Campus Assault: My Own Story

With all of the news about sexual assaults on college campuses over the last few months, I feel compelled to share my own experience, as mild as it was in comparison to some of the stories we hear today.  Keep in mind, this wasn’t this year, or even this decade. This was the fall of 1980.  I was a long-haired, 88-pound, 5-foot-tall freshman with an attitude, who thought I knew how to take care of myself.

The Incident

On my first Friday night at college, my sophomore roommate offered to take me with her to a frat party.  I eagerly accepted, as this would be the gateway to my new social life.  When we arrived, it was packed with fraternity brothers, frat-boy-want-to-be’s and lots of girls.  Soon after our arrival, I lost track of my roommate amidst all of the chaos.  I was not concerned and just continued to look for her in the basement of the old frat house, weaving my way around small groups of people.

That’s when it happened.

The next thing I knew, I was pinned against one of the basement walls, being pawed and kissed by some young man I had never seen.  Horrified, I jabbed my knee into the only place I could think of, and he fell to the ground.  I tore off in search of my roommate, quickly finding her talking to one of the fraternity brothers.

Explaining what had happened, we walked back to the scene of the crime, where the assailant was just beginning to stand up.  He was immediately ejected from the party.  Shortly thereafter, my roommate and I went back to our dorm room, the incident tucked neatly in the back of our heads — still there but not worthy of further discussion.

It was not until the following Monday morning that I realized my assailant was in my chemistry class. As I came in, climbed the stairs and sat down in the back of the auditorium-style classroom, I scanned the people in front of me, and there he was, looking back up at me.  Shocked and distraught, I sat there, not knowing what to do.

The Denouement

And so, I did nothing. Ever.  In fact, I completed that course, his menacing figure always several rows in front of me.  I never left my dorm alone after that.  In fact, I never went anywhere alone for the remaining years I was there. And I never shared my experience with campus authorities or my friends. Even today, most of my family and friends know nothing about the incident.

So why share this story now, almost 35 years later?

Because this is not a new problem.

Because not reporting it was wrong.

Because corrective action should be taken in campuses across the country.

Because I don’t want my daughter to have a similar experience when she becomes a college freshman later this year.

Abundant love, smooth transitions and graceful exits

Several months ago, I was at an event in which invited guests were encouraged to add something to a vision board.  With little thought, I wrote:

Abundant love, smooth transitions and graceful exits.

At the time, my thoughts and intentions revolved around my parents. I hoped that as my dad’s dementia took hold, they would both:

• Feel abundantly loved by those around them
• Transition smoothly through each phase of the illness
• Deal gracefully with his continued “exits” from daily routines

Months later, I was confronted with the vision board and my note. And while my parents’ situation still applied, I was dumbfounded by the applicability of those same intentions to my own life.

You see this past fall, my husband of almost 19 years and I split up.  It was not a surprise for either one of us, but it was still a shock to change how we had lived for so long.   While the connections between us had waned, there was still comfort in knowing that we could count on each other for the important stuff.  We thought we were committed to staying together.

And yet,  just a few days after we decided to split, I found myself in front of that same vision board.  It was surreal to be reintroduced to those 7 words again.

Abundant love, smooth transitions and graceful exits.

The wishes that I posted on my parents’ behalf now applied to my husband, our daughter and me.  I found myself saying them over and over again, a mantra to help ease the pain, disappointment and melancholy.

Whether it was the mantra or just a keen desire not to self-destruct, I’ve been very fortunate to surround myself with supportive, loving family members and friends, who have helped make the transitions smooth and the exits graceful.  My only hope that I’ve been able to pay it forward to my daughter and soon-to-be-ex.

What was your best coping mechanism when your marriage or relationship ended? Did you invoke a mantra?  I’d love to know! Thanks!

Walking with Deepak & Oprah

As a committed yogi, one of the hardest things for me to do is meditate.  I have always admired people who have the discipline and ability to sit quietly and let their minds, bodies and spirit experience the enlightenment and the “in-the-moment” benefits of meditation.  In this Yoga Journal blog post, the writer lists 100 benefits of meditation.  If I could sit for 5 minutes consistently, and only hit a few, I’d feel like I had made progress.

Recently my friend and fellow yogi, Pam Kessinger Best of Love and Light Yoga Co, told me about a 21-day meditation challenge hosted by Deepak Chopra and Oprah.  I thought, this is it! This will help me get my meditative act together.

So I began the program, listening to the uplifting and meaningful meditative prompts.  Day 1, I meditated at night . .. and promptly fell asleep before Deepak was done. Day 2, I meditated in the morning with the same result.  Day 3, I meditated mid-day in our sunroom and fell asleep again. Each time, I failed to meditate for the entire time, napping instead.

One day 5, as I was walking the dog (which I do about 5+ times a week), it came to me: when meditative practices began (probably about 5,000 years ago or more)  most people were very active, farming, tending to live stock, etc.  To sit — really sit — was a welcome change to their rigorous lives.  In fact, I’d guess that you had to reach a certain economic or religious stature to even have the chance to sit and meditate.  Sitting was a luxury; sitting was a sign of piety; sitting was uncommon.

I don’t know about you, but for me, sitting is a daily occurence. I spend the vast majority of my day sitting.  So when I think of meditating, the last thing I want to do is . . . . you guessed it: sit.

On that same walk, I began to consider that my time walking (usually 45-60 minutes) may be my own personal form of meditation.  During those moments, I feel deeply connected with nature. Having the most zen being on the planet by my side, our dog Roxie, brings the present moment into crisp focus; and removing myself from the home, I leave the computer, laundry and everything else behind. My mind lightens up.

My walking meditation partner

So, I’ve begun cultivating these walks as my meditative practice, taking Deepak and Oprah along.  I focus on my breath and feel the earth beneath my feet. I listen to Oprah set the stage and Deepak explain the mantra. I release the Monkey Mind and try to completely relax.

Is it ideal? Probably not, but it’s a start and that’s the most important thing.

What about your meditation practice? How did you master seated meditation?

Not-so-cheap Sunglasses

My cousin, a connoisseur of the finer things in life, always takes time to put her sunglasses back in their case, regardless of what is going on. Every time I get a new pair of sunglasses, within weeks they end up scratched.

Because I had lasik surgery some years ago, my eyes are very sensitive to sunlight, causing me to wear my sunglasses even on the cloudiest of days. So they get abused as I place them on my head to enter stores, slip them into my shirt to answer a text or throw them on the counter as I walk into the house.

I realize now that the problem is not the glasses or the case. The problem is that I need to take the *time* to put the glasses in the case. Time – yup – that’s the problem.

I’m a rusher. I move quickly from one activity to another, constantly weighing how much time is left to get everything done on my daily to-do list. Subconsciously, I guess the 30 seconds needed to put away my sunglasses was too great a risk to staying on my self-inflicted schedule.

As I pondered this, it hit me: if caring for my sunglasses is too much, what other things, what other people, am I neglecting? As I come home, do I warmly greet everyone? Do I take a needed mental hygiene break to recalibrate and breathe?  Am I so focused on getting things done, that I’m leaving scratches in my wake?

So, everytime I’m tempted to toss my glasses aside, I see my cousin in my mind’s eye, and put my sunglasses away  — along with my predisposition to rush.

My Worst Day is . . .

The following is a transcript of a recent commentary that aired on WFAE.  You can listen to it here.

It’s official. I hit the big birthday. You know, the one they say is the new 30 just to try and make you feel better?  Well, it’s not the new 30.  In fact, it’s way better than 30.

On my 30^th birthday, I was unmarried, childless, singularly focused on my career and frankly, a bit harsh.  I was impatient, judgmental and self-centered.

But with time and life experiences comes sensitivity, a softening of the edges and most importantly, wisdom.  This is why there are age requirements for driving, voting, movies, drinking and a whole bunch of other activities that require context and an understanding of the consequences.

So, as I stare down the half-century mark, what lessons have I learned?  What perspective have I gained these last 5 decades?  I actually started cataloging these lessons like teachers come in all shapes and sizes;  or dogs and toddlers and elderly folk are Zen masters; and you can only pretend to be perfect for so long.  But as my list grew, I kept coming back to one central theme that has become my own little mantra: my worst day is someone else’s paradise.

My worst day is someone else’s paradise.

When I’m frustrated by a traffic jam, my mantra reminds me that I should be grateful to be caught in the back up and not causing it.  It reminds me that having a car is a privilege; that driving is a privilege.  If I lived in Saudi Arabia, I’d be banned from driving.

The minute I begin to feel overwhelmed as I try to balance work, family and sanity, my mantra helps me focus on the joy and sense of self-worth that I gain from the different facets of my life. I think about other people who don’t have enough food or clothing for their families when I’m inundated with household chores.

I’ve also learned that even the most fervent optimist falls of the serenity wagon from time to time. Invariably something – whether minute or elephantine – just gets to us.   I use my mantra to climb back on, adjust my attitude and tune in the bigger picture. . . . my worst day is someone else’s paradise . . .

Inspiring Teachers: Mulling Over the JF Affair

For the last several months I’ve mulled over the controversy in the Anusara community, remaining largely silent (shockingly!) about the whole messy affair (no pun intended).  I will finally say that I was always a bit uncomfortable with the pedestal on which John Friend was placed.  I had taken workshops from him years ago, before his Yoga Journal cover, before his NY Times article, before his Manduka deal, before his fall from grace and was puzzled by his presence.

I thought he was a great teacher, but I didn’t see what others saw in him.  He was articulate, brilliant, and extremely capable, but for me, there was no connection.  I didn’t find him warm and inviting.  And I don’t think it’s hindsight talking.  I’ve taken wonderful workshops from other great teachers and I have found immediate connections with them.

In fact, 15 years ago I stumbled into a yoga class at my gym. I had an immediate connection with the teacher, Kelley Gardner, that led me to a life-changing practice that I will continue as long as I’m breathing.  But without that sought-after connection that distinguishes a teacher from a mentor,  the workshop-ignited inspiration is short-lived. Notes taken are soon filed away and only some of the concepts learned are put into practice.

Kelley Gardner & Immersion Students

Through these last few months, I’ve tried to understand what makes a teacher a source of true, lasting, inner transformation. Having completed the Immersion Program and Teacher Training in my own community with local teachers, I now realize what type of teacher insprires me.

Teacher that are experts in the art of yoga.

Teachers who share all of themselves.

Teachers that are a part of my life, week in and week out.

Teachers who show me how yoga positively influences all aspects of their lives.

Teachers with foibles and failures and integrity and strong moral compasses.

Teachers who strive not for perfection but for being perfectly themselves.

Teachers who are not personas but are persons.

Teachers who show how to do the dance of life by dancing beautifully each day.

So my deepest and unending thanks to Kelley Gardner, Sari Weston, Sarah Faircloth, and Stacey Millner-Collins for keeping it real.  You are the heart of my practice and are with me every time I unroll my mat.

The Joy of Falling on your Derriere

In my next life, I want to come back as a weather forecaster or a baseball player.  In those jobs, you can get it wrong and get away with it.

Well, I’m neither of those things, so getting it wrong at work on a regular basis is not an option.  However, there is one place where mistakes are part of the fun: my yoga practice.  Frankly, it’s another reason why I love yoga.  On my mat, I strive to cultivate a sense of playfulness that allows me to mess up without consequences.  If I go into an arm balance and fall on my butt, I laugh and try again.  It’s not that I don’t care about staying in kukkutasana (and yes, that’s pronounced “cuckoo”); I care deeply, but the process is just as important.  If I can stay loose mentally and keep trying without stressing out about it, I know I’m practicing yoga.

The big challenge is applying that same sense of playfulness to other parts of my life.  I’ve been known to mess up a dinner and brood about it for the entire evening.  I’ve also been known to leave the house only to turn around and go back for an item I forgot.  Again, the anger sets in for far too long.  These types of things could be easily laughed off and forgotten, but instead I choose to berate myself for far too long.

Sound familiar?

If it does, then this might seem familiar too: if someone else messes up a meal or forgets something, you’re the first one to remind them that the “mistake” is not important. Ordering in pizza or missing 5 minutes of traffic seems trivial.  But for some reason, someone else’s mistakes seem minor while your own seem gargantuan.

What if I was able to see each of those situations as another funny fall on my butt?  What if I could turn that scowl into a giggle?  What if I could actually relish the pizza or postponement of traffic?  What if I treated every silly obstacle like it was kukkutasana?

I’m pretty sure, I’d breathe more and b*#@! less.

Care to give it a try?

The Dilemma: Coffee vs Tea

A funny thing happened on the way to the coffee pot. It started much as I expected.  I opened the package of coffee and breathed deeply. It was heavenly.  With lots of anticipation of my first cup of java in 3 weeks, I lovingly prepared the dark, rich, brown liquid.  As I savored every smell, I threw a few drops of Stevia and splash of cream in.  “Come to mama,” I said to my little green Starbucks mug.  Salivating, I put the cups to my lips and drew in a long, warm sip. 

Guess what?  I didn’t like it! I KNOW! I was incredulous!  For so long, my favorite food groups have revolved around coffee and chocolate (I’m assuming I still like chocolate, but haven’t gone down that path yet). 

So now I’m in a kind of breakfast drink limbo.  Still not thrilled with tea, no longer a coffee lover. 

Now, what do I do with my Starbucks Gold Card??