“Hey Mama, look!  That roller coaster is running after us!”

I lift my head off the black leather headrest and open my eyes.  He is talking about the Tobin Bridge in the distance.  We are in the carpool lane headed to South Station.

“Oh, I see. You’re right; it does look like a roller coaster, but it’s a bridge and it’s not moving with us.  Eyes play tricks sometimes."

He laughs. “I thought there was a carnival over there.” My five-year-old son explores the cavernous back seat of the sedan, which he named “the fancy car”.

We are on an improvised adventure to New York City. We have a hotel near Times Square, tickets to Mary Poppins, and no place else to be for two days. 

We get on the train, settle in and the conductor makes an announcement: “We are approaching 150 miles per hour. This is what is feels like folks.”

My boy watches the trees change to a green blur. 

“Mom, can Lightening McQueen go this fast?”

I smile, “Lightening is a cartoon. He isn’t a real car.”

He lays his head in my lap and breathes. I stroke his hair until he falls asleep.

He is quiet when we arrive and I wonder if he is in groggy from the trip or in awe of the city. We lunch under the golden statue in Rockefeller Center. He tosses pennies in and makes wishes. We immerse ourselves into FAO Schwartz and ride back to our hotel on a bicycle taxi to take a rest before we go to the theater.  We bounce on the bed and sing Chim Chimney. 

It is 8 PM. The lights dim. We share a rush of anticipation. The orchestra swells into its first song. He climbs onto my lap to see more.

The hotel is two blocks away so we walk back. Blinking lights surround us and people swirl past. We hold hands and look up through the skyscrapers into the dark sky.

I pushed passed by the gawking tourists with a huff when I lived in New York; they slowed my frantic pace. Now, I held his small hand, watched him mesmerized by the chaos.  I felt I saw it for the first time. 

“Mom” He says, “We don’t have carnivals like this at home”. 

We stood on the corner of 42^nd and Broadway and no one could budge us.

Finally, tucked into bed we call Daddy.  He is stuck an extra day in Haiti and wishes he were with us.  We say good night, turn out the lights and he snuggles under my arm. I remind him that his dad is trying to make the world better.

 “Which direction is Daddy in?” he whispers.

I point, “He is that way.”

He kisses his hand and blows. “You think that will reach him?”

“I believe it will.”

“Mom, this is the greatest adventure ever.”

In the morning, we watch the singers do a sound check in Bryant Park, and I recall the day I sang in their Broadway Summer Series.  I had just met my husband and invited him to watch. I could not have imagined then, that one-day our son would chase pigeons there. 

Now I imagine his kiss travels through walls, across the night sky to another country, and finds his father’s cheek and just as Mary Poppins said "Anything can happen...If you let it."

Back on the train, I stare at his open, beautiful face and picture the man he will grow up to be.  I wonder how and where he will uncover this memory-- of the summer he turned five, holding his mom’s hand under the big city light and seeing Mary Poppins fly? 

My son sees carnivals everywhere, and believes that roller coasters can run. He points to the houses in the distance. “Hey mom. Look. I see Bert the Chimney Sweep.”

I squeeze his hand. “I see him, too, dancing across the roofs.”  

Rumi, the 13^th century Sufi, wrote, “This being human is a guesthouse, every morning a new arrival. A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor. Welcome and entertain them all.”

I held a yoga workshop in my garden last Sunday. Some old and new friends sat with me on moss and grass sheltered by two ancient shaggy barked hickory trees that have graced our home for a hundred years.  

My ingenious husband tucked a garden hose into leafy low branches, and set it to mist. The sun’s rays made a small rainbow and then another; the breeze carried the spray onto our skin before delighting the short stalks in our cornfield. A hawk screeched her song, my new puppy, Harry, slept on cool dirt under a blue spruce; crimson flowers swirled in a humid breeze.

The theme of the workshop was clearing out clutter, letting go of that which does not serve, nurturing faith in the abundance around us and uncovering our highest self.

We reflected upon our habits of acquiring things that clutter our lives. Clutter stunts growth, anchors dreams and aspirations. It is most apparent in our homes, but it affects our bodies, thought patterns and even our emotional life.

A physical injury imprints our muscle memory, and our bodies compensate to protect the area long after it has healed. It takes a concerted and conscious effort to gently release our muscles. The idea applies to the way we think and feel, too.

We hold on to heartbreak, also, to shield against future blows.  Anahata, the Heart Chakra, is weighed down with grudges, judgments and sadness. These memories impede relationships and become part of our identity.

A crisis is, sometimes, a signal that we need to let go of something: beliefs, habits, labels or attitudes that no longer serve us. Enlightenment is not about acquiring anything; it is the letting go. What we require is with us all the time, perhaps buried under layers of pains, old grievances, and judgments that no longer have meaning.

Rumi added, “Even if they are a crowd of sorrows who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture. Still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight.”

Letting go is frightening, but we are more than the sum of our past experiences. By releasing that which does not serve us, by doing so with awareness and grace, we open up to new possibilities, and begin to reveal our highest self.

Children are our mirrors.  They often reflect our deep-seated beliefs and fears and can teach us who we are.

Today is Easter Sunday.  Our boy drags my husband and me out of bed at 5:50 because it was “too exciting to sleep.” We explore the house and discover half eaten carrots and a purple basket filled with dinosaurs, knickknacks and chocolate. The frenzy subsides and we find ourselves in a quiet moment sharing our coffee and chocolate milk on the couch.  I asked him “Are you happy with your Easter basket?” “Yeah,” he sighed. 

But, he doesn’t seem happy; he seems exasperated.  I ask him why he answered that way, and he responds “Because, you keep asking.” 

He showed me that I was not present in this moment. I was dredging up my own childhood stories, joyful and sorrowful, and serving them to him in a purple, confetti-filled basket.

I learn a lot from the things my boy says. I am a student of his unjaded awareness. I admire his perceptions, the way he expresses his thoughts with his very grownup words, and every day, he makes me laugh.

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I have not been able to practice yoga for three months because of my knee injury. As a result, I have trouble sitting still or focusing on anything for long. Restlessness washes over me, and pulls my attention away from singular moments, to make a note about what I shouldn’t forget, to fold laundry or return messages.

A friend sent me a link to a barn owl warming her eggs.  A stream of video images capture her eating, sleeping, and tending to her nest. This beautiful creature, named Molly, sits still, nurturing and guarding her five eggs.  

Her mate, Mcgee, arrives on occasion to bring her a gift of a rabbit or field mouse; for the most part, she sits in solitude. Twice a day she leaves her nest to stretch her wings, but her excursions are brief. She sits serenely; her breathing is rhythmic and profound. Now and then, she opens her round black eyes and stares directly into the camera as if to communicate that she understands we are watching. She allows us to become voyeurs of nature.

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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.

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