Find the balance between the effort and the ease…
That was the mantra of my yoga class the other day—the first one I've been able to make it to since December. The idea has been with me since, one of those stop-you-in-your-tracks insights that is really so obvious. Balance; of course. We talk about it all the time—finding balance between work and play, companionship and solitude, restraint and indulgence. But right now, the effort and the ease seems to encompass all of those things.
I almost didn't make it to that class…again. I had the schedule, made sure I had the drop-in fee in my wallet, checked with Sam to be sure he could be with Quinn. It seemed like a sure thing until, the night before, I got a black fly bite on the corner of my eye. The whole thing swelled up…my eyelid looked like a fat slug and I couldn't see out of that side of my face. Fortunately it was the eye that is easily hidden by my bangs, but still it was so awkward and uncomfortable. My friend Erin made a comment about Quasimodo, but I'm sure she wasn't talking about me…
Anyway, I did manage to go. And, having craved the exercise and the little bit of time to myself for so many months, I cherished every single sweaty, muscle straining Bikram moment…even those uniquely yoga-class moments before the class begins when everyone sits on his and her mat picking at toenails, adjusting headbands, and trying to stretch before the stretch. It is a place and time void of the self-consciousness of everyday life…at least it is here in Montpeculiar, VT. No one noticed Quasimodo trying to tuck her spare tire into the waistband of her yoga pants.
And thank god, because I needed that class. I needed to be reminded about finding the balance between the effort and the ease. I don't have any trouble with the effort. I can over think, over plan, over pack, and over analyze better than most people I know. I'm good at working—I've had to be. I had a painful relationship with math as a kid, couldn't write a paper until my senior year in high school, and always found myself completely disoriented in any sport that involved doing anything other than moving quickly in a straight line. Swimming was ideal: I was contained in a lane and, if I lost track of what I was doing, I crashed into the wall. Field sports? No idea. Just ask the women I played soccer with in my early thirties. When nothing comes naturally, you have to work hard. Anything I do, I do.
The ease, well, that's a totally different thing. All year I looked forward to this summer, anticipating the ease. The school year was hard. I have always found myself emotionally and physically drained at the end of school, but this year was exceptional. With Quinn in the game, there was NO free time. Quinn was with her babysitter only when Sam and I were both in class; otherwise, she was with one of us. We were always juggling, handing her off in the parking lot between appointments or study halls, bringing her to meetings and hoping she wouldn't melt down, rushing to get her home, etc, etc. It was all we could do to get through the year, and we counted on this summer as a time to regroup, reorganize and recharge. So, in characteristic form, I've been trying to hurry up and relax. Ready? Relax! Shoot, it didn't work. Try again: Relax!
You get the idea.
Last week I planned a camping trip for us—Quinn's first. I reserved a favorite campsite at a favorite lake. You have to paddle to get to each site. And, my favorite site is one of the ones farthest away from the put in—quiet, secluded, beautiful. I arranged for a dogsitter, packed all kinds of gear, bought all kinds of food, and even bought Quinn a life jacket for the time in the canoe. Sam was a bit skeptical that it would actually be relaxing and that was, to me, very frustrating. Have faith man, my god! I've planned it. It's organized. It's scheduled. Therefore…it will be brilliant, and relaxing.
It wasn't, of course. It was a bit of a disaster. I was determined to do everything right with Quinn, to get what I hope will be a long and rewarding outdoor life started on the right foot (or butt cheek, in her case). When we had the canoe fully loaded and were ready to start the 30 minute paddle to our site, I put on her sunhat (which she hates), put on her sunblock (which she hates), put on her life jacket (which she really hates), and I put her down in the bottom of the canoe (which I now know she hates). She started screaming right away. And she never stopped, the whole time we were paddling. On a normal day on this lake, all you ever hear are the other-wordly loons, with their bold black and white feathers, their mysterious ways, and those calls…those rich, sonorous, mesmerizing calls.
Quinn's calls were not mesmerizing; they were more of the stand your hair on end type. We just kept paddling and waving reassurances to the other boaters who looked over in horror at our heavily loaded canoe and our screaming baby. I had, within ten minutes, stripped her of her sunhat (not a big deal) and her life jacket (admittedly, a rather big deal). But, all of this to no avail; she was so mad!
The good news is that as soon as we got to camp, she was distracted from her temper tantrum and it ended.The bad news was the deer fly infestation, which I should have anticipated considering this is an epic bug year in Vermont. The flies were so bad, so numerous and so vicious, that we frantically set up the tent and climbed in to take stock; it was about 2pm. This is when the party started for Quinn: she loved the tent.
Quinn loved the tent so much it was virtually impossible for her to fall asleep when it was time for her to do so. She missed her afternoon nap. Then she missed her bedtime. Then, when our bedtime was approaching and we still hadn't eaten dinner and she was still wide awake, that's when I realized that all the effort I had put in was resulting in more stress, and less relaxation…no ease. I started to think about it in terms of precious summer days wasted. I started apologizing. I started missing home and my bed. Then I felt defeated. All the while, Quinn was in the tent bouncing (literally) off the walls.
Just days before the trip, Sam and I were discussing how different we are and, in conversations like that one, we aren't usually celebrating our differences. I sometimes lament the fact that I usually do all the planning. Sam would say he never gets the chance. I would say that if I waited for him to make a plan we'd never go anywhere. We're both kind of right. But, in this scenario, our yin and yang is what made it work. As Quinn rolled and rolled and rolled around exhaustedly, we contemplated packing up and retreating that first night. At the last minute, before giving up, Sam said this, "I know this is counterintuitive, and it goes against our plan, but let's get her up. Let's take her out in the canoe."
When we were talking about our differences, Sam had mentioned that he feels like I'm too critical of the way he takes care of Quinn. And, because I'm so sensitive, I told him to do a better job and I wouldn't be as critical…Lovely, I know. Eventually, I agreed to work on being more supportive, and this "let's take her out in the canoe" idea was an opportunity to do so. I agreed to break the bedtime rules.
The lake was glassy. The loons were calling to each other. The moon was up. We put a beach chair in the bow of the boat. I sat in it and held Quinn. Sam paddled. We didn't talk. We just glided around that magical place, inhaling and exhaling, inhaling and exhaling. Quinn gazed out at the world. She listened to the loons. She watched her dad. She held onto my arm. Eventually, she slept.
For a while after she finally succumbed, we kept going just to be sure. Around 9:30 or so, we slipped back to our campsite, slipped Quinn back into the tent, and slipped ourselves into two chairs by the fire. Sam cooked sausages on the end of a stick and we drank warm beer. Soon after, we too eased into sleep.
I sometimes put so much effort into the ease that I ruin its chances for survival. I don't believe one can exist without the other. I think there must be effort. I know there must be ease. And so, yes, the challenge is in finding the balance between the two.
I've written here in past months of the effort, so let me tell you about some of the ease…
1. The other day, I was sad. I said goodbye to Maury. I came home to make another vet appointment for my old friend Boone. I looked at Quinn, told her I was sad. Asked her if she couldn't just give me a kiss to make me feel better. She looked up at me, opened her sweet little mouth and licked me…That didn't just happen, did it? I asked her for another; she licked me again. Quinn gives kisses now.
2. One morning, she woke up at 4:45 am. I tried to ignore her. Eventually I faced the reality. I went to her crib and picked her up. She said mama, and she kissed me.
3. Whenever Sam comes in the room, I ask her, "Who's that?" Every time, she says, da-da.
4. Yesterday she was in her bouncy chair. I popped up from behind the counter and said peek-a-boo. She smiled and said peek-boo.
5. Yesterday she started a new trick: clapping her hands. This morning she picked up the musical monkey a friend gave her, squeezed the hand that makes it sing and listened with a smile on her face. When the song ended, she clapped.
Brava, Quinn! Brava!
I'm reminded of one of Sam's gems of wisdom years ago. I was struggling to decide whether or not to get a puppy. I really wanted Boone, but each time I tried to go and pick him up, I had a panic attack. I worried about how much work he would be and whether or not I'd be able to handle it on my own (Boone predated Sam as a housemate). Sam looked sort of confused by my concern, "The work is the joy," he said.
The work is the joy. The effort and the ease. To give and to receive...Finding balance. Inhale. Exhale.
Namaste.
Thank you for reading my stories.
