Your Diaphragm

Here are some things about your diaphragm that you may not know and why they are important.

The diaphragm is the floor of the thoracic cavity and the roof of the abdominal cavity. The upper most of the diaphragm reaches up to the nipples and the bottom most space to the navel. The shape of the diaphragm is created by the organs it encloses and supports. Deprived of those organs, it would collapse much like a knit cap does when not on a head. The right side of the diaphragm is higher than the left because of the liver pushing up on the right and the heart pushing down from the left. The diaphragm is connected in three places to bone; the ribs, the sternum, the anterior lumbar spine.

Each time you inhale then exhale, this bulging mass of muscle massages all the internal organs; liver, kidneys, intestines, adrenals. The pull of this large muscle on the spine, the sternum, the ribs lubricates the bones and their attachments, the nerve endings, blood vessels, lymph channels.

Take a moment to enjoy the breath, the rising and falling of the diaphragm inside you, the energy of life.

Don't Pray for Love

After yoga, EM read, "Don't pray for love for then you remain loveless. Don't pray for wealth for then you remain poor. Don't pray for security for then you remain on shaky ground."

What is true for me is that if I can't find peace and spaciousness in the present moment, I won't find it in the next. If I long for my beloved, I remain alone. If I look for contentment in the spring during winter, on the mountain top while in the valley, in the light when it is dark, I cannot find contentment.

If I can't find God in myself (or kindness, joy, love, completeness) then there is no God.

Why they wore black

I know why those Sicilian widows wore black.

That scratchy wool dress told everyone in the village, "Lay off, go easy, touch me gently."

Seeing that scratchy wool dress hanging like a sack over her rounded waist, the fishmonger dared not press his heavy thumb onto the scale, the priest brought wine for dinner, the shopkeeper scooped lentils into her apron. They knew how the recently dead could hover and dared not tempt the evil eye.

"Be kind to me," her black dress said to the woman whose house she cleaned, to the goats she milked, to the chickens that laid perfect pink eggs all winter long.

What I don't know, however, is when or if she considered something different, a splash of color along the neckline, a silver broach at the breast, the purple shawl passed down from grandmother to mother.

She wasn't that old, didn't walk with a cane, could still remember the pleasure of walking barefoot through the wet grass. It had been over a year since he had left her alone and she had worn the black dress every day since his death.

It hung looser now than when she had first put it on, stained from the grease of a thousand meals. She cleaned it every week in the river where the women went to wash and bath.

One Sunday morning, before the sun had risen over the Messina hills, she made her way down the stone path to the river to wash. Starting from below her hips, she gathered dress into folds and drew it up over her head. A breeze sent ripples across the water, across the tiny hairs of her skin. She pulled off each worn leather shoe, each wool stocking, and walked over the hard stones to the edge. The cold took her breath away but she continued walking holding the black dress gently and firmly like the infant they never had. Deep inside the river, halfway to the other shore, she stopped and waited while the sun crested the hills. A blue heron glided high above the cedars. She was surprised to see how far she had come never before having ventured this far out. The current was strong. The thought that she might get swept away didn't frighten her.

She pressed the billowing dress into the water until it lay wavering just underneath the surface. Then, she let it go.

One Year

It has been one year since we last said our goodbyes.

That was a sad and scary day. We didn't know what would happen to you when the doctors removed the breathing tube but we knew it had to be done. We wanted you to rest and be comfortable. We didn't know how much time we would have with you. We sat near you in the white room with the big window. It was quieter now without the whirring machine that had been drawing your breath in and out for two days. We sat on your bed, rubbed your cold feet with cream, held your hands, stroked your cheek. You opened your eyes several times and looked right at me. I sang to you and threaded my fingers through your magnificently white hair.

A and N were there the whole time.

We thought we would have more time with you. M and A came unexpectedly. We talked as if we weren't in the white room, but sitting around the kitchen table dipping licorice flavored biscotti into our coffee's. As you always did, I imagine that you enjoyed the company of gathered women.

I stepped outside the white curtained room to say goodbye to A when that women, the angel who had prayed with us and told me that god was waiting for you, pulled me inside, "It's time," she said. Machines started beeping. A nurse came in to listen to the last beats of your heart. You breathed in and then out, in and then out.

The room was filled with the sound of Ohm, the heavens indeed had broken open as eager hands reached out to gather you into their arms.

Yoga Sutra II.40

Kate Holcombe writes that, "In verse II.40 of the Yoga Sutra, Patanjali speaks of saucha (purity or cleanliness) as a means to help you reach a state of yoga, or focused concentration."

It's a paradox though because as you clean and purify the body through yoga and pure thoughts, there is decay.

But that is the teaching. You lovingly care and tend to the body even as it ages and weakens and this makes the soul grow stronger.

Kate Holcombe says it better than I, "In time, you see that no matter how diligent you are, your surroundings and even your body are decaying every moment, whereas your inner or true, Self is permanent and unchanging this realization gradually leads you to focus your attention inward..and connection with your higher power."

A Writers Voice

I recently gave my first public reading of a piece of fiction. It wasn't as scary as I thought it might be but it wasn't as I had expected either.

Taking the advice of a writer friend, I practiced beforehand. I only had fifteen minutes to read so had to cut my story down several pages. I found it difficult to cut away pieces of the story I had worked so hard to craft and in a way that preserved its meaning and flow. But, reading aloud helped me to find the excess verbiage, words that just took up space but added nothing important. I got rid of scenes that, while interesting, weren't (yet) tied into the heart of the story. I got rid of characters that didn't pertain to the singular journey of the protagonist in this story. I cut away the fat and came closer to the bones and blood of the moment. Reading aloud forced my mind to notice the awkardness in what had become familiar.

I found the reading itself rather perplexing. Was that my voice ringing out through the microphone? Why was everyone so silent? A few people out of about 30) came up afterwards to say they liked the piece.

I am glad to have had the experience mostly because it forced me to read my writing aloud. (And I'd certainly do it again if only to have a deadline!) But as to the actual reading to strangers, and almost as if in a vacuum, I am not sure of the point of it.

Necco Wafers

Necco Wafers were my father's favorite candy. As a boy, he worked in the Boston factory where they were made. I am not sure what kind of work he did but do know that he took home bags of the broken ones to eat at his leisure.

Growing up, whenever we passed by the factory he would point it out saying, "Oldest candy factory in the US," which impressed me each time I heard it. If he had some Necco Wafers in his pocket, which he often did, he would flip two out of the waxed paper packaging; one for him, one for me. The wafers, thin circles of pure confection, came in different flavors. You didn't know what you were going to get until it popped out of the circular packaging.

I happened to find a small package of Necco Wafers around the house during the early hours before my father's funeral. I slipped it into the pocket of my new linen pants before we made our way to the funeral parlor for our last goodbyes. I found father floating around the room, no longer in his body, hovering. I figured he might need something for his journey, so I slipped the package of Necco's into the small draw at the heart of the coffin made for such last gifts and mementos.

When grief or fear or unease is at its worse, I think of how Necco Wafers are made to savor one slice at a time. If you chew them or stuff the whole package into your mouth, you will loose the pleasure of feeling each one melt slowly on your tongue the flavor blossoming as the sugar melts. One slice, then the next slice, then the next slice. This, then this, then this, each moment a slice that melts easily before the next.

Other Mothers

At the Spring Music Festival last week, (almost) three year old S was running up and down the aisles, bouncing from one set of open arms to another as his father C played the piano or the accordion accompanying the singing and dancing. He would run up to be near C. then back along the long red carpet of the chapel to whomever he could manage to tickle with his laughter.

I remember that S was born in June because a few days after he was born his mother died. All winter long, I watched as H's belly grew and blossomed, the excitement and longing for her baby cresting just as the forsythia burst through. Love of music, dance, the wild places where we live brought C and H together and their beautiful son into the world. In the days before she died, she got to hold him and look into his eyes and feed him from her milky breast.

At the memorial service, S was passed between what have become his other mothers; C's ex-wife, the mother of the severely disabled child that H cared for in her work as a physical therapist, the members of the choir. There was poetry, stories, dancing from the improve group where H danced. They glided by the alter at the old Congregational Church, arms and bodies folding and unfolding around each other, coming together then falling apart. In that standing room only church, we all saw friends (old and new) from the overlapping parts of our lives in this small town; friends from the bakery, that shelter where you volunteered ten years ago, the yoga class when it was taught in the church basement. Brought together in grief and celebration, we held C and S and H in our hearts and through the years with food, money, shelter, shoulders to cry on.

For me, the miracle in all this is that C continues to create the sweetest music. Pulling it out from dark places, S's love of cinnamon buns, the hands reaching out to take over when he needs a rest.

Enough

"Her search for God had been like a hand trying to grasp itself." from Lying Awake by Mark Saltzman

When will there be enough? Food, money, love, friends? Is there a point of satiation, satisfaction, ease, contentment, no more longings?

When Alice and I hiked up Mt. Olympus, we camped by a raging river, a stormy run-off from the glaciers above. The slim shore that hugged the riverbed was marbled with smooth stones which were hard and soft at the same time. We had come down from the mountain late late in the night (after a rather harrowing attempt at rescuing another climber who had broken his leg) and were luxuriating in the sun, the cold water, strong coffee. There was nothing missing in that moment of clear skies, fragrant massive conifers, the river. And if I had tried to hold that river in my arms, tried to gather it in and make its power my own, I would have lost everything.

This morning our yoga teacher told us that when you release the hands, the heart opens. Loosen your grip, even just a little, of the things that you can never really possess in the first place (a lover's heart, a child's smile, the candle light flickering in the darkness), and feel how your heart unfolds, petal by petal, opening to everything with love. Then there will be enough.

Hips

Last night in yoga, we worked on opening up the hips, that clever ball and socket joint that binds old memories with muscle, blood and bone into twisted into knots. Stuff gets stuck in the hip sockets; the failed marriage, trip not taken, the easy chair where father snored. Opening up the hips, there is the potential of letting go of tight fistedness, rules that no longer apply, muscles that haven't relaxed in ions. There is tremendous fresh energy in the release of this pain. Open up the hips to wipe the dust off of the old furniture, the cobwebs that have collected corners, the stains on the table cloth.

Its nice to do some back bends after hip openers, to let loose the birds from the cage of the ribs into the sweet green sunshine.