Waking: A Memoir of Trauma and Transcendence

Part OneTrauma and Separation1Early MorningFor the first seven years of my life, my nickname was Jolly–Jolly because my smile, pudgy cheeks, and a potbelly intimated that a giggle was just around the corner.Some people are born with a smile on their face, and I am one of them. I do not mean this metaphorically. I literally mean that my mouth does not seem to possess the ability to form a frown, like a tongue that cannot curl. Instead, the outer corners of my mouth turn slightly upward, making my default expression a smile. After all that has happened, I am grateful for this fact.This does not mean that I am particularly upbeat or light-hearted. In fact, my wife, Jennifer, complains that I am unrelentingly serious, especially in the descending moments before sleep. It is then that Jennifer knows to stop reading and extinguish her light. Her eyes close as she utters the words "It's time to lay down, lover."It is early morning, and I am lying in bed. I am entering the summer that approaches my thirty-ninth birthday. I still have those boyish jolly cheeks, curly light brown hair, and a short beard that is beginning to show hints of gray. In a few hours, I will beteaching my Monday, 9:30 yoga class. As usual, I am not sure what I will teach, but I am hoping for inspiration, a sudden burst of how a particular yoga pose feels. I am looking for a feeling that can bridge the gap between my own paralyzed body and the walking bodies of my students.Sitting up without disturbing Jennifer's sleep is difficult. I grab the edge of the bed and pull myself over to my right side. As I do, my gaze encounters my wheelchair, like it has for more than a quarter of a century. Even after all this time, I am often surprised to see it sitting quietly at my bedside, waiting not for someone else but for me. In one continuous movement, I swing my legs off the bed and rise to a sitting position. After twenty-five years of paralysis and thirteen years of yoga, my muscles below my chest remain unresponsive to my direct command. I put one hand on the seat of my wheelchair, one hand firmly on the bed, and lift myself onto the main source of my mobility.I am up early this morning to practice pranayama, the yogic art of breathing. I want to finish before my house wakes, before Jennifer's coffeemaker begins to groan, before my son's feet begin to travel across our wooden floors. As I wheel silently down the hallway, I do not feel my feet against my foot pedals, but I do feel a buzz, a hum that travels throughout my entire body, both my paralyzed and unparalyzed body. I gently lower myself down onto our living room rug. It is a transfer that has taken years to perfect–to move as a unified whole, to combine flexing arms and flaccid legs into a single flowing movement.The morning sunlight beams through our east-facing windows and creeps across my body. I am lying on two accordion-folded blankets that run along the length of my spine. A third blanket is folded to form a makeshift pillow under my head. This posture begins my practice. Its effect is a delicate balance that opens and lifts my chest, while also lengthening the back of my neck. It is designed to allow my breath to enter my chest and torso more freely.The bustle of life has begun around me. I hear the bathroom door latch and water pour from the faucet. In these last few yogic breaths, I can feel that my diaphragm is slightly gripped–it is the anticipation of contact with others. I sink inward and feel presence in the backs of my heels. The effect is a softening of my diaphragm.I marvel with a thought. After all that I have been through, the ability to connect awareness through my heels represents one of my greatest accomplishments–something so subtle, something that seems so ordinary. I am not walking, nor do I feel courageous, but I have worked hard for such a moment. It has taken patience, persistence, and a willingness to feel vulnerable. It has taken a different kind of strength.I hear the sound of feet tramping down the hallway. I feel Paul peering down at me. "Why are you sleeping on the floor, Papa?" As I slowly open my eyes, I am already smiling.