Think about how amazing a good stretch feels. That magical moment when a tight muscle releases and you find freedom and lightness. Most of us understand the importance of physical flexibility. We realize that tightness is associated with pain and loss of movement. But do we consider our emotional flexibility? It’s so easy to rely on familiar thought patterns, to follow the well-worn grooves of the past. What might happen if you learn to stretch your emotional responses, to soften to discomfort, to release the tension?
Emotional yoga is one of the biggest lessons I am learning. Here are some of my experiences…
Apparently when I left my classroom Friday afternoon, I left my keys on my desk, as my mind swirled with the weekend yet ahead. So much for mindfulness and being in the moment.
So now, I am locked out. At least I realized it yesterday, so I’m, not shivering in a cold car in the parking lot of the school.
But now I am left with time, time I do not usually have, and a growing sense of urgency of what needs to be done at work.
I am a morning person by nature, so I tend to get to school early, using that time to plan, prep, and grade. As a result, I am usually able to leave on time and avoid bringing work home. Thus also works with my anxious nature; I function best when I get everything done up front. A trait I have coined “reverse procrastination.” When I can’t get in early, my mind starts to flurry, doubts of being ready for the day creep in, and my thoughts become irrational. In the past, if I had found myself in this same situation, I would have made the drive to school at the normal time, hoping for a stray custodian or coach to notice me and open the door.
Colorful Door (Photo credit: brentdanley)
Today, I choose to wait. Today, I choose to not let the anxiety build. I know that I will be able to get done what I need to before the starting bell rings. And, anything that does not happen can wait until the next day. Or perhaps even the next. It is okay to have a list where not every item is crossed off.
I usually practice yoga in the mornings before work. Today, that is taken from me too, as my shoulders are protesting after an intense 90 minutes power class yesterday.
I’m working to accept the discomfort I feel at my normal routine being disrupted. To be in the moment and and peace with what is, letting go of my expectations. I have time. I think I will meditate for a bit, and then take advantage of an empty house (the boyfriend had an early appointment today) and blast 80’s hair metal while I get ready.
When we first moved into our home, the 1 acre yard was a motley medley of scraggly grass and tenacious weeds; too wet to mow and too shady for grass to thrive. It was a blank canvas. Slowly, I began to paint, using the medium of small starter plants, tree seedlings obtained from the forestry department, and cuttings and divisions nurtured from friends and neighbors.
I had a vision of a magical woodland retreat, filled with the soft haze of ferns and the subtle flowers of the understory. For years, this image existed only in my head, the reality of small, young plants planted in a vast, weed-strewn yard looked nothing like a garden. I spent hours on the weekends and after work attacking weeds and planting replacements. On days when the weather was prohibitive, I would research plants and growing conditions. I made annual treks to a budget nursery in a nearby town, filling my car to the bursting points with dreams held in the bright green folds of new growth.
But slowly, it emerged. I watched 2 foot bald cypress saplings grow to 30 foot trees. Ferns and hostas spread their roots far and wide under the protective shade of the understory. Hydrangea proudly held their blooms high, as though no longer ashamed of their companions. Colors would come and go throughout the weeks: daylilies, Lenten rose, iris, geraniums, azaleas. Their spectacular shows provided endless variety and interest.
From February through November, I would begin most every day with a walk along the stone path, through the pergolas, and over the boardwalk. Examining the new growth,watching the wildlife, reveling in the beauty of the plants. On the weekends, I would bring my papers to grade out to one of the hammocks to enjoy the breezes through the leaves and the interplay of light and shadow.
In my old life I had a garden.
It was painful to walk away from my plants, nurtured for so many years. I found myself staring at plants around town wistfully, thinking of their counterparts in my yard. As with much of my transition, it was painful, but also freeing. I no longer had to worry about the assaults of deer, the dangers of a last freeze, or the effects of a flood. My weekends were not filled with weeding. My hands no longer frozen from the cold February soil.
But still, I mourned my plants. I purchased a pass to the botanical gardens and promised myself a monthly visit. Now, I walk their perfectly manicured paths and appreciate the beauty created by teams of professionals. The gardens are stunning, but it’s not the same as one created by my own labor. My own dreams.
In my old life I had a garden.
The last few years, my nurturing energies have been turned inwards, helping myself to grow and thrive. I have tried to eliminate the weeds, start new plantings, and encourage growth. I have become my own garden.
I often have people tell me that they couldn’t handle what I went through. I disagree; I think we are all more capable than we give ourselves credit for. This article enumerates several ways to help yourself recover from trauma and become more resistant to future traumas.
The Ronald McDonald House is an organization that provides free or low-cost housing for families who have a child undergoing treatment in a hospital in a city away from their hometown. The homes are designed to be welcoming and comfortable, providing a haven for the family while they are dealing with stress and uncertainty.
I think that same model could work for the recently separated.
When my ex left, I found myself with I home a could not afford (literally or emotionally), no family in the city where I was employed, and I knew that I should not live alone (not that I was in any shape to go apartment hunting). I was fortunate. Very fortunate. A friend and her husband immediately offered their spare bedroom, even though they had just brought home an adopted preemie that had problems of her own. I went from 2000 square feet to 200. It was perfect.
That home, which I was in for a year, was a key component of my healing. It was a safe place, filled with the sounds and energy of family. It was space where I could cry, scream, and curse. It was a house that provided normalcy, as my friend and I engaged in our usual debates. It was a place for gaining strength, the baby and I both placed on weight-gaining diets. It was a home that welcomed me, as I was.
Not everyone undergoing a divorce has the opportunity to be in such a place. But maybe they should. Perhaps we could have transitional homes for those who are leaving one life behind and unsure of what the new life will entail. Homes where discussions of depositions, custody, and infidelity are just normal nighttime ramblings. Spaces where we can scream the anger out and cry the hurt out, until we are ready to leave intact, ready to face the world again.
I don’t see Ronald McDonald taking up this cause, so let’s help each other by creating safe spaces for those navigating the pain of an unanticipated and unwanted major life renovation.
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 