Non-fiction

The Cannondale Badboy, black matte bike is eleven years old.  At the time of my purchase, I had just signed up for the Northeast AIDS Ride with my then boyfriend and his friends – one half of this couple had a brother who was gay and suffering from the disease.  As for me, I wanted to do the ride for many reasons, one of which was that my mom and stepfather had just returned from a trip to South Africa where the disease was essentially performing genocide on its people.  I also just wanted to see the Northeast via bike.

Forgotten, remains the bike shop somewhere near Murray Hill.  It wasn’t Togo on the Westside, but named after some guy who offloaded to me (at sale price) what has proved to be a defected but loved model.  Loved, first, because my Misguided Angel of a bike needs a swift talking to.  According to Nameless Salesman, the bike was the only little one they had to offer for a young woman of my efficient stature.  Seems I’m short, even for a bike, AND (coincidentally) this was the only lost soul for me – a bike’s version of one of the inhabitants versions of The Island of Misfit Toys.  Thankful here that I didn’t qualify for a huffy with a banana seat and low-arched crossbar.  Not atypical here that I go for the underdog (Under… dog!).

To this day, and despite just recently getting the cassette replaced, Broom Hilda (I just came up with that) has been temperamental.  So much so, that it gets a swift talking to each time I have to change gears going up a hill.  For anyone with a less chatty brain, this would be a fairly brief one-sided conversation, but I have to coax it up hills.  Which is why, when suggested that I switch to a lower gear and I look at you like you have four heads and an, “I know but I can’t,” casts a shadow across my face…  Well, that’s why.  It’s always been like this between me and the bike that I left for ten years in the garage without a good, long decent ride to make it feel alive.

A good thing about my bike is that it doesn’t blame this neglect on my kids.

The cassette is not a music tape player with shiny Hematite ribbon bound up inside it.  It’s the circular disc with sharp notches in it that both resembles a ninja throwing star and is arranged in a cascade of smaller discs that carry the chain and allow it to hop from one gear to the next.  The cassette functions like a pulley, mechanized by my moving legs, until it slips off the imprecise catch of bent and worn down spikes.   When you don’t think it will malfunction, it does.  When you think it will, it won’t.

Taking a mental but circuitous leap, I’m likening it to a horse that I rode when I was a young girl taking lessons at the Flintridge Riding Club in La Canada, California.  Horses could be rented there.  I did not own a filly so I got whichever partly broken pony was available.  I was lucky for that.  Each horse had its own personality, but I only remember the ones that gave me the most grief.  Contrary to all things stupid, animals are spirits with their own needs and insecurities, just like people, only they’re a little less prone to their own destruction and the destruction of their own kind. 

My bike is more like Goose than Amigo.  Amigo was a stubborn chestnut horse easily diverted out of the ring and into a patch of long weeds where he would start eating, completely disregarding what my coach, Izzy, had ordained for that hour after-school lesson.  But Goose had the most disparaging reputation.  Goose was white with little black spots – the Dalmation of horses.  Now, Dalmations don’t have the best of reputations.  I’m sorry to anyone who has a strong affinity for the breed, but it takes a certain level of fearlessness to run into a burning building if you’re an animal that functions on pure instinct.  Humans are the exception here, because they go in armed with preventative gear.  I had to note that out of respect for the firefighters among us all (bowing).  Goose would never save anyone but himself.  Self-preservation was his strong point, which, if you’re a horse means you either bite or don’t bite the hand that feeds you.  This varied for Goose.  The first time I mounted that horse I was scared almost to tears.  But, he behaved so well – a perfect gentleman – as I turned blue almost holding my breath.  As long as I expected him to be a brute, he trotted around that ring and jumped for me with the minimum effort on my part.

However, the second time I rode him, I had my guard down.  The sociopath bucked me off, my booted foot hooked onto the stirrup so that he dragged me for enough time that I quite permanently hurt my low back, sprained my tailbone (for the second time), endured a concussion, sprained a few of my fingers, and had the wind knocked out of me.  Amigo had already quite literally taken my breath away one day when we were poised to jump.  Instead of doing so, he stopped short of his hurdle, and vaulted me out of the saddle so that I landed flat on my back.  But, at least he let me go.  At least I didn’t get a full view of the underside of a male horse as his feet near-trampled me.

It took years for me to figure out that I went home that day with a concussion.  My ears ringing, I could barely hear what my brothers were saying as they informed me that my mom was at work and, “Why couldn’t I hear anything?”  They had to yell at me to get their words into my head.

The lesson here is, “Do not overlook a reputation.”  A good day can give even the most bad-tempered horse a reprieve from pure… jackass.

Then there are the girls who come up with a good idea just once in a while. 

You may be thinking by now, “Why won’t she stop talking?” 

Stay with me.  There is a connection:  a story about the way a defective chain worked to my advantage.

The chain slipped off unexpectedly on its second long ride out in a very long time.  I was having unbridled faith in the Badboy, of black-matte-faded-to-almost-patina-beauty.  I had to get a little assist off the side of the road on my weekend ride, got the chain back on myself, and ascended the (I have no idea what low-grade hill) with quiet verbal cajoling toward the two-wheeled beastie below me.

Repetition in life is notable, amazing and awkward.  The funny thing is that I owned a bike – the one that belonged to my mom, that I obsessively cleaned from decrepit to shiny using the pink, rust-removing goop and a toothbrush so that it looked brand-new.  The chain occasionally fell off of that bike too.

But, here you go.  Remember Potsie?  Yes, of Happy Days.

Well, Anson Williams lived at the near bottom of my long and hilly California street, under the Oak Trees and at the back of the black and white Tudor-style home where I lived for a few years as a child – a home with a pool that had a slide and was next to a rose garden.  A home with a third floor dedicated to one large, red-carpeted room that had a bar, a TV, a sofa, two chairs and a coffee table, all of which served as protection against the lava monster as my brothers and I jumped, teetering on our little feet, from one piece of furniture to the next.  We lived in that home during my parents’ divorce. 

My best friend, Tonya Krosnoff, and I were out riding our bikes, well after two moves away from the place we first met.  At that time in my life, and the time of life of all of my friends, riding bikes meant that you were en route to one friend’s house or the other on your own.  No one set up a play date for you.  You picked up the phone or found someone outside to play with.  You played with your siblings.  You also just got on your bike and took off to a friend’s house.  Parents weren’t accused of neglecting their kids for this.  They were applauded for nurturing the independence of their children.  But, that was a different world and I don’t blame myself or my peers for being reasonably protective.

So, Tonya and I were out nurturing ourselves and having been completely addicted to the HAPPY DAYS reruns of long ago, started talking about the new neighbor who lived at the midpoint between our two homes.  The midpoint was at the bottom of my hill and the swell of another hill that descended into a hill steeper than both of those hills combined. 

We lingered somewhere at the front of his iron-gated home.  We hung out and waited and talked.  And, the one and only creative idea I ever had as a child (that I let anyone know about) was this:  I would remove the chain from my bike, march up to the handsome actor’s door and plead for help to get it fixed.

It worked.

Though, I’m pretty sure it never cemented my cycling passion.  Perhaps it was a lesson in diabolical salesmanship.   

That didn’t stick either.  I seem to forfeit “manipulation” in favor for “hard work and sincerity.”  What did stick, was that I wanted to have some face time with a very cute actor to prove to myself that I wouldn’t let an opportunity slip away, that I was brave, and that  Anson Williams was just a nice, smart and regular guy, despite his on-screen character.  To a chubby girl with bad teeth and glasses, this was a valuable discovery.  My opportunity to meet Shaun Cassidy had slipped through my fingers.  Years before my Potsie meeting, I did cry over “Da, do, run, run…” knowing that I’d never meet the singer.

I’m over all of that.  But, I do want a new bike.  I don’t need to chuck the Badboy – just need help up hills.

Being new to the drop-off/ pick-up line is a bit like being on an episode of Survivor – not so intense and definitely with different intentions only bound up with parental protectiveness and a little bit of fear. My fourth year into the process, I can now spot a new parent – wide-eyed and a bit confused and excited – confused sometimes because the newcomer may have cut someone off or refuses to cut the line even when asked.  They’re not quite sure what they’re doing so they either ask questions or find out via human error.  The point is to try not to collide with the kindergartener you did not see bolt between two cars and into the crosswalk as your front fender just hovered over that first perpendicular white line.

I have a solution to the ubiquitous lower Westchester County issue of drop-off and pick-up procedures that everyone seems to have – not just those of us in small school districts like Rye Neck.  I have spoken with friends in White Plains, Blind Brook and Mamaroneck (Larchmont) subject to the same morning and afternoon chaos, and sometimes, displays of bad human behavior.  Then, there’s the wasted time seated at the wheel of vehicles as engines idle despite the reminder that little lungs are at work trying to breath clean air.  Don’t get me wrong, I like to catch up with my friends, but with the after-school schedules of three children in two elementary schools, it is always cut short by necessity. 

Most schools prohibit bussing within a defined distance from the student’s school.  I learned this through conversations and my learning curve about special education law – when I was looking to transplant one of my children from the public school to a private school because he was not, at the time, receiving the “Individualized Education Plan” promised him.  I learned about his entitlements which included a district-sponsored bus ride and a school that could provide this should our high taxes fail to incentivize their work (budget allocations).

In conversation with a friend with two college-aged daughters, I asked about his experience and opinion of the small but highly-regarded district where his children attended school.   He replied that there were benefits to a small school district but that the negatives outweighed the positive attributes.  The first negative he cited:  drop-off and pick-up procedures.  This resonated with me because this is an issue and it is something brought up every year, as far as I can tell.  This has been an issue for the three wonderful years of my limited involvement in the PTSA.  The organization requires a hefty time-commitment that makes it difficult to participate in a meaningful way as it competes with the already hefty workload of three young children, a writing schedule and a career change.  It is an involvement that, if I had the time, would allow me to fix things differently and with some permanence.  At least, that’s how I think.  I like to fix things, especially since this problem remains a problem that never seems to be solved but creates many committees devoted to a solution.  It has also necessitate curbside parent cops, something more awkward than the hall monitor of yesteryear.  Every year, part of the plan gets patched only to fall apart again.

Like my (anonymous, other) friend said about her child’s school:  “This school has been open since 1966…  and you still haven’t figured it out?”

So, this is my proposal for a lasting solution to drop-off/pick-up insanity:

Problems solved:

Oh, and more playdates scheduled by kids than parents.  After all, one of the reasons our kids don’t play on the street anymore: too much traffic.

My partner, Kristin, had background in the music a bit by default.  The default being that her mother was a record executive for a quite ginormous (Leo’s adjective that is most appros) record label.  Kristin and I had radio DJ handles, and mine was a bit of pig latin to my first and middle name – that first and middle name being Kathryn Jeanne (Merrifield).  My handle was Jathryn Keanne, for lack of anything creative.  I wasn’t so much creative with a nickname as I was dazzled by the creativity of others.

Jeanne is spelled the French way.  When my mother told my grandmother, Jean, that she (middle) named her daughter after her grandmother, my grandmother said that she spelled it incorrectly.  So much for the French influence.  I still think it’s classy.  Just don’t call me Jeannie.  Also, fine for anyone else but… well, I’m a proud girl when it comes my legacy.

My great grandmother, Venna Belle Marks, was a legal secretary when it was a job for men.  My grandmother, “Nonny” was an advertising copywriter and artist.  I have her paintings hanging on my walls – the crying clowns got 86’d to the basement because they were too disturbing but I love them for their truth they find in me.  The circus elephants made it to the boys’ bedroom even though the creatures should be painted with the backdrop of the African Plains.  The landscapes of Pasadena stay in the living room.

I’m a little bit more than proud of the women in my family.  A little more than proud.  Egregiously so.  Can you be in love with your history?  Maybe not so much in love with mine, but in love with the strength and talent of the women I succeed.

It makes me feel like I have some responsibility to that succession.

Even if my stint as a radio DJ in the time of The Cure, No Doubt, The Police… found its way nowhere.  That friend, Kristin, didn’t go through with it either.  But, I was cool for a moment.  And, I was even too shy then to talk to a distant audience.  That audience was not at all awed by me.  It was all about the music and where it took me.  It’s still that way when I listen.  It takes me out of my head into a realm of indestructible, imaginative possibility.

If I’m cycling.  If I’m running.  If I’m writing.

The only place I don’t need it is swimming.  What a pain in the ass that is – too equipment intensive.

Even with yoga it’s better with music, but I can do without it just to calm the noise in my head that needs a long, slow breath to channel… all of that… is me.  Hence, yoga and swimming where I need that long, slow breath.

Music has always been my suspension in a way that only some very good, and well- written books can take me.

I can take myself there.  That possibility is always here.

I bet you wish you could go there too.

Especially when it’s strong and loud.  Even if I don’t agree with it.  Even if I don’t agree that you think differently.  A strong and loud opinion engenders respect.  I won’t succumb to it, but I like it.

Perhaps that is the reason that the radio DJ thing didn’t work out so well.  It’s always better to have someone to shout back.  Go ahead and shout.  It’s better than silence.

Silence is good…  only when it’s that dialogue that funnels itself through the channel of music that pulls me through the chaos – a northeastern thunderstorm.

Amazing what a thunderstorm and a failed attempt at being a radio DJ can teach me.

I’m better here.

For you, I’m better, my sweet paper and my darling Times New Roman.  My portal to the silent world reciprocates with it’s letters and its lovely words.

Kaiser and Neiberger introduced The GraterEdge Blade in 1995, the first safe alternative to the dangerous hacksaw blade.  At this point, ARC had a solid understanding of the food service industry and how plastic wrap was being used and sold.

“We always believed that the traditional hacksaw blades found on plastic wrap boxes was something that could be changed for the better,” said Neiberger, an avid cook and gourmet food enthusiast.

Kaiser created a prototype blade of tin plate steel wrapped over the edge of a cardboard sleeve.  Small punches that kicked up tiny petals created an abrasive surface.  This abrasive surface cut the plastic wrap, but was safe to the touch. They did a patent search on the new blade and found a former employee of a large plastic wrap company on the East Coast who had filled three similar patents using the same concept.  He too visualized a way to make a safer blade, but never pursued a manufacturer. ARC bought  all three patents for $1000.

Kaiser refined the design with Neiberger’s oversight and began approaching plastic wrap companies with prototypes.  Reynolds Metals Company was the first to contact ARC.  “You put a baby on our porch and we want to adopt it,” an executive at the company told them.  Reynolds flew the team to Dallas where they met with Reynolds top executives who agreed to buy the new blade for use with all of their plastic wrap boxes.  Reynolds provided ARC with a $1 million  open purchase order and a six-month window to build tooling to produce the new blade.

ARC’s manufacturer, Northstar Corporation located in Gardena, CA honored the purchase order and began manufacturing equipment that would produce the blade through a process called roll forming.  Once the machine was complete, ARC hand- delivered production samples to Reynolds Corporate for final approval. But, by then the executives at Reynolds changed their minds.  The one million dollar purchase order was cancelled and the new blade, though already in production, was without an end customer.  Luckily, the manufacturer was understanding of the situation and allowed ARC to attempt to secure business elsewhere for The GraterEdge Blade.

“None of the big plastic wrap manufacturers would give us the time of day and many would ask us to submit pricing then use our price as leverage  in their negotiations with the competitor.” Despite this, two small plastic wrap companies agreed to use the GraterEdge Blade as a way to show their interest in safety.  Production was slow and assembly was time-consuming since Kaiser and Neiberger  had to attach the metal blade to cardboard inserts by hand. They used PAR Services, a group that employs mentally challenged adults, to help with this process.

One of the biggest  suppliers of plastic wrap at that time was a company called Borden Chemical which controlled approximately forty percent of the plastic wrap supplied to the foodservice market. The team presented the Grater Edge idea to Borden Chemical, but were rejected outright.  “We were dealing with an old regime at the company.  But in 1996, AEP Industries bought the Borden Packaging Division and a new crop of executives agreed to meet and discuss our blade,” said Neiberger.  Among them was Paul Vegliante, VP of Operations for AEP Industries, who led the discussions and agreed to use the GraterEdge Blade on all of their plastic wrap boxes.  This was the turning point in ARC’s business.  Production jumped to millions of units based on this deal and blade manufacturing and assembly became a full time job for both Kaiser and Neiberger. A full fifty-two foot tractor trailer was shipped to AEP Industries every two weeks.

One year passed when the team was faced with the realization that they needed more production support.  Following a visit to Los Angeles from Paul Vegliante, and numerous games of golf, he agreed to sign a ten-year supply contract which gave ARC the security to build automated equipment and stave off the competition.  This supply contract with AEP allowed a partnership with a new manufacturing company in Kentucky.  They agreed to build fully-automated equipment in exchange for sole rights to manufacture the blades.  Six months later ARC moved operations to Kentucky where the blade was being manufactured, assembled, and packaged, hands free, at a pace that allowed ARC to take a competitive stand against the larger companies and retain business with a fair price.  Another two years passed before they won the Reynolds Metals business (now Alcoa) and secured a two-year contract from the company.

For sixteen years, ARC has developed and retained every relationship with its foodservice customers.  Kaiser and Neiberger now supply ninety percent of the plastic wrap boxes being sold to the foodservice industry with the GraterEdge Blades. The company continued to evolve with their customers needs and introduced other products helpful to the industry.  SafetyWrap 2, a low cost alternative to the original dispenser, was introduced and sold in early 2000 after SafetyWrap was bought by Katchall Industries. AEP Industries needed a dispenser to sell against their competitors. Years later, ARC redesigned the dispenser concept, this time specific to AEP’s needs, as a low cost alternative called Load and Go.  Again, ARC cut costs for AEP Industries and allowed the company to remain competitive in the marketplace.

Around 1999, design and experimentation began with a slide cutter concept.  A product manufactured in China was available at the time but it was expensive and complicated.  Wheels and springs in  the structure of this cutter created a multitude of technical flaws.  AEP talked to Kaiser and Neiberger about developing something unique and similar for a lower cost.  Kaiser spent months developing prototypes and analyzing methods to cut plastic wrap using a sliding button without the use of springs and wheels.  The final version of  that new design that would be called theZipSafe Slide Cutter began with a unique collision of ideas and images.  And, a quiet little story.

Kaiser recalls himself at age nine sitting in the back seat of the family car, a brown Pinto Wagon, as he, his mother and his sister waited in line at the car wash in Montrose, California.  It was 1979.  Eyes out the window, Ian watched as a man placed a cling sticker to the front windshield.  Kaiser recalls his intrigue over the sticker.  It was not a traditional adhesive sticker but one that could be removed, adjusted and replaced so the cling was controlled in a way that was unique to him and worthy of note in his mind.  He stored it away to find it again when he needed it.

They quickly presented it to AEP and began negotiations.  Ultimately, ARC and AEP agreed on a partnership whereby AEP would fund all tooling, manufacturing, marketing and selling of the product in exchange for a royalty paid to ARC for the life of the patent. ARC would also be named on any patent as co-inventors.  The ZipSafe Slide Cutter was introduced as the first safe alternative to the GraterEdge Blade.  The product was an instant hit and quickly sold through AEP distribution channels.  After a period of two years, AEP decided to license the technology to both domestic and global manufacturers.  Product exposure grew rapidly.

For the past ten years, the ZipSafe Slide Cutters have been sold worldwide by leading plastic wrap companies.  “Today, most people will recognize the slide cutter for plastic wrap designed by ARC,” said Neiberger.

In  negotiations with AEP, ARC also secured the right to use the slide cutter technology on a retail dispenser.  AEP agreed and this inspired Kaiser and Neiberger to look at many different ways the technology could be used on a plastic wrap dispenser for the home.  ARC created numerous designs over the years and test marketed one through Williams-Sonoma stores and catalog.  That test proved that consumers wanted a dispenser with a  $19.99 or less price point.  It was during a heated discussion about one of ARC’s designs that Kaiser and Neiberger realized they needed to create an alternative to the plastic and metal designs already offered by ARC.  Sustainable packaging was deemed the most useful option but it needed to be strong with a wipe-clean surface.  Rubber feet would protect it from counter debris and moisture, include the slide cutter technology and offer professional grade plastic wrap.  These three components were critical to make a product that was unique and functional.

A discussion with Neiberger’s wife took the idea a step further when she suggested they add appealing graphics that were decorative and unique but could transfer to any home kitchen.  It gave plastic wrap a personality. It also fit nicely with all the design pushes ARC recognized in the market today, especially through Target Stores.  “Our first prototype worked so well, we immediately abandoned all other design concepts and focused on creating what is now called ChicWrap,” said Neiberger.

Allen Reed plans to launch several retail products within the same simple and functional framework of ChicWrap using the technology invented with the ZipSafe Slide Cutter.  Innovations to come include a giftwrap dispenser that alleviates common cutting, handling and storage challenges.

Five months after my beautiful Venna Rose was born (March 10, 2006) I was on the phone with my dad, griping about injury and its effect on my fitness endeavors.  I spent a lot of time riding a bike, doing something I never had the confidence or capacity to do as a child or young adult.  Quite honestly, the only sport I ever tried was softball and that was because my mom’s business, The Designing Women of La Canada, California, sponsored my softball team.  I stood out in left field bored out of my mind.  That was my experience with sports.    I remember running after one ball.  It was awful, and for anyone who needs another characterization of myself as a young girl:  glasses, wrecked teeth that required massive orthodontic intervention (thank you to my mother for that and everything) and a chubby frame that was the target of an almost irreparable amount of bullying and teasing. 

That said, I clearly recall a conversation between me and my dad.  I was driving the Jeep on the way out on a Saturday morning, bored and admittedly unmotivated and lonely from swimming by myself and discouraged about my injured right knee that prevented me from running and cycling.  Whining to him, I mentioned the availability of an astanga yoga class that I was considering without the least bit of conviction.  I exercise to relieve myself of a fidgety nature, so I can sit for the periods of time required of work and writing and to clarify my thoughts.  Lying on the floor and stretching were simply preemptive maneuvers toward sleep at that point in my life.  And, that is what I thought of yoga then, though I did spend a full semester of a college year on the subject, committed academic I was. 

Ultimately, my dad encouraged me to give yoga a chance so my car headed toward The Wainwright House where the class was held.  To my surprise, it was difficult enough that I broke a sweat and left relaxed and calm.  Suzanne Jagoda was my first yoga teacher (since remarried as Simchowitz) and she was both personable and funny and led her class through the entire first series of astanga yoga while focusing our attention on pranayama (breathing), asanas (poses) and root locks.  That led to my discovery of vinayasa yoga and more learning…  And, more breathing.  Under stress, I hold my breath. Thinking, I hold my breath.  It takes a bit of yoga to realize just how much I told my breath and how much my mind makes me do this.  A strange stress response that brings to mind those times as a child that I would hide and hold my breath so no one could hear me and, therefore, not find me hiding safe under the bed.

I continued with yoga from that point on – though I’ve had to stop here and there to allow for my low back to mend and sciatica to ease – the residual effect of three pregnancies and c-sections within four years (I love babies to the point that it’s just purely ridiculous).  My right shoulder is also a bit glitchy, the result of swimming without proper form and not putting the energy of down dog in my upper back without hyperextending my arms or pulling my shoulders to my ears. 

Grief is always tricky and has no respect for form.  Grief takes time and patience.  It’s temperamental and doesn’t care what you have to do, that you may be required to smile when to do so feels like lying.

Like a dutiful researcher trying to understand myself, I read a book that helped me through my dad’s death.  I was seven months pregnant when he died, and at that point I wasn’t practicing yoga or much of anything apart from bobbing around in the water in the Rye YMCA pool, going to physical therapy to ease crippling sciatic pain and taking care of my two children who, at the time, were (let’s see…) two-and-a-half and sixteen months old.  I barely had much time to think.

I started most days with a phone conversation with my dad, despite the fact that he lived in California.  He, my older brother, Lewis and I share an early riser body clock.  It likes the morning.  Over a year prior to this, my dad’s girlfriend at the time, Suzanne, told me that he was again diagnosed with prostate cancer.  It had been in remission for approximately eight years but returned too late for detection and prevention.  He’d been given a timetable and a schedule for chemotherapy.  It had already made its way to his bones.  He fractured his hip but rarely complained about a thing, reporting his physical condition incidentally.

I was too far away to do anything but care for my own family.  It makes me sad still to understand the limits of my affect on this situation, but it is what it is.  That is something my dad always said.  We did talk every day no matter what.  And, I suppose yoga helped me through it as it helps me through things I don’t know are even on mind until I get to the mat and try to clear my head to think of breathing and positioning and let everything go. Pigeon pose seems to be the most informative regarding my emotional state.  It opens the hips and releases sciatic pain and with that comes whatever is trapped there for the past week.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve positioned myself there, one leg bent in front of me perpendicular to the mat in the shape of a figure four, leaning forward and feeling the pain bubble up inside my chest as tears.  Then trying to suppress it, I felt more pain.  It was a process. 

I miss my dad like any child misses a parent when they’re gone despite their flaws and transgressions and basic weirdness.  I am a parent now, so I accept my weirdness after a too-long period as a perfectionistic and over-achieving parent who mostly drove herself bonkers.

I take myself with all of my imperfections, anatomical, spiritual, psychological, to the mat.  Any good yoga teacher (most of mine are) will help a distracted disciple like me focus her intentions, dedicate her practice to that thing that will take my mind away from practice or to the one thing that will make the time more meaningful.

The days that I have a hard time with shoulder stand alignment, I think of my dad reaching down from his place in heaven (or just within the earth’s atmosphere – not too specific about this) and pulling at my toes to make me straighter, line my hips up over my shoulders so when I lower my legs into plow, the proper alignment allows me to achieve the full expression of the pose.  It’s taken me over six years to get my toes to the floor.  And, still they sometimes hover almost touching but not quite.

I know that yoga is about letting go and letting in.  It’s about patience and learning and understanding that every day is different.  That, despite the stages of grief, loss is indelible and time makes it easier but it will never really be gone.

After my dad’s death, I read a book called “On Grief and Grieving.”  It made me understand that the stages of grief weren’t something I could ever escape; not the denial, anger, bargaining, depression or acceptance.  Well, perhaps the acceptance, but while grief manifests itself in stages, I’ve experienced it cyclically.  Most of these stages were put off by the birth of my third child which occurred on October 18^th, 2007.  Leo was born and it was only until my back completely went out and I developed a still unidentified stomach issue that required medicine.  A few other maladies also ganged up on me, among them depression.  I realized the beautiful introduction of Leo into the world also meant I’d put off feeling the absence of my dad.

I don’t much like July anymore.  He was supposed to visit on July 11^th, 2007.  I’d planted New Guinea Impatiens at the base of the two topiaries I’d managed to keep alive since my mom and stepfather bought for me three years prior – an attempt to liven up the balcony of my former apartment just after the birth of my first child.  Despite my not-even-a-little-bit-green-thumb, they’re still alive.  Hence the name, “Evergreens.” 

I wanted him to rest and enjoy the deck.  I wanted him to tell me again how appreciative he was of my suggestion that he get in he pool after the cancer ate through his hip, and how the excess weight that he carried around with him made the pain more severe.  He thanked me for that suggestion just like I thanked him for encouraging me to take yoga despite my fear at the slowness of it. 

Slow is not always easy.  As a matter of fact, slow healing, slow thinking, slow breathing… It’s all good no matter how much I brace myself against it and push it forward.  Yoga makes it flow and move.  It makes it move in a way a runner’s high won’t.  I still love my endorphins and my freedom, but I also need to temper it with an exercise in balance.  I need to make room in limbs and my heart to let the bad feelings out and the good in.  It’s rather simply stated but not at all simple.

Lucky me that I’ve also had the opportunity to mine the gifts of my yogi friends and teachers who will contribute more to this sometime soon.  It’s been a bit tricky to nail them down but I need to post this preliminary piece for the sake of healing, for the sake of my practice, for dedicating today’s work on the mat -with each release, each letting go, there is a letting in – a “hello” after a “goodbye.”  A “yes” that follows a “no.”

A third would be for the sake of the rhythm of threes, but I have to say it anyway.

A birth after a death.