Distance
Brief moments and big feelings
Dear humans,
Below is a piece I started writing in my head while on a recent walk. I witnessed a moment between strangers that I was not prepared for, and something in me shifted.
I’ve long suspected that pregnancy would be a time of big feelings, but I can’t say I was prepared for just how strong and bountiful these feelings have been. Yesterday, I could barely lead the chant at the end of my yoga class - my eyes just kept leaking! If you know me, you know I was already a crier before this journey; it has continued in full force, and I can only imagine what’s to come…
I hope you enjoy reading, and, as always, if you’re mostly here for the yoga news, you can scroll down to the bottom of this email to read more about my rooftop yoga classes, backyard yoga, and my fall retreat.
So much love,
Abby
Distance
I hear someone walking quickly behind me, shouting to leave her shit alone.
“I haven’t even been there less than 24 hours,” she yelled. “You have no right to touch my things!”
At first, I think she’s shouting at me, and I don’t turn around. I’m walking my dog, not touching anyone’s stuff, and I don’t have the energy to engage in surreality.
When my dog turns to look back, I tell her to leave it, give her leash a gentle tug, and keep walking. The woman keeps shouting, and soon, I realize she is addressing the two men standing by the city truck, not me.
Slightly relieved and now curious, I turn to see a gray-haired woman, holding an empty basket and a folding chair. She walks at a slant, favoring her left leg, and I can’t tell if it’s injury, or simply the things she is carrying. I pull my dog closer and again tell her to leave it.
Then, as the woman approaches the truck, her tone suddenly shifts.
“I’m sorry,” she says, no longer shouting, “I’ve been packing all night. I know I have to move.” She keeps walking, but slower.
My eyes start to tear up. I feel ashamed that I felt so threatened, just moments ago. This woman has been kicked out of her tent, and is just trying to move from one sidewalk to another. Of course she is upset.
“That’s okay,” one of the men says, calmly. “Do you need any bags?”
I am so startled by this - not just by her change of tone, by her apology, but by his response. I have witnessed scenes like this, scenes where men like these two will shout and yell at the people they’re policing, repeating the phrase, “I’m just doing my job!” But this man’s reply is so disarmingly soft, his demeanor, so patient. He is doing his job, yes, but I can see that he does not delight in it.
I don’t hear the rest of their conversation because all I can focus on is making it past the truck and the tent and her piles of things before I start crying harder.
I am 23 weeks pregnant, and all I can think about is how this woman was once someone’s tiny, precious baby. Years ago, someone felt her little feet kick against their womb, watched her take her first breath, form her first smile, take her first steps…
The two men by the truck were also, at some point, someone’s tiny, precious babies. Years ago, someone watched them learn to walk, taught them how to drive, showed them how to be calm under stress. At some point, they got hired by the city, and now, here they are, standing next to each other, standing next to a tent and piles of things that look, to me, like piles of garbage. Here they are, dutifully doing their job of forcing a woman to move, and also, asking if she needs help.
I wonder how many times they’ve done this - all of them. How many times has she set up her home, only to be moved less than 24 hours later? How many times have they kicked someone out of their home, and how many of those times did they offer them bags? How long will she keep moving before she is offered, not just bags, but a safe place to live?
As I round the corner, I look down at my dog. I remember that she was also once inside her mother’s belly. A dog-mother I never met, but whom I have so much love for. I wonder if they ever miss each other, or if they were sad to be separated when she were still so young. I love my dog so fiercely, and I can’t even imagine how I’ll feel about my human child, once they’re on the outside.
It is amazing, I think, tears now rolling assertively down my cheeks, how hard it is to be unkind when we are up close with one another. It’s so easy to shout, to swear, to curse from a distance. But when we get up close, when we can see another being right in front of us, it suddenly becomes so much harder.
I put my hand on my abdomen and hope I can remember this when my child is older and ornery and trying my patience. Can I remember in those times that we were once this close? That we were once, quite literally, one?
As I continue to walk, one hand holding the leash, the other holding my belly, I think of my husband. I think about how, before this walk, I was so annoyed with him. I didn’t feel like he was present lately, I told him, and I was feeling us both drift. Now, all I can think about is his mother, staring down at him when he was a tiny baby. His mother, who is now half-way across the world in his other home of Switzerland. I see her face, crying as she tries to smile, waving goodbye to us, to him, at the airport in Zurich last summer.
I think of my own mother, squeezing me so tightly at the airport last Christmas, before she flew back east. I think about how, no matter how much I tell her I want her to visit, she never wants to stay too long, worrying she’ll be in the way - she wants to make sure I have all the space I need. I think about how last time we left each other, we both cried, quietly, trying not to let the other see.
Of course, we could not stay in our mothers’ bellies forever, or even their arms, or even their houses. We had to move: me, across the country, and my husband, across the world. We needed distance, and we needed space. And, no matter how much I love my husband, or my dog, or my future child, I cannot be with them all the time - I need solitude. There are problems that come with being too close, just as there are problems that arise from being too far. Sometimes I don’t know which I need: to step away, or to move toward. Most of the time, I discover I need both, one at a time.
I left the house this morning in search of solitude, of quiet, of reflection. In doing so, I found shouting, apologies, patience, and felt more tenderness than I was prepared for. I stepped away, and now, I am ready to move toward again.
On our way home, my dog and I pass the sidewalk where the woman was camped. The truck is gone, and the sidewalk is now empty, except for a small pile of empty chip bags and to-go cups. It has been less than an hour.
I feel my eyes start to itch again, and think about my own tiny, precious baby. There will be so much I cannot control, so much I cannot do for them, so many times I will have to witness them suffer. I am sure that sometimes, I will want to get away, to shut out their cries, to peel their sticky fingers off my tired body, to remind them that I am my own person, too; other times, I know I will feel like I never want to leave their side. Whatever the space, I hope I can be present. I hope I can remember that distance does not have to come from drifting, and that being close does not have to suffocate.
As I step back onto our porch, I hear the sizzle of my husband frying eggs, and my dog starts spinning in circles, tail wagging fervently. I am so grateful, I think, that I stepped away so that I could return, closer.
Upcoming events w/ Abby
Rooftop Yoga: Mon, Jul 29 & Wed, Jul 31, 8-9am; Sun, Aug 11, 7-8pm at Atrium
Backyard Yoga: Tuesdays in August, 6:30-7:45pm at Various Locations (address will be emailed the week prior)
Fall Equinox Retreat: Sept 20-22 at Buckhorn Springs*
*Public school employees (and possibly others?!) may be able to get reimbursed for attending the retreat… In other words, you could come for free! Email me about how…