Missy and Mama

I was settling into Down Dog when Missy, my yoga teacher, said “Let’s all choose to be happy today.  No one can make you happy. Only you can choose to be happy, right Mama?” I had heard Missy call out to “Mama” in class before, but I didn’t know who she was referring to.  Was it her mother?  Someone else?

That day I found out. It was in response to “Right, Mama?” that I heard a quiet “Yes, Honey” from the back of the room. As we changed poses, I quickly turned my head towards the soft voice and spotted a petite, blond woman. She had a broad smile just like Missy’s, and stood in a perfectly balanced Crescent Lunge. Ahhh, that must be Missy’s mother.

After yoga class, I walked over to her and introduced myself. “So, Mama must have a name,” I prompted. 

“Yes, I’m Pam.” Her reply came with the same warm and open expression that I was accustomed to seeing on my yoga teacher’s face. 

“How nice that you come to your daughter’s classes,” I commented. 

I wasn’t prepared for Pam’s very serious response. Her blue eyes locked with mine and she said, “Coming to Missy’s yoga class has changed my life.” 

Just then, Missy came over to us and wrapped her arms around her mother’s shoulders. Pam circled her arm around Missy’s waist and kissed her on the cheek. As they turned to face me, smiling and still joined together, I thought of my own daughter, Jenna, and experienced a maternal longing for one of her hugs.  “Awww…”  I gushed in the presence of Missy and Mama’s unconcealed affection.

I felt a connection with these two women and saw immediate parallels between them, and me and my daughter:  Both mother-daughter pairs practiced yoga and enjoyed a special, loving relationship. Over time, I formed a casual friendship with them and wanted to learn more about Pam’s comment – about how attending Missy’s yoga classes had changed her life. I also found out that Missy was a single mother who moved from California to Florida several years ago to live close to her parents.  Piecing fragments of conversations together, I sensed that Missy and Pam shared a unique story and guessed that it would be a heartwarming one.  So I invited them over for a mother-daughter lunch when I knew Jenna would be visiting.

I felt a bit awkward inviting Missy and Pam to my home. I told them that I was a writer, and asked if they would tell me their story so that I could write about it. Here I was, a near-stranger, asking them to chronicle their lives over salad and poached chicken. But they quickly put me at ease. Pam exclaimed, “I would love to have the opportunity to kvell about Missy!”  I immediately recognized the Yiddish word that means “to beam with pride”; being a Jewish mother myself, I was prone to kvelling over my own children’s achievements. Similarly, Missy appreciated the invitation and was eager to describe the events, both tragic and triumphant, that led her to becoming a yoga practitioner and teacher. 

A few weeks later, I picked up Jenna at the airport and the following morning we went to Missy’s yoga class together. As I moved through the familiar vinyasa poses in unison with my daughter, I felt a deep connection with her.  It was as if we were moving together in a choreographed dance of serenity.

Yoga is supposed to be all about you and your mat; you should be present, in tune with your body and focused on your own practice and not that of others. But this morning I cheated:  I couldn’t help myself from taking furtive peeks at Jenna’s lithe body and beautiful profile as she followed Missy’s directions, flowing from one pose to another. I was also proud that I had built the strength and flexibility to match the moves of my athletic daughter. 

After class, I introduced Missy and Pam to Jenna.  They followed me back to my house and once inside, I led them to the screened porch and brought food and drinks out from the kitchen.  

“So, where should we start?”  Missy asked, as she poured dressing over her salad. I suggested that she begin by telling us about her childhood interests and how they might have influenced her career choices later in life.  

“I was a dancer,” Missy said. “I started ballet when I was three years old, and dancing was my thing.  It was my identity.” She began performing with a professional ballet company at the age of seven but at twelve, announced to her teacher and parents that she was going to stop dancing.  

“I wanted to be more like a normal kid,” Missy explained. 

Pam reflected on that time period: “Missy was getting all these accolades for her dancing, and her teacher told me I was a terrible mother for allowing her to quit.  She said I was doing Missy a disservice because she was too young to know what she wanted.”

But Pam trusted Missy’s decision to diverge from the path that defined her youth, and her support must have meant a lot to Missy at the time. It certainly portended the supportive relationship of this mother-daughter pair for years to come.  

I am intrigued by people who become passionate about the arts early in life, like the Russian boy, Ethan, on The Jay Leno Show, who perfectly mimicked Mozart and Beethoven on his keyboard at the age of six. Or my step-daughter, Sara, an artist, who saw the objects of life through Impressionist eyes at a very young age. Or Missy, whose ballet teacher noticed something special in her dancing at age three. 

Like most mothers, I hoped that Jenna would find a sport or hobby that she would enjoy and excel in. I believed that this would build her confidence, a characteristic so elusive during adolescence. While over the years Jenna dabbled in many things, she wasn’t passionate about any of them. She enjoyed each for a short period of time and then moved onto something else -- much like me, who still cycles through hobbies every three years. 

            Missy asked me to pass her the basket of flatbread, and then continued. “We were an open, communicative family,” she explained. “I took after my mom, who is a psychologist, in that I was interested in understanding and talking about my feelings. I was even in therapy a couple of times as a kid. Now, I talk about feelings and emotions in class all the time; it’s funny how things come around.”

 After graduating college with a degree in psychology and completing a one-year internship in Washington D.C., Missy moved to New York City. At the age of 22, she entered the world of business, working first for an advertising agency and then for a consulting firm.

 “I had a heavy-duty sales career. I wore suits and sold to high-powered litigators in the top law firms. I was Type A, intense, working hard, making big bucks, going to the Hamptons in the summer…You know, living the New York life.”

I learned later that Missy was “Melissa” during these years; she adopted her more playful nickname later as a yoga teacher.

Missy’s description of her family dynamics and interest in psychology helped explain why I was so drawn to her. I related to her approachable style and found her spiritual comments during class insightful. She helped me link my asana postures to positive thoughts about loving oneself, not judging others, and choosing to be happy.

Missy continued to talk about her “Melissa years” in New York.  She married her now ex-husband at 29 and quit her stressful job to take some time off.  “I got married for all the wrong reasons,” Missy acknowledged. “I married Jeff out of fear because I was almost 30 and wasn’t confident enough to be on my own and attract the kind of man who would be the love of my life.  Jeff was hot and smart and a great catch.  He had potential and I thought I could change him. That was a mistake.” 

At this point, Missy turned to face Jenna and asked her age. With the wisdom of someone who has learned the hard way, Missy advised “Be who you are, Jenna.  Get to know yourself and love yourself before you marry.” Jenna glanced at me and smiled; she’d heard that before.  I married her dad, my college sweetheart, too young and divorced ten years later.

            While I was not a directive parent, there is one piece of unwavering advice I gave Jenna beginning in her teen years.  In fact, I repeated it so many times that when I began with “Don’t marry until…,” Jenna finished the statement for me with a dramatic eye-roll and sing-song delivery: “…you’re in your late 20’s, early 30’s.”  I don’t believe now that there is a particular right age to marry, but rather a right state of mind. Jenna is far more independent and self-aware than I was at the same age, the age I married her father. 

Less than a year after they married, Missy and Jeff moved to Los Angeles so Jeff could pursue a career in television writing. This was a dark period for Missy as she felt displaced and lost without work. 

She recalls, “I just sat around. I didn’t know what to do with myself so I began eating, baking, watching the Food Network, and getting fat.”  

After three years of marriage, Missy sums up the situation: “I was bored and unhappy.  My marriage wasn’t great, but I still loved Jeff so we decided to have a baby.”

 Until this point in the conversation, Missy spoke openly and articulately. Her story flowed easily. But the next statement came out clipped and unemotional. 

“After my son Noah was born, I decided to leave my husband and move to Florida.”

There was silence as Jenna and I absorbed Missy’s abrupt and shocking declaration. 

“Missy, why?”  I asked softly. 

She took a long sip of iced tea, paused, and then explained that after her son was born, her husband retreated.  “He thought he was ready, but he wasn’t. After Noah was born, he checked out.”  

Knowing that this was difficult for Missy to talk about, Pam jumped in to explain what happened in the weeks after Noah’s birth. When Pam came to California to help with the baby, Jeff moved into the guest room and Pam slept in the baby’s room. 

“Jeff just wasn’t there for Missy. So, in the middle of the night, I would bring Noah into Missy’s room and watch her breast-feed this tiny baby. It was an incredibly bonding experience for Missy and me.” 

Missy gazed at her mother and said softly, “She’s always been there for me.”

Pam was upset by Jeff’s detachment following Noah’s birth and reluctantly left to return to her home in Naples, Florida. When Missy called her mother three weeks later saying that she didn’t think her marriage was going to work, Pam suggested she come to Naples with the baby.

“Missy was scared, but I knew in my heart the marriage wasn’t right. My husband and I were in agreement; we knew she needed to come home.”  

I understand the powerful feeling of safety provided by a strong and loving mother because, like Missy, I returned home to heal as a young adult.  After being miserable for some time in an unbearable first job, I had a similar conversation with my mother. She urged me to quit and come home where I could recover and look for another position. How relieved I felt returning home! My mom’s sound advice and the familiar walls of my bedroom restored my confidence, and a few months later, I joined another company where I flourished.

Missy shifted her long, wavy hair back over her shoulders and reached for the bowl for a second helping. “So I left my ex-husband and traveled to Florida with my new baby to live with my parents.” She recalled with sorrow, “My life was upside down.”

After two months, Missy rented a place of her own, joined a gym, and began going to yoga classes.  While she had taken a few Bikram classes in New York and a prenatal yoga series in California, Missy had never been consistent or serious about yoga until this point. 

“I was going to yoga and crying my eyes out, and I started to see how yoga was helping me heal,” Missy said.

 She later began taking classes at a Baron Baptiste-inspired yoga studio where the classes were smaller.  “I’m not sure how it happened but something ignited within me and I wanted to immerse myself in learning more about yoga.” 

Missy became dedicated to yoga, waking up at 5:30 to practice before work.  Pam cared for Noah while Missy tried to get herself back on her feet in a new sales job. “I lost all my weight and started to feel good about myself again. It truly was a transformation,” Missy said.

Encouraged by her yoga teacher, Missy went to a week-long intensive teacher training program taught by Baptiste.  “I didn’t know if I’d ever teach yoga, but I figured the training would be a great learning experience regardless. It turned out to be life-changing.”

Soon after registering for the teacher training, Missy was laid off from her job. She smiled and said, “This was the universe saying to me ‘You have to teach yoga.’ My inner voice was saying, ‘You need to share this with people and help them realize they can grow and change and better themselves.’”

But Missy struggled with the notion of becoming a yoga teacher.  She was proud of being an educated professional and worried about what people would think of her if she taught yoga.

“People have misperceptions about yoga teachers. They think they are not intelligent or are just fitness people or flat-out flaky,” she said with a smile. Missy also worried about her prospects if teaching yoga didn’t work out.  How would she explain the gap on her resume?

After teacher training, Missy vacillated for a month before deciding to push away her fears and follow the path she felt was right. Soon after making the decision to teach, she began “selling” her teaching credentials and passion for yoga, and getting jobs in fitness centers and yoga studios.  

            Someone’s profession often tells us about their education, intellect, level of ambition and wealth. However, I don’t think these assumptions are so clear anymore.  More well-educated young people are choosing professions based on the value they will bring to the world rather than the money they will accumulate. Missy chose teaching yoga to share with others a means to be happy and feel empowered. “I want people to leave my class lighter, happier, uplifted.” 

            I think that’s a noble intention.

Likewise, Jenna has chosen a righteous profession. She turned to non-profit organizations after graduating college with a business degree and now works for Goodwill Industries International in resource development, which she finds very fulfilling. I admire these two young women for putting aside any concerns about what others might think and taking on careers with true meaning.

As Missy built her new career, Pam continued to support her daughter, enabling this important life transition.  At the same time, Pam observed her daughter’s transformation as she deepened her yoga practice; Missy began to exude health, happiness, and hopefulness. Intrigued, Pam decided to participate in Missy’s yoga classes.

She wasn’t athletic and had never worked out, so she found yoga extremely difficult in the beginning. “I had a tough time with even the easy poses like Cat-Cow; I was just that uncoordinated,” Pam recalled. “I didn’t like yoga and wanted to quit. But I didn’t, because I wanted to be there for Missy.”    

While Pam’s initial purpose for attending Missy’s class was to support her daughter, over time she realized that she was coming to yoga class not for Missy, but for herself.  “The tables were turned and now, Missy was helping me in my own transformation,” she said.

Pam attributes her ability to handle stress and life’s challenges to her yoga practice.  “The warrior poses taught me to approach life differently.  My parents are elderly and I am a care-taker, which is very difficult.  Yoga taught me to have a lot of fortitude.  It has been wonderful for me.” 

She also attributes a new-found sense of confidence to her yoga practice.  She maintains that she is more assertive and accepting of herself.  “Like when we’re on the mat, I figure if we do the best we can with a kind and loving heart, we’re doing okay.”

Pam’s yoga practice has also had a profound impact on her health. After a serious auto accident over 15 years ago, Pam had surgery to have a titanium plate inserted in her neck, which put pressure on her spinal discs.  She went to physical therapy and pain management clinics, but it didn’t alleviate her pain and stiffness.  Pam believes it was her yoga practice that eventually restored her health. 

She said happily, “I don’t see pain management doctors.  I don’t even check in with a neurologist anymore. I absolutely think it was the yoga, the stretching, that helped release the nerve pressure and gave me back range of motion.”

Missy politely interrupted and told us she needed to leave shortly to go to a client’s house for a private yoga session. After spending two hours together, the four of us felt connected in so many ways.  Missy and Jenna both know without a doubt that their mothers will be there to support and love them no matter what. Pam and I are both learning new ways of thinking and living from our wise daughters. And yoga has connected and restored us all.

We hugged and took pictures so we would remember this special day.  Jenna and I waved good-bye as Missy and Pam walked out towards their cars. I called, smiling, “I’ll see you at yoga on Thursday.” 

A Special Shavasana

           Down dog.  Side angle pose.  Warrior two.  My muscles ache, and I’ve stretched as far as my body will allow me.  I feel accomplished and calm, and ready to succumb to the sweet reward:  shavasana, the final resting pose.  Kessiah, the yoga teacher, instructs us to lie flat on our backs and I eagerly slide down onto my pale green mat.  As Kessiah’s soft voice guides us into a restful position, I gently press my shoulders against the floor and move my arms away from my body, palms turned up.  My legs melt and my feet turn out and drop naturally to the side.  Closing my eyes, I lose awareness of the other students in the room; I’m alone in my own space. 

The sun has already begun to descend over Randolph and the yoga studio seems especially soothing this evening:  The windows are open and there’s a light rain pattering outside.   As my body leans heavier into the floor, my head becomes lighter.  The random thoughts in my brain dissolve, replaced by the singular sound of the rain hitting the pavement. 

            I listen to the gentle tapping for a few minutes, and then my attention moves further out to the cars passing on the road.  I usually long for total silence in shavasana; but tonight I find the rhythmic hum of the traffic soothing.  I’m drawn into the sound and begin to pay attention to tiny details:  the speed of each passing car and the interval of time between them.  I detect differences in the engines and imagine the string of cars– the heavy truck straining up the hill, the sports car whirring by, the parade of lumbering SUVs.  

             As I surrender to the soothing timbre of the passing cars, I lose sense of my physicality and my mind and memory transport me up the road.  The first landmark is the miniature golf center with brightly painted animals.  Then I pass the small white church with the cemetery behind it.  A little farther, I see the metal railing that marks the stream where my friends and I used to search for tadpoles.  Finally, I reach my destination:  the narrow, tan clapboard house that sits at the edge of the street beside a wide dirt road.  The large familiar white sign with sturdy posts stands tall at the intersection.  It reads “Tucker’s Bungalows” in thick blue lettering above a red arrow pointing to the entrance of my grandparents’ summer cottage community.

             My spirit enters the house directly into the small TV room.  It passes through the narrow hallway into the kitchen, where Grandma stands by the sink talking quietly to Aunt Sara, the round woman with the gray bun and big smile.  I sneak by unnoticed, quickly crossing the dining room in a diagonal path to the door that leads to the attic.  I open it and climb the steep stairs to the top.  My eyes scan the crowded space for the narrow window that faces the street.  I find it, and in the dim light, I can make out the twin beds with the bureau between them –the one with the antique white finish and the gold curlicue lines painted on the drawers.  My memory moves me to where I want to go – over to the beds, where I sit on one and sink down into the soft mattress.  There’s a familiar mustiness, a smell that only belongs to this wonderful place.  I untie my sneakers and throw them to the ground, and then pull the many covers back towards the end of the bed so I can fit my feet and knees underneath.  As I lay my head on two fluffy pillows, I pull the blankets up and over my shoulders.

              Just as I close my eyes, I hear footsteps laboring up the attic stairs, and I wait for Grandma to come.  My eyes are still closed, but I sense that she is now right by my side.  She doesn’t say anything, simply bends down to kiss me twice – once lightly on the cheek and again in her unique way, rubbing her small wrinkly nose gently back and forth against the sides of mine.  “Just like the Eskimos,” she whispers.  Grandma smoothes the blankets tightly around my small body and turns out the light.  Once I hear her footsteps recede and then backtrack down the stairs, I settle in under the layers of blankets until I’m in a comfortable position.  I feel relaxed, safe, and loved.

                As I lie in bed and wait for sleep to come, I hear rain begin to drop gently on the pavement outside the house.  The window in front of me is open a crack and I listen to the cars passing by - soothing, rhythmic, mesmerizing. I’m drawn into the sound and begin to pay attention to tiny details:  the speed of each passing car and the interval of time between them.  I detect differences in the engines and imagine the string of cars– the heavy truck straining up the hill, the sports car whirring by.     

                 Every now and then, I hear a car stop and then turn slowly onto the road next to the house, the one that leads to Tucker’s Bungalow Colony.  I hear the crunch of the tire treads across the pebbles as the car advances and then disappears behind the house. The familiar harmony of muffled sounds relaxes me and soon, they lull me to sleep in Grandma’s house.

                 I’m awakened by the Tibetan singing bowl reverberating against Kessiah’s wooden mallet.  She taps the bowl three times, each ring progressively louder to gently ease us out of our restful state.  I begin moving my fingers and toes and then raise my arms over my head and push energy down into my straightened legs and pointed toes. Turning my body to rest on one side, I tuck my hands under my head and feel the weight of my knees and hip against the floor.  

                I wish I could stay longer, but the next yoga class is already assembling outside.  I move my body into a sitting position on my blanket.  Eyes still closed, I inhale deeply and exhale slowly as I join the other voices in our final “Om.”  I force my eyes open and kneel over my mat so I can roll it up. Yoga class has ended.

I practice yoga at Bright Heart Yoga in Randolph.  Two miles up the road is where my grandparents, Sylvia and Harry Tucker, owned a bungalow colony in the 1950’s and 1960’s when Randolph was called Mt. Freedom and it was a community of summer resorts.