Yoga, one of my teacher training instructors often said, is about radical self-acceptance. Whatever the loss or limitation: self-acceptance.
A challenge when that limitation shows and strangers’ eyes register Not Normal as they stare. I’m reminded daily – at the grocery store, doing errands – that one leg doesn’t quite work right, isn’t within the standard. I might rise above it, describe it in a personal ad as “Gimpy but cute,” but my point is . . . no, my points are:
Here’s a travel log, complete with pics, from my recent bicycle trip to Switzerland.
http://www.limyoga.com/swiss_ride/
What’s not in the story is an expression of how grateful I am, not only to my captain and fellow stoker, but to my friends as well. You were there on the ride with me, particularly when the going got tough.
One place a friend showed up was after I blamed the wacky European cobblestone sidewalks for causing me to trip (though it was less than graceful, I did remain upright!). I thought of Al. He’d have enjoyed the humor, as I noticed when I glanced down, that the path I was walking was paved. Hmmm, seems the PD had more to do with my vertical challenge than what was underfoot. Stumbles strikes again.
A few nights, when PD’s insomnia kept me from sleep, my husband stayed awake to keep me company. We shared stories of childhood where Julie and Suzanne featured prominently in the musings,even long after my husband dozed off.
And when the meds waned, I’d rest a while with my sketchbook, considering how Shelley might draw a scene. I actually rather enjoyed sitting with her until the rigidity eased.
I’ll think back on the Swiss Family Fred adventure and smile at the music of the cowbells and the dance that my taste buds did at every bakery. I’ll recall with pride the power my legs, PD or not, contributed to the climbs, the 250 miles. I’ll also remember that when the challenges of travel showed up, as they will with or without a chronic disease, I got by with a little help from my friends.
I’m sitting on a roof deck overlooking the tailored grounds of a Twelfth Century pillared building, lit by a street lamp below me. Roses and geraniums adorn it’s entry, leading into one of numerous art museums in Winterthur, Switzerland. At 1:27 am, it is closed.
It is not because of jet lag that sleep eludes me. That has come and gone. After days of cycling through the Alps, I’ve adjusted to the time switch (which is now 2:00 am, according to the magical gong of Swiss church bells).
This body exhaustion-brain wired state of insomnia reflects the strongest of my PD symptoms. Travel tends to feed into it even more.
But I’m not willing to give up exploring the land, culture, food of different places. No, PD takes too much as it is, I’m handing over the old bell tower that was our inn the night we rode into Sedrum, nor the winding trails though sheep pastures walled by peaks that spike into the clouds. Every village we pedaled into featured buttery pastries; each town spire chimed the time.
On the trip over, there was a girl two rows back who launched into wails and kicking. The screaming did subside, sometimes for only moments, sometimes longer.
Travel with PD is a bit like boarding a plane with a toddler. They cry. They cry at home, too. So why not travel? Try to keep them comfortable and enjoy those quiet moments between screams that are filled instead with the sound of church bells.
Additions to my gratitude list:
- crickets at night
- gum
- charcoal pencils
- fiddlehead ferns
- the sparkle of last night’s raindrops in early morning sun
- the clusters of four-petaled white-flowered weeds sprouting up in my yard, and how they’re always surrounded by others, never just one out there alone.
If, a year ago, someone told me that I’d be spending my Wednesday mornings sketching nudes, I’d have pleaded to mow the lawn instead. Maybe take out the trash.
I’ve never been a student behind an easel, never even stood at an easel for that matter. The mention of a charcoal pencil sent my mind into a chatter fest of excuses not to draw or, heavens, paint. I remember I trembled. And worried. How could I possibly produce something that wouldn’t be clumsy and inept?
When my first symptoms of PD grew too strong to hide, I became that frightened student again, wishing for another diagnosis the way I’d preferred to have done chores. Again, I trembled and felt clumsy and inept.
Four years later, something magical has happened. I picked up a paintbrush and it felt good. I now grin the entire time at an art store replenishing yellow ochre and stocking up on sketchpads.
Now, I stand behind the easel in class and I’m absorbed in what my eyes see and translate to my fingers. It fascinates me when I step back and discover what has emerged on the page.
More than the product – either sketch or painting – I am entirely present in each moment of the process. Fear doesn’t exist. Inadequacy is gone. For those two hours each week, I am not a person with PD. I am not tall or short or blonde or nearsighted. I’m simply there, in that room, bearing witness to what I see.
It’s no surprise that I’m no longer concerned about what might appear on the paper or what I might look like to passersby when my symptoms show, when my meds are off or a tremor sneaks into my thumb.
Art class has taught me about life. Reminds me of yoga.
Just saw a new one to me (and I like it):
Parkinson’s is a word not a sentence.
April is Parkinson’s Disease Awareness Month.
Any of us with Parkinson’s are already well aware of the disease. That must mean that April is our stretch of thirty days to publicly whine and curse and . . .
Oh, wait. No. I’m thinking that this month might be better spent finding ways to:
- share treatment and support information with those who are newly diagnosed.
- focus on exercise, nutrition and well-being for ourselves and our families.
- educate others about the disease to help dissuade misconceptions and fears.
- learn about the latest research: knowledge is power.
- consider taking part in a clinical trial.
- maintain a sense of humor.
- keep practicing your yoga.
- stay connected to one another.
An occasional whine is okay, too.
Namaste.
I’m a Facebook junkie. I post. I read recent posts. I send messages, upload photos, visit walls. I like how I can keep up-to-date with my nieces or college friends, logging in at any time of day, even at the insomnia hour between 3:00 and 4:00 am.
Something yogic exists in the in-the-moment aspect of reading and writing FB posts. I feel I’ve been invited to share where someone goes, what his or her current status is, what’s going on.
A letter from my niece, Kate, however, is shedding light on my view. A letter, yes. The kind written by hand with a pen on sheets of paper, folded into an envelope that carries a stamp and gets delivered by actual post to a real mailbox with a hinged metal door.
The difference between posts and the letter I received by post, besides the tactile feel of holding the words Kate wrote, derives from the words themselves. The sentences express more than a quick rehash of what my niece has been up to. I could tell she’d taken her time, thought about what she wanted to say, mulled it over, and shared with me not so much the week’s high and low points but how she felt about them. The yogic quality of this letter taps in to her moments but also to an awareness and a witnessing of her life in those moments.
My new yogic view of reading my FB home page is that it’s akin to holding a pose, both call on immediate and focused attention. Reading Kate’s letter, however, compares more to yogic breathing. Both bring a depth of mindfulness to the immediate moment.
Oh, I’ll still log in to my FB page daily, just as I work on various poses each day. I will also pause to consider, breathe in life’s energy, allow thoughts to flow on to paper. I will write more letters.
For years, I’ve been a fan of Gary Kraftsow’s work with therapeutic yoga. I borrow from his books to share poses with students in my classes. His workshops sound so appealing, so targeted to my personal practice as well as to my teaching. Unfortunately, they tend to take place on the other coast.
Imagine my delight when I discovered he’ll be on this side of the country, offering a three-day intensive for teachers at the Yoga Journal Conference. I pored over the description for the course. While every joint in my body knew this would be a good match for me, those same joints reminded me that three full days would be too much for them.
How ironic that an intensive on the healthy benefits of yoga would be too intense for my PD body, putting my health at risk. Ahimsa, I thought. Be compassionate toward that PD body and find a path.
I pored over the brochure again and settled on one day. I emailed Lyn, who works with Gary Kraftsow, and explained my situation. She replied that Gary had no problem with me attending for just one day.
The reply from Yoga Journal was not as understanding. We’re not set up for that, the email stated. Try back again in a few weeks.
I wrote back a few weeks later. No answer.
I phoned. Same response. If the workshop fills up, the woman said, and I’m signed up for only one day, it’s not fair to someone who wants to sign up for three days.
Why is it fair, I wondered, that I wait to sign up for one day to see if an able-bodied person signs up for all three? Who is to judge that what I’d bring back to my students with movement disorders after one day is less than what someone would glean from attending all three?
Satya, I thought. My mind didn’t want to go there. But I couldn’t help but wonder if the truth for YJ – what’s not “fair” to them – is they’d would miss out on two-day’s fees if I were to fill a slot for one day.
I’m left with a melancholy seeping throughout my body. The top-selling publication on all that is yoga is, pun intended here, inflexible. And possibly untruthful. And just as possibly in it not for the sharing of ideas but for the profit.
The more I dip into my paints and, more recently, mark curves and shadows in charcoal, I’m learning that art is about observation.
In the class I’m taking, I and five other students are sketching nude models. But actually, what we’re doing is observing, noticing light and curves and how parts of the body relate to each other in space. It’s like yoga on paper. And, like yoga, I’m learning that it is in the interpretation that beauty emerges.
I came across an article about Leonardo da Vinci. The great artist and observer of anatomy watched people and wrote his perceptions in notebooks. In one entry, da Vinci’s words describe people with what is considered today to be symptoms of Parkinson’s:
“Those who . . . move their trembling parts, such as their heads or hands . . . without permission of the soul.”
Leave it to da Vinci to interpret so beautifully.