Last week, I tried to calculate how many times, approximately, my heart beats in a day.  With the assistance of Sandy—the kind technician who sat with me for nearly an hour and pointed out my four distinct chambers and valves and talked me through the strange and fascinating swooshing sounds coming out of the monitor beside me—we attempted to do the multiplication in our heads.

I told her I was never very good at math.

She pressed the cold wand deeper into my skin, and I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling, silent, still a little scared and desperate for the distraction of conversation.  She offered, “Well, the average heart beats about 100,000 times a day.  But that’s based on the average resting heart rate of 70.  Your resting heart rate this entire time has been about 45.”

She paused.  I processed.

 And then she said, softly, “So, you’re just beating less than average, honey.  And that’s okay.”

I wanted to roll my head and look at her and snap, “Really?  Less than average is okay in this situation?  In matters of the heart?!”

Of course I didn’t say that.  Please.  I don’t do dramatic when I’m in the moment.  I do dramatic after.  I do dramatic in the comfort and privacy of my car while I’m alone or on the phone with my mother, who’s probably frantic with worry and inundated with e-mails and voicemails and appointments.  (Lo siento, mi madre…)

Also?  I didn’t really want to elevate any system in my body in that present moment, least of all my heart.

In fairness, Sandy did go on to explain that actually my resting heart rate was really very healthy, that my heart was such a strong, well-conditioned, well-exercised muscle that it was just more efficient in how it pumped blood through my body and, consequently, how often.  Marathoners can have resting heart rates down in the 30s, she noted.

Given my lack of response, she murmured, “That’s probably where you go when you sleep.”

I laid there, still, silent, thoughts pumping through my brain a hell of a lot faster than the blood pumping through my heart.

Thought one:  Well, this is fitting, that I should have a marathon heart, given the long, exhausting, gruelling run I’ve had these last many months.

Thought two:  And some people say yoga isn’t enough of a cardiovascular workout!  Righhhtt…  Well, guess this bodes well for the triathlon I just signed up for!

Thought three:  If my heart is so damn strong, why do I feel so pathetically weak right now?

Thought four:  What’s wrong with me?

Thought five:  Shit, this is taking a lot longer than I’d anticipated.

Thought six:  I want to ask my father if he learned his resting heart rate when he had an ultrasound and found his own leaky valve.

Thought seven:  There.  It beats.  I can hear it; I can feel it.

 Sandy and I didn’t talk much after we’d completed our calculations.  In a hurried frenzy, I had drilled her with all my questions in the first 20 minutes, and she had answered what she could.  Once, she asked me to turn onto my side.  And then, onto my back again, so she could push the gelled wand into my throat and then into my abdomen, hard, like a hand, just above my belly button.  My heart thumped inside the monitor screen, dutifully, capably, a notch quicker.  The minutes ticked past.  A cell phone out in the waiting room rang, repeatedly, unanswered.

“Well.  That’s it.”  Sandy rolled her chair away, standing, pulling off her latex gloves.  “You can get dressed.”

My first instinct was to cover my bare chest.  My second instinct was to start sobbing.  (Suppression is a wondrous thing.)  My third instinct was to mind my manners, and so I said, too loudly, “Thank you so much.  Really.  You made this so much more bearable.”

Sandy gave me that gentle smile again.  Encouraged, I kept going:  “Yeah, really, thank you.  I just…  Do I…  Do I need to talk to anyone at the front desk?  I mean, do I need to pay anything?   And should I give this office a call or will you call me?  Or, actually, should I follow up with my GP?  I’m just, you know, wondering about next steps.”

I paused.  Sandy stared.

Not able to help myself, I blurted out, “What do I do?”  Never mind that I was still only partially clothed, laying on a hospital bed way too short for my long legs, awkwardly propped up on one elbow, and unmistakably on the verge of experiencing a true watershed moment in front of a total stranger.

Sandy nodded, warmly, sympathetically, and patted my robed knee.  “Get dressed,” she repeated.  “And go home.  You’re all set.  There is nothing more you need to do.”

The door clicked close.

As I buttoned my blouse and zipped up my boots, my head and my heart battled, one striving to find the literal, logical translation of what had just occurred and the other already writing these words.

Rationally, I was relieved.  Sandy hadn’t found some gaping, ghastly hole.  They didn’t need to slice me open right then and there and patch me up.  My valves, however oddly they seemed to flip and flop, were actually working quite well. On the surface, everything—really, everything—looked fine, healthy, normal.

But, when is the heart rational?

When is the heart average?

When, in the throes of any great matter, is there really nothing more you can do?

When— in all the times I have asked, “why” and “what’s next” and, worst of all, “what do I do”—has the response ever been as simple as, “You’re all set”?

Never.

And maybe that’s why I don’t yet trust that everything really is “fine, healthy, normal.”  Don’t get me wrong, I am far from a hypochondriac.  I do believe what I saw and heard on that monitor.  But, I know there is a problem, even if it didn’t show up on screen, even if it wasn’t detected in an EKG print out.  I know something isn’t quite…right.  That’s a hard and scary truth to face.

But, there—it beats.  I can feel it, minute upon minute.

And I know I would rather face what’s hard and scary than pretend otherwise.  I know I owe my self that much.  I am, after all, my parent’s daughter.  And I believe it is the sweaty, determined struggle—for answers, for truth, for peace—that takes us beyond the average and into the amazing.  It is the unwillingness to settle, the unwillingness to ignore what is so plain, so undeniably uncomplicated.

I refuse to turn my head.  I refuse not to listen.  I cannot push away reality.

Because, there, deep within me, I believe it is the fight for and belief in and devotion to what we truly deserve and need that pushes us through and past the throes of all the great heartaches, rational or otherwise.

It is my uncompromising opinion that nothing—nothing—in my life should be average.

Least of all, my heart.

I always thought the first time I’d hear the word “ultrasound” and my name in the same sentence or would ever need to have one would be because I was pregnant.  To me, ultrasounds are correlated with excitement, anticipation, new life, a baby’s tiny fingers and toes waving a first, shy “hello.”  I never thought I’d receive one because my doctor was worried I have a leaky valve or an abnormality or some other undetermined cardiac issue.

The writer in me wants to spin this poetically:  My heart is not quite working properly.  That is the literal, physical conclusion.  But oh, the many metaphoric possibilities within that diagnosis!

Trouble is, there is no poetry in undressing in front of strangers in a sterile, neon-lit room and laying on an examination table and having an unnamed nurse rub cold gel on your pale, bare skin and ask that you breathe normally and try to remain calm while a machine assesses the health and viability and function of the very organ that keeps me alive and breathing.

Or, if there is poetry in this, I am clearly not the writer I thought I was.

In my gut, I believe my doctor’s reassurances that everything is probably okay and these are merely precautionary measures.  In my head, I trust my parents’ nonchalant reactions and calm, steady reminders that I’m young and healthy and absolutely, 100 percent fine.  Rationally, I know some people—even good friends and family—who have faired far worse and more serious health problems and came out kicking, no complaints or blog posts needed.  Logically, I know I am worrying before I legitimately have something to worry about.

But…  There?  In my heart?  At the core of me?

That part defies the rational, the logical, the sensical.  That part feels—instinctively, honestly, purely, without agenda—and responds accordingly.  Isn’t that its beauty, its promise, its ability to surprise and transform and push you, beat by beat?  After all, it is the heart that falls in love, that mourns a loss, that kisses the forehead of the sick and dying.  It is the heart that breaks and rebuilds and forgives.  It is the heart that finds the poetry, in all things.  It is, always, the heart that wants to try again, that wants to go out and scrub clean the huge mysteriousness of the past, searching for meaning, answers, understanding.

It is the heart that matters.

My heart—I have always trusted.  I have always assumed its strength, its resilience, and, naively, its invincibility.

What if I was wrong?

Today, a nurse might point out an abnormality there.  A doctor may tell me I need to begin a daily dose of medications.  I may actually see the greatest, strongest muscle in my body on screen, live, not bloody but merely black and white, and moving, right before my very eyes.  How strange that will be: to actually see what I normally only sense within me.

I am nervous.  I wish I was not going to my appointment alone.  I wish I had a warm hand to hold.  (Although, admittedly, it was my stubborn “I can do this by myself” attitude that turned down kind offers of company.)  I wish I didn’t feel so damn emotional and frazzled and genuinely freaked out.  I wish I hadn’t already had more doctor’s appointments in the last week than I’ve had in the last nine months.  Yes, I wish a lot of things.

But, in matters of the heart, we can never just wish.

The heart is too real, too present.  It is too all or nothing.

We do not exist otherwise.

I know, because I have gone, and come back, and gone, and come back again.  I know because I’ve tested by trial and error and, here and there, with success.  I’ve given up, only to grasp on tight again.  I’ve opened and closed; shut down and started back up; left once and for all, only to realize there are some doors in my life that won’t fully close, not ever, and I am okay with leaving them ajar, and letting the air in.

We spend so much of our lives running about, multi-tasking, tending to others, answering calls and e-mails and requests, worrying, wondering, processing the incessant stream of modern day distractions.  Amid the great noise and bustle and demands of our daily life, it is a wonder anything, or anyone, gets in good, under the skin, into the blood, into the very heart, and stays awhile.  A wonder, and a gift.

And that’s why I believe the things that do stick, the things and people and words that don’t bounce right off our busy, overworked minds and bodies, are worth chasing, returning to, believing in, giving to, and working for.

As I stood before the mirror in tonight’s yoga class, I saw a burning in my eyes that I have not seen for some time.  For months, my practice has plugged along timidly, tiredly, inconsistent, painful.  I haven’t quite abandoned it completely—although I’ve certainly flirted with the idea—but I’ve found it’s hard to, well, work hard at and be passionate about something that only gets a few, harried hours of your time in every given week.

But, before Christmas and since, I have made a dogged effort to get to the studio and into the hot room.  It hasn’t been pretty, considering the state of my practice and considering the pre- and post-holiday purge.  Still, in just the last few classes, I have already seen a marked change.  My focus, my breath, my poses: it’s all felt better, looked better, moved better.  Little details in the dialogue are starting to jump out at me again.  Teachers are giving me pointed corrections instead of last-ditch words of encouragement.  My elbows and hips and shoulders are sliding centimeters, barely perceptible to anyone but me, deeper into various poses.  The long-persistent ache in my back has eased, noticeably, considerably.

I have noticed that old bounce in my step, that fire in my belly, the excitement and thrill, the anticipation.  The tell-tale signs of feeling smitten, all over again.

It could always be like this—I know.

Because—after five years and many ebbs and flows to my practice and even a few departures from Bikram and into other styles of yoga—the one certainty I have is that when I give my yoga my all, when I make every effort just to show up and try my best, when I let go of my pride and my ego and let my heart and my breath carry me through, then I am never anything but content, happy, strong, proud, at peace, on my mat and off.

It takes honest effort, sure.  And a healthy sense of humor, and confidence, and certainly passion.  It takes sacrifice.  It takes a lot of love and a lot of forgiveness and a lot of acceptance.  It takes compromise and juggling schedules and squabbles and misunderstandings and many, many lessons learned.  It takes desire, persistence, and a commitment not to give up, ever.

It is, I think, like any relationship, especially one that got in and under, one that you’re holding tight to, even if it isn’t easy, even if you’re bruised.  One that you want to last, and last.

It could be like this always, I thought tonight, staring hard into my burning eyes in the mirror.

I cupped the length of my shin, slippery, strong, in the palm of hand.  And I reached my fingertips high, higher.  And as my spine began its slow, careful arch, and my shoulder blades began to split across my back, and my leg began its long, steady climb, I felt my chest bloom open and out and beautiful.

My breath never wavered.  Those eyes in the mirror never moved or blinked or dimmed.  The world stood very still, very silent.

And as I reached and stretched and stood strong and glistened beneath the Harvard Square street lights streaming through the fogged window, I wondered how I could ever doubt my yoga, my practice, those eyes, this heart.

Because it has been like this, always.

Filed under: Life, Yoga ]]> http://hannahjustbreathe.wordpress.com/2012/01/11/it-could-be-like-this-always/feed/ 3 hannahjustbreathe http://hannahjustbreathe.wordpress.com/2012/01/06/so-long-mr-big/ http://hannahjustbreathe.wordpress.com/2012/01/06/so-long-mr-big/#comments Fri, 06 Jan 2012 15:30:42 +0000 hannahjustbreathe http://hannahjustbreathe.wordpress.com/?p=2048 Continue reading →]]> Even now, at 31—31 today!—even after the year that’s passed and the thrill of the new year ahead, it is the little things, “inconsequential” one might say, that amaze me, surprise me, humble and soften and bolster me now.

I think it is the little things this year, at 31.

It is the short collection of words, carefully chosen, sincerely said.  The one statement of honest praise.  The one, long, tight, meaningful embrace that, somehow, at that precise second, seems to mean absolutely everything.

It is the homemade cake, the hand-written card, the bouquet of blue hydrangeas, the inscribed book.  The silly text.  The quick phone call.  The mailed greeting.  The voice of my father.  A song, shyly and sleepily sung, by two little boys awoken in the early hours to wish their auntie a “happy birthday.” 

It is his kind handshake—a cultural custom, you see.

It is the memory, softly revisited.  

It is knowing he will never—never.  Once only a minute kernal of possibility, it is, now, a bloomed, thorned rose of reality.  It rests, withering, gathering dust, on the windowsill of my heart. 

It is the newly sprouted curl atop my niece’s head.  It is her innocence, in the way she clings to my hand, trying to steady her tiny feet, as she goes to lead me out into the world, while I think, “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

It is my yoga teacher saying to me the other night after class, “You looked good and strong in there.”  My reply, before I could even think or stop myself or say ‘thank you,’ was: “I didn’t feel good or strong.”  And my teacher said, “Yeah, well, sometimes we don’t see ourselves as others do.  But, the strength?  The goodness?  It’s there.  I can see it; I believe it.  You just have to see it.  And believe in it.”  I wanted to round the front desk and sit in his lap and kiss him square on his sweaty cheek.

Sometimes, though—and definitely in this instance—maybe it is resisting the urge to hug and kiss.

Or, perhaps, it is hugging and kissing and squeezing on tight in the very instant the urge strikes.  What, tell me, is simpler than that?

It is saying “thank you” without agenda, with full heart.

It is taking full stock of possibilties and potential.  It is running wild with them, and not looking back.

It is taking a deep, deep breath. 

Simple, small things, really.

Last year, at this time, for my 30th birthday, I wanted all BIG things.  I wanted a loud, riotous, celebratory, colorful, friend-filled, party-filled, champagned birthday bash.  I wanted a BIG production.  I wanted a Mr. BIG moment. It was all about the BIG, BIG, BIG occassion: Turning Thirty.  GASP!  So big, so important, such a monstrous and dramatic event that it received many, many, many, many BIG blog posts, before and after.

And you know what?  I got BIG.  I got BIG many times over.  And it was perfect, wonderful, amazing, surprising, unforgettable.  Everything I’d craved, everything I’d secretly wished and hoped for.  (Thank you, family and best friends.)

But, a year can change many things besides the age on your license.  Your address, your significant other, your job, your wardrobe, your hair cut, your preferences on what to order at dinner.  A year can change your outlook, your attitude, your heart, your ability to forgive, move on, let go, and regrip someplace new, palm to palm with another.

You.  In a year.  Just a year.  You change.  In big or small ways.

One of my best and dearest friends sent me a birthday card that arrived a few days early.  I wanted to save it for the 6th, but I’m such a sucker for anything that arrives via the post that I just couldn’t wait.  I tore it open.  And, inside, my friend had written such a sweet, thoughtful note.  She commended me, applauded me, wished me a happy 31st, and then remarked that she felt I sounded different these days: a little older, wiser, weathered, a bit hardened even.  But, this was not a bad thing.  This was a mark of experience, of wisdom, of taking a hit or two and bearing the brunt but pushing on, still, hopeful, with the stories of survival in tow.  She told me she was proud.  She signed her name with love, x’s and o’s.

It is a small note—a mere birthday card.  But, I have read it every day since, because I know now, at 31, that it is the little reminders, the quiet cries and cheers, the subtle cares and efforts, that can send the greatest ripples of clarity and confidence through the daily churn of this life of mine.

And that’s why, at 31, I think my mother’s short and direct daily adage of “be strong, brave, and true” has never felt so poignant, so perfect.

It is a simple turn of phrase, I know.

But this year, this birthday, it is the small, simple things that I’m craving. 

I want some tight hugs and genuine laughter.  I want sweetness, tenderness, truth.  I want raw, pure love.  I want to pull close and thank those handful of kindred spirits who supported and cheered me on through the cliffs and valleys of 2011.  I want a quiet moment, with you.  I want the heartfelt, honest conversation.

Because, this year, I know my voice; it does not waver.  And I know my life; it is small, yes, but good and fulfilling and exciting and strange and whole-heartedly me.  It does not need to be BIG.  

My mother—well, she would be pleased to know that, at 31—31 today!—I am strong, brave, and true.  And, I dare say, bolder than ever before.

Just you wait and see.

I kept thinking: “What’s the point?  What IS the point?”  I know what’s happened these last 12 months.  I know, acutely, how the time has passed, how the days have pressed on, long, relentless, unpredictably amazing and awful.  I already know the lines, running deep and jagged in the bedrock of my self, represent the pressure of this year, and the force of its weight, better than any reflective e-mail or essay. Those lines will remain long after whatever words I throw down.

And yet…  And yet.

The other night I sat and watched a few episodes of the new HBO show, Enlightened.  It’s premise is fairly simple: Amy, a 40-year-old woman (played brilliantly by Laura Dern), has a nervous breakdown, flips out at her boss (actually, at her entire office), goes off to rehab for a few months, and comes back all, well, enlightened.  Trouble is, a few months of meditation, swimming in the Hawaiian surf, singing around a bonfire, and baring a soul’s suffering certainly helps—but does not entirely heal.  And so, Amy wrestles with the still-present undercurrents of rage and despair and loneliness while also trying, desperately, hysterically, to buoy herself on the belief that she can change, she can make a difference, her life will not always be as it is now.

My brother in law and I watched four episodes right in a row, totally engrossed, chuckling, remarking on the witty and sometimes somber screenplay.  And then, during the last episode we watched, Laura Dern’s character gives an emotional but restrained voice-over.  It goes like this:

“You can try to escape the story of your life.  But, you can’t.  It happened: the baby died, the dog died, a heart broke.  I knew you when you were young; I know your heart broke, too.  I will know you when we are both old, and maybe wise.  I hope wise.  I know you now, your story.  Mine isn’t the one I would have chosen in the beginning.  But, I’ll take it.  It is my story.  It’s only mine.  And it’s not over.  There’s time.  There is time.  There is so much time.”

And, like that, I was crying.  Kind of sobbing, actually.

At first, my brother in law gave a loud, teasing, “Oooooookay!  Pull it together, buddy!”  But, as I hid my face in my hands and kept weeping, he got up, grabbed a box of tissues, and stood next to me, quietly, for a moment, and then said, “Sooo…that one, uh, really got to you, huh?”

Men.  God love ‘em.

I nodded and attempted to explain why—the simplicity and power of those words, the sadness coupled with the hope, the pain and the promise, the willingness to accept and the ability to still strive for more, for better.

My brother in law nodded, thoughtful.  Then he said, “Kind of resonates for you right now, I guess.  Working through a rough patch but trying to see this is just one point in time…this isn’t your whole life.”

I thought, silently: “This won’t be my entire story either.”

Later, laying in bed, I kept thinking about the Enlightened quote.  I kept thinking about how, in some ways, it perfectly summarized how I have felt so many times throughout the past year.  And then, I started thinking about the story of 2011.

I have written many of its chapters from a cynic’s dark, cobwebbed corner, each new section titled something like this:  Losing the first place here in Boston that I made entirely, wonderfully, perfectly my own,  Losing a job and a company and a collection of coworkers I’d come to love and appreciate—worse still, losing a career path I’d only just begun to explore.  Losing the plan to move to London.  Losing on love—several times.  Losing a best friend to another city.  Losing a best friend to a baby.  Losing a vigorous and consistent yoga practice.  Losing a lot of money on my car.  Losing grip, however slightly, on the reins of my heart; losing a bit of my sure, steady, brave self.

I have also written many chapters as though I were sitting in a small, sunlit room, alongside the ocean, perhaps, with salt in my hair and a tan on my shoulders, and a full, warm, happy day ahead.  Those sections read like this:  Watching, with awe, a best friend become a mother.  Waking up every morning to my niece’s shrieks and cuddles.  Turning 30 tucked within the arms of my dearest friends and family.  Exploring London by myself, exploring Copenhagen in the quiet company of a good man.  Walking the beaches of Nantucket, of North Carolina, of the North Shore, and digging my toes deep into the hot, dry sand.  Sharing my writing with strangers—and liking it.  Sharing my time with new men, and liking that, too.  Enjoying long, strong runs through Marblehead.  Staring up at a splash of bright, white stars canvassed across a nighttime Maine sky, as my friends laughed, and the fire cracked, and everything, anything, seemed possible. 

In many ways, I’m not proud of the way I decided to tell the story of this year, here or elsewhere. In fact, one of my greatest struggles throughout 2011 was my inability to see through the cobwebs, to get the hell out of the cynic’s chair, and to make the conscious choice to craft the tale differently, more positively, to make the hardships productive by focusing on the lesson’s learned and gained rather than on the places or the people or the pieces of my heart that were lost.

And I think this is why those few Enlightened lines struck me so hard.

Because, despite the good days or the easier weeks, I did try, many times, throughout this year to escape the story of my life.  My escape was through denial, through putting off necessary, important decisions.  My escape was pretending that what he said mattered and was true.  My escape was a mad dash in the other direction.  I ran duck-and-cover exercises, because I was convinced I didn’t have the strength to stand up and face the truths, personal and professional, head-on.

Mine isn’t the one I would have chosen in the beginning of 2011.

I wanted a completely different plotline, and characters, and climax.  I wanted, so badly, what I did not have.

But, if I have learned anything this year, it is this:  We are the narrators of our lives.  We are our own voice-overs.  We fill the empty pages.  If we choose to write—to live—with negativity, with doubt, with self-loathing and bitterness, not even the best editors can fix the tale we’ve woven.  The byline on my life is, fully, mine.

“It is my story.  It’s only mine.  And it’s not over.”

Now that the end of 2011 is finally here, now that I can see the shining, sparkling possibility of a new year, now that I’ve spent the last six weeks actively choosing an outlook of optimism, positivity, and generosity, I can see the pages are turning, slowly but surely.  The pressure has lessened.  The ache has abided.  The questions don’t loom as large or menacing.  Answers feel close, very much within my reach.  Friends feel close, too; I know, more certainly than anything, I am deeply loved.  I wake, each morning, anticipating a good, busy day.

And in two weeks, I turn 31.  I’m genuinely looking forward to it and to planning a small, intimate celebration with those I hold most dear.

There’s time.  To get better at my new job.  To find a new apartment.  To make another home.  To move to London even.  To fall in love.  To nurture, to adore, to support, to give my all.  To practice my yoga.  To write.  There is time—to change, to learn, to let go.  There is time, still, to make peace.

There is so much time.

There is another whole year ahead.  I cannot wait to greet it, to celebrate it, to throw my arm’s around its neck and kiss it square on the mouth.  I cannot wait to start anew. 

I cannot wait to close the last 12 months and place them on the bookshelf, alongside all the other years, all the other stories, all those other poignant points in time, to set this one in line with the rest of my past, to flag it, star it even, so that I remember, when I look back, that I chose to write an honest, hopeful ending.

To a very happy holiday and new year!