cracked open like an egg

My brother went in for brain surgery and my whole world cracked open, just like an egg.



This life continuously provides us opportunity to crack open like an egg. What I mean, is that if we are awake, we are afforded opportunities every moment to love more deeply and to live more compassionately. On this first day of 2007, I am fortunate enough to have the time to reflect on the last two months of 2006 where opportunities were quite abundant.

The Monday evening after Thanksgiving I was preparing to teach two yoga classes at the studio. I sat in the lobby with a few other people. I found myself staring out the glass door at the muddy parking lot and the rain. There was a moment of awareness of feeling dull. Maybe it was tiredness, maybe I had eaten too much afternoon chocolate (like having afternoon tea but less civilized), maybe my practice had been too short, but certainly a feeling of sluggishness.

That evening for the led ashtanga class, the studio was pleasantly full. Warm heat from the energy of the practice brought that rosy glow to the faces in the room. We were about half way through the seated postures of the ashtanga primary series when my husband,Vince, knocked on the studio door and asked for one of the other yoga teachers to come outside to see him. Since I was in the middle of leading the series, there wasn’t time for questions. Judy, who was practicing with the class, left her mat. Vince was scheduled to be at work that night so my mind began wandering…maybe he had clients cancel, maybe there was someone with questions who had walked in…no, Vince could answer any question about the studio or about the practice…maybe it was….back to counting out the series. One of the things I love about teaching yoga is that it is virtually impossible for me to teach and think about anything else.

I assisted students, I counted breaths (or I tried to count breaths) and then we were into the finishing series. My mind began to slow down and I began to see with clarity how absolutely extraordinary each person is on their mat. I know by now that something is wrong outside the door. Judy had not returned from the hallway. I moved the class through the last three postures and I lowered the lights for savasana (resting pose). I recognized how much I wanted to soak in the breath, the energy of the room. I made a special effort to reach each student to adjust them in savasana, touching them seemed important. Important for me rather than them. These moments felt anything but dull.

I sat down to find my breath. Was it there? Could I really count on it? My mind wandered to my family. Please God, don’t let it be one of our nieces or nephews. My mind moved to my brother who had been having some weird health things happening. It moved to my grandparents, to Vince’s mom, to my parents, to my sister, brother-in-law, back to my brother. I realized I didn’t know who I was pleading with. I didn’t know why I was pleading. I had been living life with a knowing that everything is as it should be. I had been living with the idea that there is something at work that isn’t me. I had been living with the recognition that I am not in control. Maybe that was all wrong.

I came back to my breath. I heard the silence in the room, the sound of the universe resting. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the people in the room. There was an awareness there was no separation between my breath and their breath. It was as if they were breathing for me. Their breath, such an intimate thing, was grounding me. From somewhere my voice began and I slowly led them to seated posture. The sound of Om reverberated in me. It soothed the anxiousness. I can’t remember a time I have felt more gratitude for having the privilege to teach yoga.

I sat on the office floor and cried after Vince told me they found a mass in my brother’s brain. He’s 31. He’s been sick. I find myself saying aloud how I knew something was wrong with him. Even while I was on the floor crying, there was awareness, some sense of something besides the scared chatter in my head. It was that there was something observing everything that was happening….me crying, people’s voices in the hall, the sound of faint music, cars. Vince was so kind. He held me. We made plans to leave for Chicago. Without requesting it to, the body moved. I stood and began to gather my things. The body produced tears and my feet moved. As I left, I found myself surrounded by people giving me love. I had never recognized so deeply that these people loved and supported me.

We packed and made plans to drive an hour and a half to pick up my sister before making the three hour trip to Chicago. We were ten minutes out of the city when I told Vince I felt faithless. Somehow I had this idea that if my faith in something bigger was true, then my heart wouldn’t hurt and feel as if it was cracking open. It was putting everything to the test. If I truly believed what I thought I believed, wouldn’t I be calm and cool and collected? Maybe I had been relying on a belief rather than something I knew based on experience.

Now it is clear, believing in something outside of myself is the perfect description of duality. Duality in action. Duality in action….hmm….is what I have been studying in yogic texts, in Advaita Vedantic texts. Isn’t this what I have talked about with as many teachers as I can? Isn’t the idea of duality or separation from our source where suffering comes from? Doesn’t faith in something, belief in something imply duality? Suffering comes from duality. Suffering comes when we believe we are separate from our source…suffering comes when we believe that Presence Awareness or Source or Spirit or God is outside of us. If I am praying to God, this has historically meant for me something outside of myself...I would be asking that big person in the sky to point down and do something differently. Resting in the awareness that I am-that’s it! Really, I mean that’s it. Source, or Awareness or God, doesn’t change, doesn’t waiver, doesn’t exist outside of me or you or the cockroach under the desk. It’s not separate from me, I am part of it. Ami is a manifestation of the source, everyone and everything and every being is a manifestation, not separate from it! Awareness was here before me, will be here after me. It was here before my brother and will be here after my brother. It doesn’t mean we aren’t sad or hurt when someone we love is ill or when someone we love dies. I think we could say that is what is called “Lila” –the play of God. Life. Sometimes it just hurts.

My head would begin spinning and tears and tears and tears would fall. I would find my breath and momentary calmness would settle. I would remind myself to tune into bodily sensation. The sensations were more trustworthy than the mad monkey mind. The mad monkey was spinning tales of cancer and brain injury and loss. Have you ever wondered why that monkey doesn’t spin more tales of “it will be fine, trust, peace, he’s strong and young, etc.” I suppose looking at it now, happy tales are just tales, too. In Vedic texts, this type of suffering is called duhka, it’s the suffering we spin. The bodily sensations were reality, the tales were not. If we are aware, there is opportunity every moment to choose between reality and non-reality.

My parents arrived in Chicago and called from his room in the neurological intensive care unit. Surgery was scheduled for the following day. My parents sounded strong. My brother got on the phone. Although likely not so yogic of me (whatever that means-isn’t it great to see all of these ideas/thoughts that we (I) carry around!) I say something charming like “shit….I love you.” Jeff says, “Ami, it’s just brain surgery.” We both laughed and then began to cry. Our connection and love for one another had never been louder or clearer.

What followed is a bit of a blur. It was a week of yoga in a chair, pranayama (breath) practice, phone calls to people closest to us, crying, sleeping at the hospital in a chair with my feet up in the air (fruits of asana practice arrived once again), and a lot of dark chocolate covered shortbread cookies. I would like to have believed (whatever for?) that in a crisis I would honor this temple of a body by eating tofu, sprouts and fruit. But that wasn’t my reality. Chai tea and shortbread. Sometimes, taking care of yourself doesn’t look like what you think it is going to look like.

Jeff returned home after a week. No cancer, no brain injury, no long term consequences-a full recovery expected. One day in a cab on the way to Northwestern’s emergency room, the next day brain surgery and home in less than a week. Astounding medical care at every turn. A neurosurgeon who was compassionate, patient and kind. It’s amazing how much a small bit of kindness from him made a difference for our entire family. Not just from the surgeon and the staff, but from the woman at the information desk, Jeff’s minister from Springfield, Jeff’s co-workers, Jeff’s former co-workers, our co-workers, our extended family, our friends. Small things make a difference. How often do I hold off to do something big for someone rather than offer something small? Small opportunities might be big.

It seemed like life stopped, but upon further examination you know, no matter what would have happened, life wouldn’t have stopped. Damn. How could everyone be carrying on with their lives when my baby brother almost died? I don’t know what it is that sounds so comforting about the world stopping...hmm. … even when I want it to stop…it doesn’t. How could I possibly see kids for counseling and adjust people in trikonasana (triangle posture) and get advertising done for the studio and pay bills and clean house? Maybe learning to lean back and be supported by people in our lives and by Awareness or by God, or whatever you call it, takes practice. I was certainly given an opportunity to deeply realize life keeps moving along, through love and loss and tragedy and heartbreak and celebrations.

Life kept moving, in fact it was time for the holiday shopping to be done and for the house to be cleaned for the solstice party. I still felt raw…not to mention I have been sad about Adam (a fellow yogi) leaving for Iraq. My heart feels heavy about the danger he will encounter. Not just the physical danger. My heart feels heavy for all of the families who’s loved one’s have died or been injured in the war. My heart feels heavy for the Iraqui’s. This rawness has opened me up like a giant wound. I was nervous about whether I would hold up when I spoke at the party about Adam leaving the yoga community. I hope he will remember the peace he has known through his asana, pranayama and mantra practice. I hope he will remember he is that peace.

I was overly tired and worn down. My physical yoga practice seemed to be getting shortened more and more every day. My eating habits seemed to be swirling out of control. The stomach flu came. I missed the live nativity scene in my sister’s barn. The physical body was practically yelling at me. I listened and spent the day in bed. We changed our plans and left late for our family gathering. I moved slowly, acutely aware of how physically and emotionally exhausted I had become. This body can only take so much. This body has such intelligence. A reminder was in order-listen!


On Christmas day, several of us were recovering from the flu. I saw attachment in full swing as we are all trying not to cling to one another, like lifeboats. I sat at the kitchen table and told my family how sad I was that I missed Christmas Eve service in the barn. I began to cry. Not about missing the service. Tears of recognition that we almost didn’t have a Christmas with two hundred people in the barn and the stomach flu. I have a moment of realizing my suffering is coming from thinking about what almost happened, not what happened. My brother takes my hand. His affection has always been present, but it never seemed to run this deep.

A few days passed after the holiday before Vince and I went to Chicago to be with Jeff for the New Years weekend. He’s not yet up for Chicago nightlife. Our favorite way to celebrate the new year is to have a quiet evening of movies and carry-out. I wonder if people expect that I am at home ringing in the new year with Sanskrit texts and hundreds of sun salutes (why I wonder this might lead us back to previous readings about my narcissism). As we walk to pick up our carry-out ,we laugh at my bizarre clothes…brown gaucho sweat pants, black tennis shoes without socks, grey sweatshirt, oatmeal hat. I look like I am directly out of the back page of cosmo magazine…what not to wear! Everyone else in high heels, sparkly dresses and fancy hair. We talk about how sometimes it seems like everyone else is having a better time…how sometimes it feels like everyone else is out living a life that can only be dreamed of….as if we don’t have opportunities to engage life fully and find enjoyment in what we have. We can allow ourselves to be pressured into believing our life isn’t good enough.

We left Chicago on New Year’s Day. I felt nervous and quite neurotic about leaving. Jeff is fine. His health is good, his recovery couldn’t be going better. It’s as if I somehow believed staring at him on the couch watching television was going to make him stay well. It’s not. I saw the attachment to my ideas of how things should be and I saw aversion of being with the unknown of the darkness. Tears rolled down my cheeks in the car. Leaving reminded me how fortunate we were to be there for the weekend. Each moment we are alive there are opportunities to experience gratefulness.

Living life with an open heart is another way of saying to have known love and to have lost love, is better than to have never loved (who said that?). We can choose bitterness or we can choose something else. To be aware of a mad-mad-mad- monkey mind illuminates the moments when the mind is crystal clear. To experience moments of absolute heartbreak allows us to recognize the feeling of love bursting through our hearts. To experience the pain in your heart when you walk away from someone you love shines a light on all of the glorious moments shared. To look in the eyes of someone who is sick reminds what it is to be healthy. To experience abundance over the holidays allows us to remember people who are having difficulty putting food on the table. To go to work each morning can remind us of people who are unemployed. To feel your partner’s hand on your back can remind us of people who are hardly ever touched. To lose someone you love can remind how precious every moment was when they were alive. To almost-lose someone you love can be a giant wake-up call to not take moments for granted, to be present, to be the presence we already are!

Resting in savasana reminds us that every moment is new, every moment fresh. Each moment is the present moment. As my mom says, that’s why they call it a present. Every moment is an opportunity to experience life with great care, grattitude and compassion, towards ourselves and every other being.

May we all crack open like eggs and experience life from our raw-wide-open hearts.