Becca Faith Yoga

Sometime last week, Autumn whispered its way into New York.  First there came a chilly evening, then a cool breeze in the middle of the afternoon, and finally a bona fide, 70-degree, sunny day from start to finish.  I love Autumn for 7 trillion different reasons, some of which include the return of the Pumpkin Spice Latte, the resurgence of suede boots and fluffy scarves, and the crisp, dry air that never makes my hair frizzy.  Autumn!

Of course, no one really talks about Fall without talking about change.  The leaves change, the weather changes, and Fall marks the preamble to the whole year changing.  Nature makes change look easy, but we all know better.  Changing anything — from jobs to hairstyles, apartments to socks — can be an exercise in calm abiding.  I’ve written about the what’s and how’s of shamatha meditation before, but one of its many benefits is cultivating an attitude of present-centered awareness.  When we learn to be present, it’s easier to accept change since we’re not quite as concerned with what’s happened in the past or what’s going to happen in the future.  We just notice what’s happening right now, even if what’s happening is new or different or scary.

Last week I taught my mom how to take the subway here in NYC.  I knew that she was anxious about it, and for a second I found myself thinking “RELAX — it’s just the subway! [mental eye roll] A gazillion tourists who don’t even speak English visit New York and figure it out every day.”  But something about the look on my mom’s face while I was explaining the difference between the R and the N made me check myself.  I realized that doing something new, something underground in a strange city with no points of reference, is terrifying.  So instead of dismissing my mom’s anxiety, I tried to honor it:

ME: There’s a lot to take in here.

MOM: Yes there is.

ME: But we can review.  You came into Penn Station, walked out the 7th Avenue exit, crossed the street right near the taxis, walked one block, and right past the coffee stand in Greeley Square you walked down the steps and into the station, swiped your card and moved to the left where the sign said “Downtown and Brooklyn,” and now here you are, on the platform, facing the right where the N train will pull up any second.

MOM: What next?

ME: Next we get on the N, go one stop, and get off in Union Square.

MOM: But what THEN?

So we talked about what then. And then, we did the “what then?” so that it was “what now?” and “what when?” — and then we did it all a second time in the afternoon.

Next month when my mom comes in to sit with her sangha, I’ll meet her a few blocks from Penn Station, at the entrance to the subway, and the next time, I’ll meet her in Union Square.  Because as far back as I can remember — at least, as far back as Davey Rosenberg’s 6th birthday party, when my mom climbed into the rope-ladder-tunnel-ball-maze at the Ground Round to rescue one frozen-in-fear toddler by carrying me on her back through the rest of the maze to safety — as far back as that, my mom has always met me at my fear and walked me through it, hand-in-hand and step-by-step.

Fear is healthy sometimes.  Fear means something is changing, and learning to cope with change is crucial.  But if we’re overwhelmed by our fear, we risk losing the ability to cope with change.  We cling to the moment as it all-too-quickly turns into the past, and then it gets even harder to get up-to-speed with the changes happening around us.

Last weekend, my boyfriend’s brother had to have an emergency appendectomy in the middle of the night.  My boyfriend and his mom started driving as soon as the need for surgery was confirmed, and they drove all night to get to the hospital in Virginia. Things were changing so fast — one second there was stomach pain, and by the next second it was worse, then it kept changing all the way to the hospital, where the pain wasn’t just pain, it was Appendicitis.  The surgery went fine and said patient is on the mend, but his mom stayed down there to help him navigate the changes inherent to recovery.  Somehow, getting back to “normal” is as curious and uncomfortable as departing from the norm in the first place.  But there’s mom, ministering to every changing moment.

Each golden leaf on the oak outside my window heralds the death of its verdancy and the start of a long, bald winter. Change is violent, even when it’s beautiful. I think that’s something mothers everywhere figure out early on, as they watch children navigate a world that’s constantly new and changing before their eyes.  Mothers learn to nurture their children through change so that the fear of newness doesn’t become overwhelming, in the hopes that we learn to function as adults in an ever-changing world.

Change is inevitable.  Fear is, too.  But fearing change?  That might be optional.