Step 1: Slow Down. Step 2: Finish this Whole Thing.
The Movement of Margie
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This one goes out to Margie. To say, “I love you, wherever you are” is not enough because “I love you” isn’t big enough for all she is and “wherever you are” doesn’t do it because even though she’s gone, she’s right here.
When I told my mom I was writing here as Vera Monstera, she went out and got her own monstera deliciosa plant to love and care for like her own kid. As per her green thumb, her plant thrived more than my own scrap of monstera that needs some more love.
But I took this picture. I’m giving it my attention. Breathing into it. And I’m trying to tend to my green things, like I do in times of great loss.
Anyway, we are gathered here today to hear the story of a sunny afternoon in Brooklyn many years ago. Many things were different then. I lived in Brooklyn, for one thing. And Margie wasn’t Nanna yet, so I couldn’t look at her love through the heart-opening(wrenching)(expanding)(tilt-a-whirling)(steam-rolling)(supernova) of parenting. But what was the same—a constant then and now—was my mom’s unconditional love and attention.
What you give attention to grows. So, I’m tryin’. Thanks, mama.
Step 1: Slow Down. Step 2: Finish this Whole Thing.
My Mom has a way of not skipping over things. A love of details. That’s why she can talk to anybody, anytime, about anything. That’s why she can quiz me relentlessly about a trip or a job or a day. She digs details. The little things.
Sometimes this drives me crazy. It’s hard to yank her out of a party. And she eats so slowly it seems impossible. Her pace used to drive me insane. I was an insatiable eater—eating fast, wolfing things down—out of hunger and spite. I’d eat past the point of no return. In secret. I didn’t want to savor, let alone share. I never felt full.
But we’re here to talk about the little things and those things are wrapped up inside one big, beautiful day. The plan was to bounce around Brooklyn. Lunch. Dress shopping at a love-filled store bursting with every conceivable color of gorgeous raw silk. And we would begin the day with yoga with my favorite teacher, J.
That bright morning, as we walked into the yoga studio, I felt a thrill of delight. The space was small and quiet. Clean hardwood floors promised possibility. With an already full heart, I introduced my Mom to J.
“This is my mom, Margie.”
“Nice to meet you, Margie.”
And, in her adorable, open way—like they had been old friends all these years—she tossed out the warmest greeting like it was nothing, a no brainer.
“You can call me Mom.”
Oh, she has a way. There was no way for her to know that J. lost his Mom as a teenager. His yoga practice was devoted to creating classes that his Mom would enjoy. Her life and his loss were ever present in his teaching, like a beautiful tattoo. Bittersweet gems of joy and sorrow, pain and interconnectedness.
So, anyway, he did. Call my Mom “Mom,” that is. For the whole class from start to finish.
“Looking good, Mom!”
“You’ll want to lengthen the arms here, Mom.”
“What a strong practice, Mom!”
All of a sudden, I had another brother. And I was bursting with pride and luck and gratitude that I could practice on a mat next to my Mom.
After class, we went to brunch. We sat outside on Graham Avenue and drank gigantic glasses of watermelon juice and doused chips with insanely good guac. In the middle of it all, my Mom looked up from her huevos rancheros like she was going to tell me the secret of the universe.
“I’ve just got to slow down and finish this whole thing.”
We laughed. Instead of divine wisdom, it was a funny declaration of eating. But then, of course, she did finish that whole thing. As only she can...slowly. And I, for once, couldn’t clean my plate. I was completely full. I’d been distracted by guacamole and watermelon juice and great company.
My family still jokes about my Mom’s simple 2-step plan to success. “Step one. Slow down! Step two. Finish this whole thing.” The applications are endless.
And there’s a deeper truth behind the silliness. It’s deceptively simple. Slow down. Experience each bite. Don’t miss out. Maybe you won’t finish this whole thing. Maybe you will. Who cares? The slowness is the presence.
And that day in Brooklyn was a slow day. Yoga. Brunch. Dress shopping. The slow heat of a day just like today. You know, come to think of it, that day probably was in June. When the breezy heat of the day carries you from place to place. When you kind of float and don’t remember putting one foot in front of the other. But you must have, because you’re here. In the heavy, spinning summer air.
But on other less brilliant days, when I’m in the grip of repetitive thoughts or clicking along on autopilot, I try to remember my Mom’s 2-step plan.
Step 1: Slow down. Step 2: Finish this whole thing.
In the slowing down, things come out of nowhere. Memories, stories, connections. I just have to be ready to for them. Like my mom. Always ready for the under-appreciated details that make all the difference. Always ready with a throw-your-head-back laugh. Always ready to take it all in. And in. And in.
I should mention that my mom brought me to some of my very first yoga classes. And when I taught yoga, she was a returning guest over the years in my classes. Always doing her own darn thing in the corner, no matter what we were doing. Up when we were down. Down when we were up.
That’s probably Margie’s companion wisdom to slowing down. Slow down so you can hear that little voice inside you. Slow down so you can intuit how to do your own thing.
Wonderful!