A Few Seconds of Magic

A Few Seconds of Magic

(Submitted to Yoga Diary section of Yoga Journal)

     My balance isn’t what it used to be so when my yoga teacher Missy announced that we were going to do “Dancer,” my heart sank.  It’s a beautiful pose and when Missy demonstrates it, she looks graceful and strong.  Like a dancer.  But when I’d tried it in the past, I toppled over before getting into the full posture. 

     Today I was feeling peaceful and positive as I listened to the soft piano music and Missy’s encouraging voice.  “Try to relax and relinquish control.  Just flow into the pose.”  She explained that we often try to control the people and events in our lives, but we can only direct our own thoughts and actions.

     Reflecting on Missy’s words, I willed my body to let go.  Gazing at a point ahead, I bent one leg up behind me and grabbed my foot.  I extended the opposite arm up for balance.  As I straightened my grounded leg and pushed into the floor, I felt strong.  Slowly, I let my outstretched arm lower while bending forward with my head high and chest up.  I slowly pulled my back leg up with my other hand.

     The calm of the music and my mind relaxed any tension in my body.  I pushed away lingering concerns in my head and my movements flowed effortlessly.  For a few seconds, I did feel dancer-like:  graceful and strong.  Then I lost my balance and fell out of the pose.  I smiled:  What a magical few seconds those were.

Missy's Music

                                                                             Missy’s Music

                                             by Ellen Resnick

                                          (250-word essay submitted to Joga Journal for "Yoga Diary" section)

It was my first yoga class with Missy, and as I entered the large, well-lit gymnasium at the Naples recreation center, I felt disoriented: I’m a snowbird, used to taking classes up north in an intimate studio with lit candles and burning incense. Unrolling my mat, I reminded myself that where I practiced yoga was not as important as being present and trying my best.

 

But then Missy bounded in and set up her sound system. As we settled into Child’s Pose, she turned the switch and rock music exploded into the gym. For the next hour, I struggled through my Vinyasa practice to the tunes of Red Hot Chili Peppers and MCYogi. Didn’t Missy understand that we were there not only for the physical benefits, but also to escape the sensory overload of everyday life? I yearned for my New Jersey class, where the only sounds were the teacher’s gentle voice guiding us through poses; the Tibetan singing bowl rousing us from Shavasana; and the final collective “Om.”

 

Despite my initial dismay over Missy’s music, I continued to attend her classes. Over time, Missy’s upbeat teaching style helped me push aside my judgments, and I began to appreciate and even jive to her music. Now, you’ll often find me swaying my hips during Chair Pose or humming in Side Angle Pose. Missy’s music has added energy and playfulness to my yoga practice that I would never have expected. Rock on, Missy! Teach to the beat of your own drum.

Pierce Manor

Pierce Manor
by Ellen Resnick

March 8, 1966.  The day I celebrated my 8^th birthday.

Also the day Wendy Wolin died.

I wonder if she took her last breath at the same moment

I extinguished the colorful candles

placed by my mother in a line across my birthday cake,

with one in front for good luck.

We found out about the tragedy the next day.

She was standing at the bottom of the driveway

that curved up behind the tall red brick apartment buildings

that was home.  Pierce Manor.

Waiting for her mother to bring the car around

from the parking lot.

Who knows where Wendy and her mom were planning to go,

maybe shopping in town or out for a slice of pizza.

Who knows how long she stood there before the man

approached her.

Did he say anything first?

Did he smile at her and did she smile back?

Or did he rush over with muscles tense, looking side to side

to make sure no one was watching.

Wendy stepping back instinctively, knowing something bad

was going to happen.

Maybe she simply stood on the corner facing the driveway where her

mother’s car was about to appear over the hill.

Waiting patiently.  Unsuspecting.

We read in the newspaper that she said “a man punched me”

to the men in the firehouse across the street,

as blood patches soaked the front of her overcoat.

I don’t remember Wendy’s face,

but I think I would know it if I saw her photo.

I do remember that our town, Elizabeth, changed

forever that day.

A sketch of the crazed man who took her life

hung for weeks on telephone poles, in supermarkets,

on the front page of the local newspaper.  

Every morning our mothers walked by our side

holding our hands tightly, 

as we marched in twos, big and small

towards Nicholas Murray Butler #23.

We formed a solid protective line

to and from school,

for weeks upon weeks.

I don’t think they ever found him.

I don’t remember when we began to walk to school

alone again.

But I will always remember that day.

My 8^th birthday.  The day Wendy Wolin died.

Turtles, Turtles Everywhere

Turtles, Turtles Everywhere

by Ellen Resnick

   

I’m not an obsessive neatnik, but I like things orderly:  I pay bills the day I receive them, throw away unread magazine articles after a few weeks, and keep my desk relatively clear.  Similarly, I like space in my home, eschew clutter, and steer clear of tchotchkes.

That was before a fateful trip to Hawaii when I decided to collect turtles.  It was on a narrow, winding street in Maui that I laid eyes on the first piece of my now massive turtle collection.  On that back road, my husband and I watched in wonder as a local artisan made quick, precise cuts in a wooden figure to create the boxed design of a turtle’s shell.  As we admired the foot-long turtle in the making, I asked the craftsman, “Why are there so many turtles in the stores of Hawaii?”  I knew that large sea turtles inhabited the waters around the Hawaiian Islands (in fact, we had seen some the day before), but I had the sense that there was more to the story.  The dark-skinned, middle-aged man sitting on the stool hunched over his wooden creation looked up for a moment to respond.  “Turtles mean long life and health,” he said simply.  It made sense that turtles symbolize longevity; they certainly look like they’ve been around since prehistoric time. 

That’s when the light bulb went on and I turned to my husband to announce, “I’m going to collect turtles.” Over the years, I had admired my cousin’s collection of miniature clocks, the assortment of cows in my friend’s kitchen, and the myriad of nutcrackers that magically appear in my neighbor’s home before Christmas.  Somehow, their collections made them more interesting people in a quirky kind of way.  The collected items also spurred lots of curious inquiries:   Why did you choose (item) to collect?  When did you start collecting?  Where did you find that one?  How many do you have?  I’d often thought that it would be fun to collect something, but I had never been drawn to a particular animal or object.  That was before my Hawaiian epiphany: How could I not begin a turtle collection when I had found an item that possessed such good karma?

Since that auspicious trip ten years ago, my once uncluttered home has been overtaken by turtles of every size, shape, material, and color.  I’ve got turtles made out of crystal, stone, wood, glass, ceramic, seashells, metal, leather and fabric.   I have turtles of all sizes ranging from a one inch wooden one with a bobble head to a three foot long wall sculpture that hangs prominently in my home office.  And don’t think all my turtles are green:  I have two blue Murano glass turtles from Venice, a turquoise and orange one from Israel, and a bejeweled purple turtle from Vermont.

The fun is in the hunt, the search for that unique turtle that I haven’t yet discovered.  My joy of collecting surges every time I walk into a gift shop or meander around a craft fair.  I’m especially revved up on vacations, when I search for that exotic turtle, hand-crafted in local materials by a native artisan.  My eyes are trained to quickly scan displayed items for that familiar oval shape with head, legs, and tail peeking out from underneath.  When I spot one, I usually exclaim in glee to my shopping partner, “Oh, look at that turtle!” or “I found a turtle!”  Then, I settle down and closely examine the piece to determine if it is worthy of purchasing.

When I began my collection, I bought every turtle under twenty dollars.  I needed to accumulate them quickly so I would have enough to qualify as a collection.  Plus, I didn’t yet know that there were so many exceptional turtles out there to discover.  So the first ten turtles I bought were kitschy, machine-made figurines that later disappeared into a box stored in the basement. As my collection grew and my turtles marched across the kitchen counter, I became much more discerning.  I no longer bought just any turtle, but only those that were unique -- made in a material or of a design I hadn’t yet acquired.  And my interest turned to those that were hand-crafted rather than churned out by some factory.

Years later, my turtle collecting became even more selective, and I limited my purchases to non-figurines or what I coined, “turtles with a purpose.”  This phase two collection includes a turtle lamp, footstool, picture frame, cheese board and salt and pepper shakers.  I also started consolidating my earlier collection by gifting some of my turtles as good luck charms, and displaying only my favorites.

Recently, I started buying turtle-themed children’s books, stuffed animals and pull toys for my unborn, not yet conceived grandchildren (only one of my three children is married).  I realize that my obsession with turtle collectibles might be getting out of hand.  However, now that my own collection is coming to a satisfying end, I have a desire to pass on the joy of the hunt and my turtle legacy to the next generation.  Years ago, when the artisan in Hawaii explained the turtle’s symbolism of longevity, maybe he was also referring to what I hope will become a long-living collectible in my family for generations.

 
 

N.J. Should Step Up Enforcement of Left-Lane Offenders

(Op-Ed posted on NJ.COM on 2/15/12)

by Ellen Resnick   

       

An otherwise calm and rational person, my husband transforms into a frustrated and angry man on the highway.  He has a reasonable grievance against slow drivers in the left lane, but his passing maneuvers turn our car into a perilous Tilt-a-Whirl, first swerving us to the right, then to the left, and a few miles later when he approaches the next cluster of cars, a repeat of the stomach-churning motion.  When his weaving becomes unbearable, I recline my seat, close my eyes, and take deep yogic breaths.  I don’t bother verbalizing my fears because I know from experience that neither yelling nor pleading nor even cajoling will elicit a change in my husband’s highway behavior.  So I recline instead.

While I share my husband’s frustration when I’m in the driver’s seat, I’m a bit more tolerant.  So, I am writing this as a concerned passenger, rather than a road rage warrior.  I represent not only the aggravated drivers like my husband, but also the vulnerable passengers who fear for their safety because not enough is being done to educate and discipline the inconsiderate drivers in the left lane.  They endanger other motorists and their passengers, congest our highways, waste gas, and not too trivial to mention, contribute to marital strife!

  There’s a NJ law (N.J.S.A. 39:4-82) that requires motorists to keep right, except when passing; it’s on page 61 of the NJ Driver’s Manual.  Motorists who violate this law are required to pay a fine of $100.  Personally, I’ve never seen a patrol officer pull over a left lane driver--have you? Obviously, this law is not being enforced.

Senator Donald Norcross (D-Camden/Gloucester) introduced legislation last summer to increase the maximum penalty for violation of the “keep right” law from $100 to $300.  He proposed that a portion of the fine be allocated to a fund that would be used to create and maintain new signs that remind people to keep right when driving in New Jersey.   Makes sense, but an increase in the penalty would be meaningless unless it’s combined with a high-publicity law enforcement effort similar to the successful “Click It or Ticket” campaign in 2010.  That effort included zero-tolerance enforcement of safety belt laws, paid advertising and the support of government agencies, local coalitions and school officials.   This powerful combination increased New Jersey's seat belt usage rate to an all-time high of 93.7%.

Why do slow drivers continually plant themselves in the left lane, the one meant to be occupied by faster, passing drivers?  Are they oblivious, arrogant or just plain inconsiderate?  Regardless of the reason, the left lane culprits would surely practice lane courtesy more regularly if they were reminded of the law in mass communications and saw New Jersey police officers handing out $300 fines for offenders.

I hope something is done soon to promote and enforce lane courtesy before my husband spends our life savings to develop his dream invention, The Auto Flicker.  This is how it works:  At the push of a button, a forklift contraption emerges from the front of your car, slides under the slow-poke in front of you, and gently flicks the car over to the right lane.  I’m not wild about this option, but at least I wouldn’t have to fear for my safety.  Or recline my seat and shut my eyes.

Mad Man on the Highway

Mad Man on the Highway

by Gary Resnick (Ghost-written by Ellen Resnick)

           My wife thinks I’m a mad man on the highway.  In fact, if things get too perilous, she reclines her seat, closes her eyes, and takes deep yogic breaths.  I know the thoughts that are going through her head because she used to verbalize them.  That was until she noticed that her shouting, threatening,cajoling, and pleading elicited no change in my highway behavior.  Now, she just reclines.

             Before I describe what gets her so upset and defend my actions, I want to assure you that I am a calm and rational man --not some hot-head who routinely gets out of my car at traffic lights to point my finger—or worse, a gun—at someone who had the nerve to pass me.  I’m a safe and skilled driver:  After 40 years behind the wheel, I control my moves on the road with accuracy and finesse as if the car itself is an extension of my being.   In fact, my driving skills are honed so sharply that I can safely take photographs while driving, keep my foot steady at 9 miles above the speed limit and instinctively make it through a yellow light at an intersection, even with my eyes closed. 

           Now that I’ve established my safe and responsible driving behavior, let’s return to the situation that gets me in trouble with my wife.  This is how the maddening scenario unfolds:  I’m on a highway in a 65 mph zone, driving in the left lane at 74 mph.  I quickly approach two cars side-by-side in the left and right lanes, both driving at the same pace below the speed limit.  After a few minutes trailing them, I become annoyed.  Feeling boxed in like a pawn on a chessboard with limited options, I politely flash my high beams and hope that the dazed driver will notice the glare and move the car over to the right lane where it belongs.  If the driver peers in the rear-view mirror, I quickly put on my turn signal and vigorously shake my right hand with thumb pointed in the direction he needs to move.  My wife's seat is reclined and her eyes are closed, but the anxious grinding of her teeth signal that she senses my frustration.

If the left-lane creep decides to ignore me and I’m on a two-lane highway, I’m doomed.  This is when I dream of the forklift contraption I want to invent that, at the push of a button, emerges from the front of my car, slides under the slow-poke in front of me, and gently flicks the car over to the right lane.   I’ve even come up with a name for my new car accessory, The Auto-Flicker.

Now, if it’s a three-lane highway and the left and middle lanes are blocked, I have an alternative.   I turn my wheel sharply and dart into the right lane, which is the only place to pass the two turtles.   I don’t like this option because not only is it hazardous, but it also hits my wife’s hot buttons big time.  She grips the door handle and mumbles a barely audible protest, “Oh no, not again….”  I defend my actions, explaining to her that I wouldn’t have had to swerve so abruptly if the left lane culprit had only paid attention to page 61 of the NJ Driver’s Manual that clearly states “Keep Right, Pass Left.”  After maneuvering my car into the right lane, I assess the terrain and spot my re-entry point.  I speed up to pass the cars and glare through the window, shouting friendly expletives.  This usually gets my wife going good. 

           My ravings are in the form of questions:  “Why are you in the left lane if you are the slowest car on the road?”  “What could you be thinking?”  “Are you thinking?”  “Don’t you know the driving rules?  Did you ever hear of “Keep Right, Pass Left”?  Having heard these emphatic queries many times before, my wife sticks her fingers in her ears to signal me to stop.

I don’t understand why slow drivers continually plant themselves in the left lane, the one meant to be occupied by faster, passing drivers.  I figure that they are oblivious, arrogant or just plain inconsiderate.  The oblivious left-lane driver has zoned out and is clueless that he or she has created an impasse for other cars.  The arrogant one probably feels that since he or she paid their taxes, they can damn well drive in whichever lane they please.  And the inconsiderate type doesn’t pay attention to conventional driving etiquette.  “It’s all about me getting to where I want to go; forget about the other cars on the road.”

          These drivers represent more of a safety hazard by being in the wrong lane than the long line of cars like mine trying to find ways to pass them.  So, wake up, be considerate, follow the rules and get the heck out of the left lane.  It would sure help lower my stress level and save my marriage.

              

When the Phone Rings...

            Since my daughter Jenna left for college, I rarely call her; she calls me. During Jenna’s freshman year, it seemed like I always caught her at a bad time, so we decided it would be best if she contacted me.  Now she’s 23 and living in D.C., and we follow the same rule because she can still fit herself into my life easier than I can fit into hers.

So when Jenna calls, I’m eager to talk.  However, raising the phone against my ear, I usually hesitate ever so slightly before I say, cheerily, “Hi Jen.”  I know that in the next few seconds I will discover which type of call this one will be.  There’s the free-flowing, chatty one; the exuberant “I can’t wait to tell you what happened!” call; the short and clipped obligatory type; and the call that begins with silence, followed by a burst of garbled sentences and tears.

The “free-flowing, chatty” call is the most frequent and is our chance to catch up on the week.  As Jenna describes what she’s been doing, I picture her in sweatpants on the over-sized leather couch in her studio apartment.  It’s a deep one and she’s leaning against a big pillow in the corner, legs folded underneath.  Other times I see her slumped down, with her long legs stretched straight, heels resting on the wooden coffee table.

The second type, the exuberant “I can’t wait to tell you” call, is the one I enjoy the most. After answering the phone, I encounter a fast-paced string of sentences that forces me backward into a chair.  Jen spews excitedly about some accomplishment at work that earned her kudos from her boss, or shares an endorphin-filled account of a long run in the park.  It’s as if my daughter has been transported through the phone, swirling out like a genie bursting from her bottle.  There are colorful sparkles and I see Jenna’s beautiful, broad smile and bright brown eyes appear before me. 

The third “short and clipped” phone call is the one I really don’t enjoy.  It comes when Jenna’s not in the mood to talk but realizes she hasn’t spoken to me in a while.  Her sentences are terse and the words come through the phone like wood.  I used to try coaxing Jen out of her mood by introducing interesting topics, but the conversations ended up a game of 20 questions with me asking and Jenna responding with unsatisfying one-word answers. 

When I receive this type of call, I assume Jenna’s had a hectic day.  I envision her standing in work clothes, messenger bag slung over her shoulder.  If I hear some echo-y sounds in the background, I know she’s waiting in a crowd for the Metro.  Or I see her in black tights, rushing across the bridge to Adams Morgan to get to yoga class.  For these calls, I quickly say, “Hey, Jen.  It’s great to hear from you, but it sounds like you don’t have time to talk right now.  Call me later.”  She sounds relieved, and the call ends with a quick click.   

The last type of call is the one that comes in the middle of the night.  The ring is like a siren and I jolt up, scanning the room, wondering what woke me. As I orient myself in the dark, my body prepares for action – blood rushes, pupils dilate, muscles contract.  I snatch the phone from its cradle.  Something must be very wrong. 

There’s no Caller ID this time, just the loud jarring sound intruding into the peace of the night.  There’s no light-hearted “Hi Jen” coming from my end either.  My voice comes out tentative, fearful, “Hello?” 

There’s a pause, after which I can make out the word “Mom?” through a torrent of muffled sobs.

“Jen?  What’s wrong?”  My visions are a quick-moving kaleidoscope of dark images:  Jenna lying on the city sidewalk in the wee hours, curled up in bed with her hand clutching

her stomach in pain, standing by the side of a car with a bloody figure at her feet. 

After she says through tears, “I’m really upset …” I start breathing again. She’s okay.  My baby is alright physically, but she is horribly unhappy.  I yearn to wrap my arms around my daughter and wipe the tears from her face.  As Jenna begins to explain, I tip-toe out of the room and settle onto her old bed down the hall for what will probably be a long conversation.

However unpredictable Jenna’s calls, I am thrilled when I get them because I want to know what my daughter’s doing and feeling. I want to understand her comings and goings, triumphs and sorrows.  Regardless of which type of call I receive, each one gives me a glimpse of her independent, far-away life.  It’s these virtual connections that hold our bond intact between our visits during holidays, birthdays and mother-daughter weekends.  So when the phone rings and I see it’s Jenna, I will continue to grab it eagerly to find out what the call will bring.