Letting Yesterday Be

(c) 2011 Christiana Lambert

When I was a child, I often listened to my father and his parents talking. They spent a lot of time in the past. I used to think how great it would be to be able to say “ten years ago” or “twenty years ago” in my conversations.

Oh, I’m up to “forty years ago” and plus these days, but saying that isn’t as fun as I imagined. Not that a lot of great things haven’t happened in those years, but too much time in yesterday takes away from today and the tomorrows we might possibly have.

Good (bad!) grief, if we’re not careful with how we spend our days, we can end up as jaded and disillusioned as Macbeth:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Macbeth chose to hasten death for others and, ultimately, for himself. However, we have the power to choose to be life-affirming, both for ourselves and for others.

Yesterday has the power to steal from whatever else remains if we let it do so. Sometimes, how we have let our yesterdays change us is a choice. When we have earned our scars, do we start to assume that’s all the future brings? Do we react toward new challenges as if they are the same as the old ones or as if we learned nothing the first time around?

That’s the tension I feel these days with yesterday. If I’m not careful, I forget the hope I had before 2008 or even that it’s possible to find it again. Not every day do I forget, but enough so that I know that my connection to yesterdays reduces my sense of possibility.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to fake living until dusty death overtakes me. Not really.

So I have to keep fighting my perception of yesterday as well as keep reminding myself to remember what I can and cannot control about now. I am not in charge of others’ hope, other than providing them encouragement and help along their way. But ultimately, like Macbeth, we all have to choose for ourselves whether or not to let our yesterdays define the tomorrows of our days.

It’s up to each of us to make sure that our life stories are neither told by an idiot, nor full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. This is all we get in this life and I don’t want to waste my choices as Macbeth did. No, for me, I must remember to keep that flame burning and not fret the wax melting down the sides of the candle until someone greater than I says my wick has burned to its end.

Today’s yoga class reminded me again why I really go. The teacher usually starts class by asking what people need to address so she can choose poses and the style best suited to the current day. Today one woman asked for help with stress, which meant many poses we did were designed to help us release our emotions, thoughts, and/or bodies.

Periodically, the teacher explains to us that the purpose of doing yoga is to feel joy. One of the biggest ways to feel joy is to let go of what has hurt us in the past—and sometimes our emotions are so deeply embedded in us that only by releasing our muscles can we begin to let go of our yesterdays. Letting be and letting go frees us to pursue the joy in our remaining todays and tomorrows.

Let it be so with my heart, mind, body, and spirit.

“Z” Had to Be ZUMBA!

(c) 2012 Trina Lambert

Yes, I may have had a hard time sticking to plan on almost all of the letters in this A to Z Blogging Challenge, but I always knew I would finish by writing about ZUMBA. (I do know that “Y” is missing so, technically, I did not finish with “Z”–oh well!)

Although ZUMBA fitness has been around since 2001, these days ZUMBA is the hot, hot, hot fitness craze—and not just because you get really hot while doing it! For me—being the local gym rat that I am (see my “Re-Creation Center” post)—my knowledge of ZUMBA started when I saw a sign advertising a new class coming to my center in August 2009. I’ve been dancing ever since.

I have always loved dancing, even though my formal dancing days were brief and limited to what was available in my Nebraska town of 600. The only choices we had were whether or not to do whatever activities someone was willing to teach in whatever space . For me, that means I learned tumbling, baton twirling, tap dancing, and Hawaiian dancing in a community center and/or school gym, not in a dance studio.

And as much as I learned to love dance, I still suffered a lot of anxiety about performing. In fact, though I would tell you I “retired” at eight because of the growing pains in my back and because I just wanted to have a chance to watch Saturday morning cartoons, I really, really didn’t want to continue if it meant dancing with the group in a scheduled TV performance in a larger close-by town.

At least I now had time to watch American Bandstand with my newfound free time, which was helpful since my friends and I played “American Bandstand” games more than we ever played “school” together.

I often regretted how my eight-year-old performance anxiety stopped my formal instruction, but I didn’t really stop dancing. Cheerleading, a class in Spain, a class at my own college, Jazzercise, and dancing informally whenever I got the chance followed.

Still, for several years the only dancing I did regularly happened in my mind during savasana in yoga. But what a dancer I became in those last minutes of class, twice a week, over a period of four years.

I think my heart knew what I truly needed to become mindful: dance.

You see, I love what yoga has done for my mind and body, but for the most part, I have to work hard to keep my mind from wandering off in classes. I have to push away those “to-do” list thoughts, the worries about loved ones, the meanderings away from where I am right then.

Not in ZUMBA. In ZUMBA I am just dancing. No matter what is happening in my life, I forget it once the songs begin. Even more than the desire to teach or feel better physically, I know that I want my body to heal so I can self-medicate my mind through ZUMBA.

The tagline for ZUMBA is “Ditch the workout—join the party!” but I think of it more like the words from that song “Get Happy”:

Forget your troubles and just get happy . . .

“Z” really stands for happy in the moment with ZUMBA—for me.

U=Ultraswoopy

(c) 2010 Christiana Lambert

Yeah, I knew you’d like that one! I just didn’t want to write about a normal word, plus many “U” words start with “un”—which means you are defining a word based upon what it isn’t—which seems negative. So after striking out with the dictionary, I brought out the Dictionary of American Slang, 4thEdition (Collins, 2007, Eds Kipfer and Chapman) which I knew would not fail me, unless it failed because it could not offer an expression I could use in a family-friendly blog!

Ultraswoopy: adj Very fast: a down-sized, hitech, ultraswoopy model next year (1970s+) (See pg. 535 of paperback edition.)

However, I’m not talking about models of anything—I’m talking about people and their walking styles.

Before I got injured last year, I didn’t really amble much. Oh sure, if I walked dogs, I didn’t keep a consistently brisk pace, but when I knew where I wanted to go in my house, outside, or in other places, I was one brisk walker. I walked purposefully—sometimes so much so that I almost walked into automatic doors before they opened.

Guess what? I’ve had to stop myself lately so that I am not that idiot who walks into a closed door. And, it’s more because I am walking faster than the door is programmed to open than because I am not paying attention.

For almost a year now I’ve had to ask people to slow down when we are walking together. In fact, for a couple months, if I strode out more than six inches or so at time, then I would cry out involuntarily as the pain shooting down to my left foot literally stopped me in my tracks. It’s hard to walk in an ultraswoopy manner when your stride is barely longer than one of your feet!

Although I moved past being that hobbled long ago, I was still struck with annoying numbness that moved down to my right foot, even quicker when I did amble than when I walked briskly. Either way, though, eventually my stride got shorter and shorter despite being able to start walking using my regular stride-length.

The numbness is becoming less and less obvious which is why I can pick up the pace. Sometimes I almost forget there is anything hard about walking around while doing my daily business—whether that means running up and down the stairs in my house, shopping for groceries, or walking through that automatic door to get to my exercise classes.

If that’s so, can it be long before these ultraswoopy feet start running again? True, I haven’t been an ultraswoopy runner for years, but if I am just able to jog slowly again, that will mean I am more ultraswoopy than much of the population of my, ahem, age group.

Even then, I don’t think I will be as fast on my feet as one of my clients who is a 70-something, former college baseball player. From my window I see him park across the street from my house and before I can make it to my door—even pre-injury—he is ringing my doorbell. Now there’s an ultraswoopy walker—imagine just how ultraswoopy he was at 2nd base during his glory days.

My glory days have passed, too, but that doesn’t mean I can’t return to challenging automatic doors with my ultraswoopy walking pace.

Slushy Spring Skiing

(c) 2012 Sherman Lambert

Today we played hooky and took off to ski. We’ve had a hard time scheduling a family skiing day despite the fact we still had four ski tickets to use. However, the snow is rapidly melting, even quicker than most Aprils.

Christiana came home so we could get in one more day on skis together. We knew better than to expect great snow, though, so we just slept in, ate a good breakfast, and took our time getting up and onto the hill.

Sometimes it’s also just nice to soak up the sun on the chairlift and take your time getting down the slope. Oh wait, I’m the one who takes my time because I’m not such a great skier, of which the deep slush reminds me. I’m still trying to live up to the promise of my slightly sarcastic physical therapist who quipped that all my exercises and treatments would make me a stronger mediocre skier! In all fairness to the man, he’s never seen me ski so he’s just basing his prediction on my reports.

My husband, on the other hand, might actually regain some of his skiing prowess with his physical therapy. After all the years and his recent back pain, he’s still an incredibly graceful skier. You can tell that skiing is an activity that makes him feel free, enough so that it’s worth the physical strain, money, and hassle. On the ski slope, I feel a little badly that he is paired up with this mediocre skier, but I remind myself that he only skis four to eight times a year. The rest of the time we’re a pretty good match, right?

(c) 2012 Christiana Lambert

Our kids are Colorado natives like their dad, so they’ve been skiing since before they knew much fear. They wait for me relatively patiently. My son recently marveled at how I ski with the same speed, whether on steep, difficult slopes or on easier slopes—which is really more of a commentary about how I don’t really adapt, I think. Nonetheless, today he informed me that I really do ski much slower in slush after all. Humph.

(c) 2012 Trina Lambert

For some reason, despite my relatively poor match with my family’s skills, skiing is one of the activities we share when we get along the best. (OK, let’s not mention how cranky I got today when Sherman took us through some rocks amidst big dirt patches—I am strictly a ski-down-the middle-of-a-slope sort, but in his defense, he swears a couple weeks ago the area was full of snow.)

Today we skied at Loveland, one of the few ski hills still open. The place is notorious for cold and windy weather, but it was in the upper 50s today so mostly we were sweating. That is until 3:00 when, in typical Loveland fashion, snow started falling just as we took the slowest chairlift to the higher slopes. The new snow hitting the slopes was welcome, although for that last run we all wished we had dressed for winter. Then as soon as we made it down to the puddles that used to be snow at the bottom, the sun came out again and it was spring once more.

(c) 2012 Sherman Lambert

Loveland, you are such a heartbreaker, but we are glad you gave us one more slushy, spring skiing day together before we put our gear away to wait for next season and another chance for us to fall in love again.

But first, I, at least am soaking in Epsom salts in a hot bathtub—I don’t even care that the thermometer outside here hit the high 70s and that the thermostat remains firmly stuck on that same temperature. Spring slush does not appear to be my friend . . .

Re-Creation Center

(c) 2009 Christiana Lambert (Trina: after working out at the Englewood Recreation Center)

You know, the term recreation center doesn’t work that well for me. Maybe that’s because I consider recreation more of an optional thing, but I don’t consider exercise optional at all. I don’t know, when I’m skiing or hiking, that’s recreation, but yoga or Pilates are work—although work I choose to do. Though the term recreation center doesn’t work for me, however, the recreation center itself does work for me.

I remember when my hometown built a recreation center when I was in junior high. Suddenly there was some place to go and do physical things, even if it was too cold and/or icy to run outside—you know like when the temperature dropped below ten degrees and the wind chill below zero—I could at least run around the gym. Oh, the center didn’t have all the bells and whistles today’s centers have, but I could lift weights, play racquetball, or meet friends in the swimming pool (did I mention I’m not enough of a swimmer to swim for fitness?)

Truth is, even in metro Denver, I’ve mostly stuck with recreation centers. I just feel more comfortable there—something about the term “club” just seems a little too high-brow for all the sweating I do when I exercise. These days I think of myself as a gym rat, even though I don’t go to the local recreation center to lift weights or use the equipment. Instead I attend classes there at least four times a week.

Signing up for scheduled classes means I will exercise because I am too cheap to pay for classes and not go. We all have to have our motivators, right? I’m just sure that if paid by the month or year or whatever that I wouldn’t stay as committed as I do by taking specific classes at a specific time. Because, like I said, exercise isn’t always recreation for me.

Still, I don’t want you to think I don’t enjoy exercise—it’s just I don’t always enjoy all of the activities in my classes. I mean, I am never going to be a fan of the Pilates “100s” or that one particular yoga position that resembles being a prisoner chained to the wall in a castle dungeon (sorry, I don’t know the technical term for that one!) or even dancing to any country song routines in ZUMBA.

Yet if you look in my gratitude journal, my trips to the rec center are among my top entries. No, my local recreation center does not have a catchy (or annoying!) song such as the YMCA does, but I still think it’s fun to work out there anyway. After all, once I split the word “recreate” into re-create, I start to understand the term recreation center after all. There’s no denying that all those Downward Dogs and planks have re-created me into a much, much better version of me.

I DANCE/I AM

I am a woman who dances to live.
I wonder when my body will heal enough to jump back onto the stage.
I hear pulsating Latin rhythms.
I see women of all ages dancing with me.
I want to teach joy.
I am a woman who dances to live.

I pretend I am a sultry Salsa dancer.
I feel as if my feet have no choice but to dance.
I touch my toes to the floor in time to each beat.
I worry too much that my dancing days have been hobbled.
I cry when pain limits my steps.
I am a woman who dances to live.

I understand I grow stronger each day.
I say this year of injury has almost passed.
I dream of dancing through my last days.
I try to swing back into health through work and desire.
I hope this dancing intermission has ended and my beat will go on and on and on.
I am a woman who dances to live.

Note: Today’s post=an “I Am” poem.

Olé!

Out, Damned Knots!

(c) 2010 Christiana Lambert

Was hoping to have a delightful topic for the letter “D” but after today’s dastardly physical therapy appointment, I will have to defer. No, my words for today are dry needling, a practice which seems debilitating this afternoon versus disencumbering.

What you ask is dry needling and why would a person pay to have someone do this to them? It’s been just under a year since I set off on a road trip to pick up my darling dog and returned unable to do many everyday activities, let alone the vigorous physical ones I enjoy. Dry needling is just the latest step in my quest to become healthy enough once more to run off all this crazy energy I tend to have—and it seems to be worth the short term pain in exchange for the long term gain.

I tried reduced activities, massage therapy, acupuncture, electro-stimulation, chiropractic, and exercise therapy, all of which reduced the pain, but none of which returned me to anywhere near the condition I was in before I set off on my journey. I wasn’t prepared to submit to cortisone injections in my spine nor give up yet on my way of living.

So after six months, I began physical therapy with a practioner licensed and trained to perform the dry needling—which is another way to try to get the painful trigger points in muscles to relax enough for all these focused exercises I’m doing to have a chance at helping them operating more normally. No medicine is involved, but the needles go in deeper than with acupuncture. If you want to understand dry needling from a more technical angle, read what my physical therapy practice has to say. Apparently if you are already pain-free in an area, dry needling won’t hurt; however, I don’t really know anything about that because why would you let someone do something like that if you weren’t in pain??!!

My main pain and mobility difficulties had been in the L-4 area, radiating down through my left hip, hamstring, calf, and foot. Not only couldn’t I run anymore, but even walking the dogs could be painful just after walking a block or two. After seven sessions and great improvements in my energy levels, mobility, and pain reduction, I was set “free” just to do my exercises.

But walking (and my attempts at running) never really improved as much as I’d hoped. In fact, now my right side began experiencing a different type of numbing pain, all the way down to my foot. In fact, my hardest activities continued to be those where I ambled: shopping in stores, milling around while waiting to sing in church, talking to people while standing, etc. I’d finally had enough a few weeks ago when I forgot something while shopping in Target and didn’t want to backtrack the extra 100 yards to get it. Something wasn’t working if I, a runner not so long ago, thought I couldn’t walk 100 yards more.

So now I’m back for more torture, this time in both my calves. Kind of makes that spinal dry needling seem pleasant. But because my back is so much more flexible and pain-free, I am willing to work to get my calves loosened up, too. I’ve got dogs to walk, dance moves to step, miles to run, and—apparently—supplies to buy in Target before I sleep.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, but I have to go rub Arnica cream on my calves. Sorry if that doesn’t start with a “D” but I think that’s a healthier activity for me than drinking.

The In-Between-Year

Elda Mae (Ritter) Lange

Dear Mom,

What a year it has been since I last sat by your bed, listening for the subtle changes as your breath weakened, holding your hand when you struggled and all the while knowing you were on your way back to yourself. In that room where our time together both slowed and sped up, I prayed that your final labors would soon lead you to fall asleep to pain and loss and wake to joy, renewal, and reunion.

Somehow I thought that because you were ready and we were ready—and because we had lost you so many years before—that our healing afterwards would go smoothly.

Not so true because it has been such a fight to forget those last years. Try as I can to remember you, round-faced and full-bodied with that smile that lit so many days in my life, I see you angular and receding, all but for your brown eyes that continued to speak when you could not.

That we all decline is no secret, but the extreme changes you and so many others—human and canine—experienced in these last few years—Marge, Uncle Carrell, Dick, and our pups Fordham and Abel—make me want to rage against time.

Yet, perhaps it is just that grief/anger that brought about my own physical decline—my body could not escape the pain in my heart that I would have liked to deny. If I would not sit into my grief, then my grief would sit me down.

And, so I sat.

It is only in these last few weeks in the midst of deepest winter that indeed I can stand again easily and begin, step by step, to run and dance once more. Perhaps, the timing is no coincidence.

Yesterday I saw a black hearse leading a long line of cars on an unseasonably balmy day—someone was going home with all the ceremony that helps us to understand our loss. Yet, we did not say “goodbye” to you in that time-honored way.

I insisted we wait—until the weather might allow a more joyful home-going. After all, so much of you had left so long before your final day—those black hearses had been taking parts of you home for too long. The long goodbye of Alzheimer’s meant I needed to remember you more than remember your physical presence. So I’m glad we had all the brightly-colored clothes, the music, and the orange balloons on a windy, prairie day full of the hope of spring.

Because it’s that hope of spring that gets me through missing you and reminds me that my mother will never again have to be less than she was created to be.

Forever loving you, I return to the dance of life.

So We Think We Can Dance . . .

"Beware of Dog . . . Dancing" (c) 2011 Trina Lambert

We liked it, we really liked it! Yes, Furgus and I went to our initial dog dancing class this past Saturday. To tell you the truth, I arrived questioning the whole idea—after all he hasn’t even reached eleven months on this earth.

You see, when we’d last been to the dog training facility, he had been taking Puppy Kindergarten. No matter what he knew at home, he always acted wilder there because everything was just so exciting—people, puppies, treats, smells—yikes! He never even got to graduate or say goodbye to his furry puppy friends, thanks to the vermin brought by our rescue dog Sam. That makes Furgus a puppy school dropout who has only been homeschooled (streetschooled?) since then.

Our current instructor said he didn’t need to have been through a formal obedience class to participate. Still, I knew he had too much energy and got too excited about school, so before we even arrived for class, I made sure to take him on my post-physical therapy one-mile run and one-mile walk.

Though I brought him in the crate, he still knew where we were when we turned into the parking lot. After several rounds together around the parking lot, I took a deep breath and walked (well, tried to walk) him to the foot/paw sterilizing station outside the door. Just try to spray four moving targets . . . at least I got my two feet done well.

Yes, my dog was that dog—the one who put his paws on the desk, the one who pulled at his leash, the one who whined non-stop, etc. Once again in my life, I felt like the mother of the child everyone considered “bad” for having too much energy. (Sorry to my son Jackson, but it’s true! Parents of low-energy children often consider high-energy children to have been poorly-parented, at best—and the child also to be morally bereft, at worst.)

It seemed as if Furgus were just too young for the class. I kept us separated from all social interactions, human and canine, so I could focus on trying to calm my charge. It didn’t matter—he continued with the monkey sounds even as the instructor brought us together to tell us how things worked. Once again, it felt just like at soccer practices in the early years with my son who couldn’t listen when the coach began practices by talking—just to be clear, though, my son never made monkey noises.

Fortunately, the instructor was wiser than some of our first soccer coaches. When time came to demonstrate the first move, she looked at him and said to me, “Your dog looks ready to go. I’ll start with him.”

Once Furgus got to work learning, he calmed down. It was all about the doing—and the treats!—for him. In fact, he learned quickly and now I felt proud. (Again, another comparison with my son—I swear I don’t think of Jackson as a puppy, but he was puppy-like in enthusiasm many times in his life!)

Really, the only problems we had in class from then on seemed to stem from my inability to slow down and/or get treats moving in the proper direction with the proper timing. Yes, back to that “handler error” pointed out to me when I was training my Chelsea over twenty years ago—I’m still not sure if I am as smart as an English Springer Spaniel when it comes to training moves and consistency!

Oh, he still seemed to think we were working on adding singing to the dancing, but at least he focused on the tasks at hand.

Now we are practicing at home for our next class session. The tricky part is that although I couldn’t convince either Sherman or Jackson to bring Sam to class—they seem to think dancing with dogs is dorky!—Sam is quite interested in dog dancing. Takes a lot of coordination between all of us to work with the dogs separately.

Yes, Sam apparently has begun dog dancing homeschooling lessons because he’s not at all interested in remaining a spectator to our sport—unless I can convince one of the guys to join the class for his sake.

This morning I got the dogs to turn in tandem using commands only and no treats on the very first try. We did it several more times—they really do know what to do.

Out of our way, folks. We’re working on getting to appear on Letterman for a “Stupid Pet Tricks” segment. Guess I’ll just send the guys a postcard from New York City when we arrive . . .

No Fear . . . of Posing

(c) 2009 Christiana Lambert

Anyone else a runner during the running boom of the late 70s? Do you remember that some time later some studies came out that said running was actually harmful? What about the stir raised when running guru James Fixx died from running? I didn’t pay much attention to the hype, but it seemed the media often chose to pick up on the “running is bad” concept without analyzing studies or considering other factors.

I just thought a lot of people were looking for a reason not to do an activity they didn’t like in the first place. You know, the kind of people who are always doing the latest thing whether or not they enjoy it and whether or not it’s good for their bodies. I think the media buzz is happening again with yoga (and like it did with aerobics and Pilates and . . .)

Yes, I learned the truth—at seventeen—that running could hurt me. I ended up getting fitted for orthotics which helped me recover my health long term. The podiatrist said that running didn’t cause my imbalance problems—it just accelerated how soon they showed up and began affecting my life. Never again did I have the same obsession with running nor was I as naïve about the helpfulness of running, but I didn’t stop for good—I liked running.

You see, I didn’t run because it was “in” or the cool thing to do. For the most part it was a lonely experience, except for when I could meet up with my friends to do it or be part of a track or cross country team. Yet running often soothed my soul. I truly believe this was how I managed my undiagnosed ADD for so many years.

Enter real life obligations, children, and another undiagnosed condition that worsened—asthma—and running became less frequent in my life. It got to the point where I knew my weight gain was a risk factor for running, yet I didn’t know how to keep down my weight without running. This time I ended up with an injury common to inflexible, heavier, long term runners of a certain age: plantar fasciitis.

After that injury healed enough that I could use my feet, I switched to walking. Didn’t “everyone” say that was healthier anyway? I walked and walked—and continued to gain weight. With my feet problems, I couldn’t do any hard core land-based aerobic activities. So . . . I signed up for my first yoga classes.

By that point my lower back was hurting so much that I couldn’t get out of my chair easily. While I did find that yoga was helping in so many ways, maybe it wasn’t enough or maybe it just wasn’t fast enough. When I told my doctor, she thought I ought to add Pilates classes first to see if I could avoid physical therapy.

Here’s the deal: with yoga, Pilates, and walking, I did start to feel better—everywhere, but especially with my back and feet—and that ADD mind. And then I started to lose weight which meant I could move more vigorously, enough so that I could return to running and begin doing ZUMBA dancing.

So are all those things to blame for my recent back injury? Well, maybe. However, I will point out that my injury surfaced after I took off a week from exercise while spending most of that time sitting in a car.

Now that yoga is the new evil activity, it must have been the real cause behind my injury, right?

Really, I think that living and aging are behind my recent physical woes. As far as I can tell, people can get injured by moving—or not moving—or both as they age. When my father needed back surgery, it was because he carried excess weight and did not move unless necessary.

I don’t know about you, but I’d rather earn my badges of aging from activity versus inactivity.

So I’m not going to stop practicing yoga even if I am more likely to modify my poses now. I have always gone to restorative yoga classes led by mature instructors who aren’t fostering a competitive environment. And I will argue with a teacher if I think a pose goes against the advice I am receiving from the medical practioners treating my condition—if I’m not going to believe them and follow their advice, then I need to stop seeing them.

I guess I have to say that if people don’t like to do yoga, then they should not be doing yoga to please others. They can take their chances lifting weights, swimming laps, or sitting in their Easy Chairs while I’m holding a Downward Dog—or attempting to get back to running again.

Maybe we’re all just running against the wind trying to maintain our bodies in the face of time, but I’d rather move than sit down to wait for the Grim Reaper to find me.