On Eggs

My grandmother Deany was wild about Easter eggs. Add to that her absentminded ways in the kitchen and you’ve got CHAOS: boiling eggs, dye cups, and 15 grandchildren armed with crayons. Spry despite her bow legs with ankles the size of grapefruits—even speed couldn’t prevent her from forgetting her eggs in the pressure cooker -- exploding a dozen all over the kitchen. From then on, I kept a closer eye on the eggs.

Now, 30 years later, I’ve got an eye on my own. But they’re not so much exploding as approaching their expiration date. The thing is, I’m at a scary age -38—with no baby in sight. With every laugh line or gray hair I picture my eggs withering by the hour - an exaggeration. But hey, that’s how my mind works. So I’ve frozen more than a dozen-- fourteen to be exact. But these eggs aren’t in a crate from Whole Foods. These eggs are mine.

Since I can’t put my eggs in a nest, I opt to pump my body full of hormones, have my eggs surgically extracted and then cryo-preserved. Sounds easy enough right? By freezing, I’ve tried to make up for lost time: being a late bloomer, spending too much time in graduate school, and waiting too long for my “real life” to begin. And while the technology is deemed experimental, with no guarantees--I don’t know of any guarantees in western medicine. DO YOU?

Haven’t I been fertile since I was like TWELVE? I’m mean, REALLY, what have I been DOING? I’m ready to take this womb out onto the open road to see what it can do. But you’re supposed to have all your ducks in a row before having children: the mate, the 401k…And a few of my ducks are stragglers.

Growing a batch of eggs takes about two weeks. People talk to their babies in utero. I talk to my eggs: “Okay ladies, let me go over the particulars. A nice doctor is going to come get you and put you in a freezer where you can take a long nap. If you’re awakened, that means I’m asking you to help make a BABY. But only come if you’re eager for a BIG adventure…”

The truth: I’m hoping not to need these eggs, that I’ll get pregnant naturally when the time is right. These eggs are my back-up plan, but I’m not going to tell THEM that.

In the clinic, the lobby is full of couples with fertility problems or women preserving their eggs before chemotherapy. But here I am, healthy with all my parts in order. It’s just that my life hasn’t lined up perfectly with my body’s abilities. Statistically--by 41-- over ninety percent of my eggs will be toast.

People ask how it feels to have preserved my eggs. I’ll tell you: it’s fantastic, like a weight has lifted. No matter what happens, I feel extraordinarily lucky to avail myself of the most advanced technology. Medicine aims to optimize health. And for me, reproductive longevity is an important part of that picture.

So now I’ve got 14 eggs living in something that looks more like a propane tank for a barbeque, than a home for my children to be. But I think of them like hope - like hope in a petri dish.

While Megan Griswold is on the road with her one-woman show ‘Fix It’ her eggs reside comfortably in Boston, Massachusetts.

How Yoga Keeps You Sane

 First off, the title of this piece is based on one very large assumption. So let’s just clear that matter up completely. The assumption is that I—the author of this article about yoga and sanity—actually am sane. It’s tempting to say the jury's still out on this, but to qualify to write this article I submitted to a battery of tests, went before a panel of experts, and just to be thorough did a few quick self-tests in some self-help books. I didn't actually buy the books, but I spent a good two hours tucked in the aisle of the Boulder Bookstore.
And apparently I did great. I was amazing. Spectacular. Record breaking. In fact this article was a bit late, simply because some of the experts who tested me wanted to speak with me privately about how extraordinarily balanced I am. I swear.
Honestly, though, if life were like the selection process for a fifth grade kick ball game—and the qualities they were selecting for were the extremely calm balanced mellow looking individuals—I would be that awkward embarrassed kid left sweating it out to the bitter end until finally—thank god—one of the two captains picked me. But you know how that goes. Everybody knows they kinda had to.
But no matter. As I understand it, each of us is a totally unique evolutionary, genetic, spiritual experiment. No one else is exactly like us. Some of us quiet, some loud, some more sensitive and wish we were less so. Some more stoic and wish we could feel more. And then some of us are pretty darn comfortable exactly where we are. But here's my second assumption: a lot of us would like to feel more balanced than maybe we routinely do. And because of this, we somehow find ourselves standing at the end of a yoga mat, listening to some tall guy with extremely long legs and a nice voice, who appears unusually concerned about the soft palette.
So why yoga?
No matter our make up, yoga is one way to learn to love the cards we were dealt. Why not love them, eh? I can tell you that the thirty some years I've been actively not loving mine, doesn't seem to actually have changed the cards. So now I'm working on the other direction. Trying to like them. Some of my cards I do actually like, then others I just as soon hide in the backseat of my car, in the seams of the seats where plastic wrappers, pennies, and dirt go to die. But sometimes those same cards we struggle with, also simultaneously contribute to the best of who we are.
Here are some of my most challenging cards—nothing extra special, they're just mine—the part of my deck that brings me to yoga:
I feel a lot. I feel a lot a lot of the time. I have a lot of energy, which gives me a lot of time to do stuff and then feel a lot about it. It appears one of my life's passions has been the following: I seem to like to worry, then criticize myself, then worry some more. Occasionally I think a couple of really solid thoughts, then I worry some more, then I worry about worrying...then I judge myself for being a worrier who worries too much. Then I worry about how I judge myself about worrying that I worry too much. Then I worry that I judge that I worry about worrying. Then I just worry. Then I get sad that I wasted so much time worrying. Then I get sad that I feel so sad. Then I am disgusted that I felt so sad about worrying. Then I fantasize about a couple of things about myself and then about a couple of other people. Then I work for a while and have a couple of really good thoughts. Then I notice I'm hungry. And then I start thinking about death and how we are all going to die sooner than we'd like. Then I think about how I hope I don't have cancer. Then I have a bunch of thoughts about how I wish my mother didn't have Alzheimer’s. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I pick the callous on my thumb.
And here's a scary thought. They gave a person like me a bachelor’s degree. And a master’s. And a job. And a driver’s license. And I'm allowed to vote. Run for office. Run the PTA.
Then I step on my mat. And you know what happens? It’s magic.
I start to worry.
Why does my forward bend suck so hard? Could someone look and see if there's like crazy glue in my back? Or is it because I'm holding my grief there? Is that grief that's making me look like the hunchback of Notre Dame? And the woman next to me of course. She doesn't look like a hunchback. She's a goddess. And look at that tattoo. God that's sexy. Should I get a tattoo? What if I don't like it later? Am I rooting my feet evenly on the floor? God I'm fat. I wish I was already in savasana. Wait, no I like this part. That feels good when my body feels more elastic. Oh rats, I hate Warrior II. Was that five breaths? I’m not sure. Let's call it five breaths. Maybe that was four... what's wrong with me that I care if it’s four or five. Why am I in a rush? Oh god. The guy next to me is making some weird noise. What IS that NOISE? Seriously what in the WORLD is that noise?
Now what's the difference between that and any other part of my day? It is a commitment to myself, working with my nervous system, my particular random combination of genetic material, to witness being a person. Being a person who wants to be successful at this stuff called living. And by success here I don't mean putting big numbers on the scoreboard, or being picked first for the million different versions of adult kickball out here in the world. By success I mean being comfortable in my own skin—which also means comfortable with the discomfort. Yoga teaches me to be the person who can recognize those thoughts about whether I should I paint my toenails or not. Or why doesn't he want me? All those thoughts are just one part of the passing show.
Those thoughts aren't me. There's not actually anyone there with whom to talk. Firing of synapses that will fire, now, and again. And when I'm lucky I can see it as such. And with each time on the mat, I get to recognize how crazy it all is. And that feels sane. Incredibly, marvelously sane.
You hear a lot of people out there talk about how "relaxing" yoga is. But that's not how I would describe it. It reminds me of learning to hike off trail. Like bushwhacking, the internal terrain can be confusing, with dense vegetation, where you find yourself stuck in the trees, where even a good map is of no use to you. And sometimes there are objective hazards that you have very little control over—rock fall, big rivers, avalanches.
With experience, the terrain doesn't get any less complex -- there are still thick patches, and you are guaranteed to lose the clear ridgeline and bottom out landing in some thorny rosehip bush cursing like a sailor. But over time you can move more smoothly through that same messy terrain.
As I can see looking at the details of my life, the terrain hasn't gotten any less hazardous, but a practice like yoga provides an opportunity to lay down new clearer pathways. Now I don't know if any hard research has been done about this, but here's my third assumption: Yoga practice actually helps lay down new neuronal pathways—where our minds (not just our bodies) become stronger, more adaptive and better suited for life’s demands.
Because, lets face it: whether life is more like a bushwhack, a kickball game, or high stakes poker, they all have the potential to both exhilarate you or knock the mula right our of your bunda. It could go either way. But yoga helps me keep my eye on the ball, crawl out of the bushes, and deal.

Classical Five Element Acupuncture

An Introduction
Classical Five Element Acupuncture is a powerful means to improve your health. Most patients experience a resolution of specific health concerns, as well as increased vitality, energy and an improved sense of well-being. Acupuncture is a comprehensive health care system that can complement concurrent work with a physician, psychotherapist, physical therapist or other health care practitioner. Many physicians refer their patients to acupuncture. For some patients, acupuncture reduces or eliminates the need for prescription drugs.

Acupuncture originated in China and developed over thousands of years. Early practitioners identified pathways of energy, called meridians, that enliven the body. They saw a similarity between the varied energy of an individual and patterns found in nature-providing insight into people and the conditions that lead them to thrive. What followed was more than two thousand years of careful observation and practical experience. Those of the Naturalist School, as it was called, developed new means to cultivate thriving health in the same way one might discover optimal conditions to raise a rare orchid. The five elements—fire, earth, metal, water, wood—describe, in metaphor, the harmony and cyclical quality of the natural world. These elements also describe characteristics and functions within the human body. 

How Yoga Keeps You Sane

From “The Laughing Elephant,”

April 2007 Issue, Boulder, Colorado


First off, the title of this piece is based on one very large assumption. So let’s just clear that matter up completely. The assumption is that I—the author of this article about yoga and sanity—actually am sane. It’s tempting to say the jury's still out on this, but to qualify to write this article I submitted to a battery of tests, went before a panel of experts, and just to be thorough did a few quick self-tests in some self-help books. I didn't actually buy the books, but I spent a good two hours tucked in the aisle of the Boulder Bookstore.

And apparently I did great. I was amazing. Spectacular. Record breaking. In fact this article was a bit late, simply because some of the experts who tested me wanted to speak with me privately about how extraordinarily balanced I am. I swear.

Honestly, though, if life were like the selection process for a fifth grade kick ball game—and the qualities they were selecting for were the extremely calm balanced mellow looking individuals—I would be that awkward embarrassed kid left sweating it out to the bitter end until finally—thank god—one of the two captains picked me. But you know how that goes. Everybody knows they kinda had to.

But no matter. As I understand it, each of us is a totally unique evolutionary, genetic, spiritual experiment. No one else is exactly like us. Some of us quiet, some loud, some more sensitive and wish we were less so. Some more stoic and wish we could feel more. And then some of us are pretty darn comfortable exactly where we are. But here's my second assumption: a lot of us would like to feel more balanced than maybe we routinely do. And because of this, we somehow find ourselves standing at the end of a yoga mat, listening to some tall guy with extremely long legs and a nice voice, who appears unusually concerned about the soft palette.

So why yoga?

No matter our make up, yoga is one way to learn to love the cards we were dealt. Why not love them, eh? I can tell you that the thirty some years I've been actively not loving mine, doesn't seem to actually have changed the cards. So now I'm working on the other direction. Trying to like them. Some of my cards I do actually like, then others I just as soon hide in the backseat of my car, in the seams of the seats where plastic wrappers, pennies, and dirt go to die. But sometimes those same cards we struggle with, also simultaneously contribute to the best of who we are.

Here are some of my most challenging cards—nothing extra special, they're just mine—the part of my deck that brings me to yoga:
I feel a lot. I feel a lot a lot of the time. I have a lot of energy, which gives me a lot of time to do stuff and then feel a lot about it. It appears one of my life's passions has been the following: I seem to like to worry, then criticize myself, then worry some more. Occasionally I think a couple of really solid thoughts, then I worry some more, then I worry about worrying...then I judge myself for being a worrier who worries too much. Then I worry about how I judge myself about worrying that I worry too much. Then I worry that I judge that I worry about worrying. Then I just worry. Then I get sad that I wasted so much time worrying. Then I get sad that I feel so sad. Then I am disgusted that I felt so sad about worrying. Then I fantasize about a couple of things about myself and then about a couple of other people. Then I work for a while and have a couple of really good thoughts. Then I notice I'm hungry. And then I start thinking about death and how we are all going to die sooner than we'd like. Then I think about how I hope I don't have cancer. Then I have a bunch of thoughts about how I wish my mother didn't have Alzheimer’s. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I pick the callous on my thumb.
And here's a scary thought. They gave a person like me a bachelor’s degree. And a master’s. And a job. And a driver’s license. And I'm allowed to vote. Run for office. Run the PTA.
Then I step on my mat. And you know what happens? It’s magic.
I start to worry.

Why does my forward bend suck so hard? Could someone look and see if there's like crazy glue in my back? Or is it because I'm holding my grief there? Is that grief that's making me look like the hunchback of Notre Dame? And the woman next to me of course. She doesn't look like a hunchback. She's a goddess. And look at that tattoo. God that's sexy. Should I get a tattoo? What if I don't like it later? Am I rooting my feet evenly on the floor? God I'm fat. I wish I was already in savasana. Wait, no I like this part. That feels good when my body feels more elastic. Oh rats, I hate Warrior II. Was that five breaths? I’m not sure. Let's call it five breaths. Maybe that was four... what's wrong with me that I care if it’s four or five. Why am I in a rush? Oh god. The guy next to me is making some weird noise. What IS that NOISE? Seriously what in the WORLD is that noise?

Now what's the difference between that and any other part of my day? It is a commitment to myself, working with my nervous system, my particular random combination of genetic material, to witness being a person. Being a person who wants to be successful at this stuff called living. And by success here I don't mean putting big numbers on the scoreboard, or being picked first for the million different versions of adult kickball out here in the world. By success I mean being comfortable in my own skin—which also means comfortable with the discomfort. Yoga teaches me to be the person who can recognize those thoughts about whether I should I paint my toenails or not. Or why doesn't he want me? All those thoughts are just one part of the passing show.

Those thoughts aren't me. There's not actually anyone there with whom to talk. Firing of synapses that will fire, now, and again. And when I'm lucky I can see it as such. And with each time on the mat, I get to recognize how crazy it all is. And that feels sane. Incredibly, marvelously sane.

You hear a lot of people out there talk about how "relaxing" yoga is. But that's not how I would describe it. It reminds me of learning to hike off trail. Like bushwhacking, the internal terrain can be confusing, with dense vegetation, where you find yourself stuck in the trees, where even a good map is of no use to you. And sometimes there are objective hazards that you have very little control over—rock fall, big rivers, avalanches.

With experience, the terrain doesn't get any less complex -- there are still thick patches, and you are guaranteed to lose the clear ridgeline and bottom out landing in some thorny rosehip bush cursing like a sailor. But over time you can move more smoothly through that same messy terrain.

As I can see looking at the details of my life, the terrain hasn't gotten any less hazardous, but a practice like yoga provides an opportunity to lay down new clearer pathways. Now I don't know if any hard research has been done about this, but here's my third assumption: Yoga practice actually helps lay down new neuronal pathways—where our minds (not just our bodies) become stronger, more adaptive and better suited for life’s demands.

Because, lets face it: whether life is more like a bushwhack, a kickball game, or high stakes poker, they all have the potential to both exhilarate you or knock the mula right our of your bunda. It could go either way. But yoga helps me keep my eye on the ball, crawl out of the bushes, and deal.

Castor Oil Packs While Drumming

Look, if I’m going to journey in the underworld in a shamanic tradition, and a drum is key, I think it’s a fair enough (and frankly cheaper) option to wear some headphones and let someone else who owns a drum, drum. I’m not going to buy a bunch of equipment prematurely.

I’ve been wrestling with this hormone crap for a while now. I’m doing my Ashtanga yoga, eating large quantities of vegetables, trying various supplements, boiling herbs (a.k.a. still stinking up the house), getting good sleep, working hard, mowing the yard, getting Five Element acupuncture, being loving to my husband.  And while my spirits have improved markedly, my breasts are still a bitch. I’ve tried loving them, talking to them (Come on now guys, what do you need? How can I help? I appreciate you both, but what’s with the pain?). I’ve tried being accepting of my body, every suggestion I’ve been given frankly. And still they KILL (less often, but KILL when they do). So I’m busting out the packs and the drum.

My main mission today is to experience a Shamanic Journey. In my acupuncture discipline they also do with plants what they teach to do with needles. It’s called Plant Spirit Medicine. But to select the plants for treatment (stay with me here) you have to journey to the plants and let them tell you what they would be best used for. And before I journey to an actual plant (like mullen, say or mugwort) I am supposed to journey down to the underworld and make a proper introduction. At best, I will run into my Power Animal, if I have such a thing.

Headphones on, I have spent the last half hour getting everything ready. I have the rags properly saturated and they are now on top of my breasts. Castor oil is known to sooth inflammation. And breast tissue – hormonally caused or not – is aided by decreasing inflammation. I’m laying on about seven towels. I only have one really nice pair of sheets and I’m not going to ruin them with Health Experiment #45.  

I hit play on my cd player. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. This is an awfully expensive CD, for the rather simple melody. I am supposed to close my eyes, relax, and drop in. I’m a bit distracted by the castor oil. I might have over soaked the rags. I feel a tickle of oil dribbling down my flank. This is all harder than it looks.

I am supposed to picture a cave or tunnel, and take my time crawling down into it. It’s dark, and rather like ‘Lord of the Rings’ meets ‘Alice in Wonderland.’ Somebody needs to turn on some light.

It’s rocky all right-- dark black wet rocks. Water droplets echo through the passage. And as caves go, this feels pretty sacred. I crawl out from the cave and enter the forest. Before me stand tall trees, gnarled with a dense canopy high above. The light that dapples through is rather blue, illuminated by moonlight. I’m supposed to be meeting someone here. Surely somebody must show up. What are the animals I always hear about in Shamanic talk? A raven, a bear, a wolf. Hell, I’d settle for a fish.  I walk around for a while. It appears a rather empty neighborhood. Maybe everybody’s out for drinks. What do shamanic animals drink anyway? I’m guessing something with absinthe, or G&T’s from foliage. Certainly some of this gnarly bushy stuff must be Juniper. Maybe there’s a pair of little squirrels making moonshine down a hollow or two. I’ll have to ask around. 

Hellooo! I think to myself. Anybody here? Maybe I’m trying too hard. Maybe I’m scaring him/her/it off. Ok, I’ll try less hard. Less hard. I walk and walk. Hey are those some tracks? I feel like Winnie The Pooh searching for Hefalumps – maybe I’m just following my own tracks in a circle. I don’t want to get lost. Get lost? What am I talking about? Shit. Isn’t anybody around? I come upon a little toadstool thing. It’s big enough to sit on. Jesus, is this a mushroom? Come on, a bluish-lit mushroom toadstool thing? How predictable. If I turn around and see blue fairy wings on my back, I’m blowing this joint. Should I just wait here? I start tapping my feet.  Must not be impatient, must not be impatient. I’ll focus on the drum. Yeah the drum. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom.

I don’t see a single creature. Not a bird, not a cricket, not a rabbit. No squirrel speakeasy. Maybe I’ll just relax here for a minute under this stool. Just for a minute. And you know, well, conveniently for me I am already lying down.

I’m so very…very…well, yes, I’m asleep. Not that I know this is what’s happening. But the 45-minute CD is over. Maybe I did go somewhere I tell myself. Maybe it was one of those sleeps like those mysterious half sleeps I’ve had in sivasana.

I’m tired. I have no idea who my power animal is. My classmate Coco’s power animal is a horse named Shanti. She must have a gift. I just have stained sheets. I hear Tim coming in. I gather up my swaddle of blankets. Total mess. But my breasts feel better.

The problem with doing so many techniques: it’s a shitty scientific method. When I land on the one that works, I’m going to have no idea which discipline was responsible.

Tim pops in while I gather. He’s been at another meeting. Since the wedding he just seems to get busier and busier.

“What are you up to?”

“Oh, you know,” I say.

“No. What’s up?”

 “I just thought I’d try a little shamanic journeying and figure out this Plant Spirit Medicine stuff. And these…” I say pointing to a pile of towels, “are for my breasts.”

He looks at me quizzicall .  On our wedding day, I looked like a real life fairy with a crown of flowers and a gossamer train. Now I look like greasy t-shirted, messy haired, boxer-wearing junk show in need of a comb, a personal shopper and a decent bar of soap. 

“You realize,” I ask, “that things are likely just going to get weirder around here, right?”

“Yes,” he says with a wry smile. “I do.”

In his own quiet Mary Oliver reading, clean-shaven, proper southern grooming, straight and narrow way, Tim really does understand me. Most of the time he just embraces me. He doesn’t say a lot at times like these, but I can see it in his grin. I think my oddness gives him a little permission to not try so hard to follow the straight and narrow. I really hope I give him that.