Category: yoga

Finding a Footing

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

At the end of the last school year, as I waved goodbye to students and wished my colleagues a safe and restful summer, I was envisioning long days of reading broken up by an hour here or there with my hands in the dirt — weeding our garden, tending to our plants, and bringing in the fruits of our labor. I saw days on the beach of a great lake and others poolside with our granddaughters.

While I did manage to experience all of that, much of my summer was not what I was expecting. At all. Particularly not when, just a month ago, I was searching for an assisted living facility for my stepfather, helping my brothers move him in, being present for his rapid decline, then processing with my mom and siblings through his passing.

The flurry of activity was unanticipated and un-mooring. I’ve felt a little tossed about for several weeks, so the return to the rhythms of back-to-school prep of the past many days has been a welcome and anchoring exercise.

As I’ve been walking the hallways of our school buildings, I’ve been wondering if our students, too, have felt a little at sea. What has their summer been like — have they been working? helping out at home? have they had plenty to eat? time and space to rest? have they experienced loss? or trauma? joy? or celebration? Has their summer been what they were expecting? Are they, too, in need of the rhythms that will bring stability?

Because I’m not teaching this year, but rather supporting our teachers and students from a more global perspective, I’ve been managing tasks all summer like updating scope and sequence documents for various courses, familiarizing myself with the curricula taught in our building, creating Google classrooms for all of our teachers, updating our school’s testing plan, organizing and auditing the curriculum I created, and managing several other tasks. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve also been preparing presentations and materials for the teacher orientation that begins this week.

As I’ve been checking all these boxes, I’ve needed some support (and grace) from my supervisors to reconnect with the world of school, to remind me what each of the pieces are exactly, to steady me as I find my way back to the vernacular of academics — to norms and standards, to unit plans and instructional strategies, to engagement and discourse.

I’m guessing that our teachers and students are going to need support (and grace), too. Certainly their summers have been far from the academic realm — less structured or predictable. Sure, some of them have punched a clock or had regular eating and sleeping habits, but many will have had no routine at all. Surely few, if any of them, will have sat in a desk, attended to a slide deck, navigated to a Google classroom, or submitted a document for review.

Transitioning away from my erratic summer to more routine work has not been easy nor has my body been quick to adapt. While I’m being quite diligent in getting back to eating three meals a day at the designated times and observing my normal bedtime, my body is still on high alert after weeks of urgent phone calls, last minute trips, and unexpected decisions. My digestive tract is suffering from role confusion, and my sleep patterns remain inconsistent.

Perhaps the bodies of my students and teachers, too, will be a bit out-of-kilter. Perhaps they will find it difficult to endure a seven hour school day, to sit upright for long stretches, to use the restroom at designated passing times, to make it from breakfast to lunch without a snack, to remember to get a drink between classes, or to stay awake for the entire day.

I’m finding a few things helpful in my regulation. First is seeing my people. As I’ve gone into our buildings over the last few weeks, I’ve reconnected with my colleagues, many of whom have offered hugs both of “I’ve missed you” and “I’m sorry for your loss.” We’ve shared stories and laughter as we’ve navigated our tasks.

I’ve found stability in the familiar — the drive, the building, and the faces.

I’ve found comfort in the physical — walking into my office, arranging my supplies, moving books, and touring classrooms.

I’ve found security in doing what I know how to do — creating a document, sending an email, meeting a deadline, planning a presentation.

I’m thinking about how I can use my experience of re-entry, my realization of what I’ve needed to re-acclimate, to support my teachers and students as they move from what also may have been erratic to what is more routine.

We already engineer the first week to be less about curriculum and more about connection. We are a trauma-informed organization, after all, and we know that Maslow comes before Bloom. We have a system of delivering school-wide norms and expectations, and we support teachers in integrating warm-ups, games, and getting-to-know-you activities. The first week is all about learning names and building community. It’s an opportunity for our students to get a literal or metaphorical hug– to reconnect with their teachers and classmates.It’s a time to situate themselves inside of the familiar — not only the building and its classrooms but the bell schedule, the movement patterns, the physicality of being in the space, and the kind of routine assignments that warm up muscles and build confidence.

How can I normalize the weirdness of it all — how our bodies and minds take time to adapt, how we may feel irritated, foggy-headed, tired, and out-of-sorts? The best way I know is to name it — call it out — talk about it.

Our teachers and our students may need the leaders in the building to acknowledge the heavy lift of transition — of moving from the summer-realm to the world of school. These worlds are not the same, and the move can be jarring. For me, back to school has always been a comfort — school is a place where I know how to be, what to do, and how to succeed — but it’s not like that for everyone. For some, school is an increase in stress, a place of conflict, a world of insecurity.

So, in my new role, I think one thing I can be is present — observing what is happening for teachers and for students, being willing to acknowledge that what they are experiencing is real. Of course you’re tired! Coming back to school takes a lot of effort! Yes, this is a lot of information to take it all at once, and our summer brains are not used to it.

I can also offer compassion. I get it! My body is still adjusting to the school day, too! I can cover your class while you run to the restroom. How can I support you in getting your documents completed on time? Would you like to tell me about what you are experiencing?

That’s the benefit of my role — I’ve got a head start on my teachers and my students. I have had a preview of what they might experience in the coming weeks. Now that I am feeling a little more stable, I can lend some of that to them as they transition. I can be a reminder that they will soon be settled in as well.

That, and I can make sure that my snack drawer is full, because I can bet that soon I will be hearing both teachers and students say, “Mrs. Rathje, you got anything to eat?”

I’ll be ready for them; I’m getting closer each day.

put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. Colossians 3:12

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Finding Space for Breath

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

When I wrote The Battle is On in August of 2014, I shared what I understood about autoimmune disease. I was new to the game (just a year or so in), and I was relying mostly on what doctors were telling me and what I was reading online. I wouldn’t say that I was wrong, but I would say that my understanding of autoimmune disease, from my perspective, based on my experience, has shifted greatly since that time. The longer I live in this body, the more I learn. In fact, my thoughts on the subject shifted again just yesterday.

Let me see if I can give you a picture of what I mean

I am confident that somewhere in the pages of this blog I have at least suggested that the current state of my body is a function not only of heredity and disease but also of the ways I have lived my life in these past fifty-seven years. Whether it came from my paternal grandmother, who had rheumatoid arthritis or from my mother, who has suffered with myriad maladies including persistent issues with her right hip (as do several other members of the family), I somehow inherited (and then passed on) the hla b27 genetic marker that is associated with spondyloarthritis which includes psoriatic arthritis, Sacroiliitis, and other autoimmune disorders.

Ok, so I had the genetic marker, but I also began a pattern of persistent emotional distress in my childhood and adolescence; such a pattern can heighten the likelihood that one develops autoimmune disease. Now, I wouldn’t say that I had a terrible childhood or that my parents subjected me to any kind of trauma. However, their divorce and the subsequent separation from my father was, to me, devastating. I did not know how to process the emotions I was feeling, and my adolescence was characterized by what I would now describe as raw, untended to emotion that was trying to find comfort or at least an outlet.

Over the years, I developed many strategies for dealing with that distress — lashing out, academic achievement, an eating disorder, and finally, a survival strategy emerged — my butt-kicking, name-taking persona. This girl set her jaw, clenched her fists, and got shit done. If emotional pain surfaced, she processed it through anger and aggression — at herself, at her family, at anyone who happened to get into her path. If things were moving smoothly, she was fine — reliable, productive, and focused — but toss in the unexpected — a change of plans, an alternate view, a noncompliant child or student — and she resorted to her soldier stance, bracing her body, lashing out with her words, and forcing everyone back in line.

It was a strategy that carried me through many years, but it led me to resist compassion, perspective, empathy — not only was I unlikely to give those things to others, I was less likely to receive them for myself. Now, let me say here that every soldier lets her guard down from time to time, and moments of vulnerability crept in — times when I held my children as they cried, when I recognized defeat in a student, when I allowed myself to share my pain with others — but those moments were the exception, I am afraid, and not as much the rule.

And while this soldiering lifestyle was an “effective” strategy, every choice has unintended consequences. I wish I was scientific enough to explain how my butt-kicking, name-taking persona required my body to produce adrenaline and cortisol and how, over time, the abuse of these hormones increased the likelihood that I would experience autoimmune disease, but I have an education degree, not a medical degree.

Suffice it to say, that what I have learned over the past 10 years, is that, at least in my body, the most effective strategies for reducing my experience of autoimmune symptoms are not medical, but they are a re-learning of how to manage my emotions, of how to live my life in a way that reduces or mitigates the adrenaline and cortisol in my body.

If you have followed my blog, you already know that pharmaceuticals were not the answer for me, although I tried many over the course of 3-5 years at great expense and with significant side effects. In fact, the only pharmaceutical I take now is one that I must take to prevent a flare of the ocular herpes I acquired while on a course of steroids. Sigh.

Because I was non-responsive to pharmaceutical interventions, all doctors except my ophthalmologist dismissed me as “not having autoimmune disease”. [For the record, my ophthalmologist shakes his head at this when he sees the evidence of autoimmunity in my eyes.] This dismissal, though, was a blessing, because it led me to explore other options for improving my health — options like submersing myself in a 95 degree salt-water therapy pool (which I highly recommend for those of you who are in the midst of a flare), practices like yoga and walking that allow my body to de-stress, habits like eating unprocessed foods that are free from gluten and dairy which often trigger symptoms in my body, and routines like seeing a therapist to learn how to more effectively deal with emotions.

And while I didn’t start this blog for the purpose of improving my health, it has had the unintended consequence of giving me a space to process so many of those emotions that little-girl-me felt, that soldier-me suppressed, that mom-me didn’t feel safe exploring. And, in the unearthing of these emotions, in the vulnerability of exposing them not only to whoever wants to read them, but more importantly to myself, I have created the space within my body to breathe.

And you’d be surprised the difference a little breath can make.

I’ve been learning about breathing since I started practicing yoga several years ago. At first I was like, what? we’re gonna just sit here and breathe? I was a former distance runner, if you remember, and I was used to pounding out 4-6 miles on a regular Tuesday, so this sitting still and breathing thing was very foreign. But, I was in a room full of people who were sitting there breathing, so … I breathed. Sitting still. For long periods of time. And, though I was unsure it was doing any good, I had to admit I felt better after yoga. And, I continue to practice yoga almost every morning for that reason.

But yesterday I took this breathing thing to the next level. A friend of mine, Lynnette Rasmussen, an experienced occupational therapist and PIlates instructor, was offering a virtual breathwork class and a handful of friends and I decided we would attend. I expected more relaxation but not much else.

I was surprised by the difference a little breath could make.

Lynnette guided us through an “ancient pranayama practice that uses an active 3 part breath that continues for 25-30 minutes, followed by a 10 minute relaxation” intended to “relax the mind and reach buried emotional or physical blocks and bring them to the surface.”

I was certainly unprepared for what I experienced — at first it was awkward, this weird breathing strategy, but then, once I found the rhythm, it was calming, and more natural, but then when we entered the relaxation — man, it takes great vulnerability to tell you this – I felt healing electricity coming through my hands as they rested on my body. I felt a deep understanding that God alone — not my practices, not pharmaceuticals, not pain clinics, not anything else — has the power to heal me. I rested on a yoga mat on the floor receiving any kind of healing that He had to offer me.

And that is what I have really wanted all my life — to receive the healing that only God can provide — and to accept that He will provide it in His time and in His way — not as I demand and not in a sense that I have to “believe to receive” but just in a way that He will surprise me with.

And over these last years, He has continuously surprised me — by closing medical doors, by tossing me in a warm salt water therapy pool, by showing me that my strength is not in a set jaw and a clenched fist but in vulnerability, by reminding me through a zoom room that He can, He is, and He will heal me day by day by day, sometimes with the simple power of breath.

I am overwhelmed by His grace.

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, 21 to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen

Ephesians 3:20

Practicing Yoga, a revisit

~ Kristin ~ 4 Comments

During a particularly difficult time a couple of years ago, a good friend reminded my husband and I, “none of this is a surprise to God.” He saw it coming, and He had prepared us in advance of the crisis and had carried us through it. As I isolate in my little house by the river, I have been reflecting on all the ways God has prepared me (us) for such a time as this. When I stumbled across this post this morning, I remembered all the training I have been through and how strong and resilient I have become. You have, too. We have been prepared in advance for this moment.

The first time I walked into a yoga studio, I looked around and did what the others were doing — got a mat, sat down cross-legged, and quietly waited for instruction. I hadn’t done any research, had no idea what I was getting into, and struggled to mimic the poses that were being demonstrated at the front of the class. I was a distance runner at the time, so I was in great shape for running, but I had little to no upper body strength, a poorly-developed core, and little to no flexibility — physical or mental. I ended the class feeling frustrated and nauseous. I didn’t try yoga again for a long time.

When chronic pain and fatigue ended my running career, I joined a gym. My regular routine included thirty minutes on an elliptical trainer, light weight lifting, and then some restorative movement in the warm saltwater therapy pool. Once in a while, I joined a pilates class. I stayed in that rhythm for a year or so, and when my daughter gave me a month-long membership at a yoga studio, I decided to give yoga another try.

Since I had only had one previous experience with yoga, and that had ended badly, I asked my friend to go with me. I’m so glad I did. Without her, I was the only ‘mature’ woman in a room filled with college students. The instructor was a young man whose body reminded me of the bendable figures our oldest son used to take with him on long car trips — I’d never seen such a strong and limber human. To make matters worse, it was an advanced vinyasa flow class. If you know what that means, you know that I was in the wrong room at the wrong time. I tried to keep up, but I didn’t know the poses, or the vocabulary, and I still had neither the strength nor the flexibility for much more than child’s pose.

Child’s Pose


Sure, my inner soldier made a valiant attempt. I tried to move through a vinyasa, even though the word was brand new to me. I tried to be any kind of warrior — I would’ve settled for one, two, or three. I pretended to be a mountain, but what that class taught me was that I needed to take the posture of a child — physically, mentally, and emotionally — and start to become comfortable with learning a new way.

That class was a few years ago. Since then, I’ve been practicing yoga. I’ve been learning how to breathe. I’ve been building core strength. I’ve developed some vocabulary and even some flexibility.

I often say, “God is always preparing you for what’s next.” In school, we first learn letters and sounds so that we will be prepared to read words. Once we have some vocabulary, we can begin to read sentences. Sentences lead to paragraphs which lead to stories which lead to all the ways that print can open up the world for us.

Menial jobs like babysitting or lawn mowing provide opportunities to learn the basic practices of showing up on time and finishing a task. They build experience, or muscle, that enables us to take on more difficult jobs such as food service or sales. These jobs teach us about working in teams and being able to adapt under pressure — they teach us flexibility.

All of life is preparing us for what’s next. When, as children, we learn how to line up and take turns, we are learning the basics of how to function with others. When, in adolescence, someone says something unfriendly about us, we feel the pain that reminds us to treat others with kindness. When we experience our first heartbreak and someone listens to us as we cry, we learn how important it is to be compassionate. When we face the many challenges of juggling finances and deadlines and friends and work, our core strength is being established. All of life is practice — practice for what’s next.

In advance of my soldiering years, I had several experiences that built up my stamina and developed a fearlessness that allowed me to step into responsibility and to manage difficult situations. God had given me what I needed; He knew what was coming. When those years were over, He provided an opportunity for me to learn a new way, but first He had to teach me how to be still. He had to remind me to breathe.

When I first started practicing yoga, I thought it was weird that the first 5-10 minutes and the last 5-10 minutes of the practice focused on stillness and breath. How could I get stronger by being still? How could bringing my attention to my breath have any lasting impact on my physical body? In my mind, exercise was about exertion, pushing the body, and burning the calories. These messages — remnants of the soldiering years — had to be put aside. Although the way of yoga seemed strange to me, I moved into child’s pose and began to learn to listen to the sound of my own breath, to watch the rise and fall of my body, and to pay attention to how I feel physically.

This way is new to me. I have long walked/trudged/powered through life giving attention to my body only when it cried out in pain or shut down in illness. Then, I have had it patched up as quickly as possible and resumed my forward motion. And my body has suffered, but not just my body. I have also ignored my emotions. And my spirit. I have put myself on a course with the goal of finishing. Period.

But in this chapter, I find myself over and over again in the posture of a child, often helpless and crying, needing to learn a new way. And, as my pastor said this morning, new ways are “not something we arrive at, but something that we practice”.

So I’ll continue to practice — yoga, yes, but also returning to my spiritual practices of prayer, Scripture, worship, and community. These are the practices that have been re-shaping me, re-wiring me, re-pairing me, and pre-paring me for whatever comes next.

 Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.

2 Corinthians 4: 15-16

As we sit in this uncertain time of sheltering in place, perhaps you’ll join me in returning to those spiritual practices — prayer, Scripture, worship, and [virtual] community. Maybe we all have something more to learn.