Now, to be fair, I have seen dolphins, rays, manatees, sharks, fishes, flounders, frat boys, naked babies building sandcastles, and old couples walking hand in hand on the beach. Each one a thing of beauty (except perhaps the frat boys), but none remarkable enough to write home about (except to say they're not worth writing about). The night before last, I saw the place where the land ends. The sky ends. The world ends.
I stepped out onto the beach sometime past ten o'clock and dug my toes into the white sand. The ocean was so black that it melted into the sky. I think I could have reached out and touched the blackness and it would have absorbed me like a black hole. Instead I tried to focus on where the white sand faded into the blackness of the sea, but I couldn't find the edge of the ocean. It was simply magnificent and impossible to recreate or even describe.
I traveled here on a whim, with a bunch of people I don't know very well. I had no intention of meeting or befriending them, just being polite and then skulking off on my own to write or ruminate or nap. Instead, I had some great meals and conversations. Great yoga and stargazing. And just today the group told me they thought I was funny. Talented. Unique. I know some of these things, but even now in my liberated days where I don't get too hung up on negative comments or other peoples' baggage, it was refreshing.
Any time someone says the word "retreat" I automatically think of falling away in battle, not escaping the nine to five. I imagine sinking into the blackness or hiding out until the tide returns. When I come home, I hope I will remember this lesson: paradise is more than sinking your toes into the sand. Paradise is being seen for who you are: dissolving the line between who you are and who you pretend to be.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
This is Paradise
I've spent the last few days on an island yoga retreat. Not the kind where you try to look crazy sexy sweating between sauna, sand, and asana, and then refreshing with a tropical drink, but the kind that reminds you what yoga is. Who you are. Who I am.
Now, to be fair, I have seen dolphins, rays, manatees, sharks, fishes, flounders, frat boys, naked babies building sandcastles, and old couples walking hand in hand on the beach. Each one a thing of beauty (except perhaps the frat boys), but none remarkable enough to write home about (except to say they're not worth writing about). The night before last, I saw the place where the land ends. The sky ends. The world ends.
I stepped out onto the beach sometime past ten o'clock and dug my toes into the white sand. The ocean was so black that it melted into the sky. I think I could have reached out and touched the blackness and it would have absorbed me like a black hole. Instead I tried to focus on where the white sand faded into the blackness of the sea, but I couldn't find the edge of the ocean. It was simply magnificent and impossible to recreate or even describe.
I traveled here on a whim, with a bunch of people I don't know very well. I had no intention of meeting or befriending them, just being polite and then skulking off on my own to write or ruminate or nap. Instead, I had some great meals and conversations. Great yoga and stargazing. And just today the group told me they thought I was funny. Talented. Unique. I know some of these things, but even now in my liberated days where I don't get too hung up on negative comments or other peoples' baggage, it was refreshing.
Any time someone says the word "retreat" I automatically think of falling away in battle, not escaping the nine to five. I imagine sinking into the blackness or hiding out until the tide returns. When I come home, I hope I will remember this lesson: paradise is more than sinking your toes into the sand. Paradise is being seen for who you are: dissolving the line between who you are and who you pretend to be.
Now, to be fair, I have seen dolphins, rays, manatees, sharks, fishes, flounders, frat boys, naked babies building sandcastles, and old couples walking hand in hand on the beach. Each one a thing of beauty (except perhaps the frat boys), but none remarkable enough to write home about (except to say they're not worth writing about). The night before last, I saw the place where the land ends. The sky ends. The world ends.
I stepped out onto the beach sometime past ten o'clock and dug my toes into the white sand. The ocean was so black that it melted into the sky. I think I could have reached out and touched the blackness and it would have absorbed me like a black hole. Instead I tried to focus on where the white sand faded into the blackness of the sea, but I couldn't find the edge of the ocean. It was simply magnificent and impossible to recreate or even describe.
I traveled here on a whim, with a bunch of people I don't know very well. I had no intention of meeting or befriending them, just being polite and then skulking off on my own to write or ruminate or nap. Instead, I had some great meals and conversations. Great yoga and stargazing. And just today the group told me they thought I was funny. Talented. Unique. I know some of these things, but even now in my liberated days where I don't get too hung up on negative comments or other peoples' baggage, it was refreshing.
Any time someone says the word "retreat" I automatically think of falling away in battle, not escaping the nine to five. I imagine sinking into the blackness or hiding out until the tide returns. When I come home, I hope I will remember this lesson: paradise is more than sinking your toes into the sand. Paradise is being seen for who you are: dissolving the line between who you are and who you pretend to be.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Not a Lemon
If you know me at all in my life beyond the internet, you probably know I'm a bit of a judger. In fact, had I not been in fifth grade when Judge Judy was cast, I'm certain I would have been selected for the role of Most Critical and Outspoken Female Waif in the under 5'4" category. It isn't that I was tall at ten, it's all the legal aspects of actually being a judge. Details, details.
Instead, I've always cast a longish finger in my own direction, usually while peering into a brightly lit magnifying mirror. Case in point: every time I've ever been evaluated for work performance, I've always started by cutting of my evaluator with, "I know exactly what you're going to say..." and then listing my seventeen most prominent faults, like excessive use of toilet paper, or alphabetizing artificial sweetener packets.
Self criticism is nearly impossible to stop. If there were a secret camera into my kitchen, you would see me tell my husband, "I'm leaving these dishes for you to unload..." while I unload them from the dishwasher, dry them, put them away, and refill the dishwasher. When he returns to the kitchen five minutes later and asks me what I meant by "leaving the dishes for me" or God forbid starts unloading the dirty dishes because I just told him that I was leaving the dishes for him to unload, we end up in a cycle of blaming, finger pointing, and usually tears (and I'm just talking about me, myself, and I, because my husband will happily wander away either feeling lucky or perhaps just slightly hard of hearing).
If I had previously thought that it was impossible to amplify my critical tendencies to new heights, I learned quickly that I was wrong once I started to barely consider having a baby. All it took was the sage advice of Dr. Google, or a wonky breast exam, or an ill-timed trip to crank up the self-destruct-o-meter to new and unparalleled heights. Internet research proves that I should be avoiding salt, sugar, dairy, wheat, soy, caffeine, hormone-laden meat and eggs, alcohol, fun, and late night movie marathons to improve my chances of conception. Faithfully avoiding anything remotely close to fun and drinking my weight in kale juice and pea protein powder while getting enough exercise, sunshine, meditation has yielded me nothing but greater frustration.
But it hasn't stopped the inner critic.
Nope. One funky breast exam and I immediately turned on my body.
"It's YOU! You're SABOTAGING ME!" I exclaimed at my right breast, "You're the reason none of this is working out correctly! You're rotten and you're trying to TAKE ME DOWN WITH YOU!"
This, as you may have guessed, is not very yogic.
Nowhere in the Yoga Sutras does it say, "Whip and beat your body into submission. Stop caring for yourself. Consult Google at every strange turn for possible solutions/diagnoses/recommendations." In the Yoga Sutras, it clearly suggests that the yogi must experience her own nature... the difference between herself and false identities.
It is easy to say you should watch for these subtle changes, but the reality is that the subtle changes aren't apparent unless we are really, totally present. This is what Patanjali said. Step one: right now, you should be breathing. Step two, did you turn off the TV? Step three, are you sitting with yourself or some false sense of who you are?
I'm paraphrasing, of course.
I've been stuck on step three for a long time now, I'm afraid. Listening to and believing a life's worth of lies about my body: wrong shape, wrong functionality, too old, too tired, etc. Those lies are not me. And I finally heard someone speak the truth. It finally chiseled through the mind trap.
"Your body is not a lemon." ~Ina May Gaskin
Oh. Right.
1.3 tada drastuh svarupe vasthanam
Instead, I've always cast a longish finger in my own direction, usually while peering into a brightly lit magnifying mirror. Case in point: every time I've ever been evaluated for work performance, I've always started by cutting of my evaluator with, "I know exactly what you're going to say..." and then listing my seventeen most prominent faults, like excessive use of toilet paper, or alphabetizing artificial sweetener packets.
Self criticism is nearly impossible to stop. If there were a secret camera into my kitchen, you would see me tell my husband, "I'm leaving these dishes for you to unload..." while I unload them from the dishwasher, dry them, put them away, and refill the dishwasher. When he returns to the kitchen five minutes later and asks me what I meant by "leaving the dishes for me" or God forbid starts unloading the dirty dishes because I just told him that I was leaving the dishes for him to unload, we end up in a cycle of blaming, finger pointing, and usually tears (and I'm just talking about me, myself, and I, because my husband will happily wander away either feeling lucky or perhaps just slightly hard of hearing).
If I had previously thought that it was impossible to amplify my critical tendencies to new heights, I learned quickly that I was wrong once I started to barely consider having a baby. All it took was the sage advice of Dr. Google, or a wonky breast exam, or an ill-timed trip to crank up the self-destruct-o-meter to new and unparalleled heights. Internet research proves that I should be avoiding salt, sugar, dairy, wheat, soy, caffeine, hormone-laden meat and eggs, alcohol, fun, and late night movie marathons to improve my chances of conception. Faithfully avoiding anything remotely close to fun and drinking my weight in kale juice and pea protein powder while getting enough exercise, sunshine, meditation has yielded me nothing but greater frustration.
But it hasn't stopped the inner critic.
Nope. One funky breast exam and I immediately turned on my body.
"It's YOU! You're SABOTAGING ME!" I exclaimed at my right breast, "You're the reason none of this is working out correctly! You're rotten and you're trying to TAKE ME DOWN WITH YOU!"
This, as you may have guessed, is not very yogic.
Nowhere in the Yoga Sutras does it say, "Whip and beat your body into submission. Stop caring for yourself. Consult Google at every strange turn for possible solutions/diagnoses/recommendations." In the Yoga Sutras, it clearly suggests that the yogi must experience her own nature... the difference between herself and false identities.
It is easy to say you should watch for these subtle changes, but the reality is that the subtle changes aren't apparent unless we are really, totally present. This is what Patanjali said. Step one: right now, you should be breathing. Step two, did you turn off the TV? Step three, are you sitting with yourself or some false sense of who you are?
I'm paraphrasing, of course.
I've been stuck on step three for a long time now, I'm afraid. Listening to and believing a life's worth of lies about my body: wrong shape, wrong functionality, too old, too tired, etc. Those lies are not me. And I finally heard someone speak the truth. It finally chiseled through the mind trap.
"Your body is not a lemon." ~Ina May Gaskin
Oh. Right.
1.3 tada drastuh svarupe vasthanam
Monday, May 6, 2013
I Have So Much to Lose Here
You can easily determine my age by my Sarah Mclachlan reference, can't you?
My earworm tonight is FEAR by Ms. M. I have to admit, I'm a little scared about tomorrow. I'm scared about the next day, and the next, and what might happen after that, too.
I remember last year, on a plane to NYC following a biopsy and ready for the s*it to hit the fan. It crossed my mind that I could legitimately get hit by a bus (and I was much more likely to be in NYC than in Colorado Springs). I was less afraid than I've ever been to get hit by a bus, because I thought that if I got hit by the bus, I'd never have to get that scary phone call.
It's stupid, I know.
I'm no stranger to fear. Anxiety is my de facto way of life. My spirit animal is an alpaca, the only animal that will up and die of a heart attack just because it saw a shadow.
These are my people.
I learned a lot last time. I wasn't afraid to cheat traffic like a local, or offend someone by taking two free samples of SO delicious ice cream bars, or say what I meant. I had confidence and gusto and wandered the streets wearing a giant derby-style sun hat with NO SHAME. I was an alpaca in wolf's clothing (or more accurately: derby gear).
Fear is thinking you have something, because once you think you have it, then you know you can lose it. The yogis remind us that we have nothing, that we're had by nothing. And therefore, we cannot be lost to others or to ourselves. We have nothing to fear, because we have nothing.
I wonder what I will learn tomorrow.
I remember last year, on a plane to NYC following a biopsy and ready for the s*it to hit the fan. It crossed my mind that I could legitimately get hit by a bus (and I was much more likely to be in NYC than in Colorado Springs). I was less afraid than I've ever been to get hit by a bus, because I thought that if I got hit by the bus, I'd never have to get that scary phone call.
It's stupid, I know.
I'm no stranger to fear. Anxiety is my de facto way of life. My spirit animal is an alpaca, the only animal that will up and die of a heart attack just because it saw a shadow.
These are my people.
I learned a lot last time. I wasn't afraid to cheat traffic like a local, or offend someone by taking two free samples of SO delicious ice cream bars, or say what I meant. I had confidence and gusto and wandered the streets wearing a giant derby-style sun hat with NO SHAME. I was an alpaca in wolf's clothing (or more accurately: derby gear).
Fear is thinking you have something, because once you think you have it, then you know you can lose it. The yogis remind us that we have nothing, that we're had by nothing. And therefore, we cannot be lost to others or to ourselves. We have nothing to fear, because we have nothing.
I wonder what I will learn tomorrow.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Will You Still Call Me Superman?
There's a lot of crazy loose in the world today. It's easy to get pulled under, into the tiny crevices of our homes where the chocolate lives and the news can't reach. It is equally easy to plug in to the master grid of intravenous information as we long to connect and offer our time and bandwidth to the fray.
When did this start? Is this the other side of the internet coin, that we're so easily swayed by the tide of tragedy that sweeps across the world and the nation? Perhaps it is simply the instinct hiding out in our reptilian brain, or the part of us that remembers being a fish and schooling left and right, moving the herd away from the shark and into protective waters.
From my home, several thousand miles but only bytes away from today's senseless tragedy, it is hard to feel anything but helpless. Useless. Like Clark Kent was on assignment somewhere on the other side of the world. But that doesn't excuse non-action.
Whenever something bad happens, it reminds me that I have the capacity to do good, now. Even if it is just this moment, for just one other being.
You can, too. Breathe. Meditate. Make a casserole. Hug a friend (or a tree). Recycle something. Cultivate good soil within yourself.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Great Expectations
As luck would have it, the year of the water snake is not the year of the meteorologist. In the past several months, national and local forecasters have been either on vacation or stuck in a time warp. They say blizzard, we see nothing. Again, and again, and again.
There is a rousing discontent for these poor folks all about the interwebs. From harmless memes on FB to my own disappointment about the fabled snow, there is a lot of bad juju headed towards these unlucky fellows.
Which doesn't seem fair, does it? Remember in the 80's (and all the times before) when we looked out the window, took a sweater, dressed in layers, and relished the wild, unpredictable gift of snow or rain or balmy days in December? One of my favorite things about the weather in Colorado is that it has personality. It is adolescent: rash, extreme, and impulsive.
Remember when we lived in the moment rather than wasting our time trying to predict the future?
This is the lesson I'm learning this year: plan for the worst, hope for the best, and appreciate whatever happens.
(and keep galoshes in the car)
 |
| Elan Photographie |
Which doesn't seem fair, does it? Remember in the 80's (and all the times before) when we looked out the window, took a sweater, dressed in layers, and relished the wild, unpredictable gift of snow or rain or balmy days in December? One of my favorite things about the weather in Colorado is that it has personality. It is adolescent: rash, extreme, and impulsive.
Remember when we lived in the moment rather than wasting our time trying to predict the future?
This is the lesson I'm learning this year: plan for the worst, hope for the best, and appreciate whatever happens.
(and keep galoshes in the car)
Monday, January 14, 2013
Well, 31, It's Been Swell
I know, you've had it to the gills with New Year's Crap. Me too. The blessing and curse of Capricorn is the intimate ownership you have over the calendar. Your year is wrapped up in The year (or perhaps vice versa).
My year ends tonight.
I started this year, this 31, in the most unusual place. I made a rash decision in November that if I was going to be a yoga teacher then I must start with professional development and start tacking things onto my resume. So I enrolled in a little prenatal teacher training, thinking that surely I would never actually teach prenatal yoga, I would just learn about it. Who would ever want to study prenatal yoga with me?! I have no babies (unless you count the birds, which I do not).
The wise instructor (pun intended, for those of you on the inside) started the training by saying, "You've all been a mother in another lifetime."
I think it stopped my heart.
Now, I'm pretty impervious to the fru fru yoga speak, because I'm a very Type A linear thinker. I can organize you into (and out of) a brown paper bag. Probably one-handed, in the dark, while listing all of the helping verbs. No yoga teacher teacher is going to mush me up and let me think for one second about my past lives.
Except that I totally bought it. It was an epiphany in the most resounding way. If I were writing a religious text now instead of a blog, I would say that God appeared in the middle of a field, and then all of the tall grass parted and showed a clearly outlined seven-lane freeway with signs "THIS WAY, IDIOT."
(I'll stick with blogs, I get it).
I tapped into my incredible birth-knowledge-trust-fund that I'd set aside in college and started dealing out prenatal yoga and birth-bits like it was the newest fad. Which, when you're 31, it actually is.
All the while, as I was building my little business and following my North Star and all that, I sort of let it slip that I wanted to be a mother. It wasn't the pheromones of my dear clientele, but the same arcane sense that the teacher spoke of in her welcoming speech.
You've all been a mother in another lifetime.
YES, my body said. THAT's it.
My body whispered to my mind, which made a very clear and efficient list:
- no soul-crushing job
- husband gainfully employed
- husband bringing in benefits
- extensive knowledge of all birth things
- afternoon naps - home ownership
- pet ownership
- lady parts
These seem like logical prerequisites, don't they? Well according to all of the romcoms I've ever seen, (and my mother) this is The List.
Just. One. Problem.
Lists, as it turns out, don't make babies.
So far, my exhaustive research into the scientific literature coupled with the fertility patterns of my friends and frenemies on Facebook do not point to a specific cause except to say that my list was waaaaay off (aside from the lady parts... that does appear to be a requirement).
So tonight, at the fringe of 31 I come back to the words of my instructor: you have all been a mother in another lifetime.
When I'm 32, I'll try to remember what it was like.
My year ends tonight.
I started this year, this 31, in the most unusual place. I made a rash decision in November that if I was going to be a yoga teacher then I must start with professional development and start tacking things onto my resume. So I enrolled in a little prenatal teacher training, thinking that surely I would never actually teach prenatal yoga, I would just learn about it. Who would ever want to study prenatal yoga with me?! I have no babies (unless you count the birds, which I do not).
The wise instructor (pun intended, for those of you on the inside) started the training by saying, "You've all been a mother in another lifetime."
I think it stopped my heart.
 |
| Mama and baby gorilla |
Now, I'm pretty impervious to the fru fru yoga speak, because I'm a very Type A linear thinker. I can organize you into (and out of) a brown paper bag. Probably one-handed, in the dark, while listing all of the helping verbs. No yoga teacher teacher is going to mush me up and let me think for one second about my past lives.
Except that I totally bought it. It was an epiphany in the most resounding way. If I were writing a religious text now instead of a blog, I would say that God appeared in the middle of a field, and then all of the tall grass parted and showed a clearly outlined seven-lane freeway with signs "THIS WAY, IDIOT."
(I'll stick with blogs, I get it).
I tapped into my incredible birth-knowledge-trust-fund that I'd set aside in college and started dealing out prenatal yoga and birth-bits like it was the newest fad. Which, when you're 31, it actually is.
All the while, as I was building my little business and following my North Star and all that, I sort of let it slip that I wanted to be a mother. It wasn't the pheromones of my dear clientele, but the same arcane sense that the teacher spoke of in her welcoming speech.
You've all been a mother in another lifetime.
YES, my body said. THAT's it.
My body whispered to my mind, which made a very clear and efficient list:
- no soul-crushing job
- husband gainfully employed
- husband bringing in benefits
- extensive knowledge of all birth things
- afternoon naps - home ownership
- pet ownership
- lady parts
These seem like logical prerequisites, don't they? Well according to all of the romcoms I've ever seen, (and my mother) this is The List.
Just. One. Problem.
Lists, as it turns out, don't make babies.
So far, my exhaustive research into the scientific literature coupled with the fertility patterns of my friends and frenemies on Facebook do not point to a specific cause except to say that my list was waaaaay off (aside from the lady parts... that does appear to be a requirement).
So tonight, at the fringe of 31 I come back to the words of my instructor: you have all been a mother in another lifetime.
When I'm 32, I'll try to remember what it was like.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
The Christmas Train: What to Get Your Yoga Teacher for Christmas
This is not a shameless ask for Christmas gifts, so it's ok to keep reading.
I've been asked by a couple of students, "What can I get you for Christmas?"
It got me thinking about what I have given to my yoga teachers in the past, because I've never considered that I should get anything from my students for the holidays. As someone who has practiced yoga for dozens of years (literally, that's a weird thing to say) I've had dozens of teachers. Two stories immediately come to mind.
Story 1:
Several years ago I made a regular habit of joining my mother for her yoga classes when I was visiting. I would go to the class with her, and then stay for the "advanced" yoga class, because at the time I liked to consider myself "advanced." The instructor was truly amazing. He was a semi-retired engineer who had found yoga later in life and then been trained by some of the most well-known instructors in the now booming industry. His English was good, but his accent so strong I had a lot of difficulty understanding him. My visits were sporadic, as my visits to my parents' town were sporadic.
In one year I visited at Thanksgiving and then again at Christmas, and was surprised when I was greeted with, "Oh! Karen! I've made something special for you. I've made you soup/soap." I was thrilled and a little scared. Had he made me soup? Soap? And why me?!
Luck was with me as after class he presented me with two bars of soap he had recently made. He was in a soap-making class and really honing his skills by making all sorts of delicious scents.
He did not give soap to the other students, nor did he give them soup.
I do not know what the lesson was that I was supposed to learn from this experience, so those two bars of soap have sat in my bathroom, wrapped carefully in the brown paper they came in, waiting for the lesson to bubble up.
Story 2:
A few years ago I was working in a job that I'm so grateful to have outgrown and we were barely making ends meet financially as my husband was in school full time. Our only spending money was used to pay for a Netflix subscription and two meals at the local college cafeteria a week ($3 per person per meal).
As I was leaving work and heading to my yoga class one of my coworkers gave me two amazing-looking homemade and gift wrapped cookies to sample, in case I would want to order some for the holidays for my family. I thanked her and told her I wouldn't have the extra money to pay for them, so perhaps she should give them to someone else. She said I was crazy and I should take the cookies and enjoy them, and then maybe tell someone else how delicious they were.
Truly, I looked forward to eating both of these cookies. They looked amazing (I wish she had a little website so you could see them/order them for yourself!). As I pulled into the fitness center parking lot I was struck by the idea that I was supposed to give one of these cookies to my yoga teacher.
I was not happy with this idea. I had a really hard time with it, particularly because I was enjoying my pity party.
I took both cookies into the gym in my purse and went through the entire class. At the end, I felt like an absolute imbecile, I approached the instructor with one of the cookies and said, "I have this overwhelming sense that I'm supposed to give this to you." To her credit, she looked at me like I might be slightly nuts. But she thanked me for the cookie.
I went home with one cookie that I planned to share with my husband, and I felt pretty good about whatever this mysterious urge had been. I checked the mail and found three unsolicited, unexpected checks waiting for me. They totaled more than a thousand dollars and came from people to whom I had lent money in the past or overpaid and forgotten about.
I nearly fell over with my keys still in the mailbox door.
SO: what are you to make of this? Give your yoga teacher cookies and The Universe will send you some fat checks? No. I don't think so. I mean, it couldn't hurt to try it, but I make no guarantees.
In fact, I believe the point I'm desperately trying to make, is that gift giving should well up in you. Rather than an obligation precipitated by a particular day on the calendar, you should consider getting quiet and letting someone else be in charge, like the You who is on the inside. The quiet You. The one who returns to yoga not because your butt looks so sweet in those pants, but because the outer you cracks a little bit more each time, revealing the inner you.
If you are not compelled by an inner force to provide a particular gift, then the best gifts you can give any teacher are participation and feedback. If someone has made an impact on you, tell them. Continue to support them so they can support you.
And if all else fails, give them mystery soup/soap and cookies.
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