Welcome to the Journal.

I am in a dark room. Doors are closed. Music is pumping but the room is silent outside of my earbuds. Alone, I am dancing to a song that makes me feel very sad, a little angry. I am turning my wrists and swiveling my hips. Kicking my legs and snapping my hair. I am being as dramatic as I possibly can be in this space. Dramatic here means I am less so on the outside.

I did it again. Made an inventory of what was definitely coming. Posted pictures of whatever I wanted sell, followed a few weeks later by more posts, this time in a slightly more frenzied manner. I went on patrol to local stores for used boxes. I secretly gave away my daughter’s unfavorite toys.

I have been very quiet lately. I haven’t posted a journal entry since I don’t know when. My social feeds have gained no new followers. My program outlines are not any closer to complete.

There’s a good reason for my silence: I just returned from four weeks in the United States visiting my family. It looked a lot like this.

A mama friend recently was visiting for a double playdate. We drank kava kava tea and talked in staccato conversations, interrupted every 10 minutes by our children who were about to kill themselves or each other. At one of the many points in the afternoon, I got up and saved my daughter from a near-death situation. I did it like I do it most of the time, addressing the behavior in clear words and redirecting her.

“You have the patience of a saint,” my friend told me when I joined her at the table again.

I laughed out loud. No one has ever described me like that. But reader, these days, it’s true.

I don’t classify the birth of my daughter as traumatic, but some people have done it for me. I remember when she was about seven weeks old and an acquaintance of mine, then childless, pulled me aside. She had heard that I had to transfer my planned home birth to the hospital. She gave me a look of pity. How traumatic that must have been, she said.

I just finished a Facebook Live video on the power of ritual journaling for the Simple Ayurveda Facebook group, led by the beautiful Angela Perger. I was so inspired by what I got to talk about there that I wanted to share it again here. (Join the group and you can see the full video.)

Angela’s topic for the month is the power of ritual. I adore ritual. It marks every part of my day. Ritual is what makes my dinacharya, or daily routine, holy.  When my routines are ritualized, I approach them with devotion. I make them a celebration of my aliveness.

I have found that while all births are unique, they all share this in common: They aren’t what was expected.

And it’s not only in birth, all forms of passage (i.e., the events that fundamentally shape us as humans) have this in common. Because if we knew exactly the course we were going to take, we would never have been able to accept the wisdom that we gained from the journey.

Once upon a time I was not Mama.

I remembered this on a recent solo trip to New York City, the place I lived during the height of my maiden years. There I was, walking at a rapid pace to the subway, headphones filling my ears with the songs of my own personal soundtrack. I hurried through my old neighborhood in Brooklyn, old things now mixed with new things. And though I have now been away for more time than I was there, I suddenly felt a deep longing for the past.

This morning, before anyone woke up, I did a few really important things.

First, I brushed my teeth, showered, and warmed up some tea (shatavari root, cardamom, and rose).

Then, I went downstairs to spend almost two uninterrupted hours completely to myself. I meditated with the spring equinox full moon pouring silver light onto my back. I journaled a bit, and then practiced asana as the sun filled the sky.

And then I went upstairs, when the real part of my Self-care practice began.

After my daughter wakes, my time is no longer uninterrupted. She is tossing toys around the house. Asking unanswerable questions (“Mama, but why can’t we touch the ceiling?”). Refusing a sweater, only to run around the house screaming, “I’m coooold!”

All of that is before we sit down to breakfast.

If I didn’t have the understanding that she is offering me a million opportunities to meet my higher Self, I would lose my mind every single day.

I used to belong to a very fancy gym. I joined not only because of the fancy hot tub and steam room, but because it was where some of the best yoga teachers in Denver taught.

The classes were labeled with catchy phrases like “Power Flow” or “Kick-it” that told you very little about the ethos of the teacher. I knew enough to know that I should research the bios of the teachers before signing up — it matters greatly who teaches us.

There was a time when someone suggested I peel a cup of almonds. I couldn’t believe that anyone had the time. I think I laughed at the idea and popped a few whole into my mouth. My ego has done a lot of downsizing since then.

You see, according to Ayurveda, the skins don’t digest well and turn into ama (toxins) in the body. However, almonds are highly revered as a food that builds vitality. So they are an important medicine. And part of their healing is that they require us to spend some time with them first.

I wanted to do things really well after my daughter was born.

No, I wanted to do them perfectly.

While I was pregnant, I would watch a mother drag her screaming toddler out of a store and imagine offering perfect discipline that would prevent such an episode. I would see a disheveled mother tossing her kid out of the car at school, cold toast in her hand, and imagine how my perfectly scheduled day would allow us to arrive on time, if not early.