‘Yes. It’s going to be very hot.”

I was standing in the middle of my latest brilliant idea. Since I am traveling a good deal in the next two months, taking my traditional coursework in graduate school was not an option. So rather than bowing out this quarter, my program director at JFKU and I created an independent study course about leadership. That would have been enough, except I wouldn’t qualify for financial aid unless I took one more unit.

That’s where my brilliant idea came in.

Rather than design another cerebral course, I decided to create somatic balance. After all, I am enrolled in Integral Psychology. I must treat and respect the whole person.  So I decided to study and enroll in Bikram Yoga.

My girlfriend, Liz, has been an advocate of Bikram Yoga since last June. She claimed she was inspired by the spiritual display at Harrison’s bar mitzvah, and returned to New York to find her own path to serenity. She seemed authentically altered after six months of her regimen.

“Isn’t it, you know, really hot?” I asked Liz on the phone one day.

“You get over that pretty quickly,” she said, dismissively. ” I can only describe it as really cleansing. And my body is transformed.” I stopped studying my pores in the mirror and took mental note. This could be an interesting study. Take and study Bikram for nine weeks and see if there is any transformation in me.

It all seemed like a good idea until I stood in the second of two rows, noting that all of the students were dripping sweat and we hadn’t even starting moving yet. Stay positive, my mantra came back. You’ll breathe again in ninety minutes. At least it didn’t smell as bad as I had expected.

“Now, Sally. Just watch the person in front of you. You may find you get dizzy. You may get nauseous. At some point you may not know your left from your right. But stay with it and you’ll do fine.”

Nauseous? Left from right? I had never been attempted to experiment with drugs in college because I had no desire to lose control. Now I had paid $23 for a week’s supply of delusions in a room over 100 degrees.

“For the first half hour, no one is to drink water. It breaks the unified energy.”

I was thrilled when the small hand hit the six and I could chug a quarter of my water. The next half hour wasn’t so bad, either. Then I started studying the clock. I eyed the door, wondering how it would feel to have blast of cold air hit my body. But I wasn’t allowed to open it.  I went for the positive outlook again. I pondered worse situations. Being a POW in Vietnam certainly had to be worse than this. They could never get away from the heat.  But, come to think of it, they were locked in a room, too.

As the clock ticked each minute felt like a full hour. My heart rate was elevated –  my body’s way of telling me it really wanted to go home. Was anyone else about to faint? Was there any air anywhere in the world?

Finally, we were released from captivity. As I walked out of class and sat on the bench, the air feeling like I had just stepped into northern Wisconsin in January, I was startled by a thought: I had forgotten about everything in the outside world. I hadn’t considered my events, my interviews, missing my kids, Harrison being sick at home, dinner that night, or drinks later. I had simply in that hot room.

My defenses had also dropped. It is amazing what happens when one is in survival mode. I didn’t rate my body in the wall of mirrors, criticizing my lack of flexibility or weight that needed to be firmed. I was just me, and I loved myself. I also felt a peace in the entire room, an acceptance of others.

“Bikram says it is easy to experience peace in a dark room lit by a single candle, background music playing nearby,” the instructor told us. “But to feel peace in a crowded subway, or while holiday shopping, or in dealing with a difficult client – that takes discipline. That is what Bikram Yoga offers you.”

I can’t walk so well today – my thighs feel like a rubber band wound tight. I’m not so sure about 9 weeks of this class, but I’m all in. We’ll see what my version of transformation feels like.

I pressed my back up against the wall, trying to predict his exit route. I knew he was in the middle of reading a book, which was splayed spine-up on the living room table below. I thought he might walk through the hallway on my left, the most direct path to his destination.He had his treats, and he was in a zone. Sure enough, I heard the pad of his jock-sock footsteps.

Timing was everything. I had to scare him at the precise moment he was parallel with me, when his shoulder aligned with mine. If I jumped out too soon, he would see me round the corner, and the element of surprise would be gone. If I leapt too late, I’d be the fool who tried and failed. Thank goodness he was still humming.

“BOOOOO!!!!” My arms flew out in front of me, fingers clawed like a creature. My feet hit the ceramic tile hard, and the thud rattled the china cabinet.

“ARRGGGH!” Harrison ran backwards, red drink swishing against the side of his glass.”MOMMM!”

I clapped for myself, and leaned back laughing, mission so perfectly accomplished. 

“WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?”

I was still giggling, but my eyes got wider. I was so taken aback by the question. It had never occurred to me that perhaps a mother should not be going out of her way to startle her children. 

As Harrison proceeded down the stairs, shaking his head, I had to consider the question. Although I was raised in a household where my siblings and I pounced around corners, I can’t say I recall my mother and father joining in. Rather, they were the grounding forces, hollering “Stop it!” from the other room when tears or squabbles broke out.  Was I not enrolled in motherly behavior?

I had to go to the expert. My sister Chrissy.

“Chrissy, I had this experience the other day…. I need a reality check.”

After I recalled the events followed by my son’s accusation, she said,”Oh, Jake and I scare each other all the time. It’s a blast.”

I felt better. Until I considered the source. This was the same woman who stood up from the sea of blankets at the 4th of July community picnic to dance by herself. “Mom, you’re embarrassing us,” her teens told her. She chuckled. “Why do you think I’m doing it?”

This is my sissy  who used to talk with me on the phone, and suddenly stop responding in the middle of the conversation.

“Can’t you hear me?”

“Yes. Shhh,” she would answer in a barely audible voice. “My kids just walked by looking for me. I didn’t want them to hear me.”

“Where are you?”

“Hiding in the bathroom. Shhhh!”

She is a complex woman. Because she is also the mother who the kids bring friends home to hang out with, and the mother who single-handedly plans every outing and family vacation. Perhaps none of can answer What Kind of Mother are We?   I’m just figuring it out as I go along.

But I’ll tell you one thing – I am definitely going to be the kind of grandmother who jumps out at her grandkids.

She and I had left our house when it was still dark, the tree-lined streets of our community motionless in the predawn hours. “I can’t believe its still dark out, ” Olivia said from the back seat of the car.

“Makes it feel more special, don’t you think?” I answered.

Life always feels simple and pure in the early morning hours.  I was still in that mindset when I returned home less than an hour later. I switched on my bedside lamp and heard a loud buzzing from the lampshade. I peered inside, expecting to find an agitated fly. Instead I found a nice, plump bee.With hardly a thought, I opened my plantation shutter, lifted the lamp, and tilted it near the open window. The bee, on cue, flew to its freedom.

It almost seemed too simple – like morning thoughts. Yet, with only one easy movement, my dilemma disappeared. I wondered, then, if life might not be the same way.

I’ve noticed lately my conversations – with myself and with my friends – have centered on worry about my future. Should I stay in this house, in this community? Are these the right schools for my kids? Should I work full-time or take on more consulting work?  Am I financially in control?

They are all legitimate questions. It is the way that I hold them that takes its toll. Sometimes I feel as if I am standing at the foot of a mountain, not sure of how to scale it, not sure if I’m even wearing the right shoes.

But maybe the questions aren’t really mountains after all. Perhaps, like a tilt of a lamp, all I need is a subtle attitude shift and the dilemmas will dissolve. Because in my worry I lose sight that this precious life is an adventure. It is So. Much. Fun. I don’t know what is next for me, and that’s the best part. The unknown spawns creativity, and the opportunity for self-inquiry. It also gives me the gift of possibility. What could be more invigorating than knowing that life is so exciting?!

Fears, like bees, aren’t all bad. They pollinate ideas, and can propel me to action. But they don’t have to sting me. And maybe, just maybe, my fears aren’t even that difficult to let go. They are just silly pesky thoughts buzzing in my head. I can appreciate them for what they are and, with an effortless tilt of my outlook, I can set them free.

I knew that Saturday, May 30th would be magical. What I didn’t know is that it would transformational. During the week beforehand, all odds were against hit. Harrison was hit with strep throat on Wednesday, and Olivia and I spent Thursday night in the ER for an injured finger. Guests were arriving, place cards had to be made, and there were many details to take care of. Yet, the ailments renewed my perspective of our blessings in life. Harrison would get better. Olivia would heal. And we would celebrate my son’s new phase of life.

I expected to be weepy on Saturday, but that seemed to be released Friday night as Harrison led the congregation at kiddush. Instead, I was beaming on the day of the bar mitzvah. My brother-in-law approached me in the morning and said, “This is a big day for you.”

“No, not really. It’s a big day for Harrison.”

And it was. At first he sniffled his way through the service in the background on the bimah. But when it came time for him to chant, he did so beautifully. The magic happened in unexpected moments. Having my entire family stand on the bimah for pictures, surrounding my son in his kippah. Watching friends and family envelop Harrison at the Torah, looking on as he chanted  from the scrolls. Seeing Harrison and Olivia embrace at the podium after she read her poem.

Yet, nothing stirred me more than to hear Harrison give his d’var torah. Using his pages of text only as notes, his eyes panned over the congregation, his friends and family, as he implored us to be more connected with our food sources, to eat together as families, and to help feed the hungry. He rose from childhood into a young adult leader at that moment, and we were wowwed. We had all witnessed Harrison becoming bar mitzvah.

There is so much more… the sanctuary brimming with love, the party pulsating with joy. We were a community, welcoming Harrison into the folds of adulthood. He was embraced. 

Michael had his transformations, bringing several walks of life together into one room. Olivia had hers, gracing the dance floor with her free spirit, taking in the love of everyone. And I have mine. It cannot be a fluke that I had  to go on book tour two days after the bar mitzvah. I feel I am being asked to do something that will enrich me forever: I am being asked to hold joy.

Now, as I sit in my old stomping grounds of Manhattan, the same neighborhood where I pushed Harrison along in his stroller a dozen years ago, daydreaming of becoming a writer, I am struck by the poignancy of life. It is a sweet cup of coffee here in Manhattan.

We enjoyed  a day of leisure, but when Harrison awoke the second day still sick, I knew it was time to take him to the  doctor. He stepped into his hospital scrubs – his latest favorite article clothing – and off we went.

The attending nurse noted how appropriate his medical garb was. Harrison grinned. He had only worn them because they were the closest thing to pajamas to wear in public. The doctor entered the examining room and urged Harrison not to contaminate the operating room or his fellow surgeons. He wondered aloud what Harrison’s specialty was.  As the jokes continued – their eye contact never faltering – I suddenly felt like I was excluded from a club. The real doctor filled out a prescription for allergy eye drops, and off we went to the pharmacy.

As we stood in line, amongst an array of runny-nosed children and exhausted mothers, I felt back in my element. In that environment I was what I had been for the last 13 years – a loyal mother, committed to her children’s welfare. I had taken off of work, no questions asked. For the last two days I had pressed the back of my hand against my son’s forehead, made him warm meals, and tucked him into my big feather bed. Now, Harrison stood next to me, rubbing my back in gratitude, smiling up at me. When our smiles met and our bond was cemented, he disengaged himself and wandered off to the nearby display of pain relievers and ear plugs.

I stood there, congratulating myself on the close relationship I shared with my adolescent son. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned.

“Are you aware you have a Clone Wars sticker on your back?”

“A what?” I eyed at the woman standing behind me, scanning her face for clues to the meaning of her question.

“A Star Wars sticker,” I heard the crinkle of paper beneath her finger on the center of my sweater. “He got you.”

I arched my back and reached my hand over my shoulder, pulling off a shiny square picture of Darth Vader. “You have got to be kidding me.” My son had put the equivalent to a “kick me” sign on my back.

Harrison strutted over, glowing, proud of his coup. But what he didn’t realize was that he had stepped into my club. I had a fellow mother watching out for me. She literally had my back.

“Very funny,” I said to Harrison. “But we got YOU. This mom told me–”

I couldn’t complete my sentence. My jaw dropped as my compadre raised her arm above her hand and arched it low, initiating a high-five with my criminal offspring.

“You got her GOOD, boy! Nice work!” I could see I had no friends in that medical center at that moment.  As Harrison clutched his stomach, laughing, I turned to her, incredulous.

She shrugged. “I found a Barbie sticker on my shoulder yesterday,” she said. “And that was when I was getting ready for bed.”

It made sense. I was in a medical center. And misery loves company.