Because trees sway.

Today Lily showed me how to meditate. We often play yoga. I am always the student, Lily the teacher.

Lily meditates in Tree pose. I asked her why. She said because Tree gives her "proper balance."

When I teach Tree pose, I always quote Erich Schiffman, a master teacher. Schiffman says it is okay to sway in Tree pose, because trees sway. My intention has always been to give my students permission to be imperfect. They can feel free to fall in and out of Tree pose, as long as their intention is to be balanced. I also invite them to take the balance they find in Tree to their lives off the yoga mat.

When I teach meditation, the class sits quietly with crossed legs on the floor. I guide my students to focus on their breath or to focus on a sacred word. I've never taken meditation off floor and into Tree, because Trees sway. Swaying was a distraction.

Trees do sway. So do people. We have to find flexibility in all things, even in meditation. Our minds will wander. Our legs will cramp. Our chins will itch.

Meditation has so many gifts-it makes us pause, it forces a stoppage--a strike, a walk-out against the oppressive thoughts swirling in our mind. It draws us closer to God--He is waiting for us to listen. And it balances us and makes us more us. When we pause and meditate, our truest selves emerge and we can re-enter the mad, mad world with a sense of truth. We are balanced. The good sits with the bad. The still sits with the frantic. We are at our very root, true.

It does not matter HOW we meditate. We can meditate in lotus. We can meditate while we mop the floor. We can meditate while walking the dog. We can "sit" quietly in Tree pose. We can find stillness in movement, because Trees sway--but Trees do not topple. Trees remain rooted.

This week, I plan to take my teachers advice. Instead of sitting, I'll stand and see what is waiting for me.

Loving wastefully

When I was pregnant with Chloe, my biggest fear was not that I'd have another preemie. My biggest fear was that I would not be able to love my second child enough. Lily was my heart and soul. Would there be room? Could I make any room in my heart to love another a child?

Then Chloe was born--9 weeks early, weighing 3 lbs and change, feisty, spirited, beautiful. And I loved her. I loved her fully and completely. I loved Lily more and then Chloe more and then Mike more. Love was in loads. There was more and more and more and more. A tidal wave of love. A deluge. A flood. A bursting dam.

Bruce Main, from Urban Promise Ministries in Camden (a fabulous man and ministry), often speaks on loving wastefully, calling all to love like love will never run out. Main says that Christ continues to pour love on us; His love is never ending and as Christians our mission is to love wastefully. Main invites us to throw love around, to waste it.

I get it now. I understand how to just waste my love--how to just toss it out. It is so easy. The more I love, the more love I can waste and toss around.

I love the school crossing guard who constantly harasses me about dressing my children in warmer clothes. I love my challenging family who demands the world of me. I love my neighbor-I don't know her name, but I love her. I love each and every soul--the good, the not-so-good--all of them. I love myself-even though I have so many flaws. And on the days I feel self loathing, when I want to scream at the crossing guard, or mock my neighbor; I can just glance over at Chloe.

Chloe taught me to love wastefully. She taught me that I will always have enough love to give. Love does not spoil. It does not run out. It does not need to be budgeted. Like the proverbial money tree, there really is a love tree growing in your backyard.

The moment I saw Chloe--and it was only a moment before she was whisked away to the NICU--I felt the peace in her presence. There was my daughter, straight from God, her first moments in this world and I could feel her love for me. I felt the love pouring down on me. A gift from Chloe. A gift from God.

Happy Birthday sweet Chloe. My blooming flower. My love.

Find the pause

I loved the oncology floor at CHOP. So much so, I secretly wish I could recapture my time spent holed up in our spacious and sterile room (minus a sick child, of course).

I thought maybe my love was some sort of Stockholm syndrome--we had been captives of a brain tumor for weeks. We were held against our will. We moved to the rooms we were told to move to. We ate what was given to us. We waited with bated breath for news, visits from therapists, procedures and whatever else the hospital had in store for us. We were kidnapped.

I used to believe that my love of this time stemmed from a sort of adoration I developed with our kidnapper. CHOP and all its team provided us with life for our daughter: therefore, I adored CHOP and adored being its captive.

But, really, I never, ever want to be back on the pediatric oncology floor.

When we were trapped at CHOP, something remarkable happened. The only thing that mattered was the health of Lily. Everything else dropped away. There was no time to worry about taking out the trash, preparing reports for conference calls, doing laundry or anything remotely "normal." All that normal stuff, all that noise, went away. We were forced to hit the pause button and for those 4 weeks at CHOP, we were still.

It was the first time that anyone ever gave me permission to care about just one thing-my child. From the moment I was pregnant with Lily, I lived distracted from Lily. I was pregnant, but I had to work; I had to ensure everyone knew I was committed to my career. At home, I planned the nursery, searched for baby names and distracted myself with knitting projects. I never just focused on Lily and only Lily. When my sweet girl was diagnosed with a brain tumor, finally, I felt what mattered--finally I understood and so did everyone else. My focus was singular--heal Lily.

At CHOP, I remember waking up each day, fearful of what horrible thing might happen, but feeling focused and still. I had no where to go. Mike was asleep in a chair; Lily in her hospital crib. I remember spending afternoons on a gym mat in our oncology room, working with Lily and my "Itsy Bitsy Yoga" book. It was Mike's idea. We taught Lily how to sit up again. Lily taught us how to stand tall and face everything--no matter how evil or dark. We taught Lily how to conquer her vertigo--a side effect of having your cerebellum severed. Lily taught us how to untie our hearts and open up fully to God and to faith.

Those were dark days. Those were also my best days--days that I will forever remember with fondness. That pause, that quiet focus--that is where God is waiting for us to listen.

Pauses are remarkable. Pauses are still, but not stagnant. They are quiet, but not silent. Psalm 46 says: "Be still and know that I am God." Thich Nhat Hanh writes, "When we are still, looking deeply, and touching the source of our true wisdom, we touch the living Buddha and the living Christ in ourselves and in each person we meet."

Lesson 3 (or 3 million)from the mom of a brain tumor survivor: find the pauses each and every day. Take 1 minute, be still and ask: so, what's next? And then listen.