One of my reflections from the blogger barbecue at Sam’s was just how strong and fit everyone is. Shocker! It’s a fitness blog after all.
Cate talked about tossing off 75 km rides on a poorly fitted bike with seized pedals in France. Others exchanging plans for upcoming charitable rides. There were mentions of camping adventures and favourite hikes.
Talk of a visit to Newfoundland turned to reminiscences about Sam and Sarah’s ride from Deer Lake to St Anthony’s some years ago, and whether that would be a fun group thing. I have been a passenger driving on that route several times. I immediately offered to drive the support van because I would never survive those hills.
What struck me was just how strong and fit (and smart and interesting) every single woman in the group was. Frankly, I felt intimidated and had to remind myself that I’m actually a pretty good swimmer and a decent cook.
I’m a little older, and can’t do those exact things but diversity is good and I have different interests and fitness goals and that’s okay. One of the things I have learned from hanging around (virtually until now) with the bloggers is that self-talk is a very useful tool, and for a while on Saturday I had to put that lesson to good use.
Will I continue to be impressed all they do? Heck ya! Will I feel more than the slightest twinge of wanting to be able to do what they do? Probably not because I will remind myself that comparison is the thief of joy.
I will just keep doing my little goofy activities that keep my brain engaged and my body moving, and sometimes help make swimming or cycling safer for other people. They make me happy and sometimes they entertain other people, and I love that for me.
Me with a post-walk ice cream. Chasing after the ice cream truck by following the sound of its music is one of my favourite summertime fitness activities. I have occasionally walked for more than an hour to track it down, and then walked home.
I recently went kayak camping with 6 friends at a remote Ontario provincial park called Killarney. Over 6 days and 5 nights we kayaked on a lake to 3 different camp sites. It was a chance for some holiday rest but also some active challenges.
Each site stop meant packing and unpacking my (borrowed) kayak: sleeping gear, food gear, hygiene gear, camp chair, bug repellants, clothes, and drying line. These were stored in dry sacs that kept stuff dry in inclement weather or if the kayak tips. We also agreed to each pack out our own garbage, which had to be stored every night in our kayaks to avoid attracting animals.
Though I was a girl guide and did family trailercamper trips as a kid, I am newer to camping where you haul your own gear, purify your own water, eat primarily rehydrated food, and eliminate in a “thunderbox”. On every trip I learn more through observing others and asking questions to find what arrangements suit me best (eg, tent vs hammock for sleeping, what vegetarian foods I can take, etc.).
I’m on my own to make sure I can carry what I pack, I pick up after myself, and I keep myself clean, dry, sated, and injury-free. Although this seems like regular adult stuff, in nature with no other amenities than what I carry, I must plan ahead and be self-sufficient. As one of my friends said during the trip, “Doing this as a woman, as a group of women, is empowering.” (Another one said camping is having fun while being mildly uncomfortable.)
What is empowering is not just taking care of yourself but also working together as a group. These women harnessed 7 kayaks in a trailer safely for highway driving, navigated to a remote provincial park, kayaked to multiple camp sites, used fishing gear, arranged in pairs for food prep and clean up, found wood, set up big tarps in case of rain, and shared anything that was needed, from extra salt to insect repellant to tampons to skin bandages.
For nearly a week were on our own but also together: travelling, paddling, swimming, fishing, card playing, pleinair watercolor painting, food and drink imbibing, mosquito repelling, storytelling, and looking out for each other.
I am grateful to have learned so much about the tricks and tools of kayak camping from these women. It’s given me a sense of accomplishment and pride in a hobby that’s fun but not always easy or convenient. I’ve chosen from here this quotation, attributed to Madonna (who may or may not also be a kayak camper), to sum up my thoughts:
“As women, we have to start appreciating our own worth and each other’s worth. Seek out strong women to befriend, to align yourself with, to learn from, to collaborate with, to be inspired by, to support, and enlightened by.” – Madonna
What do you do, on your own but also with others, that gives you a sense of personal autonomy as well as community?
7 kayaks hauled by a truck7 women in kayaks5 women sitting in front of a campfire at duskThe view, of an overturned kayak near the water’s edge, from my tent at dawn
I’m just back from a glorious month of playing in the Canadian Rocky Mountains. Trail running. Mountain biking. Hiking. And just plain soaking up the titanic rock energy. While there, I spent time with a woman I’ve known for a long time and thought I knew most everything about. Only to discover a new side of her. I was surprised and inspired. She was more intrepid than I’d known and more comfortable in her own company than I’d understood.
The first glimpse of this new side of her came when she headed off to do a hike with a somewhat heart accelerating crux involving a chain bolted to a cliff face, with a sliver of a ledge to tip toe across. She had some idea of the challenge, from having been there in the winter with a friend. They turned back. This time she was alone. As she approached the crux, she coached herself to step onto the sliver ledge without so much as a pause. And that’s what she did. It turned out that the crux was not the end of the exciting bits. She joined up with three other hikers a short while later and they told her that the scree field they were descending was the site of the greatest number of helicopter rescues in the area. Oh.
The summer I was 18, I worked at the fancy restaurant in London, Ontario. Once a week, on Friday nights, an attractive woman came in alone and had dinner, including a glass of champagne and dessert. To my young eyes, she seemed to be about forty, and who knows, she could have been younger or older. What she was, was an icon of female power and independence. I couldn’t imagine a woman going to a restaurant alone. This was before mobile phones. So alone really meant alone. For fine dining? And champagne? And dessert? All those treats just for her own pleasure. How could she even enjoy her own company so much? Let alone have the courage to be seen alone in public on a weekend night? Such insouciance. Such confidence. I wanted to be like her.
When I strode back into the parking lot at the end of the hike, I felt like my version of that long ago woman in the restaurant. As you likely guessed, that was me setting out alone and me coaching myself through the crux. I didn’t think I could do it. I’d lain awake part of the night filled with fear. I had already given myself the grace to turn back. When I didn’t turn back, the elation started to build over the course of the next couple of hours. By the time I finished, I felt like I was champagne. I could not only make it through the crux, but I could also enjoy being in my own company. I felt insouciant. Confident. I felt like I was taking my own world by storm.
View from Tent Ridge, Kananaskis, Alberta
I did several more hikes with crux-y bits and other challenges that confirmed this woman’s existence inside me. I’d always thought that I needed company for such adventures. To discover that I could enjoy them just as much alone was a revelation. Though I would do well to have a satellite device of some kind for company. That’s a logistical issue. Meanwhile, I’m still feeling the fizz of meeting this new part of myself, with unexpected capacity.
I don’t know yet what we will do together. I am curious indeed.
A few weeks ago, I ran rim to rim in the Grand Canyon. The effort was a moment to remind myself of the strength of my spirit after a period of enormous loss, chaos and instability, including health setbacks. As I ran from the night into the dazzling first drops of sun gilding the tops of the cliffs, the dawning day called me back in to myself.
My youngest brother, Noah, proposed the adventure. His goal was to run rim to rim to rim (R3)—across the canyon and back again. My goal was rim to rim. I would accompany him for the first half of his effort.
It had been more than a decade since my last ultra run. Yes, I know, technically, rim to rim is not ultra, because it is not longer than a marathon. That said, those 21 miles are challenging. I underprepared. By a lot. One month out, I broke my toe. I wasn’t sure I could even join my brother for the first steps. A few days before we were set to leave, I was fretting about my lack of training, when the universe delivered me a lightning bolt of clarity. You know how to do this. In that moment, I felt a fizz of recognition, the running was the least of it. To be prepared was to believe in myself. I could give the rest over to the universe. I felt a sudden sense of being anchored. I know how to do this. I’ve done ultra runs before. The experience is inscribed in my cells. Yes, in the past I have always trained. A lot. And that wasn’t an option this time, so I will run with what I do have. My knowing.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t suddenly think that I had the whole thing in the bag, and it would all be a dawdle. Not at all. Rather, it was an acceptance that I might well turn around and that would be okay, combined with a confidence that I could do it, if all else aligned (weather, health & sleep, being the three primary things that needed to be in alignment).
We started running at 4 a.m. Descending 4500 feet. In the pitch dark. For more than 2 hours.
At one point, my headlamp caught a lone, bare tree, which looked like a staging of Samuel Beckett’s play, Waiting for Godot. I thought about Didi and Gogo, near the end of the play, contemplating whether to hang themselves from the scrawny tree. A current of energy passed through me and a voice in my head said, I want to live. I want to stop waiting for something external to happen, to give me a reason. Life is happening now. This is it.
I relaxed into the pleasure of the run. We reached the bottom in the dark and began to make our way across. I’ve been down into the canyon twice before and come right back up. I had never traversed the canyon floor before. Never been hugged by the canyon walls, as I passed through the sometimes narrow, winding passage to the far rim. The light began to seep into the canyon, long before the first sunshine splashed over the highest rock faces. The North Rim loomed 5000 feet above. It didn’t seem possible that there was a trail leading up the sheer walls. And yet, there it was. Sometimes skinny and precipitous. Sometimes breathlessly steep. With views to astonish.
Tears prickled as I reached the top after 7 grueling hours. I was overcome with the full body pleasure of finishing. Despite all. I’m awesome. I thought. For a moment. Only to watch most runners who came after me turn around (as my brother did) and run back again to the South Rim.
I was so proud of my brother for achieving his desired goal. And, at the same time, all the runners out there covering twice as much distance as me that day made me question my own sense of accomplishment. I only did … I made a halfway effort. In our world of increasingly extreme efforts, in our world where people are routinely pushing their bodies to the very edge of their human limits, what counts? What is enough? What am I allowed to be proud of? Wait a minute, who is doing this allowing? Why can’t I allow myself to be awesome?
And then on the Thursday after the Grand Canyon, I read these words from David Whyte (from his book Consolations. Words I had read before, which took on new resonance: “…taking a new step always begins from the central foundational core of the body, a body we have neglected, beginning well means seating ourselves in the body again, catching up with ourselves and the person we have become since last we tried to begin …” I felt my first steps down the South Kaibab trail again and the intensity of everything that moment contained. The flood of memories of other physical challenges, like this run, that I’ve done in the past. All the ways in which my life and how I see myself have changed since then. All the doubts I was carrying into the canyon about my own capacity. Would my Addison’s Disease be a factor? The run was an opportunity to catch up with myself and the person I have become since last I tried to begin. I discovered a woman who is doing better than she thought. The light of resilience is seeping into her cells. Soon, the only-seemingly-insurmountable cliffs ahead will be painted gold and the trail will show itself. Step by step.
I went out for dinner recently with two women who are dear to my heart but who didn’t know each other except as very casual acquaintances. I was privileged to watch it become a joyful celebration of girl power as the two spent a couple of hours talking about the martial art one loved and the other had loved but where she now was struggling to decide whether she ever wanted to take it up again.
I don’t do this sport. I have never even really wanted to do this sport. But I know just enough about it to follow along as they talked about all the issues that make the sport challenging for women:
Equipment that is hard to fit because of breasts and the difficulties of getting it adjusted because the people who make it are mostly men who don’t design for women’s bodies (though that is changing).
Equipment requirements put in place by men that make no sense for women (men absolutely need a cup for this sport, but a Jill is a hindrance and unnecessary).
The need many women have to be much more technical because they are fighting taller men with longer reach.
The different way many women process learning; they want more drills rather than just rushing in to bash their opponents and hope to learn something on the fly.
Representation matters! There were anecdotes about fan-girling over other women who do this sport, and the impact their presence on the field has made to women interested in giving it a try.
The feelings of inadequacy and discomfort with asking for help because you fear you are being a burden to others at practice.
The struggles to find time to practice because family responsibilities.
All the body issues: larger; shape has changed; returning after childbirth and years of raising that child; aging; injury.
It was joyful to listen to them talking through possible solutions. It was even more joyful to see them connect as they shared what aspects/positions/weapons forms they loved and why.
What was really striking was the universality of the issues. As these two near-strangers geeked out for hours, I could still join in with observations from the sports I do and the gender-based analysis work I used to do.
Diane, Mel and Bess, top. Below: Bess on the left and Mel on the right, doing the thing they both love.
Hey y’all– in case you’re in need of some happy, joyful, positive news today: look no further. Meet Jolien Boumkwo, Belgian shot-putter and all-around good egg. She literally embodied the spirit of teamwork on Saturday at the European Championships in Track and Field. How did she do this? By winning her shot-putting competition? Nope. She finished seventh, which is excellent. But no, it wasn’t that.
Boumkwo ran the hurdles race even though she is not a hurdler, but in fact a shot putter (completely different skillsets, I’m told). Why did she do it? Because: a) no one else on her team was available (due to injuries); and b) they needed someone in the race in order: b1) not to get disqualified from continued competition; and b2) get one point for their team in the hopes of not getting relegated from Division 1.
So Boumkwo did it. Here is the race. Watch it; you’ll be glad you did.
An amazing moment at the European Team Championships 🔥
Belgium's Anne Zagré was going to run the 100m hurdles but got injured 🇧🇪
So shot putter (with every point counting) Jolien Boumkwo stepped in at the last minute and this was the result 🤯pic.twitter.com/2V7l3P2lBh
Shot putter Jolien Boumkwo, running carefully and powerfully over hurdles on her way to a team point for Belgium.
I love it that she’s tall enough basically to step over the hurdles and that she’s being careful not to get injured. It’s also nice (and appropriate) that she got high fives and handshakes from some of the other hurders after the race.
For contrast, here’s what Boumkwo doing what she’s trained to do.
I came across the story in the New York Times, and of course the commenters had plenty to say. The comments were about equally divided between congratulations and thanks to her for demonstrating the spirit of teamwork, and shared anecdotes of cases where folks substituted in a not-their-sport competition and took one for the team. There were high jumpers who tried pole vaulting, hurdlers who tried relay races, swimmers who tried diving, and so on. They all said it gave them an appreciation for others’ talent and a feeling of team unity.
Or course there was one crabby person who said Boumkwo’s performance was embarrassing. Naturally, the rest of us piled on, replying that they were quite mistaken. Here’s what I added:
Her team needed someone in the race to get a point, and she volunteered (obviously with the approval of her coaches). It was heartening to see her, a champion athlete in her own right, put her ego aside to move safely and strongly through the race on behalf of her team. It wasn’t embarrassing– not to her, not to her competitors, not to her team, not to me, and not to other sports fans. It was joyful, smile-inducing, and inspiring in the best ways.
I assume you agree, FIFI readers?
Have I missed any other heroes this week? Let us know. Or tell us about your favorite moments of team participation.
I once called my mother a whore. We were playing double solitaire. A game that, between the two of us at, was a full contact sport. Slapping our cards down with no mind as to whether the other person’s hand might be in the way. In this particular game, we were neck-a-neck, cards piling up in the center at the speed of light, then we were both going to the same stack with the same card and my mum’s hand was quicksilver, hitting the mark before me. You whore. I shouted loud enough for the house to hear. She laughed with gleeful satisfaction. I wasn’t even grounded. That’s how complicit we were in our intensity. Even calling her a whore was allowed. I don’t know why, but that was one of the insults au-courant between my best friend and I. We felt very dangerous and risqué when we used the word.
Now, I hate the word. I hate all its implications. Of women demeaned. Of the judgment reserved for women and never their client-suitors. So, when a Soul Cycle instructor used the word the other day in class, my whole body snapped to angry attention. Here’s the context. Into the third song of the 45-minute workout he asked, Are you all sweating like a whore in church? ‘Cause if you’re not, you should be working harder.
First, it took me a minute to figure out what the expression even meant. The word whore had sidelined my reasoning capacity. Then, as my mind picked back through the expression, it dawned on me. Oh. She’s sweating, because her work is deemed a sin according to the doctrine of the religious institution, whose pews she’s seated in. Sweating because she has too much to repent. Judgment Day is coming for her. Sweating because she’s a woman who leverages her sexuality. Sweating because the lord on high will be displeased by her presence. Maybe he will smite her.
Why (oh why) would someone use that expression in a room full of strong, modern women? A young gay man, no less. He could have substituted himself into the expression, the implications are the same. And he would, at least, have been making a joke on himself (still not a nice joke, though humor is more excusable when we make ourselves the butt of the humor). Instead, he regurgitated what was, no doubt, an expression he heard in his childhood. Perpetuating values infused with religiosity and thus with patriarchal misogyny. I’m going to hazard a guess that the largest proportion of the women spinning that day did not look to the church as their arbiter of moral values. I doubt that even the instructor looks to the church as his moral beacon. Yet, there he was quipping in support of organized religion’s apparent mandate to control women and their bodies.
Sweating bottles (I chose this image because it is beautiful, IMHO, and I wasn’t keen on putting an image of a sweating whore), by Greg Rosenke on Unsplash
I contemplated speaking to him afterward. Trying to make light, yet still make clear what I’d found disturbing. I reasoned that he probably was not even aware of what he was saying, even that he might appreciate me pointing out the dissonance. Then I worried that he’d dismiss me as a cranky older woman. Then I worried that I was a cranky older woman, too easily triggered because my current life circumstance is high stress. And the result is that I have zero tolerance for any demeaning treatment of women.
What did I do? Nothing.
Except canvas various of my friends about their responses. Everyone, except me, had heard the expression before. While they all agreed it was offensive, when considered closely, they were split on whether I should have said something or not. Some agreed with my do nothing approach and others thought it was important to call such things out.
And, in case you think that calling women whores is a relic of church jokes, this happened to me and a woman friend the other day. We were out for a brisk morning walk together in a mixed-use bike-walk lane. Or so we thought. Until a cyclist zipping by said, Slut!
At first, as with the whore joke, we were both perplexed. We verified with each other that we’d heard correctly. Never mind that I was confused by the singular, when there were two of us. Was only one of us a slut? If so, which one? We deduced the angry cyclist thought we were infringing on the bike lane, after studying the available lanes more closely and noticing there was indeed a walking lane further over. I wonder if the insult applies only to women walking in bike lanes, or if it’s any woman doing an activity in an unsanctioned location. Push ups on a tennis court. Cycling in a walking lane. Is any unsanctioned activity by definition slutty? Does slut retain any sexual connotation? Or is the unsanctioned activity viewed as an indicator of loose morals? A gateway to turpitude.
What I’m sure of is that the cyclist wasn’t having a good morning.
There’s no true equivalence for whore and slut to describe a man. They are words with ugly intent. Normally I like to reclaim words and expressions and transmute them into a feminine power expression. I haven’t figured out how to do that yet with these words.
Before I launch into an entire alphabet of physical activities, let me say what inspired this post: 1) Sam’s post on Three Things on a Thursday: Watch, Read and Listen. I watched and then I read, and then 2) I got completely caught up in what I read. It was a blog post by Greta Christina on How I learned to stop worrying and love gym class. I encourage you to read it (along with the watching and listening, as Sam advises). However, if you are way too busy this week, here’s the tl:dr version:
Gym class becomes fun physical activity when you get to choose what you do.
Yes, dancing with an umbrella should be a gym class option. Thanks, Verne Ho for Unsplash.
I found myself thinking, what would my gym class favorites be if absolutely anything was an option? How to pick? Well, why not let the alphabet be my guide. So, without further ado, here we go– here’s my A–Z list of activities offered in my version of the Platonic form of gym class.
A: Archery. It’s not just for camp anymore. I just saw that there’s an archery center near my house; it may be on the list of potential birthday party outings I’m planning with my friend Steph.
B: badminton! For me, definitely not-basketball! I like to think I’m living proof that one doesn’t need to be able to do a lay-up in order to have a happy or successfuly life.
C: Capoeira! Wouldn’t it be fun to learn something that’s both dance and combat at the same time. If you’re at all in doubt, check out this video of women moving in powerful and graceful ways, capoeira-ing.
D: Deadlifting– I’d definitely work out with free weights more.
E: equestrian sports– I rode as a child, and it was so much fun. I wish more kids could spend time around horses.
F: fencing– I took a few lessons in college. It would be great to pick up an epee again.
G: gymnastics– I liked the vault and did minor tumbling. Maybe more rolling around on mats would be fun now. G is also for golf. I never played golf, although I’m a huge fan of minigolf, which I play on beach vacations with my niece and nephews.
H: hiking, which I like in theory but am no a huge fan of in practice. Climbing down steep rocky things is not my favorite. So I could give that a miss.
I: ice skating– it looks so graceful, and I took lessons in grad school. But then I broke my wrist. Maybe that can be cut from the list.
J: jiu jitsu– I took a few lessons and found it intense and challenging. I wish I had tried it sooner than in my 50s. Maybe next life…
K: Kayaking– yes, I love it. Wouldn’t it be fun to kayak with a whole gym class? Another option: knife throwing– wow. wish they had PE classes with this, although if they don’t I can easily understand why nor.
L: luge? No, too scary.What about lumberjack competitions? Hmmm. If you’re on the fence about this, how about watch Martha King:
M: mountain biking, mogul skiing. and yes, miniature golf!
N: Nordic (cross-country) skiing– yay! I’d also like to be better at nine-ball– a billiards game.
O: open water swimming– yes! Obstacle course running (not to be confused with parkour)? Definitely not.
She definitely looks like she’s having fun during the obstacle course , but it’s too messy for me.
P: pickleball– something I’d like to try. Plus: ping pong! parkour! Can you do both at one time? There’s only one way to find out.
Q: Quadrathlon, which I never heard of, but sounds good. It’s swimming, kayaking, cycling and running. Well, three out of four ain’t bad.
R: Racketball– I love racket sports! No to running for me– I had to in gym class and also in the two triathlons I did. Just not my thing.
S: Squash– love it! Snowshoeing, swimming, snd scuba diving! Lots of S-things to do.
It’s not on my list, but sumo wrestling is increasing in popularity among school-age young women and girls.
T: tennis! I started playing at age seven. And then there’s trampolining! If you’re not familiar with it, here’s some video from the 2021 European women’s trampoline championships.
U: ultimate frisbee– no. ditto for ultra marathoning. But hey– there are underwater ream sports– soccer, rugby. hockey who knew? I can’t resist another video here. It’s Australian women’s underwater rugby.
V: volleyball– I was so not good at this in gym class! But, loved the vault.
W: weightlifting– I definitely want to do more of this. And yes to water-everything!
X: a little license with spelling gets us xc mountain biking and skiing. I enjoy both of them.
Y: yachting? Never tried it, but I watched a yacht race once. Does yo-yo count as a sport?
Z: yes, there’s a Z-sport. It’s Zorb football/soccer. It looks hilarious and impossible, which is the perfect activity for gym class. Am I right?
So, readers, what would your perfect gym class activities be, if you could either go back in time and choose, or take a gym class for you-as-you-are-right-now? I’d love to hear from you.
Out cross country skiing the other morning, I came upon this mother-daughter scene at the intersection leading to one of my favourite trails, a winding climb:
Frustrated daughter, who looked about nine-years-old, laying in the snow across the classic ski track (that’s the two parallel grooves), scuffing one ski into the track. Exasperated mother on skis, standing a couple feet away on the corduroy groomed trail.
As I made the right turn onto my favoured trail, the mother shot me a look of complicity, saying, “…” I don’t know what. I couldn’t hear her, because I wasn’t expecting her to speak to me and my ears were focused on the podcast in my ears. On another day, I might have just smiled, as if I’d heard and carried on with my ski. Instead, I felt myself in the girl’s insistent scuffing. The intensity with which she was destroying the track resonated with my own inner girl’s desire to be and do more. I stopped.
Me: “Pardon me? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
Mother: “I just don’t understand why she’s upset. She can’t ski up this trail. It’s too steep. I can barely ski it.”
Me (interior monologue): “The trail’s not that steep. Oh Mina, stop being so judgy. Also, the trail is actually pretty steep right at the top.”
Me: “Couldn’t she do the herringbone?”
Mother: “No. She can’t do it. It’s only her third day skiing.”
Hearing this, the daughter’s ski scuffing gets more vigorous and defiant.
Me (interior monologue): “What’s the harm in letting her try?”
Me (to the daughter): “Great skis. Look, they’re the same design as mine.”
I extended one leg and put one ski next to the daughter’s much shorter one, highlighting our matching black and red Atomics. The daughter glanced at me briefly with curiosity and then continued scuffing. With that, I smiled in what I hope was a consoling way at the mother and carried on with my ski.
For the rest of my time on the snow, the feminist brigade inside my head talked over each other in increasingly louder voices.
Why can’t the daughter at least try? What the worst that will happen if she tries and fails? That she will be discouraged? That she will never want to ski again? Never want to go outside again? Well, that seems unlikely. And why do I feel certain that this scene would not be playing out this way if the daughter was a son? Or if the mother were a father? A father would tell his son that he could climb the hill. Yes, true, sometimes that goes too far in the other direction. I don’t think the whole boot camp desensitization approach is the right way either. But isn’t there a supportive, middle ground? Somewhere between get-the-fuck-up-the-hill-on-the-double and oh-no-this-is-too-hard-to-even-try. Are we so fragile as girls that we can’t even be allowed to attempt something seemingly insurmountable? Why can’t she be allowed to try and be frustrated and defeated and supported in that struggle? How will she grow her resilience?
I so wanted to encourage that little girl to take on the hill. I wanted to contradict her mother, take the girl’s hand and let her know that she had all the courage she needed to take on this hill and that I’d be right behind her. And if she didn’t make it, so what, she’d have tried and that’s what counted and next time she’d probably make it.
Mina at the top of Drifter, her favourite high trail at Tahoe Donner Cross Country (and where she was inspired to ski after the encounter with the mother-daughter)
There were other voices in my head, who told me that I had no right to even weigh in on the topic, because I’m not a mother, so what do I know about daughters; plus the just plain civil voice who pointed out it was not my place to say anything.
Yes. And.
I still know a little something about girls. I was once a girl who encountered frustrations. And I am a woman who has learned a lot of new things, some of which I’ve failed at and some of which seemed insurmountable when I took them on, and at which I did okay. I don’t have specific memories of my parents preventing me from or encouraging me to take on difficult tasks. There was a general ethos of try-and-try-again throughout my childhood. My parents also sent to me to an all-girls summer camp, run by a fierce woman who both cared about our safety and encouraged us to try hard things. I balk at lots of things, but I want to make my own decision about when I choose not to try or to stop trying. When I look around, I see how, even now, boys have bigger self-confidence than girls. Boys are quicker to claim that they are good at something (even when they aren’t really). I really (really) want this for girls, too.
I dream of a world where all genders are offered equal opportunity to fall down (literally and metaphorically) and be supported as they get back on their feet. So, I dare to write this piece, as a non-mother, to ask mothers: “Please give your daughters a shot at the hill, even if it feels too steep, even for you.”
Some mornings I wake up with a buzz of desire fluttering around my nerve endings. When our enthusiasm matches up and time allows, my partner and I indulge our pleasure. Inevitably though, there are mornings when that is just not possible. Until very recently, my response would be to shelve the buzz in corner, so that I could focus on the practical to-do list for the day.
Or, less productively, I’d be grumpy.
Until three weeks ago. That’s when I started taking an online course on the history and practices of tantric sexuality from the Centre Summum. I’ve been intrigued by tantra practices for more than a decade, but could never work up the courage to actually sign up for anything.
A brief and necessarily incomplete description is that tantra is a spiritual practice (across many traditions) of gathering and harmonizing our feminine and masculine energy. So, yes, tantra is about so much more than sex. And, it’s about sex.
Thanks to the pandemic, the class about sex is online. Thank you zoom for the ability to enroll in classes that would be logistically complicated or psychologically daunting, if they were in person. How much easier is it to show up from home? No one can really see when I blush, nor are there those awkward moments before and after class where we talk about … our sex lives?
We get homework. The first and second week (the third class is tonight, after this piece posts) one of our assignments was to notice those buzzy moments that I mentioned earlier (the class is in French and I love the French word for the buzz—frissons). Instead of setting the frissons aside, as I used to do, we learned to pause and simply savor the sensation of our life force energy. That’s what tantrism calls our sexual energy—our life force, the root flame of our vitality. Well, that was fun homework. Enlivening.
neon sign reading “and breathe” against leafy background, .by Valeriia Bugaiova on Unsplash
Another delightful assignment is practicing Kumbhaka breathing to cultivate our vital energy. Breath practices are key in tantra. As explained in the class, Kumbhaka breath is to cultivate our life force energy. It goes like this:
Ideally (but not necessarily!) done in seated meditation position. Take a deep breath in, moving the breath down from your heart into your pelvic floor. Hold the in-breath for a moment and then breathe out, moving the breath through your root chakra at the base of your spine. Allow the out-breath to continue up your spine, flow over the crown of your head and back down to rejoin the in-breath at your heart. Hold your breath at empty until you feel the urge to breathe. Repeat the breath pattern. Repeat again. You may set yourself a breath count or an amount of time, or you may just do it until your vitality is buzzing.
An online search yields a variety of slightly different descriptions, with prescriptive advice on when and how long to do the breathing. Our teacher, Stéphane, has a permissive spirit, much more about flow than structure. My personal approach is to try out different ways of doing the breath and feel into what works for me. In that spirit, I have a visualization that manifested with the practice. The in-breath is to anchor my life force (my power). The out-breath straightens my spine and as the breath flows over my head and past my face, I imagine putting on a warrior’s helmet. That’s my courage. Finally, as the breath reaches my heart, I tap into love. I’ve been doing Kumbhaka during my meditation, where it feels energizing and helps me focus (not on sex, but on what I need to focus on for the day).
Where I’ve really noticed a difference is when I do the breathing in bed, as I’m waking up on those buzzy mornings when I have to get up and start the day, no time for dalliance. When I go for my workout, which is cross-country skiing these days, I feel extra strong. The first time I felt this abundant energy during my ski, I just chalked it up to feeling happy. After all, spending a few extra moments to breathe into the frissons is happiness-inducing. The second and third times I felt the kick of vitality on my skis, I thought—hey, there’s a pattern. First, I searched around online to see if there was anything specific about my experience. While there is lots about tantric yoga and about other breathing practices and sports performance, there wasn’t anything specific about the particular connection I am experiencing. So, I asked Stéphane, if I was imagining the connection or if the Special K-effect (as I think of it, a reference to the breakfast cereal, not the drug) was a known result? He wrote me back (oh, right; because I did not have the courage to ask the question in class, live on zoom, I waited to ask in writing!): “Yes, whenever we channel our sexual energy there will be a tendency to increase all of our internal energies. It (*our sexual energy) is the source of all our strength.”
Yes! I’ll have what she’s having. Oh wait, I’m the she who is already having. That sentence may have been nonsense, but you get the picture. I’m grooving to this class, even on my skis.
Interestingly, at the risk of over-sharing, but hey, I’m already in pretty deep here: when I actually have sex in the morning, that does not make me feel stronger for my workout. The more likely result is that I am more at ease with however the workout goes. That’s an equally great outcome, since I can get caught up in performance-busting narratives in my head.
And, in case it isn’t super obvious, these practices are intended for all people with sexual energy, whether or not you are in a relationship or solo and whatever gender creates the sparks.
There’s more personal, anecdotal research to be done on this front. I plan to be very diligent about my homework. And if you’ve been wanting a new kick of energy to supplement your morning coffee, check out the Special K-effect for yourself. You can’t fake the deliciousness.
