Read Online On Grace by Susie Orman Schnall - Free Book Online
Authors: Susie Orman Schnall
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clear the mind, and cure every affliction known to humankind.
As I get the boys ready for school, I realize I’m pretty good at acting like there are not a million things wrong. It’s easy to act normally around children; they have no frame of reference to detect subtleties in their parents’ moods. So when I’m a little quieter than normal while whisking pancake batter—another favorite in my short-order-cook repertoire—they don’t even notice. Luckily, they are unable to see the sadness in my heart and the hollow pit in my stomach. To them I’m just Mommy, and that’s the way I want it.
I pour the batter onto the griddle and feel the familiar tinge of guilt. Guilt for even bemoaning my situation. There are people in this world with real problems. People who walk miles each day to access fresh water, people in third-world countries who die from diseases that are preventable with vaccines that our country has in plentiful supply, people who can’t express their beliefs for fear of being tortured, people who hold vigil in their children’s hospital rooms as doctors frown and say there’s nothing else to be done. Those are real problems. My dealing with my husband’s one-time dalliance doesn’t compare a lick. Still, in my reality, it is a problem, and I must give myself permission to feel upset. Just because other people’s problems are much bigger, much weightier, the fact that I acknowledge that should entitle me to feel distraught over my little problem in my little corner of the world.
Once I’ve given loads of kisses and hugs and said “I love you” to my adorable boys who are such troopers getting on the bus every morning without a complaint, I run upstairs and look for something I can wear to yoga.
I’ve devoted myself to yoga two different times in my life. The first time lasted one class. The second time lasted an impressive three. Each time, I became discouraged because I was unfamiliar with the poses and unable to hold said sad-looking poses for any respectable length of time. Yoga seemed to have the opposite effect on me that it was supposed to. It completely stressed me out. But, I owe it to myself to give it another try.
I joined the Rye YMCA last year mostly so the boys could take after-school classes. But I convinced myself I should opt for the “family” membership because I thought it would encourage me to take advantage of their fitness classes, gym, and pool. No such luck. Until now. As a member, I have access to the purportedly wonderful and free-for-members yoga classes offered nearby at the Wainwright House Yoga Center, housed in an historic, renovated carriage house overlooking the Long Island Sound.
I throw on black leggings and a T-shirt, pull on my Uggs, drain my coffee, and head to the 9:30 class. The room is buzzing and filling up as I grab a mat, two blocks, and one of those colorful yoga blankets and create my own little India in the back right corner of the studio. I choose the right side because in my vast experience with yoga, I’ve noticed the instructors always do the poses facing left first. So, if I’m all the way to the right, I will get a good view of the pose on the first side.
“Hey, Grace!” I hear a friendly voice and turn to my left. I had been engrossed in folding the yoga blanket just so.
“Hey, Callie!” I say. Callie Monroe is a petite brunette I have known for five years. She has a kind smile and espresso-colored eyes surrounded by thick, long eyelashes. The kind of eyes that looks better without makeup. Callie’s daughter Amelia and Henry were in the same pre-school class. She and I clicked the first time we met because we were the only two moms who thought a two-week separation program was overkill. But it was the school’s policy so we trudged it out, even though both of our kids separated easily by the third day. We lost touch over the years because the kids go to different elementary schools, but whenever we run into each other, it’s
As I get the boys ready for school, I realize I’m pretty good at acting like there are not a million things wrong. It’s easy to act normally around children; they have no frame of reference to detect subtleties in their parents’ moods. So when I’m a little quieter than normal while whisking pancake batter—another favorite in my short-order-cook repertoire—they don’t even notice. Luckily, they are unable to see the sadness in my heart and the hollow pit in my stomach. To them I’m just Mommy, and that’s the way I want it.
I pour the batter onto the griddle and feel the familiar tinge of guilt. Guilt for even bemoaning my situation. There are people in this world with real problems. People who walk miles each day to access fresh water, people in third-world countries who die from diseases that are preventable with vaccines that our country has in plentiful supply, people who can’t express their beliefs for fear of being tortured, people who hold vigil in their children’s hospital rooms as doctors frown and say there’s nothing else to be done. Those are real problems. My dealing with my husband’s one-time dalliance doesn’t compare a lick. Still, in my reality, it is a problem, and I must give myself permission to feel upset. Just because other people’s problems are much bigger, much weightier, the fact that I acknowledge that should entitle me to feel distraught over my little problem in my little corner of the world.
Once I’ve given loads of kisses and hugs and said “I love you” to my adorable boys who are such troopers getting on the bus every morning without a complaint, I run upstairs and look for something I can wear to yoga.
I’ve devoted myself to yoga two different times in my life. The first time lasted one class. The second time lasted an impressive three. Each time, I became discouraged because I was unfamiliar with the poses and unable to hold said sad-looking poses for any respectable length of time. Yoga seemed to have the opposite effect on me that it was supposed to. It completely stressed me out. But, I owe it to myself to give it another try.
I joined the Rye YMCA last year mostly so the boys could take after-school classes. But I convinced myself I should opt for the “family” membership because I thought it would encourage me to take advantage of their fitness classes, gym, and pool. No such luck. Until now. As a member, I have access to the purportedly wonderful and free-for-members yoga classes offered nearby at the Wainwright House Yoga Center, housed in an historic, renovated carriage house overlooking the Long Island Sound.
I throw on black leggings and a T-shirt, pull on my Uggs, drain my coffee, and head to the 9:30 class. The room is buzzing and filling up as I grab a mat, two blocks, and one of those colorful yoga blankets and create my own little India in the back right corner of the studio. I choose the right side because in my vast experience with yoga, I’ve noticed the instructors always do the poses facing left first. So, if I’m all the way to the right, I will get a good view of the pose on the first side.
“Hey, Grace!” I hear a friendly voice and turn to my left. I had been engrossed in folding the yoga blanket just so.
“Hey, Callie!” I say. Callie Monroe is a petite brunette I have known for five years. She has a kind smile and espresso-colored eyes surrounded by thick, long eyelashes. The kind of eyes that looks better without makeup. Callie’s daughter Amelia and Henry were in the same pre-school class. She and I clicked the first time we met because we were the only two moms who thought a two-week separation program was overkill. But it was the school’s policy so we trudged it out, even though both of our kids separated easily by the third day. We lost touch over the years because the kids go to different elementary schools, but whenever we run into each other, it’s
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