Sunday
night I nestle up onto the living room couch, excited for Downton Abbey (I’m emotionally invested in Lady Mary’s romantic
intrigues and delight over the fashion). The opening credits arrive and so does an intense wave of
nausea. Evening plans interrupted. I don’t end up visiting 1920s England, but
revisiting all the foods I had eaten earlier that day as a vindictive stomach
virus wrecks havoc.
When I wake on Tuesday (Monday is
a clammy blur), I feel hollow, achy and sad. It’s a depression that comes with
being ill. Negative and lonely thoughts take hold and without the ability to
change space, or dance around my room to upbeat music, I am more easily swayed
to believe their stories. The stories retell moments of failure, putdowns,
heartaches and disappointments.
I become a victim to their tales
and am only broken free when I hear my chocolate lab howl at the backdoor.
She’s a dog duchess who prefers napping and reigning from her thrown of
blankets on a small trampoline in the kitchen to the cold grass and muddy world
of the backyard. Her wails of impatience push me to let the dog duchess in and
when I do, I am gently greeted by fresh air, the bluest January sky and the
call of geese. Their voices recite a beloved piece of Mary Oliver poetry:
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue
air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the
world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese,
harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place in the family of
things.
The
moment brings peace and ease and grants me full permission to feel how I need
to feel and to trust my body as I recover.
Trust. This is the word that
emerged when caught in the throes of sickness and I was gripped with fear and
panic. “Trust your body” was the answer and a calm would arrive and carry me
through.
Mary
Oliver wisdom on trusting the body has been a subject on this blog before. I
suppose I’m returning to it now because I heard the wild geese call again,
reminding me to actively listen and adhere to my body’s needs.
I carry a lot of fear toward my
body. I believe some of this fear stems from being highly allergic to nuts. In
an allergic reaction, the body irrationally attacks a benign substance. My
childhood is spotted with memories of innocently eating a cookie or even a
piece of fried chicken (the cook thought it’d be gourmet to place slithers of
almonds in the crust) and suddenly, my mouth and throat are swelling, my breath
is jagged, and my body is fighting to rid itself of a self-labeled poison.
These episodes leave me feeling
unsafe in my body and push me to disconnect from my body. I fear the sudden
violence that can be triggered from accidentally eating a hidden pistachio in a
casserole. So, as a natural daydreamer, I escape into my imagination, my
feelings and creative projects.
And then yoga safely guides me to
connect to my body and breathe into the fear.
Trust. Breathe. Courage.
In yoga,
I am astonished by the beauty and strength of my body and learn to practice
compassion toward tension, aches and pains. Fear arises on the mat when I
attempt an inversion or an arm balance that could have me fall flat on my face.
I feel it rise from my heart to the throat and freeze me in mid-action. Yes, fear I know you’re here. Yoga lets
me witness the fear without identifying with it.
Trust. Breathe. Courage. This is the mantra guiding
me through the upchuck episodes and recovery. My thoughts are negative and my
heart is heavy. The thought gremlins know exactly where to pounce and sink
their claws down. “What are you doing
with your life?” “Are you doing enough?” “Why didn’t you get that job?
Then I am reawakened by the call of the wild geese heading to or from
a lake nearby, and I hear the soft wag of my chocolate lab’s tail, and I am
brought back to this time. No matter how achy and grouchy I may be, I am
reaffirmed in my belonging. There’s the small whisper telling me to have faith
and courage on the unfolding journey, to trust myself and breathe.
