A Pilgrim on the Path

I love children. I just never felt the desire to have any of my own. Well, maybe for a fleeting moment. There is, after all, a certain sweetness in thinking about creating another person with someone you love and seeing the two of you reflected in that little child. But I didn’t marry until my mid-40s, and I know that I currently do not have the patience, selflessness, or energy that it takes to raise a child well. Case in point: I get so annoyed when our cat wants to play and chat at 6am that I hustle her outside and leave her there (with food…I’m not heartless) until we’re ready to rise. Pretty sure you can’t do that with a kid.

There’s also the fact that my husband, a new immigrant to this country, has required a tremendous amount of my time and energy these past three years as he launches a life over here from scratch. I’m sure he’d also tell you that I don’t have the patience to raise a child, given the many (many) times I’ve lost my cool when things haven’t gone smoothly for us. I see, too, how much I worry about his safety and wellbeing out there among people who don’t always treat him, a heavily accented black African, with kindness and respect. With kids, I could see myself vacillating from worried mess to hovering nuisance to control freak—none of which foster healthy child development.

I do, however, feel rather maternal toward the adult students I guide in my yoga classes and creativity workshops, where I coax many wounded inner children to come out and play. When I later run into my “grads” around town and hear about the positive changes that took root during my classes, I beam and coo. This work feels like my life’s calling, a large part of my legacy, and the best use of my nurturing skills. I do have some actual kids in my life, too, and they are fabulous. The list includes three delightful nieces, a brilliant nephew, the four precious children of my Sudanese “little sister,” and my neighbor Sophia, a toddler who greets me with an exuberant “I!” whenever she can. I get my kid fix spending time with these honest, observant, funny and amazing little people, and I enjoy them.

All this, and no diapers to change!

In truth, I have occasionally wondered what I’ve missed by not having a special wee someone to love and call my own, but the thought usually passes pretty quickly. A wry girlfriend of mine put it this way, “You can’t miss something you never had. I’m at peace with the fact that I’m childless, and happy being ‘married with dog.’” I wanted to know what my other childless friends had to say on the subject, and so I asked. I was happy to learn that none of the women I surveyed had felt criticized for their choice, even if they may have felt the unasked question coming from friends and relatives, including their mothers. A few of them shared my own early experience of being a so-called “parentified” child, meaning that we took on too much responsibility for ourselves and others as kids. Some believed that this was enough to put them off becoming a mom.

One friend of mine reports that she wanted to have kids until she moved to a yoga ashram at age 30.  “Living a celibate lifestyle as my biological clock ticked faster and faster helped me get clear that I was fine not having babies and preferred to work with the child in myself and the adults around me,” she recalls. “This led me to my career as a life coach, helping others to birth their own evolving consciousness. While I would never claim that my choice was more rewarding than being a mother, I feel truly honored and gifted by all those who allow me to assist, serve, and mentor them. I often silently thank their parents for birthing them so that I might also be part of their lives.”

Another friend and colleague admits that, when her younger sister first got pregnant, she thought “for about 12 seconds” that it would have been fun to go through pregnancy together. “Today I am so clear that the decision to be ‘childless by choice’ was absolutely right for me,” she reports. “My work as a coach, helping women to have their dream relationships, is incredibly gratifying for me. While I never felt pressured to be a mother, I do think there are plenty of women who have kids because, ‘It’s what women do.’ I’d love to see more women opt out of those ‘shoulds.’”

“I don’t remember making a conscious decision to not have children,” says one friend in her late 40s, “but I never felt a strong pull towards having them. I do think I’ve turned some judgment on myself with thoughts like, ‘I’m not really a full woman if I haven’t labored through the physical birthing process.’” What it feels like I’m birthing now is a more authentic and whole expression of myself…seeking to know more about how I move in the world, how the feminine shines through me, and what kind of mothering really feels like my calling.”

Another dear friend says that even though children “just didn’t happen” for her, she’s enjoyed being there for her nieces and her friends’ children. “I love spending one-on-one time with them,” she says. “I’ve taken them on adventures to glamorous cities, river rafting and coast exploring, and on day trips to old-time amusement parks and science museums.” Having now developed close relationships with two stepsons and a daughter-in-law, my friend adds, “I know I missed something special in not experiencing a child’s development from infancy and I suspect I missed a personal-development opportunity in not knowing the compromises that come with child-rearing, but I feel fortunate at this point to be essentially free of child-worries, yet enriched by the love I feel for the young people in my life.”

“I feel like I never got to be a kid,” says a former colleague who’s worked hard to heal from her abusive mother. She also worked hard as a first grade teacher for many years before growing weary of the repetition and routine that children require. “At 48, I love being single and having only myself to care for. It’s fun that my life belongs to only me! I get to check in and see what parts of my child or immature self need some attention. My mature self supports, nurtures, and cares for my kid self. And my kid self gives my mature self joy, laughter, and adventures of all kinds.”

A relative of mine says that even though her parents were loving and devoted, she never wanted a family of her own outside of a husband and some pets. One deterrent, she says, is the idea of bearing a child. “My uterus has been nothing but trouble for me since I was 12 years old, so the idea of being pregnant does not appeal to me at all. My body may have been “built to take it,” but squeezing out a seven-pound (or more!) child with all that pain and mess is something I have no interest in doing. The care and attention that follows is something I also have no desire to experience, and I simply do not have the patience to deal with a teenager. After spending time with my friends’ children, who are great, I know my decision is the right one. The joyful chaos I’ve witnessed is an experience I’m more than happy to forgo—preferring structure, order, tidiness and a fixed schedule.”

And sometimes it takes other pioneering women to show us that it’s okay to blaze unconventional trials. My former roommate is a storyteller and maker of whimsical jewelry who once thought she was flawed because she never caught “baby fever,” even as her biological clock was winding down. “But then I read Gloria Steinem’s Revolution from Within: A Book of Self-Esteem,” she recalls. “It made me realize that there is no wrong way to be a woman.  This simple truth lifted a great weight off of my shoulders and I became something I was far more qualified to be:  A fairy godmother.”

And so I raise my glass to all the special moms, stepmoms, aunties, mentors, grandmas, teachers, coaches, counselors, godmothers, fairy godmothers and childless women out there. Honor your choices. Celebrate your life. Be yourself, as Oscar Wilde said, because everyone else is already taken.

Three years ago today I was stopped at a red light near Harvard Square on a sunny afternoon when it hit me. A Chrysler minivan, to be precise. A traveling salesman from Cleveland, oblivious to the stopped cars in front of him, was talking on his cell phone as he plowed right into my little Corolla. Today, I’m actually kind of grateful to him.

The rear-end collision left me with whiplash, and a frozen shoulder that lasted for months. While super painful at the time, the injury allowed me to take a much needed break from teaching yoga without having to tell my students that I was, in truth, burned out. It also took me on a healing journey that introduced me to my talented acupuncturist and my equally talented personal injury lawyer, a man who actually uses the word “broads” in conversation, but whose wily ways secured enough compensation to help me pay my medical expenses, buy a few goodies, and grow my savings.

But the biggest impact of that collision is how it changed my own driving, because I used to be one of “those.” You know…a…tailgater…sometimes. I cringe to admit it. And it’s especially embarrassing to reveal that I occasionally did it on the way to teach yoga, yelling things like “Choose a lane, buddy!” a mere ten minutes before presenting myself as Ms. Equanimity on the mat. I’m truly lucky that none of my victims ever stopped short, and I call them victims because I was an aggressor during those tense moments in the driver’s seat. Now I’m keenly aware of tailgaters behind me, feeling the anxiety that I must have caused others as the skin on the back of my neck begins to tighten and my blood starts to boil. I considered buying a nasty bumper sticker, but decided that tailgaters aren’t likely to heed them. It was fun to peruse the choices, however, like, “Back Off – I’m Not That Kind of Car,” and my favorite, “Are You Following Jesus this Closely?”

Today I always leave plenty of space between me and the vehicle ahead of me, and I leave earlier for appointments so I don’t have to speed. But don’t start envisioning a halo over my head because I still make and take cell phone calls while driving, and I often risk getting pulled over for a DWG (Driving While Grooming) as I apply mascara or tweeze an errant hair behind the wheel. Nonetheless, I am consciously trying to become a safer, saner driver. I’d like to imagine that others are doing the same, but what I see through my windshield (and in my rearview mirror) tells me otherwise.

The other day I had this thought: maybe it’s time to start inspecting not just cars, but drivers. What if, once a year, an inspector could ride beside us for 20 minutes and watch for things like good judgment, rule obedience, alertness, and, dare I say it, patience and courtesy? I wonder how many drivers would pass? Probably the same three people who slow down for yellow lights, make a complete stop at stop signs, and truly yield when entering highway traffic (and rotaries, folks!).

My bedroom sits above an intersection with a delayed green light. It’s also a popular cut-through route for commuters. This means that I’m often awakened by loud car stereos and even louder attempts to imitate favorite singers. Occasionally I’m serenaded by a cool baby blue Cadillac that plays classic jazz as it passes (thank you, my mystery driver). But all too often, and many times when I’m praying, my ears are assaulted by the angry honking and verbal violence of livid morning drivers who feel that the person ahead of them is ruining their life (i.e. causing them to miss the green light).  Some of the incidents border on road rage.

We’re all so impatient, over stimulated, and wired for multitasking that it’s no wonder we’re crashing into each other. God forbid we just focus on driving as we drive. And whatever happened to silence? The other day as I was pumping gas, I heard voices coming from the…pump(!)…where a small TV screen was replaying the latest pre-season football highlights. I don’t know about you, but I really don’t need to be entertained while I fill up my car. And yet I’m not immune to Monkey Mind syndrome. I still catch myself reaching for the cell phone a few minutes into a long drive because, well, I have the time to talk.

Buddah and other friends on my dashboard altar.

But there are those precious times when I’m quiet and contemplative behind the wheel, letting my own thoughts entertain me and allowing for some space to arise between those thoughts. Sometimes I’ll even pray or chant in the car, glancing at my dashboard altar where Buddah reminds me to calm down and find peace in the driver’s seat. Like any good spiritual practice, it only works if I work it.

And so I try, one mile at a time.

I used to think cities were where it’s at.  My European travels and my years in Philadelphia, London and New York found me gaping at skyscrapers, hitting hot clubs and trendy restaurants, and finding endless entertainment in the tapestry of skin tones, hairstyles, languages, and fashions around me. Having grown up on Cape Cod, I was hungry for the thrills of city life.

But I started to fall out of love with cities in my late-30s, when I went to live at a yoga center in the green, green Berkshire Hills of western Massachusetts. I went for three months and stayed for two years, soaking up the environment and spiritual teachings. When I finally left the Berkshires (too frozen in the winter, with too few eligible men for this single gal), I relocated to a peaceful suburb of Boston, with tree-lined streets and plenty of parks. I’m now just minutes away from Walden Pond, where Henry David Thoreau famously found tranquility in the wilderness, and it suits me to a tee. Because these days I’m paying more attention to Mother Nature, the great artist, architect, and companion.

When I stroll the bike path near my home, a majestic cathedral of trees shelters me, receives my prayers, and keeps my secrets. When I need to walk off some anger, the dirt under my feet absorbs my ire. My immigrant husband strides along this same path on his way to a low level job that’s unrelated to his chosen profession, reporting, “The trees and birds talk to me, telling me to hang in there, and giving me encouragement.” I think of the line from Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese, promising that the world offers itself to our imagination and calls to us like wild geese, “harsh and exciting, over and over announcing your place in the family of things.”

I recently heard a news report that said we humans are spending more time with machines than people, which makes me guess that time in nature has probably dropped way down the list. How sad. As much as I love my lap top, it rarely gives me the same thrill as the red flash of a cardinal across my path, the sight of a hummingbird at a feeder, the eerie sound of an owl or a mourning dove outside my window, or the spectacle of shooting stars in the night sky. I’ve seen lightening storms over the Stockbridge Bowl, full yellow moons rising over the desert and the ocean, the playfulness of elephants and whales in the wild, technicolor Caribbean sunsets, and the awesome power of hurricane winds disturbing waves on a beach. To me, they all trump anything I can watch on a screen.

We had a particularly long, snowy, humorless winter in Massachusetts this year. A few months later as the land was finally turning green, I was arrested on my morning walk by the sight of a shining silver birch tree. An exuberant “Hi!” came out of my mouth before I was even aware of the impulse. I looked around, wondering if anyone had heard me talking to a tree. Later, I was met with nods of recognition when I told the story to friends who were equally starved for the rebirth that comes with spring.

Last year during springtime my husband and I were astonished to find a nest full of tiny blue eggs in a geranium plant that hung on the front porch. Like an expectant mom, I hovered by the nest for days to see what would happen. One afternoon, picking up on tiny chirping sounds coming from the geranium, we grabbed the camera and took a quick shot of the new babies. You would have thought they were mine, the way I showed off that picture, and the response from those who saw them was equally passionate. I see why animal videos go viral all the time.

The surprise in the geranium plant

My mentor and guru in my work as a creativity coach is Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity, who says in the book that, “The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention.” When nature is putting on a show 24/7, how can we not pay attention? And how delightful, and thrilling, it can be.

Back when I was single, I created a few personal profiles for online dating sites. When asked to name my religion, I wrote “Kindness.” It sounded cute at the time, but it’s also what I truly believe in. Kindness touches the soul, or at least my soul, and connects us all. Raised as a Christian, I knew all about the Golden Rule of doing unto others as we’d have them do to us. And who doesn’t want to be treated with kindness?  The hard part is doling it out on a regular basis in our stressed out, fast-paced, I’ll-trust-you-when-you-prove-trustworthy culture. And that’s why I’m a sucker for strangers who extend kindness to me.

I have struggled with depression in my life and, even though it no longer overtakes me, I’m still what they call a highly sensitive person on the planet.  Some days, I just feel everything very deeply. When I see people with physical challenges moving tentatively on the street, I recognize that they are moving through space and time in the same way that I do when I’m in a tender place, emotionally. Sharp words, like sharp objects, can slay me on those days, and being rushed or dismissed can feel like violence. So when someone takes the time to be kind to me, it feels like a big deal, and pierces through the emotional haze like Cupid’s arrow. It could be the barista making my latte and complimenting my shirt, the deli clerk who helps me to choose the best sliced turkey and offers me samples, the women with the umbrella offering to escort me (sans umbrella) to my car in the driving rain, or the gas station attendant smiling and wishing me a great day when all he had to say was “Thanks.” No matter the source, kindness really sticks.

When my husband moved to the U.S. to join me, he arrived from Senegal with a duffel bag and a knapsack, which obviously didn’t allow for a lot of clothes and accessories. Not that he had much of those, because he’d given nearly everything away to friends and family before emigrating. He did have sandals and a pair of slightly small working boots that a friend had given him. As it was March in New England, the sandals went straight to the closet. As funds were limited, we took the boots to a shoe repair shop for stretching. The Ugandan man behind the counter welcomed my husband to the United States with a 1,000-watt smile, unlike the airport worker who’d met him with hostility the day before. The shop owner also handed my husband a pair of shoes that another customer had long ago left behind. My husband still visits his African brother who showed him kindness during a time of traumatic change.

The other day, I dialed the yoga center where I teach and left a message about some business. Moments later, I got a call back—from a guy in Brooklyn who gets “these calls all the time” because his phone number is similar to the yoga center’s.  “Namaste from New York,” he said into my voice mail. “You dialed the wrong number and I didn’t want you to think that no one returned your call.” Namaste, indeed, for being considerate enough to call me with that information.

A real King of Kindness in my book is Narayanan Krishnan, who gave up a promising career as a chef to start feeding the homeless, hungry, and destitute in his Indian hometown. The astonishing part is not the succulent meals he delivers, but the love that he feeds to his people—cutting their hair, and bathing and hugging them even as his caste rules forbid it. As Krishnan says, “We all have 5.5 liters of blood,” no matter our race, class, or bank account balance.

And so I try, and sometimes fail, and try again to be kind to those around me. It helps when I remember to start with myself, because practicing self-compassion often makes it easier to feel compassion for others. I also try to remember—especially with strangers—that I can never know what sadness or trouble is in the heart or mind of another person. The guy who cuts me off at the rotary may have just had a fight with his wife or lost his job. The woman who doesn’t hold the door open for me when I’m right behind her may be worried sick about a sick child. “If you’re gonna make up a story, make up a good one,” my friend Karen used to say when I’d be all twisted up about a perceived slight from someone. Of course, some people just behave badly. But when I remember to cut them (and me) some slack for being human and having bad days, life just feels kinder.

No, this post is not about Star Trek, although I admire the show and the committed fan base. This is about spaciousness, the thing I’ve been embracing these days. Spacious days, in fact, where I have very few things on the calendar and gorgeous swaths of unstructured, unscheduled time to enjoy. As I approach middle age (okay, chronologically I’m there at 48, but mentally I’m still thirty-something), I find that I need more time to…just…be.

I didn’t used to be this way. I used to be an activity junkie.

In my twenties I was all about social life, cramming every moment that I wasn’t in class (during college) or at work (post-college) with friends, drinks, parties, concerts, dates, and hanging at the neighborhood hang. Heaven forbid I spend time alone or have any white space on my calendar. In my thirties, I was an ambitious career woman, working a 9 to 5 and freelancing on top of that to climb the public radio ladder. I still fit in my social and love life pursuits, but work filled in the other available hours. As I entered my forties, my schedule was filled with experiential workshops, self-help groups, singing and drumming circles, and personal growth classes that I hoped would provide the answers I sought and the solutions I desired to my recurrent “issues.” Friends and work were still on the list, too, leaving me scheduled to within an inch of my life.

But now here I am, crowding 50, married, self-employed, no closer to enlightenment, and daring to under-schedule and under-commit myself. It’s the only thing that I haven’t tried doing in my life—doing nothing. A few things make this easy: it’s summer, I have no kids, we live in a smallish rental apartment that requires very little upkeep, my client load is light these days, and my formerly nearby friends now live far away. I spend a lot of time with my self, my husband, my cat, my family, and carefully selected companions (trees, plants, flowers, and birds included). During the weekdays when I’m mostly alone, I take walks or poke my head outside when I want human company, and my neighbors provide it. I’m lucky that I live in a town where I can walk to libraries, coffee shops, parks, banks, and stores, taking my time and avoiding the stress of driving.

When I first arrived in this place last spring after leaving an office job full of people to chat with, I felt lonely, and uncomfortable. I tried filling up some non-work hours with yoga classes and coffee or lunch dates. But eventually I stopped doing that and just relaxed into this new rhythm. Now it feels luxurious, this space I’m in.  Like swimming in a vast ocean where the things I mostly bump into are my own thoughts, perceptions and reactions.

I’m very protective of these waters, too. When I do initiate or say yes to an activity, it’s because I really want to do it, whether for me or for someone (else) that I care about. It keeps resentments and crankiness to a minimum, I find, and builds a sense of trust that I don’t have to be constantly busy to live a meaningful and valuable life. I’m not saying that I don’t feel the old pull sometimes, like when my in box is flooded with tempting emails about things to do, read, click on, or attend—especially those that promise to solve and fix the aforementioned issues. But if, as I read on my tea bag tag yesterday, all the knowledge that I seek is within me, then I really shouldn’t have to go anywhere else…except when I really want to.

When my husband and I moved into this apartment, our backyard was a strip of dirt that lay between our stairs and the garage. Construction debris littered the dirt, and a discarded stove sat on top of it. I asked my landlady if much of this could be removed for a more aesthetically pleasing back entrance to our home, and she complied. Once the junk was gone, I saw that this dirt was also home to a beleaguered rose bush that had seen better days.

The arrival of spring a few months later triggered a new desire in me, the perpetual tenant with homeowner envy: I wanted to try my hand at gardening.  My husband set out to help me one day by weeding out and cutting back the unruly bits of green that were popping out of the ground where the debris had been. In his enthusiasm, he nearly hacked the rose bush down to a stub. I should mention here that my husband was a newly arrived immigrant from Senegal who wasn’t used to pruning or even seeing rose bushes. If I hadn’t come home when I did, he might have committed plant slaughter.

Several weeks and several doses of Miracle Grow later, I witnessed my own small miracle: leaves, then buds, and then flowers—deeply crimson—coming forth from the rose bush. I began checking it every day like an obsessive mother, cooing over new blossoms and carefully pruning any overgrowth. Encouraged, I bought some annuals to fill in the rest of the developing garden. We brought colored rocks from the beach for accent, and planted tomatoes, basil, and oregano for our meals. Roots and crawly creatures now replaced the bits of Styrofoam cups, nails, cigarette butts, and wood that previously occupied the dirt. I was thrilled and soothed by this thing of beauty and wonder that we were cultivating outside our door, and I spent a lot of time just staring at it, savoring. I also stopped to smell the roses more than once, grateful for their subtle fragrance.

Three years later I’m more ambitious—adding perennials, climbing vines, and transplants from generous neighbors and my parents’ yard. I also have cutesy garden novelties amid the flowers, and a solar-powered globe that glows in multiple colors at night…eerily thrilling. I peek out every morning to see what’s bloomed since sunrise, and I delight in the birds, butterflies, and bees that visit. I’m still in love with this little garden, but, the other day as I was watering it, I realized something kind of…sad. In my zeal to entertain and challenge myself with new and different flowers and plants, I’d forgotten to be amazed by the roses this year. And there were dozens of them now, showing off as I walked past them to groom a new acquisition.

I bent down to sniff the roses, clipped a small bunch, placed them on in a vase on my kitchen table, and started thinking. What else was I forgetting to be amazed by anymore? Who and what else was I taking for granted as I sought out new experiences, friends, and thrills? How quickly I move on, I realized, ever questing for the next new thing. What about the tried and true? And so I stopped–to look around, pay attention, and find things to be amazed by all over again. The list included: rainbows on my walls, made by a crystal catching the sunlight; the maple and pine trees offering my eyes a green place to rest when I looked up from the computer and out the window; my healthy body, showing up for me every day despite the many times I’d overtaxed it; my parents’ abiding love and concern for me, expressed in a card that sat next to the vase of roses; and the way my husband does the dishes, folds my clothes from the laundry, cooks delicious meals, and tolerates my…moods. The list could go on and on, really, to encompass everything that goes right for me every day, and all the ways in which I’m lucky, safe, well fed and blessed in a world where so many suffer and lack.

It’s amazing, all the things that I should be amazed by. And I plan to remember that, especially when I pass the roses.