I surrender!

 I’m a type-A yoga teacher.
I’ve powered through many things over the years and still taught. 

But this time, despite my constant message to my students of “do no harm,” I see how I’m not walking the talk for myself and I have no choice but to capitulate!

You see, CoVID has kicked my ass! A month ago I was diagnosed with the virus. It flattened me for a good 10 days, I lost my smell and taste and all of my energy.

I slammed vitamin C, D, took echinacea, elderberry syrup, hot ginger tea. I ate oranges and lemon honey tea. I did everything I could to get better. 

And I did. 
Get better.

Then I made the fatal mistake after about two and a half weeks and re-entered life full throttle. I got back to teaching, made calls, went for some walks and talks. Oh, and I started a dance/movement practice in the mornings! (go figure!) By the end of the week, my energy had waned, my lungs were irritated, and I could feel the downward spiral coming.

“Ok, ok, I’ll rest this weekend,” I compromised with the virus. I’d already been suffering from FOMO (fear of missing out) by not being able to get together with the few friends I see for walks. My inner child did not want to be stuck at home as the world opened up and we could DO things – together!

I WANTED to be better. 
I wanted to be healed.
I wanted to feel good.

Well, that’s nice. “But you’re not better,” my inner voice reminded me. 
“You NEED to rest. 
CoVID is kicking your ass and it’s time to sit on the sidelines.”

After a tiny rest stint, I pushed through to teach and immediately felt the repercussions. Achy lungs, and even more tired. 

I could see the future. I’d have to cancel more classes. 
I immediately began negotiating with myself.

“Ok, ok, how about you just teach classes and cancel ALL social contact, phone calls, walks. Keep your energy to teach? How about that?”

I tried it for two days.
Bam. 
Slammed. 
Hit my wall.
Lungs began screaming.
I called the doctor to make an appointment.

And then I realized I was losing the battle. No lungs meant no energy. No energy meant no teaching. Much less tending to the tasks of daily life like making breakfast, feeding my dogs, cleaning my house – which at this point is sub-par in cleanliness.

If I flip the perspective, CoVID is giving me time.

To rest. 
Something I never do.
It’s giving me time to ponder, to read, to watch TV and movies.
To take slow walks.
To contemplate my next version of life.

I have no choice. 
I have to surrender.
Let go.

I can see, I am not in charge!

(the image is from my journal and it’s how my lungs feel)

I've Been Binge Watching TV Shows!

I’ve been binge watching a new TV show and I notice my inner critic is having a field day. 

“You could at least watch something educational.”
“You might want to read a book.”
“What about meditation? Where’s that gone?”

But my rebellious teenager is fighting back:
“Give me a fucking break. 
I’ve had CoVID. 
I’m still tired at night and I don’t want to use my brain. 
So, LEAVE      ME        ALONE!”

She tells me it’s ok to sit around, make hot chocolate and watch hours of How to Get Away with Murder. 
She does it. 
She has no problem wiling away the hours staring at the walls. 

Pondering. 
Thinking. 
Feeling.

The truth is, I really can’t do much at night lately. It’s been three weeks, and I’m back to the daily rituals of cooking, laundry, dog walks and work, which feels like a minor miracle.

When the big C-bug took me down, I could barely move out of bed the first week. Making breakfast was a heroic effort, much less feeding my dogs and then getting ready to nap. I was lucky to get a sunny week, so I spent languorous hours resting in the warm sundrenched rays stretched between my dogs in the backyard, soaking in vitamin D. 

I felt my body relax. I felt my whole being relax. 

Something was changing.
Shifting.

I got some information while resting.
I reflected on how hard I work to make things happen.
How much I try to manipulate results – of my work mainly.

I could feel myself starting to let go.
Let go of how I do things.
Let go of my ideas about how to make things happen.

It felt like the creative process in play. 

It felt exactly like the process of creating a painting. I know that point where I have to let go into the abyss and settle into the discomfort of not knowing. Rest in the place of trusting some outcome that hasn’t arrived.

Yes, that was it. 

Except the creative process was about my life, and the balance of all the parts – my passions, my financial flow, my adventures, my relationships.

I began to ask myself questions like, “What do you REALLY want to do?” “How do you REALLY want to spend your time?”

I’m still in the process. I continue to ask the questions and listen for the answers. I follow intuitive leads and I’m excited about unknown possibilities. 

I have no idea how it will all turn out.
I have no idea where and when those magical moments will happen, but I know they will happen. I know I will land in some new paradigm of my life that will last for a while until some other transformational experience comes along.

So, the TV shows – in the end I trust my intuition to choose and to teach me what I need through the characters, the plot or simply the rest from thinking too much.

Taste This!

Imagine this:

Before you is a beautiful plate of fresh salmon, seared in an iron skillet, cooked through to perfection. The colorful side of stir-fry vegetables almost sings off the plate they are so alive. The combo of broccoli, cauliflower and carrots makes your mouth water. A slice of lemon is perched on the side.

You’re ready. 
You’re almost salivating for this sumptuous meal AND you’re hungry. 

You take the lemon slice and squeeze the juice all over the salmon and vegetables. Then you lift your fork and skewer a mouthful anticipating the fresh decadence.

And then…
Nothing.

No taste. 
You can’t taste any of it. 
Not even with the zing of lemon.

You chew, nonetheless, because that’s what you do with food.
Only the texture of what you’re eating is recognizable.

You suddenly notice there’s no smell either.
No smell. 
No taste.

You realize your dogs no longer smell either.
Nor could you smell the essential oil you put on your wrist earlier.
The cedar chips in a pile outside don’t smell.

Nothing smells.

You finish the meal, because you are hungry, but it feels like you’re eating some virtual food made in some strange place where there’s no flavor and you only eat for the calories, well, because you have to.

You’re not entirely convinced that all is lost, so you go to the cupboard where the chocolate jar lives.  Surely CHOCOLATE must still have a taste. It’s a flavor you know so well. You’ve been testing it for decades, diligently, day after day.

You pop a piece in your mouth.
Waxy.
“No wait,” you say to yourself, “there’s something. Is that a burnt taste?”
No, just waxy.

You try a different brand.
Melty. 

In that moment, life turns bleak.
No smell.
No taste.

No chocolate.

Given your propensity for looking on the bright side, you begin to pray for your smell and taste to return. Suddenly, you desperately want to smell your old dogs, their slightly bad breath, their old dog scent.

You want to be able to do the “sniff” test on your clothes. Should you throw that one in the laundry or can you wear it again? Even more, you want to be able to smell your clean sheets, the essential oil of lavender wafting in the air from your diffuser.

The whole thing begs some questions in your mind.

“Do essential oils work if you can’t smell them?”
“If you lose the sensation of smell is it always a given that taste goes?”
“How will you ever cook again if you can’t smell or taste?”

You know you’ll have to wait it out to see how it all unfolds.
it’s now 13 days in on the CoVID journey and smell and taste continue to be elusive!

So, whoever you are, reading this, enjoy the smells and tastes you’ve got going on, no matter what they are!

Risky Business

We texted about it. 
Masks or no masks in the car?

I’d told him I’d danced outside with a few friends for my birthday just the day before. Told him we’d all been masked. Just wanted to be transparent, I’d said.

He seemed unconcerned.
“No, we’re good,” he’d responded.
“Ok,” I thought to myself. 

So, I did my inner intuitive evaluation – assessed what he’d told me about his life in the short time I’d known him. Seemed like he didn’t see many people, he works alone and the only people he spends time with regularly are his sons. 

I could feel the loosening of my rules to take the risk and get in his car unmasked.

He’d planned a surprise for our second date. (kudos from my inner teenager).
Had asked me if I’m adventurous. 
“As long as it’s not something life threatening, like bunji jumping or parachuting out of a plane, I’m good to go,” I said.

So, when he picked me up in his sleek black car, I jauntily got in, unmasked, ready for some fun. We bantered back and forth, flirtatious energy electrified the air. He got on the freeway, and in Spokane that means you’re going somewhere out of town.

“Are we going to Idaho?” I asked.
He smiled.

This was my only-ever second date in the last six months since I’d dipped my toe into online dating. The few walking dates I’d gone on had been ho-hummers. No, this felt different. Like there was possibility here.

When we reached our destination, I was completely clueless as to what we were doing. It was an unremarkable huge building with no signs. When we stepped through the door I discovered we’d landed at a dirt race car driving track. 

In Idaho.

No one wore a mask.

I felt myself contract. 
I didn’t want to touch anything. 

Helmets lined the counter. I wondered if they were sanitized in between clients. I wondered if the people who worked there washed their hands often. 

I felt like I was traveling in a foreign country and that I didn’t know the rules and it didn’t feel safe.

My “nice girl” kicked in right away to cover. She walked me through protocol: “You’re here now. There’s nothing you can do. Make the most of it.” And with that, I went full tilt into denial.

I doubled down on fun, because after all, I “couldn’t do anything about this, and I didn’t want to disappoint the man I’d just had one walking date with and didn’t know from Adam.”

When the man behind the counter gave me something resembling a black ski mask to pull over my head before putting on the helmet, I thought, “seriously? This is going to kill the hair,” which I verbalized to my date and told him, “Your loss. You’re going to have to look at me.”

But once in the little race car, and once I got the feel of it after a few rounds, I went into full on competitive mode. “I’m going to KICK YOUR ASS in this race,” I thought. And I DID!

My denial allowed for fun. Which I needed for the second part of the date when we drove to an Idaho restaurant where no one wore masks either. It was like stepping back in time.

My date and I chatted over grilled fish and vegetables, neither one of us having ordered wine. I could tell he’d really tried to create a fun, interesting, unique date. And he did. We had a good time. 

So, when he drove me home, we sat in the car talking for another twenty minutes or so and I was grateful for his efforts. Though I was still aware of the niggling feeling that I hadn’t spoken up, hadn’t voiced my concerns of discomfort. I was disappointed in myself that I regressed to the young woman who doesn’t want to “rock the boat” even if it might cause her harm in the end.

We closed the night with a hug and the hope of a third date.

Then he called a few days later to tell me his son was positive for CoVID. He told me he would be getting tested. A day later, I was symptomatic.

Two days later I tested positive for CoVID.