to some international destinations in the Caribbean and Mexico. A clever person could grab a cheap flight to LAX or JFK, or any big airport that might offer a cheap International fare (it would never be PDX, my local airport.) I could work this to my advantage and travel for cheap!

I jumped on a Facebook page for Go Wilders to take advantage of other travelers’ knowledge. That was a trip all on its own. There was the ultra patient page admin, a young teacher who really knew the ins and outs and wanted to share, even though people didn’t read the FAQs and asked the same question over and over!( I include myself in that group, sorry J.) Or the sarcastic woman who bragged several
times about being a size six and proposed that anyone bigger than that should be weighed and pay more per pound to fly. Or how about the guy who would post a video of his tailored jacket into which he could stuff three pillows (!) every time someone wondered how to carry more than the tiny “personal item” allowed. And yes, he posted it every time. Every online community has quirky characters. And sometimes there were actually nuggets of wisdom amongst the trolls and snarks.

So I learned about using the pass. I learned about achieving Gold Status to be able to take a free carryon, although I never did that. I learned that you always need a backup plan if you really need to get to a certain place, as Go Wild may not be available when you need it. There are airlines that you can book and cancel without penalty, banking on your Go Wild last minute ticket. I learned that you can stuff a neck pillow with clothing after you take out the foam insert – brilliant! And actually more comfortable as a neck pillow that way, believe it or not. I learned where to buy a big jacket with extra large interior pockets to put those extra items that won’t fit in the personal item. I found a personal item that fit perfectly in the sizer and had space for a weeks’ trip, more if you do laundry.

I found out that gate agents for Frontier actually earn a commission on each bag they don’t approve as personal and make the passenger pay for the carry-on (I believe it’s $100 at the gate.) They have the tightest bag sizers of any airline, and sometimes the gate agents take great pleasure in saying bags don’t fit even if they do – no straps hanging out, you can’t use force to push them down, etc. So I tried to never push those limits.

Yes, I learned as much as I could about using the pass. But I also learned about myself, as a person and as a traveler:

I’m not as spontaneous as I’d hoped. Fantasy Cathy has a bag packed, hits the Go Wild site, and takes a flight on the spur of the moment. Reality Cathy is much more of a planner than that. I need to prepare mentally and packing-ly. I can be spontaneous, but it is not my default.

Speaking of packing, I am a joyous overpacker by nature. I want to bring all the things I might possibly need. A yoga mat. Tarot cards. A journal. So many skin lotions and eye creams. And even though I am the complete opposite of fashionable, I need all the clothing options. Because, what if…? What if the weather changes, I want to go somewhere fancy, there’s a hot tub or pool, it becomes freezing cold or boiling hot, etc. etc. So, with much difficulty, I learned to pack light. It’s still not second nature, but I can do it, and I almost always have all that I need.

To elaborate on the packing (your mileage may vary) I started using packing cubes. Usually just one for clothes and a pair of flip-flops) A bathroom bag packed with the essentials. A little bag of chargers, headphones, an eyemask and ear plugs.) I only read on my tablet these days; no more packing “real” books. I download a few movies every time for the plane ride. And my little luxury is a portable USB fan for air and white noise.

Cheap flight does not equal a cheap trip. There is still the need for a hotel, food, transportation, entertainment. A plane ticket is a big chunk of the expense, but it’s not everything.

Sometimes it’s good to stay home. Routines are hard when travelling. All my aspirations: daily meditation and yoga, healthy eating, non-drinking days – all of these are easier when I’m home.

I actually prefer longer trips. I’m retired (remember?) I love a good six-week trip, seeing many countries or cities. Go Wild is great for a quick day trip, going to Vegas for a day if that’s your jam, or flying to a new city in the morning and back that evening. I aspired to that, and I never accomplished it.

So I won’t be renewing my pass. I think I took about 10 trips using it. Sometimes it was not available for where/when I wanted to go. So, $700 plus $15×10 is $850. Divided by the ten trips is approximately $85 per one-way ticket. I went to Denver, Phoenix, San Francisco, and home to Portland. So I feel like I could have used it more, or for more exciting places, but it was still useful. Those who take a few trips a month or more have done way better than I did, and the pass was on sale before I made my decision to buy (missing the sale) so I could have paid about $200 less. I’m happy to have tried it and wish I’d used it more. But Frontier, with their militant gate agents, flight delays, small seats with no leg room, and “Thenardier” philosophy is not the best airline to have a pass on, anyway.

How I Finally Published my Book

I published my book; now what?

My life as a writer is here and there. It is not a consistent practice, unfortunately. I have, at last count, 12 projects in various states of completion, dating back to the early 80’s. Some exist on old floppy discs and are saved on thumb drives, some only in my head. Some are on my computer, ready and willing to go! Others are print outs that need to be retyped.

Only one project, a memoir about a year of travel as a woman “of a certain age” has made it to completion. (see note at end of post to learn more!)

The process was a steep learning curve. I wrote about my trip as I traveled, a sort of journaling meander through faces and places. I later tamed over 130,000 words down to a mere 110,000. It doesn’t sound like much of a trim, but YOU try it! I had help (paid for) from a wonderful book editor who really shaped the story with me by asking questions, pointing out inconsistencies or confusing stream of consciousness meanders that lost the reader (maybe like that one right there!) That is called a developmental edit. For me, it was the first set of eyes on a garbled mess that I knew held a uniting thread of story, if only I could find it!

Then I workshopped the entire book, twice, through two different writing groups in two different states. In between times, I applied the suggested changes and tweaks (or sometimes ignored them.) I alternated between thinking I had an engaging story to tell or it sucked, I’m boring. I was pathetic. No, I was wry and funny! I was a real writer. Nah, you Wish, honey…

I turned to some friends who had indie published a book or two. I picked their brains, trying to glean from other’s experiences. Meanwhile, technology advances, a moving target. Some advice was no longer valid.

I bought a batch of ISBN numbers and began to ready my book to upload. Remember in the 80’s and 90’s when we learned to type by adding two spaces at the end of a sentence? It’s a hard habit to break!  I combed through every sentence, removing spaces, re-reading for clarity, checking for typos. (Spoiler alert – I did miss a few!) I found the “read aloud” feature in Word and had the robot voice read my entire book to me. A lot of my editing was done in various dog sitting locations, where my own house’s detritus and chores could not distract me from my work.

I made a vow to publish by my 60^th birthday in February of 2023.

I designed a cover on Canva, using a photo from my trip. I played with fonts, got quotes for the back cover, made a logo for my publishing mark. What held me back was the formatting. Sure, I could upload files. I could even resize them for the 6×9 book. I could add photos. But it didn’t look right on the page.

It took months of trying, giving up, going back to it, crying, making phone calls, and beating my head against the wall. I considered spending thousands more dollars on a small vanity press so I could get it right, but I was so close already! People did this all the time; why couldn’t I conquer it? I asked a hundred questions in my self-publishing Facebook Groups, getting loads of solicitations from freelancers who would help me, for a fee. One of the group members told me to go to Fiverr, check reviews, and find a good format person.

And it was that easy. Vivien from Fiverr formatted the book for Amazon, Kindle, and Ingram. She added cute little birds at the chapter heads. She even helped reformat my cover when it got rejected.

 I hit “publish” on September 23, exactly seven months past my actual birthday.

I haven’t promoted the book much. A few friends have bought it and praised it, which makes me feel amazing. For me, it was enough to just have it done. Finally! I’m grateful for the ability to self-publish and avoid the query letters to agents and the rejections, or worse – the silence! (And I did query about 60 agents before I gave up.) As authors I feel we have a responsibility to publish work that has been edited and workshopped until it is our best effort. Unfortunately, a lot of authors do not do this, or they are (let’s face it) just bad writers. The glut of awful self-published books floating around out there gives the process a bad name. Still, it’s there for us and I am profoundly thankful.  

I thought that putting one book out into the universe, Amazon, and book stores would make me feel legit and inspire me to double down and work on the next one. I’m still hoping for that.

Among my cast of temporarily abandoned characters are a pregnant single mom in 90’s San Francisco, a married couple on the verge of a break-up, another couple agreeing to a mutual infidelity, an 80’s era out of work New York teacher with a subway solicitation gig, a Jamaican Lothario, and Elvis. To name a few. One of these stories will be the next to be released out into the world.

I hope this time it won’t take me eleven years to finish!

Gap Year: How an Empty Nest Led Me to Grow Wings https://a.co/d/4jFHpRM

available at the link above on Amazon, or better yet, order from your favorite small local bookstore

MOVING TO NEW ZEALAND – KIWI TALK ABOUT THIS?

Yesterday was Christmas day. Yesterday half my heart boarded a plane and went to the other side of the world. Permanently.

My daughter is the most courageous and determined person I know. Becoming a mother opened her eyes to the risks in our world. Navigating the pandemic changed her perspective. She began talking about getting out of here, raising her sons in a gentler place where nobody gets killed just for appearing at school on a day when some ill-adjusted white guy decides he’s pissed off and easily gets his hands on a semi-automatic rifle. Sucks to be at school on that day. (And those days happen frequently in the USA.)

New Zealand began to call to her, and she dived into the research. Fast forward, and off they go to a new life. My baby girl (now in her 30’s, always my baby), her wonderful husband, and two incredible young boys. The youngest not even two, but already showing a big, smiley, funny personality. He loves tickles and the game “I’m gonna get you.” But how can I “get him” when he’s in a time zone almost a full day away? How will I bake cookies, play with playdoh, and explore Snapchat filters and Doug the Pug on Instagram with the four-year-old? We used to hang out and laugh until we cried. Now I’m just crying.

My heart is hurting. I’m happy for them, and you’d better believe I will visit and overstay my welcome, and maybe even some day have a tiny house in their back yard with a row of fleece jackets on a coat rack (I’ve been told it ain’t tropical there!)

But I know it will never be the same. We spent a few precious years in the same town, where I moved just before her oldest turned two. I quit my job, retired early, moved to a new place and worked on building a life. She warned me that they might move some day, but she had always lived in Washington, and I was pretty sure she always would. Maybe she would move back to Bellingham, or live closer to the Seattle area. But New Zealand? That thought never occurred to me. I knew they had loved visiting there on their honeymoon. She and her husband love the Lord of the Rings. But he also loves Star Wars, and I had no fear of them living on a giant space ship in a galaxy far away.

However, I’m proud of them. I have talked about being an expat for a long time. Perhaps someday I will still do that. But as my two daughters picked amazing husbands and started to build lives with them (and I continued to live a traveling life without a partner) I concluded that I cannot do the thing where I only see my kids once a year on some holiday. Nope. So I’ll bounce around the world as long as I am able, spending time with each daughter and exploring the areas where they live.

An Australian friend reminded me that from New Zealand, it’s much closer to Fiji, Bali, Australia, and some island chains I’ve yet to discover! Not to mention Antarctica (brr, but it’s the only continent I have not seen any of – yet!)

So, even though my heart is broken that I can’t hop in the car and drive 5 minutes for spontaneous hugs or emergency babysits, I know I’ll get to see them eventually. I have been fortunate. I continue to acknowledge my luck that I can even consider traveling so far (but then again, there’s no husband to tell me I can’t!) Meanwhile, we will have video calls and emails, and maybe even old-fashioned letter-writing. I’ll manage.

I can’t wait to explore a new place – New Zealand. Maybe the baby will pick up a cute Kiwi accent.

Do You Know Who You Look Like?

Some of us get it a lot. Others, not so much. And I really never minded when I was younger. People have the urge to label others, and one form of this labeling is comparing you to a celebrity.

“You look like Marilyn Monroe!”

 Thank you, that’s what I was going for. Platinum blonde, in my early 20’s, living in New York and pursuing my acting dreams, this was the ultimate compliment. Although one version of this was “a chubby Marilyn Monroe.” I could do without the extra adjective! And I only wish I was as “chubby” at 60, post-menopause, as I was – or wasn’t!- in my 20’s.

Later, in my 30’s I would sometimes get, “You look like Melanie Griffith!” Well, let’s call Antonio; I’d be happy to sub for her. More amusing still, my daughter sometimes gets “You look like Dakota Johnson” – Melanie’s daughter.

But recently I got a real come-uppance. Let me set the scene:

I was at the Charlotte airport, after a delayed flight from Asheville, North Carolina, where I had attended three days of a wonderful yoga festival. I had five classes with my favorite teacher, other classes with newly discovered wonderful instructors, dancing, chanting, and exploring. I was coming down from an incredible yoga high.

It was eleven PM and I was destined to miss my next flight – a short one from Charlotte to Charleston. The airline had already changed me to an early flight the next day. But, as luck would have it, the Charleston flight was also being delayed by weather, so there was a slim chance I might still make it. I got on the standby list and went to the bar. A 40-something blonde was at the barstool next to me. I set my yoga mat down by hers and we began to chat, much to the annoyance of the balding gentleman on her left who had previously been chatting and buying her drinks. Yeah, she was pretty. With tell-tale plumped lips, lash extensions, and just the right amount of makeup, she had not yet espoused my “I don’t give a crap how I look on the airplane” philosophy. Sure, I felt a little frumpy sitting next to her. But no worries. She was super nice, and we discussed the yoga festival while I grumpily paid $30 for a rum and coke.

The announcement came that the flight was cancelled. I resigned myself to sleeping on the floor somewhere and we hopped off our barstools, preparing to part ways. Just then, the cook behind the counter said to her, “Do you know who you look like? Nicole Kidman!” She purred a thank you.

Then he turned to me. Could he not have just stopped there? “And you look like Kathy Bates!”  My face flushed. Really, dude? But he continued, “You know, from Misery?”

At this point I wished I had a wood block and a sledgehammer. I’ll show you Misery!  Almost in tears, I turned away to trudge through the airport and find a quiet spot. At least I had my mat for cushion.

No offense to Kathy Bates; I’m sure she is a nice person. But she’s no Nicole Kidman. Apparently, neither am I. Goodbye Norma Jean.

Why do people have the urge to do this, especially if it’s not flattering?

I told my daughter the story. She gets compared to Emma Stone almost every time she goes out. There have been hot debates whether she’s more Emma or Dakota. Both are beautiful. She is beautiful. She assured me that I don’t look like Kathy Bates. Even if I no longer look like Marilyn, who died at 36. She never got to be sixty, so we will never know if the comparisons would have kept coming.

“It’s like saying, oh, you look like Brad Pitt!” my daughter chuckled, then pointed to me. “And you look like Danny DeVito!” Then she gave me a hug.

Well, at least I have a fun personality.

Who do you get compared to? Tell me in the comments!

My New Year’s Resolution

Once again it’s WRITE MORE!!!

Please check out the post on elephantjournal and click like 🙂 I’ll be popping back in here before too long as well, I promise!

https://www.elephantjournal.com/2022/01/how-zoom-has-ruined-yoga-classes/

Here Comes the General…

I really wanted a puppy. The pandemic was hitting me hard. Summer stretched out before me like a cheap scratchy blanket, no respite from the cacophony of politics and the hot dry Colorado weather. No hope of Caribbean beaches, Italian cafes, Sri Lankan temples. No live music, happy hours, or Broadway show tours. Life as I knew it had been cancelled. I plucked through daily gratitudes – my health, my job, my family – but still I emerged dissatisfied and restless. I tried not to slip into despair or denial. I limited my viewings of Hamilton to once a week.

An idea budded in my head: A puppy could take up my time and energy. I would get a big dog and name it after a Hamilton character: Hercules Mulligan! I began my puppy search on Craigslist and found the perfect pick: Great Pyrenes. I coerced a friend into coming with me and set a day for the following week to pick out my Hercules.

But a few days before our magical meeting, I was up too late, drinking too much wine (haven’t the liquor stores made a killing during this pandemic?) I was scrolling Facebook non-stop; this is known as doom-scrolling. I came across a post: Can anyone help this dog? The dog in question was a mini-Schnauzer owned by a couple who were moving into a retirement community and were unable to take the old guy. They had an appointment to euthanize him the following day. I wobbled into action; they lived mere blocks from me. “I’ll take him!” I posted, thinking of a friend who had recently lost his beloved dog. He liked small dogs (me, not so much!) and it could be a fit. I’d nab the old-timer – Lucas was his name – and work the details out later.

I met the dog – one-sixth the size of my Pyrenese – and took him home. He was fourteen. I couldn’t ethically rename him – He’d had his name for almost one hundred dog years – but what of my Hamilton connection? So I gave him a title, and he became known as the General.

He earned many nicknames: General George Lucas, Doogie Schnauzer, Tripping Hazard. He was a funny little guy, nearly deaf and half blind, and he proved to be a source of never-ending amusement. He had bushy eyebrows and a droopy moustache. He followed me from room to room relentlessly. I would lift him up onto the couch (he refused to use the doggy stairs I bought for him) but he would leap down – splat! – if I got up to go to the kitchen or bathroom.

Speaking of the bathroom (a usually most private place), it was fair game for the General. He had no boundaries. I learned to firmly shut the door if I did not wish to be watched in the shower. If any door was ajar, he would crack me up by walking into the angle made by the door and the wall, where he would get stuck, nose in the corner like a wind-up toy, until I gently turned him around.

He insisted on two walks a day, and what else did I have to do? I’d leash up my big dog, Jagger, and the little General, and off we’d go. He had a funny little marching walk with straight legs like a dressage pony, and he leaped over weeds in his path and up onto every curb like a bunny. I scarcely believed he was one hundred dog years old! Sometimes he and Jagger would sniff the same spot until Jagger would unceremoniously step forward and lift a leg, resulting in a narrow miss of pee in the General’s moustache.

The General made me laugh every day. Here he was, loving life, having avoided a premature death. We were both grateful to have found each other. He got me through the summer and into the fall. We weathered the holidays. We had a doggy New Year’s Eve party: me, one human friend, four dogs, and several bottles of wine.

But in January, the General started to fade. The small lump under his chin grew. He stopped eating all but a few hand-fed morsels. He slept all day, no longer asking for walks, no longer following me around. He would go outside but become disoriented. He was on a rapid decline.

I’ve never had to make the decision before. I was overwhelmed. I managed to get an appointment with Lucas’ previous vet. Due to Covid protocol I could not go in; the vet tech came out with a leash. I shook my head. “He can’t do that.” I carried him to the doorway wrapped in a towel. The vet came out within minutes. The lump was lymphoma. The General was actively dying.

I was allowed to be there with him. I held his paw. I stroked his ear. I kissed his head and told him I loved him. He left his body, free from pain.

It’s difficult to say who rescued who. All I know is that we brought light into each other’s lives.

Sweet dreams, my dear General. See you on the other side.

DEPRESSION, A PANDEMIC, AND POINT-BLANK INERTIA; WHEN A WRITER DOESN’T WRITE

“Genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration” – Thomas Edison

My blog has been silent for a long time (18 months!) One might think I have been busily working on other writing: a novel, a memoir, a screenplay. At least a short story or two? That assumption is wrong, my friends. 

Sometimes the life you have gets in the way of the life you want. Some people are better able to take it in stride. I am not one of those people. Although others may see me as laid back and mostly unflappable, inside I do flap. A lot!  

Colorado, of Rocky Mountains majesty fame, has robbed me of my mojo. I’m stuck. I think a change of pace might do me some good. But on the way to my next chapter, a raging pandemic has laid my soul bare. And I know I’m lucky: I didn’t lose my job or any loved ones. But I did lose the freedom to see friends. My yoga studio closed. My tour to Sri Lanka was cancelled. I spent the summer trying to get brown on the shores of Lake McIntosh instead of in the Caribbean. What I realized is that escapism is my lifeline when life gets too real here. I’ve had difficulty finding a meaningful relationship locally, but I can usually find a lover when I travel. When I’m bored I buy a plane ticket and make plans, and that has gotten me through some very dark times and six continents. 

Soon I will be semi-retired, and the optimistic part of my brain says: “Yay! I’ll finally have time to write!” But really, who am I kidding? I’ve had the time, plenty of it, but not the motivation. I have at least a dozen works in progress I could turn to, but I don’t have the discipline to put butt in chair, stay off Facebook and Just Do It! I love to write when I’m inspired. But when inspiration is lacking, what then? 

Thomas Edison famously said, “Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.” This leads me to the conclusion that I ain’t working hard enough! Stubborn doggedness plus talent (you’ve got to have both) is what most successful artists need. My ambitious plan to send queries for my memoir – 10 per month for at least six months – sputtered and halted at 30 sent out and a dozen rejections, plus a lot of silence. I began to doubt myself. 

My Grandpa Harry used to say, “You can do anything you’re big enough to do!” and I’ve often said I do everything I’ve set out to do, besides lose 20 pounds or publish a book. I think it’s time to change that. If I can get the tattoo, set off on solo travel, buy and sell real estate, I can do this. I can! 

New Year’s resolution time is rapidly approaching. In January I will start blogging parts of my memoir. It will be available for purchase, one way or another (traditional or self-published) sometime next year. Screw this pandemic and all the other excuses for inertia. This is something I can do! 

Stay tuned, friends… 

The Guy Who Changed My Life

We all have the power to change the lives of others. Some of us go to school and learn the skills of a profession that will shape lives. We spend years and tens of thousands of dollars in school to do it. Others cultivate the ability to affect the lives of others, and it takes time. They have to dedicate themselves and put in the work.

But I met a guy last week with the power to change lives JUST BY EXISTING! I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. He wasn’t here before. And now he is. And suddenly, my daughter and her husband became a mom and a dad, my other daughter was miraculously transformed into an Auntie, and I, yes little-ol-me, I became a grandma. (I prefer Oma – the German  term- cuz it has “Om” in it!)

This guy looks a lot like others his age – very little hair, squinty eyes, and mysterious burbly sounds coming out of both ends. And yet, he has a certain charm, a je ne sais a quoix (I who am I kidding, I do sais quoix – he’s my little Om-lette!) He’s quite warm and snuggly, and he sighs adorably when I hold him in my arms. He’s definitely what you might call a Tit man; just ask his mother! And what a snappy little dresser; he has a wardrobe that knows no end, even though one sock is usually falling off.

The minute I met this little guy (yes, he’s quite short!) I fell in love. He looked at me quizzically and more deeply than I have been examined in a long time. My daughter says he doesn’t see very well. But he and I knew we were exchanging the first of many looks that would link us for a long, long time to come.

Unlike many cute guys I have met, this one is staying out of the spotlight for now. He wishes to remain anonymous. That’s the kind of mysterious person he is. Every time I see him, he’s changed a bit. He is quite the man of mystery.

And so I am inexplicably linked now to this new guy in my life, one who can transform people without effort. He causes my daughter to lose sleep. Her husband too. He has me speaking in strange non-words and syllables, in a tone of voice I barely recognize. He’s a powerful little dude. We talk on the phone sometimes, but he doesn’t say much. He doesn’t have to. What we share escapes mere words.

So if I sometimes seem distracted, especially by other short bald people, or if you find me staring at my phone, exclaiming, “Oh my God you are so cuuuute!” or giggling non-stop, please forgive me and cut me a little slack.

There’s a new guy in my life!

Why I Teach Yoga

I left yoga class in tears today.

They were tears of gratitude. I felt profoundly grateful upon leaving class; not because my ego said I “got it right.” And not because I earned a ton of money. It was because I had a crappy day at my full time job. I felt desolate and empty, but I knew that teaching would wipe that feeling out, leaving me refreshed and refilled. It always does.

When I’m a student taking class, I have come to accept that whatever I need will most likely be offered to me in yoga. If it’s a sub for the teacher I thought would be there, if it’s a ninety minute class and I thought it was sixty, all will be well. I just have to open to the offerings and accept them.  Of course, there may be times I don’t connect with a teacher, with the style, or the theme of class. That’s all okay.  There are times I can’t be in the moment as much as I should.  I sometimes still keep my angst about that mean email, the thing I argued with my daughter about, or the guy who cut me off with his Camaro on the way in. Yoga helps me through all that, and if I’m present, it allows me to let it go. But there are certainly times that I don’t, or can’t, or won’t.

It’s different when I teach.

As a teacher I am present, I am in the moment. I have to be. I have the responsibility of guiding people in a practice, making them feel acknowledged, and being sure they don’t hurt their bodies. It’s an enormous thing even though it may seem small. It’s the reason I try to learn more, taking training after training, soaking up what I can so I can give more.

And I have come to realize that teaching yoga fulfills me the way nothing else in my life can do. I have found my home. I have found my tribe.

I have found a tool to battle the insecurities that plague me and the self-doubt monkeys that are always chattering in my brain. Through kind mentorship and others who allow me to try, to create, to make mistakes, and to recover, I have strengthened my voice and steadied my stance.

It’s why I practice yoga.

It’s why I teach.

Nobody Should Be Alone at Christmas

Another year of just surviving the holidays has come and almost gone. Christmas is about being with family and loved ones. I woke up with my dogs (yes they are loved ones.) I thought about how sweet it is to have small children around on Christmas. I thought about how sweet it is to be in love on this special day. I thought about how half my family is dead already. And that I miss them.

So I went to yoga. One of our teachers has the tradition of offering the gift of a free Christmas class. Moving my body felt good. I could connect with my outer strength, hoping it would lead to inner strength. Sweat made my body shine. My wonky knees and foot pain were held a bit at bay. Tears that were there at the start of class had subsided.

But then my Mom’s favorite Christmas song played, “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”, and I had to leave the room.

My mom really loved the holidays, every single one of them. She had so many Christmas decorations! Before she got sick, she and I did a trip to Germany to shop the Christmas markets. I have pictures of us, bundled up in the driving sleet, sipping Gluhwein. She made a strata for breakfast every Christmas morning. Today my breakfast was coffee and Xanax. She would make an elaborate Christmas dinner, often trying out new recipes. I miss that.

My brother, too, loved Christmas, until towards the end, when life had beaten him down. He would wear a Santa hat and his Christmas lights vest (it hangs in my closet now, I cannot bear to wear it today.) He came bearing gifts for all and bottles of rum for himself (of course he would share.)

Our family has dwindled. My own daughters are grown and spending the day with their guys. It’s just another day, really. The significance of the day is a construct. I texted the crisis line and was connected with Mary (get it? Mary Christmas!) Just knowing that someone was on the other end helped. I’m going to get my shit together and go see a Clint Eastwood movie with my dad. I’ll be all right.

People tell me I have a great life, and I do. I have a good job; stressful, but also joyful, and with good pay and benefits. I do what I want, when I want. I travel at every possible opportunity. Lots of people can’t do that. I’m very lucky. But the flip side is, I’m alone a lot. I have to fight the emptiness. The tendency to swim down and stay there.

So I guess the message is, count your blessings. I was blessed to have a close family. Now many are gone. But I’m still lucky in many ways. I have Mary. I have the dogs. I have the people who are in my life even though they are not right here.

Next year, to hell with it, I am taking off to Bora Bora or something, some island where Christmas does not even exist except as a cute tradition that other people participate in.

 

*Crisis Text line: 741741