Warrior Pose (52 page)

Once we're home again, however, old wounds arise and we both feel alienated. I know that it was my darkness, depression, and anger that created the distance and distrust for years. I do my best to take full responsibility for this, and each day have a little more clarity into how difficult it must have been for Pamela. But now, even though I'm off medications, have forsaken alcohol, and am devoting myself to a healing practice, it's just not working between us. I think about it in my morning meditations and realize how overwhelming it must be for her to deal with all the rapid, unexpected changes. Pamela fell in love with a journalist who was filled with boundless enthusiasm, married a disabled person who careened into an abyss of darkness, and now she's facing something completely new with a burgeoning Yogi. How does anyone accept or trust that?

It makes me feel empty and lost, especially when we get into the blame game that seems to be such a trap for couples. I get stuck between feeling terrible about who I was during my darkest days and the need to stand my ground as I build a new life. Pamela can't connect with the person I'm becoming, and I can't turn back to the person I was when we first fell in love. We continue to sleep in separate bedrooms off and on. Resigned to being civil. Especially when Morgan is near. It's as if we're already separated but still living in the same home. Tiptoeing around the truth of our circumstance. Denying the pain and hoping for the best.

Pamela's circle of friends solidified in my absence: four or five couples with children Morgan's age, the husbands with successful careers in money management, banking, and real estate, and the wives stay-at-home moms with nannies so they can enjoy luncheons, spa days, and shopping sprees. While I was in detox and at the Pain Center, they became Pamela's primary source of companionship and support. They're intelligent, good-natured, and fun-loving people, and they've been supportive and interested in learning about my healing experiences. Still, I feel like a complete
outsider when we're all together. Pamela senses this and it's another source of tension. This is her world now. It's important to her that I fit in. But I don't.

I try attending a few of the weekly parties, always held at the nearby home of the most social couple, but it's painfully clear to everyone that I now live in a very different world. The evenings focus on lavish food and drink. I've become vegetarian and don't drink. The casual banter usually drifts toward television shows or the latest social and fashion trends of which I'm completely unaware. Part of me wants desperately to fit in, so I attempt to contribute something light and funny. My words always feel inauthentic and contrived as they come out of my mouth, and they inevitably land with a thud. Each time this happens, I realize I don't belong to this tribe, and it hurts.

As everyone gets a little tipsy and the laughter gets louder, I can't help but withdraw, and it's painfully obvious to everyone that I'm uncomfortable. This in turn makes them feel like I don't approve. It's not the case, but honestly, if I was drinking and having fun and there was someone like me at the party, I wouldn't want them around either. Eventually, I go silent and slip out to relieve Morgan's babysitter, occasionally hearing jokes about Yoga and self-realization on my way out the door. Yoga postures as a form of exercise are fine for Pamela's friends, but my taking on Yoga as a complete lifestyle is just too much. Again, if I were them, I'd feel the same way, and although I know Pamela is happy that I'm no longer drinking or taking meds, this is her tribe. I can feel that she shares their sentiments about who I've become.
Who could blame her?

After leaving these parties and getting Morgan to bed, I crawl back into my cave to do practice poses and study my texts. It never feels good to slip away like that, so I need the poses and deep breathing all the more. I usually become so absorbed that I never hear Pamela come home.

I finish my
Sadhana
toward midnight, then tiptoe upstairs to catch a few hours of deep sleep. When I wake up the next morning before
dawn, I tiptoe back downstairs to the cave again. As the sun rises, despite being focused on my practices, I always sense when Morgan begins to wake up. I hurry upstairs, cuddle him in my arms, then draw on his back. Once we've finished with the magic drawing stick, I get him dressed and make him breakfast. This is when he always does the funniest thing.

His blond hair has dark, golden streaks, matching his goldenbrown eyes. He has lost most of his baby fat, but he still has the big, plump cheeks of his infancy. For some mysterious reason, he likes to fill them with as much food as he can before swallowing, looking like a chipmunk about to explode. When I ask him why, he just smiles like a Cheshire cat. I don't want to encourage him, but it's so hilarious I can't restrain my laughter.

Using grown-up logic in an attempt to persuade Morgan to swallow only makes him smile wider and stuff in another bite, so for weeks I play games to cajole him into it—to no avail. Pretending my hand is a talking puppet that begs him to swallow fails to do the trick. Having our cat, Max, sit on my lap and playing feline ventriloquist is also a bust. But finally, I hide a shiny penny in my hand and “discover” it in his ear, telling him he can have the penny when he swallows all his food. Bingo. It works every time.

After breakfast, his meal safely in his belly, Morgan climbs into his three-wheeled stroller and we head for the beach. We make each journey an adventure: stopping to explore flower gardens, staying on the lookout for hummingbirds and butterflies, saying good morning to the sun and inviting it to kiss our faces. Our trip to the ocean is about one mile. It's a glorious meditation, as rich as any experience in my cave. But I doubt I could make it without holding the stroller to support my weak legs.

Our journey always ends at a park bench in a quiet place on the boardwalk overlooking Coronado's wide, sandy beach. We call this the “story bench.” The moment I sit down, Morgan crawls onto my lap and I ad-lib a story about some exciting drama at sea in which he is always the hero. This morning we see a small school of silver-gray dolphins coursing south toward Mexico, their fins arching above the shimmering ocean surface then disappearing below. Lines of
pelicans, always in perfect formation, glide across the smooth faces of blue waves, swooping just above the dolphins.

“There was a special sea,” I begin, hoping the story will come together of its own accord, “where children rode the pelicans through the morning sky, dipping their toes in the warm waves just before those waves curled and crashed.” Morgan snuggles in closer, a signal that he's already enthralled with the tale.

“Every now and then, just for fun, a little boy or girl would jump off their pelican right as a dolphin came up to take a breath. They gently landed on the dolphin's back, holding its fin in their hands. The dolphins loved this and took the children on amazing rides, streaming down the faces of great waves, jumping into the air and twisting in the sky, then landing softly back in the water.”

“Does anyone ever fall off?” Morgan asks, just to make sure the children are safe.

“Never. The dolphins know just what to do. But one day everything changed.”

“What happened, Daddy?” He knows big danger is coming and I can feel his excitement.

“A giant sea monster came sneaking along. He was very unhappy because he thought everyone hated monsters, and watching the children having so much fun hurt his feelings. So when no one was looking, he grabbed a child off a dolphin and took it to his secret cave and kept the child captive.”

“Bad monster,” Morgan whispers with a blend of compassion and concern.

“Every day the sea monster snuck off with another child, until almost half were missing. The others gathered one evening, crying and wondering what to do. That's when a special little boy showed up in their midst. Do you know what his name was?”

“Morgan!” he exclaims, knowing full well how the story is about to unfold.

“That's right.
Morgan
. He arrived on the biggest dolphin anyone had ever seen and told the children he would help them. The next day, Morgan went and rode a pelican over the waves, all alone. When he glimpsed the sea monster, he jumped into the water and let it
capture him. He was that brave!” As I say this, Morgan reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze of glee.

“When they got to the cave, Morgan said, ‘I don't think you're a monster at all. You are just sad that nobody likes you. But I like you. Why not let all these kids go and come play with us? I'm sure they will like you, too. We can ride on your back and swim with the dolphins and laugh all day!'”

“‘You'd all really be my friends?' the monster asked. ‘Yes, of course,' Morgan answered, patting him gently on his big, horrible wet nose.”

“The monster smiled his very first smile, gathered all the captured kids onto his gigantic back, and swam out of the cave. The other children met them and took rides on the monster as well, hugging him and telling him how much they loved him. Everyone was happy from that day forward, and they all said, ‘Thank you, Morgan!'”

As his joy with the happy ending sinks in, I ask Morgan to tell me what the story is about. “Love, Daddy. It's always better to love everybody, even if they aren't nice to you. Love always makes everything work out right.”

“That's right, sweetheart,” I tell him with a big hug, “and I love you more than anything in the world.”

I could sit with Morgan on our story bench for hours, thrilled at his enjoyment of my tall tales, but, sadly, I have to tell to him that it's time to go. Morgan will have none of this, nestling further into my lap and pleading, “Tell me another story, Daddy. Please, please, please.” I always give in at least once, often twice, taxing my mind for more stories of dangers and rescues on the high seas. As I hold him in my arms and whisper a new story into his ear, I'm touched by what an amazing person he is. He has never had a tantrum or a crying fit. He always seems serene and grounded, perfectly at peace with himself and the world around him, like a little Buddha.

Pamela takes over when we get home, making Morgan lunch and getting him down for his nap. I slip back into my cave to relax after the big adventure, study my texts, and practice more Yoga poses. Pamela and I switch off preparing dinner, which is now one of our
few family meals together. After dinner, I read to Morgan, give him a bath, and, of course, we still have the sacred ritual of drawing on his back before bedtime.

After we put Morgan to sleep, I slip back into my cave for several more hours. Toward the end of my practice, I play some soft chords on my guitar, hum, and chant “OM.” My throat still bleeds periodically, and I occasionally lose my voice and can't speak very well, much less sing. But when I can chant, it tunes up a body and mind that have been in deep disharmony for years and, in the process, creates a new song of life.

After two months of devotion in my cave, I instinctually awaken even earlier, usually at 3
A
.
M
.
Some mornings, however, I want nothing more than to linger under the warm covers. When this happens,
Get up, Daddy
floods into my mind and I drag myself into the shower. This morning my ego is especially resistant. Urging me to jump back into bed and pull the covers over my head. Offering great justifications for doing so. How devoted I've been and how much I deserve the break. So I run the shower on pure cold, just to expand my comfort zone, and teach my ego a lesson. “Ahhhh!” I scream when I step in, jumping up and down under the freezing spray like a wild baboon. It works. Soon enough, I'm downstairs in my cave again, immersed in the “Time of the Divine.”