This week marked the 8th year of my Father's passing.  He was a funny, generous and complex man who treasured his family.  My childhood memories are filled with all of us out on boats, at the beach, working in the yard and playing in the pool.  

I wrote this story when he was in the hospital with cancer. It is an example of the power of Chakra Five and the impact of each moment can have in our lives.   I share it with all of you in memory of my Dad.

The letter read:   

 “Dear Boo,

Your father called me last night and told me there was a problem.  He mentioned that you have a snowman friend that was melting away in warm weather and asked if I could help. I owe your father a favor or two so I sent some of my elves down to rescue Mr. Carrot Nose.  We invited him here to the North Pole where it never gets too warm for snowmen.  Here they live forever.  I am sure he and Frosty will be good friends.

Keep being good!

Santa”

I don’t know what I remember for sure. It seems memories are pieced together with photographs and other people’s stories.  We cling to what we need to be true and not necessarily what is true. But I have my letter and with it I can imagine my father sitting at the green, formica, kitchen table writing. I see him out on the front lawn in the middle of the night leveling that snowman.  He ran his company all day, waited for his kids to fall asleep then removed Mr. Carrot Nose so that his little girl would stop crying. He dug out a circle where my snowman’s round bottom sat.  I like to remember that there were tiny elf footprints and a trail that led to the magic sled, and that somewhere in my dreams that night I heard sleigh bells.

Late March is not a time when you get storms but we woke up that morning to find inches upon inches of snow in the yard. It was the biggest blizzard I had ever experienced.  I was five.  My two older brothers and I sat by the radio listening to the alphabetized school cancellation list.  Waiting. Waiting to get to the “M’s”. Malden, Medford, MELROSE.  We cheered.  

We sat on the ledge of the bay window and watched our neighbors dig themselves out of their homes. My dad climbed out of the living room window so he could shovel out the porch door. For three days the only way to get around was by sled or if you were lucky, a snowmobile. My family was home for those three days.  We did lots of things we usually couldn’t.  We ate cookies for breakfast and slept on mattresses that dad carried down from the bedrooms and placed in front of the fireplace.  Even the dog slept there with us instead of on his shag rug remnant in the kitchen corner. 

That day the five of us built a snowman, not just any snowman but Mr. Carrot Nose. I was in charge of the name. I wasn’t great with names. He was a sturdy and tightly packed white giant. He stood about six feet high and was the clean, white color that only new snow can be; the kind of white that is blue. Mom attached a broom to one of his arms, gave him a hat and scarf and placed three black felt buttons on his chest. I waited for him to move. 

One by one my dad hoisted us upon the icy shoulders.  My oldest brother posed to be a good sport. My middle brother held both his arms out as if he were flying.  I wonder what the two of them think when they look at their photos of that single moment.  I have few pictures where I look into my eyes and remember what I thought. 

When my father held out his hands to hoist me up, I backed up and my eyes filled with tears. I could feel my blood pulse and for one split second I could not move. Everything froze except my hands, which raced toward my face to cover my eyes. I was afraid of heights and didn’t want to sit up there alone. It was the same dread I would feel when I would fall asleep on the couch and my father would carry me up to bed. I would clamp my eyes shut as he walked up the staircase.  It was a long, narrow stairwell and I would panic with the thought of falling backwards. Over and over in my mind I would see him lose his footing and the two of us would tumble. So I would bury my face on my father’s shoulders and know that, if it were to happen, he would break the fall. 

Mr. Carrot’s shoulders held no such promise. 

My father knelt in front of me and tapped his fingers on the pink mittens that covered my face. I made a small window to see him. “What do we always say?” He asked with a smile and a wink. My fear melted away. I returned the wink and reached up to let him lift me high onto the giant’s shoulders. I was proud of how brave I could be and smiled into the camera.  The picture captured a rare moment for me.  

My mother climbed up next and as my father snapped the photo, she fell.  The snowy head broke free from those icy shoulders and started to tumble to the ground along with my mother. I don’t know exactly what happened because I could only see pink but I heard my father voice saying what he always said.  “Its ok, I’ve got you.” 

My favorite hour is between five and six in the morning.  It’s my time to sit and chat with my dad and have him to myself. I always wanted to share this time of day with him; the hour he would wake up for work. I recall the few times I awakened to keep him company but he would send me back to bed so I would curl up under my covers smelling the perking coffee and his constant smoldering cigarettes. I knew the routine. I would hear the shower start and stop. I listened for the tap tap tap of the razor hitting the sink while he shaved. The smell of Aramis wafted into my room while he dressed.  I deciphered the muffled whispers of his conversation with my mother until finally the heavy footsteps of his work boots led him out the kitchen door. 

Now, many years later, we sit quietly. There is no hustle for work. I tell him my plans for the day and he smiles and nods. I look in his eyes and think I know what he feels.

I long for the smell of his cologne to replace the smells of the hospital room.

I startle when the nurse knocks at the door.  I look up surprised to find that it is time for her shift already. She is a tiny woman and she seems to sing when she speaks. “Good morning” she chirps.

My dad gives me a wink and a smile and I give his hand a squeeze.  It is warm, not like Mr. Carrot Nose.  I lean down to kiss his cheek and tell him I will be back later in the day.  His skin has turned yellow and his muscles are weak. His body is reduced to lumps under the white sheet. 

I look back at the nurse performing her routines. Her pug nose wrinkles and her blue eyes laugh as she talks to my father. She flutters around the room and I notice how elfin she is.  I watch her unwrap gauze. I wish she were wrapping presents.

If only she had a magic sled and could take my father away, somewhere in the middle of the night, where sleigh bells ring and no one can melt away.

The tradition continues. My son and my dog Natick with the Grandson of Mr. Carrot Nose.

“Mama, I feel bad that we killed this chicken.” My son glances down at the teriyaki wings on his Spongebob Squarepants plate. 

“Well.” I answer hoping to avoid the discussion, “We didn’t kill it sweetie, a farmer did. We just bought it…and cooked it…” My son serves me a blank stare. 

Suddenly, I am aware of a second set of eyes. Spongebob fixes his steely gaze.  I add, “Sometimes I feel bad too. Maybe if we thank the chicken, it will make us feel better.” The toothy, yellow cartoon mumbles “hypocrite;” and I reposition a pile of mashed potatoes over his face.

But in my heart, I know Spongebob is right. I teach my son that we can learn from every creature, not to kill spiders or step on ants, and that our dog has feelings, too. Our birdfeeders overflow during the winter months, I fantasize about stalking local hunters while clutching my husband’s crossbow, still, we lunch at Fuddruckers. 

I was a vegetarian for a while, but never learned to prepare meals. I ate bagels with peanut butter and gained ten pounds. I feel guilty about eating animals. I deny my part in the horrible life they endure and the ways it destroys the planet. (According to some studies; eating one pound of meat emits the same amount of greenhouse gasses as driving an SUV 40 miles.)

Ahimsa (non-violence) is one of the Eight Limbs of Patanjali. Do no harm to any creature in thought, word or deed. Many yogis believe that ahimsa is the highest virtue so a vegetarian or even vegan lifestyle is imperative.

A friend found a way to balance the karmic scale. She is fond of saying, “Vegetables are what my food eats.” She believed that she would reincarnate up to ten times as veal. “It’s perfect” she says, “You have a short life, people feed you milk and massage you. You never exercise and then, BAM; somebody hits you over the head and the score is even!”

My boy finished his wings and stands on his chair at the sink along side me.  We watch a crimson cardinal feasting at the birdfeeder while we wash dishes; I hear the nasal voice of Spongbob, “It is written in the Dharma Sutras that the slaughter of animals obstructs the way to heaven.”

I shove the plastic plate into the dishwasher, start the cycle, and mumble back-- Spongebob, smarty pants.

I am cleaning out my basement. I clutch my box of Hefty Unltra-flex Garbage Bags, inhale the musty aroma and repeat the mantra – it’s good to let go.

Feng Shui says, what we amass reveals something about our inner health; old letters and photographs prove that we are loved and befriended.  Heaps of things that might “come in handy” signal a lack faith in the future. 

Equally important is where we accumulate our clutter. If our basement is brimming, we may cling to the past and the subconscious mind weighs us down. An overcrowded attic restricts high aspirations. Jam-packed junk rooms represent the experiences we haul, and constrains choices for our future.

I unearthed achievements from old newspapers and unopened gifts that I kept out of guilt. I exhumed the exalted size four jeans, with a hole in one knee. I stumbled over my college textbooks; their bindings as pristine as the day I purchased them.

I came across a 1995 instruction manual for the telephone system, where I was an office temp in between acting jobs.  That reminds me, my agent hasn’t called in seven years.

One plastic vault revealed documents that may tie my family to Sicilian royalty. My grubby baseball hat is a feeble proxy for my tiara.

The home reflects the spirit.  The list of things that need repair, and the objects we cling to for security or status-- drain us of Prana. 

I am not so enlightened that I can let go of all my memorabilia but choices strengthen my connection to the things I decide to keep.

The day I entered my first yoga class I was under the impression that I had something to acquire; a fit body, a spiritual path, like-minded friends.  But I have not attained, I have let go; releasing beliefs that do not serve me.

Yoga creates space, which allows us to receive, process and offer energy-- unencumbered by fear. Inside this sacred space we can develop the faith that we will be provided for and cherished without the aid of material things.

Practice letting go; you may not discover a jewel-encrusted crown but you might find that you are a princess on garbage day

I recently undertook the exercise of writing what yoga means to me in 100 words.  It was a meaningful exercise. The constraint of 100 words helped distill the truth.  I thought I would share it with you.  Maybe some of you will write your "yoga bio" and share it.   

Yoga began for me as the respite from the physical celebration of performance. I was a musical theatre actor in New York City. Life in the theatre requires fortitude: demeaning auditions, eight shows a week, strained vocal cords. Yoga replenished me.

My father died, I left New York,  I married and had my beautiful son, all in short time. Yoga is now a celebration of all my life, integrating both the physical and ethereal into a higher form of self-expression.

Yoga is no longer a respite but a daily devotion,  and the place where I choose to imagine my life.

(100 words)

It’s been a tough week here at our house.  I had my ACL surgery on Thursday and have been on crutches since.   My son came down with the croup on Saturday night and spent most of the week with a fever, ear infection and nasty cough.  So that leaves my husband to nurse us all.  He has played the role of driver, foot rubber, cook, comfort maker, and bus boy-- suffering all of the subtle indignities of the sole caretaker without complaint. 

Our son has been on antibiotics for a few days and hates them. They have given him an upset stomach and other unpleasant side effects. Lets just say I have been using a lot of Bert’s Butt Cream on my poor little boy.

It takes a bribe of chocolate milk or a chocolate cookie as reward.  Last night, without us noticing, he left the room to take the anti-biotic liquid from the little plunger.  He did it without a grumble and returned looking for a chocolate covered pretzel.  It all happened so smoothly that I had to ask him if he was telling me the truth. 

“Yes, I drank it,” he responded with no defensiveness.  My husband and I caught each other’s wary eye.

“Tell us the truth please,” I said.

 “I am telling you the truth,” he responded, again without guilt.

The next morning, I was hobbling around the kitchen.  The click-click-click of the crutches on the wood floors was now as familiar as the Christmas music.  I balanced on my crutches and managed to get the medicine measured out, and the chocolate milk into a sippy cup.   My son once again took the small plunger into another room.

“Can you please make sure he is taking the medicine?” I asked my husband. “If I go he will hear me coming and if he is pouring it out somewhere I want to know.”

My driver, foot rubber, waiter, comfort maker and bus boy, thanks to me, was now an unwitting participant, my spy,--an agent provocateur. My suspicions triggered something in my husband’s mind.  “Last night” he said “I saw a streak of some white stuff on the blanket in his bed. Let me go and check it out”

He found our son sitting in front of the television, medication in-hand.  He supervised the intake of antibiotics and asked our son to come upstairs to his bedroom. 

“Is this the medicine that your Mama gave you -- here on the bed?”  He asked with a calm and serious tone. 

“Yes,” our son said. “I did that.”

“Why would you squirt the medicine from the plunger onto the bed?”

“No, I didn’t do that”

“You just said that you did it. Look, it’s the same color” he swipes his finger across the blanket and brings it to his nose. “It smells the same.” He puts the tip of his finger on his tongue.  “It even tastes the same.”  He pauses.  “Act-u-a-lly, it doesn’t taste the same.” He tastes the plunger again and looks down at the white smudge on the bed.  “What is that stuff?”

“That’s the Butt Cream Mama put on me, and when I sat on the bed some of it came off.”  My husband stood there with the plunger in one hand, a dollop of butt cream on the other. Our son laughed and pointed up at my deputy spy,  “Silly Daddy, you ate it.”

May we all have true faith this Holiday Season, the courage to believe the best in all people, especially our family members, even the littlest ones.