The Mess

"This was not part of the plan."



I hear myself say this a lot, and I hear my students say it, too.



Life has dealt a Thing – an injury, an illness, an unplanned pregnancy, a different ability.



A tear in the fabric.



The Thing we thought would last forever, the unimaginable Thing, the dreaded Thing. The Thing we forgot to plan for. The Thing has become a mess.



Life has misplaced her end of the contractual agreement that we wrote, promising warm nights and salty breezes, punctuated by sweet moments and ample rest. Life did not accurately keep score on the times we arrived early, pulled more than our weight, paid for the next person in line. She was turned the other way when we gave our brother the bigger half of the cookie, and somehow didn't notice just how many times we dug for genuine joy when someone won the prize we were after.



Even when they didn't appreciate it.



Life seems not to notice the big and little efforts, even when they are unsuccessful or particularly bitter. Life behaves, at times, like an unruly toddler – destroying best-laid plans, biting your ankles, and speaking emphatically in a language you do not understand.



I like to think that my life would be better if it would just follow the f*cking plan. Like we alternate back and forth with who is in the lead, because while I've never been strong with the tango and often forget the steps, I would still like to be in charge. Even though the dance would probably go smoother for everyone if I would simply abdicate, I can't get over the fact that she did not give me full credit for the things that I have done – so how could I possibly trust her?



And then she steamrolls me. All of a sudden I'm upside down in a massive dip, my feet flailing in the air, thinking – I was not prepared for this. I did not learn this wacky move in the Cotillion. I hear my mother's voice yelling something like, “ass over elbows” or “ass over elephants” and I think – yes, that is exactly how this feels. This thing is it – not survivable. Not part of my plan, no tools to extricate myself.



Except that over and over I find myself surviving situations just as these – the unthinkable things that defy the vocabulary of the After School Special, the things that linger between the lines of sacred texts.

The things too unimaginable to be warned about.



The Things that I have survived – The Things that YOU have survived – that is the miracle. That we made it through the unimaginable, or that we're making it through the unimaginable, or that despite the fact that we cannot see the edge of imaginable, from our ass over elbows position – we are going to make it through. We somehow have the tools around us and within us to weather the most unpredictable, the most epic, the completely unprecedented.



That, is life.



The next time you think, "I didn't sign up for this!" remember that you did. Remember that this is exactly the mess that you signed up for. The things that you have done and the reason that you came here: to untangle this mess. You have the tools to do this.



(At least, that's what I keep telling myself)

Grabthar's Hammer

Today.

It's windy in my world, which makes sense to my soul. The dust hasn't settled in my world, today.

I am often the calm in the storm of the lives of my friends - I used to joke that I was the person people would call in the middle of the night if they needed to leave an abusive partner, despite the fact that I'm just about the smallest person with just about the smallest car.

Except I've answered that call, many times.

I have stood by and made the important decisions, like photo albums and prescriptions. I have been the voice of reason when the 150 pound jade plant was the anchor that kept calling "stay."

I have blocked the driveway with my body and my trusty steed to aid the getaway. Driven tearfully into the sunrise as someone else's butterfly wings dried, opened, and prepared for flight.

Even when the phone doesn't ring, I often find myself speaking the answer on the behalf of others. 

Now, I play a different role.

Like you're right - there is no god, no sense, no rhyme, no reason. No right action. When a baby dies, there is literally no right thing anyone can do or say. You become a mountain of pain, dissolving pieces of yourself that used to be solid into liquid anguish - erupting regularly, irregularly. Spontaneously. Destroying anything and everything, like friendships, savings accounts, plans, futures. Pasts.

And that's ok. It is all ok.

The death of a child is not a survivable thing, and I say this as a woman who has experienced the next worst thing, a woman who can hum the tune of loss and grief but can't seem to remember the words.

A woman whose womb has never been able to catch and sprout.

The woman whose child has died is a living symphony of fury - an epic opera - an auditory hallucination that colors and clouds and obscures everything else.

A cloud of ash that blacks out the sun.

I've spent a lot of time looking through the green-tinted glasses of envy and jealousy as other women - as this woman - announced her pregnancy, celebrated her future as I tried very simply not to die. And then to see - to stand witness as the biggest gift in the world carves the biggest hole.

And the sun explodes.

People who say "everything happens for a reason" are people whose lives have never truly been touched by grief. It isn't truth, and I say that on great authority. What is true, maybe, sort of, if you want it to be, is that we can make meaning of the asteroids and volcanoes in our lives.

The deaths of stars.

And this is what I've done, in this instance. Knowing this mama in a variety of ways, I know several things. That if she were to populate a place - a realm - to send her child, she could only hand this child to the person she loved and trusted the most, her brother, his namesake.

It would have complex characters who play double agents, who understand grey, who keep things interesting, like Snape.

It would be ruled by the Goblin King.

And so while I know that Alan Rickman and Davide Bowie didn't die in order to be on hand for the great crossing of this tiny child, I choose to believe that this is the case. Because I am a writer. A storyteller. A finder and maker of meaning.

Because I don't know the words to the song, and there isn't a right thing to say. And I'm too far away to sit shiva, and I'm not Jewish anyway.

But I know the melody.

So this is for you, dear baby Josh, on the day of my dear Jon's death.

By Grabthar's hammer, you shall be avenged.

Sola Dosis Facit Venenum

I have choked down a lot of shit in my life – including, but not limited to, my weight in spirulina and spirituality. I've dished out quite a bit as well, like unsolicited advice, opinions, and Creative Ways to Cut Dairy based on the moral superiority I assumed as a quasi-vegan for several years.

(sorry about that).

After three years of veganism and one year of infertility, I started seeing The Specialists. Not the Western docs who said I was fine, hearty, iron-filled blood, exceptionally low cholesterol, and bright, glowing skin, but the “alternative” specialists, who've been at this game a bit longer. Ayurvedic and Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioners. The ones who looked past the labs and into the dark circles under my eyes, my rampant hair loss, my truly horrifying tongue and said – you're at death's door.

Now, before you get high and mighty and call me a salad and french fry vegan, let me assert several things. I'm exceptionally well educated about nutrition and followed the advice of several very well known, published, medically credentialed professionals, including:

- cooking with a cast-iron skillet
- eating whole-soy products like tofu and tempeh on a daily basis
- eating seeds, nuts, green leafies, berries, veggies and even mushrooms
- avoiding caffeine, sugar, processed foods

And in full disclosure, I wasn't a “true” vegan because I ate eggs once or twice a week. I ate so much I actually gained weight, something my body has resisted for essentially my entire life.

For the first thirty years of my life, I managed to avoid the disordered eating behaviors that were so common to my friends. I've always loved food, cooking shows, recipe books. I'll watch someone cook something that I would never consider eating because I'm so fascinated by the process, but as far as I know, PBS marathons do not constitute disorders.

Then I became vegan(ish).

And for the first time, I was truly hungry.

And so I developed an eating disorder.

It started slowly, in an effort to make sure I was getting adequate nutrition from the vegan diet I was so in love with. I read articles published in scholarly journals describing the impressive effects of a vegan diet on people with cardiovascular concerns, diabetes, and more. Vegetarians live longer – they promised, and so I re-learned how to cook and eat without using animal products.

And I was very happy with the results! The food I made was delicious, and I didn't miss the taste of cheese or meat. My labs were stellar, with cholesterol so low it tripped the marker for “outside of the range of normal” which I perceived as clinical evidence of my moral superiority.

I was pretty much going to live forever.

(except I felt like shit).

I started to develop interesting quirks around food. I've always liked to “have” a lot of food – a full pantry, a stocked refrigerator, a snack bar in the glove box for emergencies, but I started to hoard.

And worry.

When we would travel to Texas, I became consumed with the idea that there would be anything I could eat, so I started hoarding nuts and eating tremendous amounts of hummus to “pre-game” the parties. I would stuff myself out of fear that I would be hungry, or that I wasn't sure where my next meal might come from.

Maybe you're laughing at this – my priveledge is showing, because this was the first time in my life I had ever not felt completely confident that my next meal would appear.

But I kept on.

I started to listen to popular podcasts and read blogs about veganism – the superiority of the diet for the body, the planet, the animals, and only reinforced the absurd boundaries that I had placed upon myself – imprisoned by ideals and with a stubborn enough personality to persist.

I started to believe that what I put in my mouth was an expression of my highest good. “You are what you eat,” as the adage reminded me on a daily basis, and I wanted to be healthy and fertile.

Instead, I was becoming a vegetable.

About a year after I started “trying” to get pregnant, I saw an Ayurvedic practitioner who insisted that I start eating full-fat dairy. Soy and coconut were not going to cut it, I needed animal fat, and if I wouldn't eat meat, it had to come from dairy.

Of course, I knew better.

Because no other animal drinks another animal's milk. No animal drinks milk beyond the age of weaning. Milk is laden with cholesterol and galactose and PAIN AND SUFFERING AND DEATH.

Clearly.

So I went to see an acupuncturist.

She said the same thing, and in no uncertain terms despite our language barrier.

“No meat?” she asked me.

“No meat” I said.

“Must eat meat. Organs. Eggs.”

“Not a chance.”

Seriously, people, I thought. My labs are excellent. I'm the picture of health. Clearly you need to update your manuals for modern times, what with all we now know about the marvels of veganism.

As a last-ditch effort, I saw a friend from college who is an acupuncturist who was raised in the West. We share a common language, hobbies, and interests, and surely (I thought), this young, vibrant, hip mama would tell me how to use the magic of TCM while on a vegan diet.

“You're going to laugh at what I have to tell you,” she said.

I hadn't told her what anyone else had said, just that I wasn't fully understanding my acupuncturist's recommendations because of the language barrier.

“You MUST eat full fat dairy, starting now. And meat.”

“Tell me more,” I said.

Same thing. Organ meats. Fish. Full fat dairy. All of the things I had trained myself to equate with the word “poison.” I argued with her a little bit, pushing back and touting the bright shiny claims of veganism. And she politely informed me that literally all of my systems were shutting down, as evidenced by my inability to stay awake, my hair loss, my shitty attitude, and the fact that my tongue looked exactly like the poster on her wall – an indication of everything that could possibly be wrong with your tongue at once.

I started to crack.

I walked into Whole Foods and stood in front of the yogurt section. I had made my peace with never again asking a cow for nutritional support, and here I was sheepishly and shamefully stopping where everyone could see me. Where my yoga students could observe my fall from grace. Yogurt, cream, a few other things to try out, and I zipped out of there faster than I've ever skipped through the Feminine Product aisle.

Slowly and with an abundance of resistance I started to incorporate milk into my diet. Cheese, yogurt, butter. I didn't want to admit it, but I felt better. I thought perhaps it was the opiate-like chemicals in dairy products that stimulate the same pathways and create an addictive cycle. But I actually think it was my body saying YES – THANK YOU. WE'VE BEEN TRYING TO TELL YOU.

I'll spare you the additional fertility woes, ensuing divorce, and other belabored topics, and fast forward to the ashram.

Two and a half years into my “fertility journey” I went to an ashram for a spiritual time out. I had blossomed from irritating to irate and my friends were slowly starting to disown me. I simply could NOT force my body to become pregnant, no matter what I did.

The ashram was a positive experience for me, even though I struggled most of the time.

It was vegan, with the addition of butter and yogurt for breakfast. Eggs and meat were strictly prohibited, both on and off site – as in – they send you home if you even look at it.

After the first month, when I had run out of my acupuncture herbs, I saw their resident Ayurvedic practitioner. I was hungry and sleep deprived, like everyone else, but it was a life-changing meeting.

I filled out the forms before our visit and was completely honest about what I normally ate, how I exercised, how I felt, etc. She greeted me after reading through and said she was so happy to see my incredibly healthy and sattvic ways. She mentioned that it would be a special treat for her to work with someone so well-educated and healthy.

And then she looked at my tongue.

Her face fell. She grabbed me by my shoulders and said, “Do not tell anyone I'm telling you this – but you MUST eat meat. As soon as you get home, at minimum three times a week.”

I protested. I had come so far against my morals by eating dairy – yogurt and cream – wasn't that enough? Why did I have to push so hard against my moral superiority and actually take the life of an animal just to be well?

She had compassion, maybe pity. She told me that from the perspective of Ayurveda, we do not incur karma for eating meat when it is used as medicine. That so many of my bodily systems were damaged that it would be a full-time job for me to get healthy enough to ever get pregnant. She gave me a prescription – herbs and practices and dietary rules. Meat or fish at least three times a week, five Tablespoons of ghee and other oils every day, and rest.

I relented.

Well, I'm relenting.

It's a process – to backtrack against the Truth you've learned.

To eat your words.

To swallow poison

and pride.

And so I'm sharing this now, because I keep seeing the Moral Superiority of others on social media, spouting nutritional advice and ways of living based on western science, or pseudo-science, or hearsay, or wonderful intentions. Amazon recommended a new book to me called, “How Not to Die,” which is yet another vegan book written by a doctor. It is written with excellent intentions, and while it will not prevent anyone from dying and is therefore inherently false advertising, it may well improve the quality of life and the quality of death of many people.

It may kill others.

When you know better, you do better, and I'm no longer allowing my intellect to kill my body. I acknowledge that what is healthy for one may be toxic for another. That veganism itself is not to blame, ego is.

Sola dosis facit venenum.

(Dose alone determines the poison)

The Physics of Love

Tonight I'm doing the scariest thing ever - I'm AirBnB-ing - in my own home.

(I'm not an inhospitable person, and my place is relatively snuggly, but this is a big leap for me after the break-in this past April).

There is something quite liberating about having nothing really left to steal, or having had all the goodies stolen, so the rest seems more inconsequential. I know the yogis and the Buddhists sing the sweet praises of unattachment (with a fondness that borders on sticky sweet), but this may be the first time I've allowed myself to truly linger in the idea of letting go.

Last week I visited my parents, I went down into the basement where the tide of Things seems to grow higher every year as the preciousness of this comic or that Original Packing Material settles into it's (final?) resting place. I maintain that I am an anthropologist first because of the childhood archeological digs I participated in within the walls of my own home on the way to retrieve a can of soup, or a box of Christmas ornaments. Everything is neatly, precariously stacked awaiting carbon dating, as though that's where it landed after the eruption.

My dad describes the importance of having vs. using or experiencing, and it struck me again, a harmonic of this melancholy chord, that the Things always hurt. Either the having (and the drowning) or the losing (and the mourning). I always used to pout (and approach DEATH INSIDE) when I lost something. "I always loved that sweater," or "They don't MAKE Crystal Pepsi anymore, so I must TREASURE and HOLD and HOARD."

(For the record, I did try Crystal Pepsi 15 years after it was acquired and it had - um - lost it's luster).

I have reacted by clinging, and I've reacted by detaching. I know what it's like to grasp last year's Easter candy just as well as I know how to guard my feelings - hold my cards - and keep my distance.

And neither extreme seems to suit me.

I like favorite sweaters and Christmas ornaments. I can't seem to part with old love letters, even though I left the author ten years ago, and he subsequently died four years later. I miss the smell of my grandmother's house, and even if it doesn't linger in her jewelry box any longer, it's memory does. I still worry the finger of my left hand, where the stolen ring made it's home for nine years. I would like to think that I could easily live the rest of this sorry life without another attachment, and that my life would be better for it.

But I know better. 

Gravity is the charge between people (and things). The universe - physics - can't even manage to get away from attraction and attachment. A strong pull despite the ongoing and ever-expanding move towards chaos. 

How can we expect ourselves to operate in a void?

We sling-shot around the sun every year, moving incrementally closer to self-immolation, hapless victims of this cosmic law. And yet, it isn't torture - the day is not here to rub our faces in the absence of the night, just as the seasons have no commentary about one another.

Just as the toy train near the bottom of the pile does not begrudge the tax records or Christmas ornaments atop it.

We are the ones that do the begrudging.

And I think this is what I am recognizing as 2015 shuts it's eyes, as strangers move into my bedroom, as my ex-husband purges me from his Netflix account. That I am orbiting with people and things. I miss my old life and appreciate the new. I've traded my bank account for adventure, my stable life for spontaneity, and it's ok to feel a little sad sometimes as I remember what was, what never will be. To hold the sweater close, to imagine what the jewelry box used to smell like, to look back fondly, through tears.

And look forward to the sunrise - with detached anticipation.

(if that's a thing).

Birth, Death, and the Nonsense In Between

I grew up watching Perry Mason and Ellery Queen, before detective shows and crime dramas became popular and gritty. Many snow days, I snuggled in with a cup of darjeeling tea and my dad's volume of Sherlock Holmes mysteries. It's safe to say I idolized him, found a lot in common with him. Maybe not the pipe or the rampant experimentation with mind-altering substances, but the violin playing and bathrobe wearing we shared.

My first class in college was anthropology, simply because it was the one discipline that hadn't been offered in high school. I adored the professor, an Oliver Sacks type who had worked with the coroner or as the coroner or something and taught us ways in which the skeleton holds important data, like ancestry and the secrets of how you lived.

And died.

It's in your bones.

I fell in love, with anthropology and the professor, and a year later I took forensic anthropology and felt all sorts of spiritual fireflies in my peripheral vision saying YES, THIS is your path. Start smoking a pipe and get a funny hat, Sherlock, because you've clearly found it now. What I didn't know was that these sparkles were just a preview, a prelude to the real premonition.

It's fascinating to look at various bones and determine things like diet, age, parity, race, gender, and even the cause of death. Bones are living tissue and they respond to the subtle stresses of life, the habits and patterns we carve, the missteps we take. We carry in the core of us a record etched with secret code, hieroglyphics that I was learning to read. 

And then, there were the children.

You see, as it turns out, not all stories end at age 80+ having borne children and eaten wholesome food. Some stories end violently. Some end early.

The worst are both.

The day that changed my life was about determining old trauma that didn't lead to the death and new trauma that might have. Healed trauma. There was a slide, a three-year-old's skull that had been retrieved from a sewer. We were studying it to learn how to diagnose long-time trauma and abuse, seeing fractures heal and how the terrain of the bones changed with trauma, healing, trauma, healing.

Bones of young children are funny, in a way. They heal quickly. Maybe because they're used to picking themselves up over and over again? Maybe because that's how we survive, by diverting as much energy as possible to healing physical wounds. Their skulls look different, alien. A huge cranial vault and a tiny jaw.

Delicate.

How many times was your nose broken, little one?

That class changed the course of my life. 

Because instead of working in forensics and criminalizing women who do those terrible things after they've done them, instead of counting broken noses and documenting ages of abuse, I decided to time travel and focus on preventing the crime. I firmly believe that we women - we humans - do our best most of the time. We make terrible decisions because they are the best option apparent to us at the time.

So long, Sherlock. 

I thought maybe I could be part of education or options that would prevent toddlers from short lives riddled with tremendous and unspeakable abuse.

So I worked at an abortion clinic.

There is so much heat about this topic, and believe me I get it. It has been suggested to me on a number of occasions that my work in the clinic is what has rendered me infertile in this life, which is bullshit that has created its own weeping wound that never seems to fully heal. Perhaps this is my penance or my karma, but more likely it has to do with other peoples' poison.

I don't – and won't - debate the worthiness or the deplorable ripples of this horrible act. I've been there hundreds of times, holding hands as a fellow woman made the best decision she could at the time, given the circumstances. 

I resisted work as a doula for many reasons, but one was that I'd already done it countless times. Walking alongside a woman, to the edge of motherhood, as she released her fears, her sadness, the unbearable fruit of someone else's crime, her impossible choice without interjecting my own opinion. Watching as she stood alone, toes curled over the edge of the cliff, and returning a different person for the sake of her older children, her health and safety, to keep herself one step back from skeletons in the sewer. 

We make the best decisions we can with the information and resources we have access to.

I didn't work there long - 8 months or so - and so clearly I have no evidence, statistics, or really anything else to justify those services except these two things:
- we have agreed, as a country, as a community, that these services are legal
and
- it is a far more compassionate choice than beating and holding a child in restraints that rival the workings of Medieval torture.

You can feel that in your bones. 

We - you and I - made agreements by coming into this body at this time in this country. By remaining here as adults and participating in the community, we uphold these agreements that decisions are made in community. Sure, there are faults in the system, wrinkles to work out, corruption and a few other discouraging trends. But the beauty of this system is that there is a way to instigate change. In fact, there are many, and they are available to all of us, regardless of our educational background, political leanings, or religious and moral derangement.

The yogis say our thoughts become words, our words actions. The trick is, we don't have control over how these words affect others. Sometimes, words pacify, other times, they activate.

We never know who or what will be activated.

So we speak the truth, regardless of whether or not our opinions are requested. And we are mindful of the ways in which others will hear our stories. If our goal is to increase discord and dysfunction, all we have to do is think it. Then that poison solidifies, and we're one airport delay away from letting that fear and anger run from our lips. We use this most powerful tool to spread venom rather than disengaging from the terror and transmuting our own experience into some flavor of peace. 

So this now comes full circle for me. 

When I worked there I found it ironic – eerie – that I needed to know secret security protocols and work behind bullet proof glass. But now. Now I get it. We silence and shame these women, and our hate falls on the ears of those who don't seek the full story but rather bathe in confirmation bias. Then they buy guns – assault rifles – and reign their pain and misery out, spreading that poison.

And the wrong people die.

Others become orphans.

Leaving only their bones to tell the story. 

Sat Nam.

Paris

Someone asked me this morning what I would write about Paris.

I have no idea. I didn't realize Paris was on my to-do list today.

I have a surprising number of things to say about Michael Jackson and pumpkins (not together), about loneliness and the uncanny resemblance I bear to Eeyore this morning. But apparently, that's not what you want to read from me.

As someone who only started traveling internationally in my 32nd year on Earth, Europe hasn't made it onto my passport yet. I know precious few things about France in general, despite my mother's insistence on pronunciation and my early infatuation with Bizet's Carmen.

(I think it was the strong female thing. Or the sex work thing. Another essay, I'm sure.)

What I know today that is different from what I knew yesterday, is that none of this is about France, and that if I all of a sudden start binging on trivia, I'll do no one any justice. Even though I'm really quite good at memorization, no amount of study will reanimate anyone who shuffled yesterday. No matter how deeply I dive into the media frenzy or the social media melancholy and group shaming, it won't make a lick of difference.

All I can do is change me. 

This is one of the things that happens when we try to change the world by changing other people - it never ends well. It doesn't change them, it rarely changes us, and everyone gets rather huffy. Sometimes people act out, and when those who want to act out have access to high-impact technology, like weaponry or the internet, we have big waves to surf while we wait for the tide to settle in again.

Oh, bother.

One thing I've realized in the last couple of years, is that I'm actually capable of anything. And I don't necessarily mean that in a good way. I used to say things after "I'll never..." and I thought that I meant them, but in fact, I did not. "I'll never be a doula, I'll never own a yoga studio, I'll never get a divorce... " Three strikes, and those are just examples I feel cozy publishing on the internet.

I was recently at a retreat where someone told me they visited a place where it is incredibly rude to say "no." If you want to indicate a negative response, the best you can do is say, "not yet."

Are you a doula? Not yet.

Are you divorced? Not yet.

Are you a terrorist? Not yet.

This is powerful. Because when you think, "I would never commit acts of such violence," you're being rather presumptuous about yourself. I am guilty of incredible violence, most of which I have directed at myself. But I am not my behaviors, neither the ones I'm punishing myself for nor the punishment. I'm made of stardust and so are you, which is excellent news. I can choose to stop hurting any time, choose to turn off the TV any time, choose to stop shaming myself for thinking the hundreds of negative things I think before breakfast. And then, once I'm off the couch I can walk outside and be present with the next person for a minute.

I do this every day, with every extra ounce of pixie dust I have, which most days is just a speck. I do it one hundred thousand times a day, because that's where I am. You might be surprised to learn that I spend a lot more time cowering on the bathroom floor than one might expect, or cemented in between the layers of blankets on the couch. One half of my personality is always nudging the other half to move or to hold still. To love or to fear.

This is why I practice yoga. For one hour a day, whether I'm moving or holding still, wailing or flailing, I'm practicing remembering that thing I seem so apt to forget: 

I am already perfect.
I am responsible for myself, which includes my own suffering and my own happiness.
I must put on my own life preserver before helping others.
My commentary about other people is a waste of everyone's time.
My love is contagious.
So is my fear.
I am already perfect.

(so are you).

The Business of Yoga

I'm sitting down to refresh my lecture on The Business of Yoga.

It has changed in recent years.

Sure, there are things to know when migrating into this industry, like reasonable expectations for payment, various credentials and opportunities for continuing education. I'm sure these things are helpful to know, and they make up the vast majority of my "lecture."

However.

The longer I'm in this "industry" the more I realize - recognize - reveal that the Business of Yoga is the same as the business of anything else. The people "at the top" are just people, with bright spots and shadows. Sometimes they're there because they worked hard, or because they knew the right person, or because they slept with the right person. Their credentials or time in service tell you very little about who they are as a teacher. As my ex-husband used to hear in nursing school, "C's make nurses."

We do not buy credentials, we earn them. 

I'm saddened by the number of us who were raised with star charts. Not maps of the sky, but lines of boxes where we got to add a star for brushing our teeth, for turning in our homework, for having reasonable behavior. Incentives for good behavior make us expect a reward for good behavior, and I'm afraid that many of us still think, incorrectly, that having more stars makes us better.

My parents are both PhDs. They have two bachelor's degrees and two master's degrees a piece. BUT they earned these degrees because they were legitimately interested in chemistry and physics, not because they wanted more stars on their charts. I have a master's degree because I felt like it was an expectation - like I wouldn't be worthy of love (or employable, which is virtually the same thing) without it.

If you believe that I am a yoga teacher, then I want you to know that I want you to care more about my private life than the initials after my name. I want you to know that I ate a bag of chips for dinner last night and that - so far - I've resisted the urge to have a cup of coffee today. I lay down halfway through my asana practice yesterday, and I meditated through tears rather than sending a vile email earlier this morning. Yoga is a practice for me, not a badge. And my life isn't unicorns and rainbows - it's a daily struggle with depression and anxiety. It is a delicate dance with addiction. 

It is one day at a time.

My credentials cannot tell you that - but paired with the training I've received comes the practice I have implemented. The synthesis of the material. I've never stopped learning, but the lessons I've learned recently don't come with a certificate to hang on my wall.

Neither, my darling, have yours.

If you seek to be in The Business of Yoga, you have an important choice. To business-ify yoga, or yogify business.

I believe everyone should take a yoga teacher training, because through this process you learn more about yourself. I don't believe everyone should then teach asana classes. Instead, I believe the world would be better if we all took that practice into daily life. If we set the masks of credentials to the side, dropped the curtains on the real story and met one another as we are - a collection of stardust, entangled by stories of this life and the last.

You are made of more stars than you could ever imagine, could ever line up, could ever earn.

Act like it.

That. That is the business of yoga.