Go to http://www.elephantjournal.com/?s=rebecca+lammersen

I look forward to seeing you there! ~ Rebecca

We spend our lives in search of the putty that will fill the cracks; the imperfections that exist in our being, in our lives, and in our world. I have been on crack maintenance my entire life. I have been searching for the fill, the bandaid that masks all of the flawson my body,  in my heart, in my relationships, in my house and on my clothes.  You name it, I have tried to make it right. I have tried to fix everything that seems broken, from things to people.  I have tried to cover the darkness, as if the darkness inhibits my ability to be happy, whole, and true.

I have lived every day searching for something that does not and will never exist. I have spent all of my time trying to repair something that I thought was broken.  I was the dog chasing her tail, in a perpetual carousel of struggle that would never end. And then, I ripped off the bandaid.  The cracks are meant to exist and never be filled.  They are meant to be honored and treasured, exposed and be seen.

During lunch with a friend, we discussed relationships.  She described how and why we choose our mate before we understand. Our choice is made from the desire to become what we are not,  so we pick someone who is everything we are not.  Once weunderstand, we choose someone who is our mirror, who reflects and embodies who we are. Someone who has the same fault lines we have. We try to bandaid our cracks; we try to cover our cracks with people to create a barrier between what we are, and what we think we should be.  We do this, because we think that perfection can and should be attained.  We believe it is within our grasp to be flawless.

What is flawless?  Nothing. The closest thing we come to flawlessness, is nature. The Grand Canyon, for example, is one of the most majestic creations in the world, and what is it?  A giant crack.  People visit this giant crack every day from all over the world to marvel at this vast gaping hole in the Earth.  It is possibly the greatest flawed perfection human eyes have ever witnessed. If the water and wind had never pulsed through the rock, we would not know it as the Grand Canyon. Without your cracks, you wouldn’t be you. The erosion of life lived, etches uniqueness into our skin all the way through, to our hearts.

We would not be human; we would not know this existence without our wrinkles, lines, holes, cuts and scars.  We would not know love without the punctures of resentment and hate.  We would not know pure joy without the pit of sorrow.  We would not appreciate health without the fractures of sickness. We would not know happiness without the searing slice of suffering.

We learn how to live within the cracks.  The cracks are where we find ourselves.  Our cracks radiate light for everyone to see.  They are the peep hole to the inside, so we can see our spirit; the pathways that guide others to see in, to see us.

The light creeps in and we journey right back to where we start, exactly the same and completely different. Exactly the same; we are who we are, nothing changes. We are fated as we are, cracks and all. Completely different, because we understand that there is absolutely nothing to cover.

I sit here with the scars on my body, the laugh lines on my face, the breaks in my heart, the broken dishwasher at home, the crayon doodles on my couch, and the moth hole in my shirt. Today, I acknowledge I am perfectly cracked; I have nothing to cover anymore.

“Relationships exist for a reason, a season or a lifetime.”~ Unknown

If we measure relationships by this sentiment, we are never disappointed when they end because we understand every connection has significance. The ending of a relationship should not be defined as a failure, it should be recognized as a lesson—a lesson imparted by the teachings of the relationship.

I read a story recently about a young woman who lost her life. Her friends described her as,“a person who collected friends.” I don’t think this young woman kept in contact with every person she befriended, but she honored every relationship despite its ending.

We collect the energy from the people who surround us,  just as we inhale and exhale. Our entire existence is a collection of breath. We can not hold onto the last breath we took, yet that breath will carry us to our present breath. A person’s physical presence may or may not last within our life, but the knowledge he or she donates from the experiences we share together (positive or negative) remains with us, just like our breath.

When my ex-husband and I decided to separate, people reacted with sadness, pity, disappointment and anger. We assume relationships end because something went wrong; one or both members of the partnership were unfaithful, disloyal and untruthful. Whether this occurs within a relationship or not, there is one commonality in every relationship; relationships end because it is time, because what two people were supposed to accomplish and learn from one another, is complete.

I do not see the ending of my marriage as a failure, but a successful masterpiece. We have built a friendship that will sustain a lifetime, and created two precious human beings who brighten the world. The people on the periphery of our lives reacted in fear, because of the expectations they placed on our relationship. “ You are married. You should be together forever. You can’t get divorced, you have children.”

The reason why Keith and I were able to accept that our marriage was over, is that we stopped forcing ourselves to fulfill the expectations impressed on our relationship, and accepted our purpose in each other’s lives. We stopped holding our breath and let go. We accomplished our work together. We had inhaled the wisdom from the years of our marriage and acknowledged it was time to exhale and take a new breath. When we begin with an expectation, we end with disappointment. Disappointment fosters feelings of failure, guilt and resentment. We question and regret the relationship, instead of accepting it for what it is.

Every person and experience is a rung on our ladder of life. We keep constructing our ladder with faith as the side rails. We strive to grow that ladder as high as it will go, because every experience and interaction infuses us with knowledge.When we climb higher we transform that knowledge into wisdom. The more wisdom we acquire, the more we connect to others on a spiritual level and become discerning about who we invite into our lives. Our ladder of wisdom grows stronger and taller and our relationships become meaningful, pure and easy.

We no longer attach to relationships or outcomes when we see each relationship for what it is; a lesson, a period in our lives that was necessary to help us grow and see our true selves.I am fortunate and blessed because I parted my marriage with a relationship that embraces all three, “a reason, a season, and a lifetime.”

Our life is filled with a collection of relationships, each one a tutorial on life, guiding us a little closer to the top of our ladders as we inhale a little more understanding of who we are.

I love my body for granting me the freedom to experience life. I have climbed up mountains, skied down mountains, sailed the seas, traveled across the world, ran hundreds of miles, dove meters under the ocean and danced for hours on end. I can stand on my hands, my head and my feet with ease. I have made love, given birth,  breast fed two babies, miscarried, starved myself, fed myself, hurt myself and healed myself. I loaded 60 pounds on my petite frame with each of my pregnancies and lost all of the weight with patience, some healthy food and a daily yoga practice.  I love the strength, stamina, and resilience of my body.  I love my scars, my imbalances, my freckles, my moles.  I love that my ears poke out just a little, and my nose has a tiny bump from falling on my face when I was four years old.  I am flawed and imperfect. I am all natural. I am all natural, with breast implants.  They are a part of my body and have been since I was 18 years old.

Most people are shocked when they find out.  I listen to the judgments and angry comments when a woman walks by with obvious enhancements. “That is so gross. That is so unnatural. Why would anyone do that to themselves?”  I look up with a little grin and say, “I have them.”  “What? No you don’t!  You?” Yes, the all natural gal on the spiritual journey has breast implants.  The woman who helps other women embrace who they are on the inside and accept what’s on the outside, has silicone under her flesh.  Some might call me a walking busty oxymoron or a Hypocrite! I am not. I made a decision at the age of 18, and as my motto goes; I never regret anything I do or say, because I meant to do or say it at that time.  I made a choice to have implants and I am secure and content with the decision I made.

My father was a Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeon.  His work was concentrated in reconstruction of wounds and deformities including babies born with cleft lip and palates, facial and hand deformities, burns, tumors,  you name it he removed, reconnected, restored and healed thousands of patients.  I used to go on rounds with him at the hospital, and had the privilege of suiting up in surgical pajamas and headgear to observe his work.  I watched as he constructed an ear out of cartilage from rib, placing it beneath the skin on the side of a little boy’s skull.  I watched as he put people back together like Mr Potato Head.  I was not privy to the world of insecure women who tried to bandage themselves with a little nip and tuck thinking it would fix the gash in their self worth and the rift in their marriage.

At 18, I approached my father from a place of pragmatism and maturity.  I was skinny.  The four years of starvation had taken a toll on my body and I looked like a boy, well not really, but the boob fairy definitely forgot to visit my chest. I was not dysmorphic about my body, yet when I looked in the mirror, what I saw did not match what I felt in my heart. I felt like a powerful, sensual, curvaceous, sexy woman and I wanted that feeling to physically manifest.  I loved the idea of a little curve, a little substance to my figure that I could see and feel.  I knew I did not want my breasts to be my handshake, I wanted them to blend in with the landscape of my body. My dad always said, if there was anything he could do to assist me in feeling as confident as I could, he would help.  Who better than the man who created me, to give me what I wanted, breasts.

I knew that proceeding with the surgery meant I would be left with a scar.  Cutting into flesh never goes forgotten by the derma, but that is what made my father an artist and master.  He sutured with grace. The scars left by his healing threads were just traceable for the patient to see, so they could always remember what they had healed from. Every moment of life lived leaves us with a scar whether in our mind or on our body.  A scar is a reminder and souvenir of the choices we have made on our path. In my eyes, scars are beautiful.  We are meant to get cut, scraped and worn from our years of living.  Life is one big pumice stone that erodes away our newness and replaces it with age, experience, knowledge and wisdom(if we choose to learn from our experiences). A scar may come in the form of a memory, a scar on our skin, a tattoo, a relationship that birthed from a choice we made, a possession we own, or anything else that leaves a trail or a mark of  how we have lived and the choices we make along the way. My breast implants are two scars from a period of my life, and for that, I embrace them and my choice completely. The decision itself is a scar upon my true path.

Cosmetic alterations become dangerous to our identity and well being, when they are founded on emptiness and honored as fullness. If a woman has a facelift and is kind, generous and acts from her heart,  she accepts the people around her and lives a life of service and goodness, than a facelift is only a facelift. The facelift is an alteration, like hemming the fabric of her skirt to fit her figure. Another woman may have the same procedure, but she does not love herself. She is not fulfilled with her life, the people in her life, or herself. Nothing satisfies her, therefore her facelift is detrimental to her well being.  She was depending on the facelift to bring her happiness, but it never will because she is empty on the inside. She will bring her skirt to be hemmed, and be unsatisfied with the work done, the length and the fit because she is discontented and un-accepting of her being.  There is an epidemic of addiction to cosmetic surgery today.  There are people who are obsessed with altering their outside. There is a thought process that leads to a belief, the “if I only changed____I would be happy” belief.  It does not work. People will stuff and tighten themselves to an unrecognizable state, and the result is suffering and misery. When we are full on the inside, everything fills us on the outside too.

When I was 18, I fell in the middle of the contentment spectrum. I now know that the voluptuous woman I was yearning for on the outside needed to be filled inside first. My spirit was crying out to be heard and acknowledged. So, I experimented with different methods of giving her attention.  I used my breasts to get attention.  In college, I flashed them on Spring Break in Mexico. I squeezed them into little tops as a bulls eye to a man’s libido, and I got attention.  I got attention that was vapid and insincere, because I was not being sincere with myself. What we give ourselves is what we receive from others. I was giving myself nothing. Something was missing, something was lacking. I didn’t like myself, so I lived outside myself for a while, and then I remembered the mature 18 year old that had approached her father about her outside. I addressed myself the same way.  I reminded myself that my breasts were just an enhancement to my body. I told myself the work needed to be done to enhance my spirit.  Sure, I did it backwards, but that was my journey.  I honor and love my body for allowing me to live and function healthfully in this world, but it does not define me.  Having small breasts or implants has no bearing on my depth and the goodness that resides within me.  Now, I bare my soul not my breasts.

I have asked myself, “Would I have the surgery today, if I had never had it done before?”  My answer is, I don’t know. The fact is, I did it and I have implants. A couple of years ago, I had to have a replacement operation. It was necessary. I did consider removing them and not replacing them, but they became a part of my body like a pet does when it is adopted into a family.  They became part of my structure. I had formed a thin layer of scar tissue around them. My body had healed around them as if hugging them into place.  I wanted to keep them. In reflection, I acknowledge they assisted me in the acceptance of my body. It looked right, from the moment I removed the bandages 15 years ago. The surgery was like hanging the last painting on the wall after moving into a new house, and living with implants is like living in that new house day after day, year after year.  I still notice and appreciate the painting I hung that first day,  but my awareness has shifted to how good I feel living within the warm walls of my home.

We are gifted with the body we have in order to live our lives. We have free will to do with it what we want. We have a choice to take care of it, hurt it, neglect it, honor it, fix it, not fix it, renovate it or keep it the same just as we would our home.  Just like any home, it isn’t the home that makes the owner happy, it is the owner that makes the home happy.  My body is my home and it is now a happy home. I know my happiness is not contingent on the size of my breasts, but I do smile when I look in the mirror. I smile at it all. I smile because my body is covered with scars of a life lived. I smile because I’ve lived another day and have wrinkles to show for it. I smile because I can still see stretch marks from my pregnancies and that scar from when I fell from my bike at five years old. I smile because I can see the happiness from the inside permeating on the outside. I smile because my breasts remind me of how far I have come; How I grew from a flat chested spirit to a voluptuous spirit. Not to mention, I really love my curves.

“Peek a boo!”  I playfully yelped as I stuffed the Ernie puppet in the cabinet of my mother’s hospital room.  I had hand picked him to give my unborn brother when he arrived.  I was two and a half  years old, and remember the eagerness to meet my new friend.  I thought he would pop out ready to play right along with me.  That was my first memory of my brother’s presence in my life.  The moments I remember sharing with my brother when he was a baby are palpably tender.  I would pick him up many times to my mother’s horror, and attempt to carry him across the cold, hard Saltillo floor.  I wanted him with me all of the time. David was a gorgeous baby.  He looked like the Gerber baby.  He was angelic.

I would climb into his crib every morning before my parents awoke. I would put on puppet shows with Ernie, Bert, and the rest of our stuffed animal clan. He would lay there kicking his legs and flailing his arms with pure joy,  cooing and babbling at my entertainment.  He was a welcomed addition in my heart, and I was fiercely protective of him. From the beginning of our life together, I felt like his mother, his protector, his defender. David was always understood in my eyes, ears and being.  He didn’t have to speak a word for me to know exactly what he was saying or feeling.  He was my brother, he was perfect.

What I did not know was that my parents had been hit with a bomb.  My sweet baby brother was not developing “normally.”  His eyes wandered. His muscles were low tone. He could not process his food. He did not eat. He was not reaching his milestones.  He was not walking.  My parents were told their son would not be able to attain a job, go to school like a regular kid, he may not speak, write or read.  David may remain in a baby like state for his entire life.  My parents devoted every facet of themselves financially, resourcefully, emotionally, physically, and mentally to give David every support they possibly could. They were determined to help David grow and surpass the blanketed potential that had been thrown on him.  My mother did not see a limit to his abilities or potential, and dedicated her life to honoring David’s needs. My father used his connections as a successful surgeon to seek out the best experts in their fields to assist David, from doctors, to occupational therapists, to nutritionists.  Until I was five or six, I was unaware of the consuming and exhausting nature of David’s care.  I always felt loved by both of my parents, and I adored my brother.  I thought it was normal to spend a couple hours at the therapist’s office, watching my brother roll on balls, stack blocks and purse his lips over and over.  It was all I knew.

As David grew and began to walk and interact he became frustrated with what he could not express.  He would claw at me, bite me, hit me, but I did not fight back.  I was his protector, his friend.  My way of dealing with his form of communication was to whine and cry out to my parents.  In their eyes, it was a nuisance, “Rebecca, defend yourself!”  This became their mantra, but I knew he was only trying to talk to me as he knew how.  I look down at my hands as I am typing and I am adorned with reminders, scars from our conversations, usually ending with blood bubbling on my skin.  I still hear him to this day, each claw mark speaks these words, “I have so much to say.  Do you hear me?  Do you hear me? Do you understand me?  I’m in here. Please do you hear me?”  David was trapped.  He had so much to say, but he was trapped,  yet I heard him, I understood him loud and clear.

There were those times that I wish I could freeze forever. Times when we played, sang and created.  We would make a bubble and live in its clear, pure, untainted safety, where he wasn’t trapped and I wasn’t his mother.  We were friends, laughing, hugging and just being together.  Not a care in the world, no doctor to visit, no motor skill to conquer.  Just two children being children.

As the years matured, so did we. The extra attention David received from my parents paired with his discipline and commitment to his therapies was succeeding.  He was walking, talking more clearly, progressing in his school programs, he was able to eat well.  After countless ear infections and failed tubal implants he could hear well. His hernia operation was a success. His glasses blended as part of his outfit.  His nightly injections of HCG to help him grow, became as routine as brushing our teeth.  I was a wiz at filling each syringe with MLs of growing juice, and piercing his soft fair belly and thighs when my parents were occupied.

David’s gift began to shine through, because the soul can not stay trapped forever.  He was an animal whisperer.  Dogs, cats, snakes, coyotes, rabbits you name it, David would connect with them. We lived in the desert foothills of Tucson.  There were several horse ranches in our neighborhood.  David befriended a couple who owned one of the ranches.  They would expect him almost every day after school.  He would help feed the horses and assist with other chores.  One late afternoon the phone rang, it was the woman from the ranch. She said that David had saved our beagle, Koko from an angry Rottweiler. She asked for my mom to come pick him up.  We arrived and there stood David, holding Koko, and just a few yards, a Rottweiler tied to a tree in the front yard.  At nine years old and small in stature, David had calmed this aggressive animal, placed a rope around his neck and tied him to a tree.  David could speak very clearly, he spoke clearly from his soul.  Our soul knows no words, it only knows kindness as a language.  David spoke directly to this dog’s soul. He did not see a separation between him and the animals.  He saw himself in them and treated them with the same love a mother would her child.  I was proud of him, admired him and his abilities.  I knew that David possessed and honored his essence because he knew that is all he truly had, it’s the only thing we all have.

As I entered my teen years, I became insecure of myself, envious of my peers, jealous of my brother, and resentful of my parents.  I began to try and bandage what I saw as an imperfection on the skin of my life.  My brother was not like all of the other siblings. He wasn’t capable of the coolness the rest of my friend’s brothers and sisters owned.  I tried to cloak his deficiencies by brushing his hair a certain direction, picking out clothing that I thought would mask his disabled speech and cognitive delays.  I tried to fix his outside, so he would look normal.  I became angry with my parents for letting him off the hook when he would battle with me, tear into my flesh and embarrass my ego.  I started to plead to the universe for a different sibling.  I would wish with all my might for an older brother with muscles, a letterman jacket and a big vocabulary.  That would be the bandaid to my wounded looking life.  This life of care taking, worrying, watching my brother struggle with everything he was and did.  My pride and admiration of his spirit and his gifts began to fade into black.  It was excruciating crying myself to sleep almost every night, praying that the kids at school would be kind and accept my brother. If only he could know the ease of getting dressed and speak whatever was on his mind, without falling over from lack of balance or stuttering because his nerves misfired.  I longed for a sibling that I could share everything with. I wanted my brother to be the one I would bitch to about how unfair mom was for not letting my boyfriend come over in the afternoon, or that dad wouldn’t take us to get the latest gadget we wanted.  Silly little mundane quips that were absent from my life.

I became preoccupied with being a teenager, and my brother became a passing ship during those years.  I became fixated on my weight, and was swept away by the current of anorexia. I became addicted to the drug of my first love, Jason. But of course, there is that one moment that sucker punches us into reality.  I was a senior in high school, 17 years old.  I woke up at 5am to screaming and yelling. (A quick background on my childhood, my parents rarely had arguments in front of us.  Our home was peaceful, except when my teenage stubbornness would kick in and I would pick a fight with my parents.  We were not used to unrest in our home).  I was groggy and could not process what the noise was.  After a few minutes after waking, I realized it was my parents fighting with one another.  That little whisper in my heart turned into a panicked scream, “my brother is hearing this.  I must protect him.”  I leapt out of bed and threw open my door and there standing only in his underwear and glasses quivering like a newborn puppy, was my precious brother.  I grabbed him, brought him into my room.  I told him to cover his ears.  I could tell something tragic had just broken my family for good, and I wasn’t going to let it break my brother.  I ran to his room downstairs grabbed him clothes, dressed him,  and carried him to my car.  I called my boyfriend and told him we were coming over. All I wanted to do was cradle my brother as I had done in his infancy and create our childhood bubble again. Just like that,  the darkness that was suffocating my purpose melted, and I was two and a half again, David’s protector.  The next year and a half were just plain painful.  Everything David and I knew was taken from us.  Our home, our family, our innocent idolization of our parents. As our parents divorced, we divorced our childhood.

It was time for me to go to college, and so I did.  The idea of my brother being tossed between my mom’s house and my dad’s house was traumatizing to my heart. I was tortured by my brother’s lack of control in the situation.  I had escaped, but my brother did not have a choice. I grappled with the concept of fairness.  How is this fair?  I had escaped with a normally functioning brain and body, but my brother was trapped? It was too much for me to handle, so I ignored the pain. I focused on framing my life to perfection.  I moved away, got engaged, got married, got pregnant, became a mother and became trapped myself.  Meanwhile, David moved to the Berkshires in Massachusetts to attend college for children with disabilities. He was there for four years; I failed to visit him once.  I would speak with him as infrequently as I would some acquaintances I have. I isolated myself from my family.  I hated that my parents were no longer together. I hated that the body of my world looked disfigured and disabled just like my brother’s mind. Hate is transient.  It is short lived.  It is like a gust of wind.  It can not be sustained.  It is perpetuated by the chaotic air of fear. Bad weather can not last forever, and neither can the fear. Over a span of years, I released my fears and adopted the action of forgiveness. Forgiveness turned into acceptance, and that acceptance sutured the gaping hole in my being.

As I began to heal my body and mind, I started to sever the bars my ego erected around me.  My spirit whispered and  guided the understanding that life was exactly as it was meant to be. Everything and everyone in my life is another brick laid on my path. Every experience whether painful or joyous was presented to help me.  A gift of  awareness. David is the most treasured gift I have and will ever receive.  He has inspired and infused me with compassion, empathy, and the ability to see the beauty and perfection in our imperfections.

My brother turned thirty years old in January.  He lives on his own, in a condo in Tucson.  He drives a car.  He has worked for Target for over 5 years now, and is one of their most treasured employees. Every person and animal that is blessed by David’s presence, is touched forever.  He leaves a lingering feeling of goodness.  He leaves a trail of love, because that is all he is and all he knows.  I say that David is one of my greatest teachers.  He is.  Recently, I accepted the most important lesson of my life.  He taught me the most difficult lesson to learn.  He taught me that I am the one who is disabled.  My ego is my disability. My ego debilitates the real me, my spirit. I thought all of these years that I was the one protecting David, but he is the one who has been protecting me.  He has been protecting me from everything that isn’t me, and he only sees what is me, my heart.

For David,
the most abled person I know.
I love you.
Your sister, Rebecca

The birds were becoming too aggressive. They were beginning to compete. The last time I was here, one duck stabbed another duck with his beak and attempted to dismember his wing. His companion quacked in pain as he attacked his feathers over and over. They were no longer cooperating.  They were no longer harmonious.  They became greedy, they wanted what they did not have.  They ignored the grass, which was enough. They ignored the minos beneath the surface of the water, who would satiate their bellies.  They began to suffer, and we humans are the reason. They were given things they did not need and convinced themselves they did. These self sufficient animals began to want.  A little bread was no longer enough, they needed it all. The ducks and the stale bread are no different than our unsatisfied desires for material food.  There is no nutritional value of the things we yearn for. We just want them because they are being dangled in front of us.  We trick ourselves into thinking that if we are not pecking for something new like everyone else, we are not fulfilling ourselves, and we suffer gravely.

What’s new today?  Peace. The birds are no longer fighting.  They are calm.  There are geese grazing the grass side by side. Ducks fishing in the water.  Some pigeons are basking in the sun, cooing and flirting with one another. As I sit here, I reflect on my recent travels to India.  I traveled to India with a similar intention as I have when I come to feed the ducks.  I come here to enjoy my surroundings and learn from the environment, but I also am drawn to giving, to nourishing the ducks and offer them an easy way to “feed their hunger.” All I was doing was destroying everything that is beautiful about nature itself.  I believe the universe gives us everything we need, sometimes we must work more diligently to find it, but it is there. Somewhere along the way, this belief became clouded by living in a society that honors indulgence and quantity.

When I arrived in India, I had a swift awakening to the serenity in  simplicity, in the lack of excess.  Life appeared uncomplicated, easily navigated and understood.  Everywhere I traveled in India from north to south,  I made one critical observation.  I never saw anyone standing alone.  Every person I saw was accompanied by one or more companions, sometimes the companions came in the form of animals.  They were supported, they were united.  Outside of their homes made of cloth, wood, mortar and cow dung, dirt as their flooring, candle light as electricity, and fire as their microwaves, these beautifully raw human beings from age one day to one hundred years old, sat together smiling, laughing, playing cards, waving at passers-by. They are the ducks and geese as they are meant to be, at the root, content with what is, with their resources of grass and fish, with just being. The animal kingdom function and are successfully surviving because they work together.  If we hover “a stale bagel” above a group of animals or people they will stop working together, they will turn against one another.

I saw an example of this unwarranted appetite,  the first day we were in Mumbai.  We were waiting for a taxi, when a little boy and girl approached us for money. Gesturing by rubbing their fingers together and drawing their little hands to their chapped lips. They were smiling and dancing around us and appeared to be enjoying our presence as we enjoyed theirs.  One of the women in our group handed the boy ten rupees.  I saw the shift immediately.  They became hungry for more. Ten rupees was not enough.  It was more than they had before, but now they were starved for more.  They began to tug at our arms and knock on the windows as we squeezed into our taxi.  Our interaction went from light and playful to contentious with the sight of money, just as the ducks began to salivate with greed from the shower of carbohydrates.  The children we encountered may have been suffering on a physical level, hunger and thirst, but they were not suffering from desire of material. The moment that paper bill coated the little boys fingers, he became voracious for everything he did not have.

Here I sit on my blanket, and another realization that my need to nourish and feed these ducks and geese is derived only from my insatiable want. They are already nourished, they are self sustaining, and the moment I begin to stuff them with unnecessary food, they begin to suffer from the desire of more.  If I went to India with microwaves, toilets, air conditioning units,  and wads of cash I would have been the one to inflict them with this suffering desire and ultimately I would destroy their self reliant and happy existence.  Sometimes compassion comes dressed as inaction as action.  The inaction of being, of honoring what is, as the way it is supposed to be. Right now, I exist amongst the birds and the trees as a guest in their home, and I am aware of how much I have buried my own existence in mounds of stale bread.  I look at the water and the orchestrated dance as the ducks float and fish on the lake.  It reminds me of the streets in India.  There are no real traffic laws or lights, yet somehow, someway the ox carts, motorbikes, trucks, buses, camels and people weave their way with a chaotic grace through the roads of India.  How?  They watch out for each other.  They cooperate.  They work together, because that is all they know. They are untainted by the grime of suffering desire as we know it.

As I finished writing this piece, two blue herons flew overhead and landed across the water.  I looked up the symbolism of this magnificent blue goddess. The heron is a “symbol of going with the flow, and working with the elements of Mother Nature, rather than struggling against her.”  Now, the girls and I will come to our favorite spot to sit and observe these creatures, and allow Mother Nature to provide.  Because what Mother Nature provides, turns out not only to be what we need, but what our true nature wants.

Writer’s note:  My microwave has been a faithful friend for the last 8 years.  I returned home after my date with the ducks, to find my microwave deceased. Lesson learned. I will stop feeding myself the stale bread too.  I should put a sign on it, “Please do not feed the humans.  They need to learn how to cook for themselves.”

“Welcome to Phoenix, and thank you for flying Southwest,”  the captain’s calm voice announced as we taxied to the gate.  A smile beaming across my face and tears welling in my eyes,  I looked down at my brass bracelets I bought myself in Ubud, Bali, and I whispered, “I did it.”  The routine announcement did not go unheard in my heart.   His words were proof and acknowledgment that freedom has arrived. Anything is possible. We can fulfill any dream we have, when we unlock ourselves from the prison of fear.

Bali was a fantasy.  A voyage that was a lifetime or two away. A voyage, men with large bank accounts, a back pack, a beard, no commitments, and a predilection for adventure pursue. Well, I did it.  I flew across the ocean to a little island 10, 000 miles away, and embraced the journey as if I were going to the grocery store to pick up some milk.  The world in its entire has become my home, because I am now home within myself.  I was released from the prison I was held captive within for 17 years.  A prison I did not know I had  the control to be released from.  The key was in the lock the entire time, and I did not see it.  My light, my spirit had dimmed, and life was no longer visible.  I could not see my path or purpose.  I dimmed so much that I became my own warden and captor.

My jail sentence began as I starved my body into a skeleton with skin,  and considered ending my life.  I allowed a volcano of anxiety and compulsions to erupt and consume my every thought, decision and action.  I was sick, and I was not even aware of the severity, until years later when I turned around, saw the bars,  and who was on the other side reaching through; My daughter, my husband, my family, my friends, my passions, my purpose, me.  What happened to the little girl with the determined, hope filled eyes?  The girl who sailed the seas, swam with the dolphins, paved her own path.  The girl who sat on the bow of the boat for hours, contemplating the meaning of life and her dreams for her future and the world. She disappeared, locked herself away, and tortured herself by fearing the very thing she loved, Life.

The fear was paralyzing.  It brought my world to a halt.  I paced the tiny cell of my mind’s creation for years.  My sentence began at the age of 14. It robbed me of my energy, esteem, confidence and dignity.   Anything my mind could do to squander my spirit, it did. When I could no longer keep the anorexia a secret, I started to overexercise.  When I was no longer able to mask the overexercising with marathon running, I found something else to become addicted to and control.  My mind persuaded me that the only way to live, was to control what I did with my body.  I did not understand, that the only way to live is to delve deeper and calm my mind so my body and soul are free.

I convinced myself everything was unsafe, and death was looming outside of my front door. I became a recluse. I allowed my malignant mind to dominate, and the phobias to breed. I could no longer fly on an airplane. My fears reigned over me. I would have a visceral reaction to seeing a plane on television. Panic attacks became a part of my routine.  The sickness infected my entire life.  I missed out on 7 years of weddings, funerals, baby showers, family reunions and vacations.

My phobias began to invade my nest. The more reclusive I became, the only entity I could control was my home.  I had exhausted the starvation tactic. My knees could not handle running anymore. I could not travel.  I did not want to interact with people. My home became my jail cell.  I began to clean and focused all of my energy on perfecting my surroundings. Cleaning became my heroine. I cleaned obsessively to the point my skin would crack and bleed.  I disinfected every surface multiple times a day.  I vacuumed twice a day.  The moment a speck of dust fell, I swooped in like a ball retriever at a tennis match. If someone entered my home, I was convinced that they had disturbed my perfection, so I scrubbed their presence away.

I was lonely, cold and vacant on the inside.  I could not see in my darkness, therefore I did not notice the impact of my actions on the people in my life.  I neglected everyone, because I was ignoring myself.   I stole the light from my husband’s spirit. I put up walls around me to keep everything and everyone out, so I could preserve what was left of “me.” I was only surviving because my spirit had not completely extinguished.  And then, Emma entered the world and held a great big mirror in my face.

Navigating the first year with her and my diseased mind was arduous. I yearned to be the perfect mother and guide for my daughter. I tried with all my might to show her the beauty and glory of life as I once adored as a girl, but now life was dark and cloaked in pain.   My obsessions and compulsions were magnified that first year.  I would not allow dirt to be seen anywhere near my home. My house was on lockdown.  I would not allow anyone to baby sit or watch Emma, including her own grandparents.  She did not leave my side for 9 months.  She was plastered to my chest in every wakeful moment.  I was exhausted, depleted and empty.   I cried almost every day, praying for God to release me, let me out, make me happy again, but no one answered. I did not see that I had the key.  That I had the choice.  It was all my decision to stop the fear from annihilating my spirit.

I had taken a hiatus from my yoga practice during the last part of the pregnancy and those first nine months of Emma’s life.  My physical practice, which I discovered at 20, had been my savior.  My practice was recess from the jail cell, however I was immature and undeveloped in mind.  I became just as obsessive about my practice, as the eating disorder and the cleanliness.  If I did not practice everyday, I thought my whole world was going to implode.  I did not grasp that my spirit did not need a rectangular rubber mat to appear, but could be in constant presence. Ultimately, it was my spirit that unlocked the bars.

I will never forget the day I awakened. We all have a defining moment in our lives that marks our “rock bottom,”  the moment that grabs us and catapults us back into the light. Well, here is my moment;  Emma began to crawl off of the blanket I put down on the carpet for her, and I lunged to grab her and pull her back.  Why?  Because,  I did not want her hands to get dirty. It felt like someone socked me in the stomach at 100 miles an hour.  I gasped for air, and I came to.  I stood there stunned, saddened, disgusted, embarrassed, aware of my malnourished being. I was withholding my baby from growing, from learning, from exploring, from living! I picked Emma up sobbing, grieving, apologizing for my absence, for the sickness I permitted to take me over. That afternoon, I picked up the phone and called At One Yoga.  I asked what time class was that evening.  I called Keith and told him I was going to class at 6PM. That was the beginning.  That was the beginning of my liberation.  That moment was the beginning of the end; of the suffering, torture, fear and disease that had occupied my mind and body.  In that moment of rock bottom, my spirit ignited her flame and burned away the blind fold.   I was not going to raise my child in fear, I was not going to destroy her precious life.  It was at that moment, that I saw myself in her eyes.  I saw my perfection; I saw the light.  I saw that if my light was bright, hers would be too, and the whole world would light up.

Healing was a process, and it still is.  A commitment to maintaining consciousness at all times. I became devoted to my recovery, to restoration, to living my life again.  It was demanding and difficult at times.  Healing became and remains my discipline, my practice, my meditation, my yoga. I strive to maintain a balance between my precocious mind, my tenacious body, and my divine spirit. If I allow my being to be eclipsed by either one of these elements, then I will fall back into unconsciousness. I have taken a vow to remain devout to my awareness of self. I vowed to see myself in all; everything and everyone.

I encouraged myself to get back on an airplane with my children. I went to therapy. I sat in meditation and did not turn away when the pain exploded within me.  I faced my fears one by one, and as I did, they dissipated and  disappeared.  My desire to teach the lessons I  learned from my experiences began to grow stronger and stronger.  I enrolled in teacher training.  I made the choice to allow the universe to guide me, and my life began to unfold softly, gracefully and effortlessly.  Keith and I confronted our marriage and decided to set each other free. I took a vacation from my physical yoga practice to analyze why I was practicing.  I understood that I needed balance within my practice, and cut back on my asana to focus on my meditations and studies.  As I sat with myself,  I understood that my purpose on Earth is to share every facet of my essence. Through my openness,  I would help others reignite their lights. My words do not belong to me, they belong to all of us, because just as one sentence altered my path, I knew I would do the same for someone else. It has become my mantra, my footprint, “Save one life, save the world entire.”  The life I have saved, is mine.

I began to ache for a yoga womb; a safe, sacred sanctuary to pray, cry, sit, dance, and practice. A place to share my light with others.  The studio appeared.  I hungered to adventure, discover and experience the world again, so I went to Bali and will be going to India in January.

I am writing this the evening before the first birthday of the studio. One year ago, my flame began to dance again. Today, my flame is brighter than it has ever been, yet as I said before,  I am a work in progress and always will be. The days I stumble into the dark, I do not panic,  because I know now what I did not know then;  Our job is to journey through the dark and into the light and back again.  This is how we learn, how we heal, how we relate, how we connect and  how we grow.  The purpose of our existence is to live in balance.  If we are always in light,  we would not know dark. Our responsibility is to keep our candle shining, so we can see the key and unlock the jail cell bars when we find ourselves behind them.

One afternoon in Bali, I checked my email and this is what was waiting in my inbox…“ I remember that little girl who sat on the bow of the boat excited and ready for anything the adventure would bring.  I knew she was always there, I knew she would return, and she has. I love you, Dad”

Shine.

A Yogi is a unifier.  A Yogi is a servant. A Yogi assumes the role of eternal student and teacher. A Yogi is the Universe’s little helper, who creates balance, equality and unity among all beings.  A Yogi is a person who devotes himself or herself to living simply, honestly, honorably, humbly and with integrity, to ensure the well being of others. In order for well being to blossom, a Yogi must recognize no separation between himself or herself and others. A Yogi must be willing to surrender and be ready to receive. My definition of a Yogi is,  a refined, integrated being with an awareness of interconnectedness to oneself, another and the universe.  Tonight, I became a Yogi.

Tonight, I was teaching my “Basics” class. I was sitting on the window ledge listening to the power of the breath and the vibration of energy intertwined between students.   I saw the integrity of Down Dog was the same between the woman who has been practicing for 10 years,  next to the woman who has been practicing for 10 days, and it hit me, this is Yoga, this is Union. They were yoking the spirits of one another.  There was no difference between them. I have noticed that students of “all levels” have been coming to all of my classes, regardless of the “level” I specify.  They ignore it, because it is insignificant.  When we as teachers guide a Yoga class, it is meant to embrace all. The physical asana is just a way to herd the whole system into the same corral, regardless of time devoted, or flexibility within the hip flexors.

Yoga is not meant to be categorized. Yoga is not meant to be labeled in levels beginner, intermediate or advanced. This segregates people,  and gives people ranking within a realm that is supposed to be limitless in potential, with no beginning and no end.  By removing levels and ranking, people give themselves permission to connect, to stop judging, to release fears, and accept that they are perfection as they are.

We place a limit and birth fear when we put a time line to our “yogic experience.”  Yoga is eternal, unaffected by material world. Yoga is an action, a way, a state of being. Yoga is Universe.  We receive the blessing of unity, of Yoga when we see no differences.

We must rid ourselves of the black and white image of Yoga and Yogi. In our community,  if a person has been practicing for 5 years,  he or she is an advanced Yogi, even if  he or she huffs and puffs his or her way through a class like the big bad wolf and catapults into handstand every five seconds. I call this suffering. I call this struggling.  Blind to the tranquility, calm and beauty that lies within. The mind is dictator and body and spirit are prisoners.

In our community, if a person arrives to his or her first class open and ready to learn, to absorb and admit to not knowing, he or she is called a “beginner?”  No, quite the opposite.  The one who admits they don’t know,  the one who is as open and receptive as a child, who will try anything and stretch passed their limits, is a Yogi.  In order to be open, one must align their mind, body and spirit to receive. He or she is Yoga.

Tonight, not only did I become a Yogi, I began to teach Yoga, to teach Unity.  I removed the labels, I helped break down the wall that separated the woman on the right, from the woman on the left.  I taught them to coexist, I taught myself to coexist, and now I can say I am a Yogi,  and I teach Yoga.  I am Yoga, I am ONE and I live it and teach it for EveryONE.

So I ask, when did you become a Yogi?  Act it. Live it. Be it.

I  hide in the darkest of dark,  I am the lightest of light.
I speak a piercing echo, I flash brilliance realized.

I am the boldest of bolts, I am the brightest of stones.
I am the loudest of loud, I am the clearest of clear.

I am unbreakable.  I stab the suffering away, I burn the pain.
I slice through the black, to reflect the eye looking back.

I am here, invisible I am, until you seek.
I reveal only to those who see, who see through and through.

You run from me when you fear, you run right over me.
You must search for me, to find me, the portal to divine.

Untainted I am. I am the one who un-taints,
with my sword of light and my rock of perfection,
I strike through your flesh, straight to your center.

I am your weapon of wisdom,
I lead you, to, your treasure.

Unearth like a diamond, strike like a thunderbolt…Soul.

Namaste, Rebecca

My entry into the facility is the same each time.  I must check in at reception, and then I am ushered through the locked gates to a room where I wait for the children to arrive.  There are procedures, a lot of procedures to unbind the children from the locked doors and gates for 45 minutes of yoga.  I watch the process and think how much it mimics the internal un-locking of our gates, bars, and locks that keep us in the jail of unawareness.  The gates, bars, and locks that keep us from our freedom of spirit and the marriage of our entire selves. There are procedures for unlocking us too, and I witness this through the physical manifestation of the children’s process…

I arrived today to a painful sight.  I drove up and noticed four of the staff members surrounding a small boy.  They looked like they were playing a game of tag, but I could immediately tell by the energy, it was negative.  He was raging and pacing, and they were surrounding him, following his every move.  I went to the reception area and was led into the courtyard through the gates.  Normally, I go into the room and wait, but I asked if I could sit on the bench outside the room a few yards from this little boy.

Let me just paint a picture, the two men were large, strong, intimidating.  They looked like bouncers/bodyguards, suited for an NYC club or a movie premiere than controlling a little boy.  The two women that were there as I arrived, voiced their frustration about the boy with no filter.  They were exhausted, burnt out and upset.  One of the guards took a break and sat down next to me. He said,  “I just don’t get it! What makes a kid his age act like this?” He told me of all the things the boy had done that day.  He had attacked the bus driver, was a danger to the staff and all the other kids. He couldn’t be contained. All I said was, “He’s been hurt.  He is scared, that’s all.”  I asked what the little boy’s name was. (I will change his name for confidentiality reasons) ”His name is Sam.” “How old is Sam?”  “He is seven.”  I told the man, I needed to be quiet to sit and observe. He respected my request.

I watched Sam pace like a glorious lion who was being provoked; fending for himself, protecting his integrity.  There was nowhere he could go, he was trapped, with each step he took back, the men took two steps forward.  He screamed profanities, he swung his arms, he kicked his legs, he tried to run away. He stated just what he needed, space. “Get the fucking shit away from me!!!!! Leave me alone!!!!!!!!!”

He slowly came closer to me.  When he made eye contact with me, I saw a sweet little baby boy, and he knew I saw him.  I sat, I sat, I watched. I reached in my bag and pulled out my metronome.  (My teacher has been using one in our classes for pranayama (breathing) and I love it so much I bought one).  I brought it with me, to work with the kids on their breath work.

I turned it on, and I turned it down to 50 beats a min.  I held it up.  I showed him.  I said, “Sam I have a toy. Would you like to hold it?”  For the first time, he ran past me, to the corner of the courtyard, and sat down.  The guards backed off, and with one look I made clear, they needed to leave him alone.

I slowly walked over and stood 10 feet from him.  “Hey Sam, will you show me where you would like me to sit?”  He walked over to a bench, sat on one end, and pointed for me to sit on the other. “Thank you for the seat!” I said. I set the metronome in the middle of us.  “Do you see this? This is a very, very special toy.  It is called a metronome, and it is used for music. Do you know what?  We have music in us,  and we can use it to hear our music. Do you know what our music is?”

He shook his head, no, but with inquisitive, yearning eyes he wanted to know. “Our music is the most beautiful music. It is our breath. Our breath is the guitar, and our heart is the drum.  We have a whole band inside of us!” I smiled and laughed a little, and so did he.

We scooted in unison right next to each other, and I handed him the metronome. He took the metronome in one hand, and the other to his heart under his shirt.  He looked at me, moved almost to tears, half questioning, half all knowing, “ That is my heart?! That is my heartbeat?!”  I said, “Yes Sam, it is. I want you to know I think you are a really smart wonderful boy.” He smiled and asked, “Why are you here?” I told him I was there to teach yoga.  He asked, “What is yoga?”  I said, “This Yoga is moving your body to the music of your heart and your breath. Would you like to try it sometime?”  He nodded and smiled again.

My kids arrived for class and Sam politely handed back my metronome and started to walk away.  I said, “Hey, I need a high five!”  He came up slapped me some skin gently, and ran off.   I got up and walked past the guards, who appeared shocked by the interaction they witnessed.  I nodded to them, and walked in to teach my kids.

We always have the choice, respond or react.  When we react to a fearful person, we separate ourselves from the other person, we fuel their anger.  We cause more fight, more struggle, and we end up in a battle.  It is like trying to clean up a spill with a sopping wet sponge. It will just make more mess.

When we respond, we do so with the intention of mindful action.  We take the sponge, we wring it out to dry, approach the spill, and one swipe at a time soak up the water.  We contain the water in the sponge, we wring it out, and let it drain away.  The person who was fearful and angry (the water spill) is absorbed into the other person(the sponge).  The fear disappears when it is wrung out, and both are dry, calm and true.

When we take the time to see the situation, to see the feelings, and observe the underlying cause of the panicked action of anger, we know that it comes from a water spill over that person’s heart and spirit.  When we soak up the water, there it is, the light, the divine.  All I did with Sam today, was the action of NAMASTE.  Sam, the light in me, sees the light in you.  All I had to do was be the sponge for Sam and he was back to true.  Namaste, Sam.