Eat the Yolk

Motherless? Never.

2012-02-12T14:16:00.000-08:00

In the tiny black and white photo I keep in my mom's old jewelry box, Richard looks like a short Peter Sellers. Richard was a small man, my grandma confirms, smart as a whip and capable of handling any task, from cleaning a dove he'd shot to arguing both sides of a political issue at a party.

Peter Sellers, my grandpa's doppelganger

You could say my mom was fatherless at a young age. Richard, her father, died when she was ten. You could say I was motherless at a relatively young age, too. By the time I was 19, I knew my mom wouldn't be around to celebrate my buying my first home or being granted tenure. You could say that these things are tragedies.

But is it really true that those who have lost parents really motherless, fatherless? What does it mean when a parent dies?

I had dinner and a lovely walk with a friend of my mom's recently. As the sun began to set, the frogs by the river started croaking their rusty evening songs. We talked about getting older, teaching, and raising children (this includes pets, of course :-).

That night, I had one of those "Oh, now I get it!" dreams that shed light on one of those issues that has held you captive for years. In the dream, I was sitting at my grandmother's counter top, looking at the spot on the stove where my grandma usually stood as my brother and I ate our dinners. Instead of my grandma in the kitchen, though, it was Richard, the grandfather I never knew except for memories told and retold by my mother and grandmother, tied to the tiny black and white photo.

"It's OK your grandma got remarried," Richard said. From his quiet and sweet demeanor, I knew who he was immediately. "I'm glad she had a stepfather, someone to take care of her and give her brothers and a sister. And I'm glad you had a grandfather."

I awoke from the dream stunned. I am careful to write down dreams that seem like they might have something to offer, and this one was no exception.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a mother, to be mothered. I think I've been working these past few years to understand that I'm OK without a mother. I'm trying to accept that it's OK that I've found ways to be mothered--and to mother--even without her lovely presence. I think one of the hardest parts about the healing process after someone dies is to begin to be alright with the fact that you're going to get that love elsewhere. But I don't think we should worry about that. The human heart is vast enough to preserve a space for those we've lost while making room for new opportunities for love.

So when a female friend pays for my glass of white wine and cheeseburger after an evening of laughter and tears, or when another friend envelops me in a random embrace after noticing my long face, I accept it: I'm still being mothered.

It is enough.

2012-02-08T19:39:00.000-08:00

“Whatis the totality of life? Listen and attend carefully. The totality is simplythe eye and sights, the ear and sounds, the nose and smells, the tongue andtaste, the body and sensations, the mind and mind objects. Anyone who tried todescribe a totality beyond this would not know of what they were speaking.” –theBuddha, the Totality Sutta

Surprise, surprise.

2012-01-26T07:52:00.000-08:00

I've been surprised by a lot of what life's thrown at me. Relationships, births, deaths, adventurous travels--all of it, so unexpected.

I remember the globe my family kept in the living room when I was a child. At that point in my life, my world was pretty small. Nice parents, a silly brother, some family, and a smattering of friends and teachers. Before I was 10, I don't think I ever left Southern California. I'd look at the globe, spin it halfway around, and gaze at China. Halfway around the world. And yet, so tiny on the map.

When I was 20, my tiny world began unfolding at an exponential rate. As I grew up, I learned how distances actually could be compressed to the point of becoming inconsequential. With a bit of pluck and a few extra pennies, those distances could be traversed in a single plane flight. But standing on the Great Wall of China when I was 20 was only the beginning. Since then, there have been loves. There have been degrees and jobs earned. There have been trips taken and trips cancelled. There have been family members lost, and family members born.

Grove of Aspens

But after reading Emily Rapp's lovely article over on The Rumpus, I'm reminded of the biggest surprise of all: Our hearts are vaster than I ever imagined it to be. Forget the Gap's infinitely forgiving stretch jeans; the human heart's capacity for love, like an ant capable of carrying ten times its own weight, is the real miracle.

What I notice as I've gotten older is the way the friendships I've made on the playground, on the yoga mat, and in the teachers' lounge have quietly guided our lives. We no longer happen to be friends. Our lives have been shaped by each other, and it's as if we are now inextricably linked. I think of the way Aspens grow--their roots are intertwined, as if they were a family. Chop one down and the whole colony could die.

Had you told the little girl with the globe about the experiences that lay before her, she would have said no one's heart would be big enough to bear them. And yet, it seems the heart grows like some magical oddity--Harry Potter and the Infinitely Expanding Heart!

Thanks to my dear friends for letting those roots mingle...

Be aware. Be VERY aware.

2012-01-24T07:41:00.000-08:00

"I should have taken a shower before class. This top accentuates my collar bones nicely. Argh--why is it so humid today? I really wish I were eating a pomelo."

Is there any limit to the utter insanity of mental chatter? Sit down to meditate or practice yoga and you see the stuff that comes up is absurd. As Jack Kornfield likes to say, the mind has no shame. And usually, the thoughts that come up are one rerun after the next.

Isn't stopping the flow of chatter what we mean when we say we want to increase our awareness? We do yoga and meditation because we hope that our valiant efforts will eventually quiet our crazy monkey mind and that we'll go through life more engaged, focused, calm, and level-headed. But there are other ways in which we are not aware. Take me, for instance: I'm a dweller.

I am still dwelling on a conversation I had with a colleague last week. Well, obsessing is probably the right word.

I'm currently enrolled in a psychology class. Although it's not my area of expertise, psychology has always interested me, and as I've gotten older that interest has expanded into a full-on preoccupation. One of the things psych teachers will tell as you settle into the first day is that you're going to learn about lots of odd disorders. You're going to learn how psychologists diagnose people. And under no circumstances are you to attempt to apply these criteria to yourself or the people you know. It takes training, not an introductory course, to correctly diagnose patients, and what's more, you can't ever objectively diagnose yourself or people you're close to. So don't even try.

Got it! Makes perfect sense, right? I will never do that. Of course not.

Ha. Ha, ha.

In the aforementioned conversation with the colleague, he mentioned a behavioral tick that set off a little bell of recognition in my head. I eagerly asked my coworker a couple of followup questions, and before I could check myself, I sputtered, "Oh! That sounds like a symptom of ________!" I then followed up with, "do you also get X, Y, and Z?" before catching myself and apologizing profusely.

Despite my apology, the conversation ended awkwardly. And I don't blame the person. Ugh, imagine getting an armchair assessment from your coworker! (Especially if there's a grain of truth in their observations ;-)

So, on the one hand, that little scenario would indicate a lack of awareness on my part. I shouldn't have jumped to judge the guy. But also note my above statement: "I am still dwelling on a conversation I had with a colleague last week." Seriously? Last week? Is rumination essential to awareness? How many present moments am I skipping out on when I berate myself for a) disobeying a teacher (I have this thing about disobeying perceived authority figures) and b) potentially causing distress to a coworker.

I guess this is why we practice yoga and meditate. Doing so rockets us out of our heads and back into our bodies, enabling us to be present.

Well, except for the pomelos and the collarbones ;-)

A tasty pomelo

Pomelo cat also enjoys pomelos

Something New

2012-01-14T18:19:00.000-08:00

...And not just a new blog layout!

It's taken me a while to process the fact that it's a new year. I keep writing 2011 when I sign checks or write the dates on HW assignments. I'm not one who's big on making and then desperately trying to keep rigid resolutions, but I do like to take a moment to reflect on what changes I wouldn't mind coming my way ;-)

I think, if anything, I'm resolving to do more of the same. One is to keep settling into myself, allowing myself to be comfortable in my own skin rather than working so hard to fix every imperfection. The other is to be as open as possible to new experiences.

I started the new year with one of those: two weeks without a Bikram class--the longest it's been without being forced to due solely to travel! This wasn't by choice, though. The day I got back from Sedona, I got some sort of cold/sicky thing that hung around for at least a week. Since it's the new year and the room is packed, I figured I'd do my fellow yogis a favor and sit it out a few days. The anticipation--and the "I'm a bad absent yogi guilt"--mounted.

Breathing in

Finally, Friday a.m. came. With no morning classes to teach and no yucky symptoms to coddle, I confidently rolled out my mat. I breathed warm, humid air into my lungs during Pranyama and kicked my leg out proudly during Standing Head to Knee. And then.... I was just done. You ever work on a really tedious task, avoiding looking at the clock, thinking, surely, hours must be going by, only to find it's been about 13 minutes? That fun feeling hit me by Standing Bow.

I spent most of the class on the floor, trying to convince myself that I wasn't humiliating myself and that I shouldn't have stayed home. I tried to be a good yogi and just stay present, breathing the humid air into my desert-dry lungs. I slogged home, drank a bunch of juice, and spent the rest of the day in that occasional unpleasant post-yoga hangover: wrung out, headachey, unmotivated, yet unable to sleep. Ugh. It's not a fun combo.

Still, I dragged myself out to dinner, hoping that the warm glow of the pub and friends' faces (not to mention its greasy and delicious fried food) would snap me out of it. I wasn't halfway through a glass of wine when it hit: migraine! Crap. And I had been ignoring all the warning signs: post-illness, intense exercise, citrus, and now alcohol (both common migraine triggers). I excused myself early and dragged myself home.

Now, you migraine sufferers know that once it gets under way, it can feel like a full-blown attack in a war that lasts hours. I tried to resign myself to its course--fighting never seems to help much--and settled into bed, readying my iPhone to a Jack Kornfield talk should the need for his soothing words arise.

But not two hours later, I remembered seeing Deepak Chopra on TV not six months before, talking about a meditation-based/biofeedback-ish technique for easing the pain of migraines. The instructions are as follows:

"Put your hands out and then close your eyes. Watch your breath for a few seconds and bring all of your awareness into the middle of your chest. Listen to your heartbeat and tell it to slowdown. Now move your awareness into your fingertips, and focus on experiencing your heartbeat as a throbbing sensation that has moved there. This technique diverts blood from your brain into your limbs, reducing blood pressure and slowing your heart rate so your headache goes away."
From "A How-to Guide to Holistic Health"

I did this, more or less, in about five or ten minutes while lying in bed. And would you know, it worked! I actually fell asleep--something that doesn't happen for hours into the migraine cycle. I woke up a couple of hours later but simply tried it again and slept through the night. I woke up feeling relatively normal.

It could be a coincidence that I managed to interrupt the typical course of a migraine. But I'd rather chalk it up to being willing to try something new :-)

Why Some Write

2012-01-08T14:03:00.000-08:00

It's my last day of freedom before the semester begins. I am spending it in an odd state--I'm recovering from a cold, mulling over this short but tumultuous and wonderful break, and thinking about writing.

I've mentioned before that I teach writing. At the beginning of each semester, I spend a few days reviewing and updating syllabi. I think about assignments and readings that I might tweak or change entirely. I amp myself up, telling myself that this will be the semester where I reach them all. Repeatedly, I come back to the question, why write?

Woman journaling

Each semester, as I look out at the sea of mostly-new faces, my self-consciousness rears its little head. I imagine the wheels turning in the students' minds, churning out questions like, "Who do you think you are? Why do I need to be here? Why do I need to write?" Those are good questions for students to be asking. Especially the last one. In part, I think we all need to answer it for ourselves. If you can't find your own reasons for writing and are doing so only to earn a grade or please your boss, what you come up with is likely to be forced and a little empty. (Bloggers who feel pressured to post a certain amount of posts per week/month probably know a thing or two about that ;-)

Famous writers have pondered the question, too. In his Nobel Prize acceptance speech, William Faulkner said that we write "to help [a person] endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past." Yikes, Bill. Them's some lofty aims. David Mamet: "to lessen the unbearable disparity between the conscious and unconscious mind and so to achieve peace." OK, Dave. Wordy, but slightly more comprehensible.

After I began blogging and reading others' blogs, I noticed that I felt better about everything. Maybe we write to comfort each other.

The reasons for writing are probably limitless. Earlier in the week, while on vacation, I was reading Jonathan Haidt's The Happiness Hypothesis (a great book--though not a quick read--for those interested in the science behind happiness). In it, he refers to Dr. James Pennebaker, who has devoted his life to proving that writing has the ability to improve both emotional and physical health. For 20 years, he has been completing studies in which he asks people to write for 15 minutes a day for four consecutive days about an emotionally painful experience. He then follows these individuals for two and six months, and some for up to 1.4 years. Compared to the control group, they have less depression, fewer doctor visits and physical problems, as well as positive behavioral indicators like increases in grades.

In a sense, the study suggests, the participants write to heal themselves.

What a powerful tool, this writing! Interesting stuff. I just thought I'd share that with you!

"Wrongful Appropriation": Bad Karma?

2011-12-05T21:36:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I got my knickers in a twist.

No... wait... that's not the correct metaphor. That's too polite and girlish for what I felt the other day when I commented on Alive in the Fire's post about yet another Bikram lawsuit. More like, it's been a while since my guts got so heated they could roar fire.

I think most avid Bikram yoga practitioners have weighed in on Bikram's tendency to go after studio owners that use his series without receiving training or paying their monthly dues. I'm writing here not so much with the intention of offering my opinion on the matter, although, as you'll see, I do have one. It's more like I just want to... complicate the discussion and make some connections between this yoga and what I do for a living.

I am a writing teacher. Right now, our semester is winding down, and I'm commenting on final drafts of research papers. One of the things we writing teacher diligently teach is how to avoid plagiarism when citing. Using sources correctly is a tough skill to teach, and contrary to what you might think, teaching students to avoid plagiarism is NOT as simple as reviewing the rules and telling them about the horrifying consequences (reporting to the dean, a black mark on your spotless record, possible expulsion! Life sentence in jail! OK, not the last one). Most of the plagiarism teachers see is unintentional, and there are also cultural differences that can make source management trickier for some folks than for others.

And then, to complicate matters, what I do in my daily life runs counter to hard and fast rules about plagiarism. I manage a file-sharing website for our department that allows teachers to post and download handouts to use in class. I make it clear to anyone who submits something to the site that it is for sharing. Don't expect the instructor who uses your cause-and-effect paper idea to cite you when they distribute it to their students. They might think it's the perfect assignment to share with their students--making little changes here and there as needed to make it their own. Who benefits? The student, as does the instructor who doesn't have to freak out thinking they have to start from square one. Talk about good karma!

(For more on this reeeally interesting issue, check out Feralchick's blog--she taught me all I know about plagiarism (look, I'm citing my source! ;-) or look up plagiarism-obsessed scholars Rebecca Moore Howard or Nick Carbone.)

Look at any aspect of the media, art, culture, etc and you'll see examples that complicate copyright law. In hip-hop music, sampling is often celebrated. And what is art but a graceful amalgamation of other artists' ideas and techniques? No wonder students come into college befuddled, anxious, and even surprised about our rigid guidelines for using sources correctly.

All my gooey, share-the-love goodness runs dry, however, when I read a student research paper on education that begins with this "hook" for their introduction: "Education is often being confused with schooling, relying on the premise that time spent in school is directly related to education. Somehow, by osmosis or some other magic force, spending time in school will lead to an educated person. This is one of the biggest lies and misnomers that is pervasive throughout our society." Wow! Sounds great, right? I've done such a great job teaching my students this semester! Look how much this guy's improved. Aww, wait... "misnomer"? "Osmosis or some other magic force"? Waaaait a second.

Do a quick Google search on one or more of these sentences and you'll see the passage is lifted directly from a blog on education. What follows a teacher's discovery of plagiarism is an odd--and frustrating--range of emotions. Did this student think they could trick me? Did they think I was stupid? How could I not notice that their writing was suddenly of a level publishable by the New York Post? The action of lifting a few sentences to use as a lead for one's research paper is suddenly a full-on assault of a teacher's ego.

I bet my fire-breathing reaction to plagiarism is a little what Bikram must feel when he realizes that yet another studio is teaching something akin to his series without crediting (*cough*paying*cough*) him for its proper use. I'd be pissed, too. If I designed a series of yoga postures and breathing exercises, added a dollup of hot, and remained convinced that this could significantly improve people's well-being, my ego would scream I did that, you cocksucker motherfuckers! (Sorry for the profanity, kiddos. I'm just using the words of the man himself that he was screaming into a phone the one time I approached him for a photo.)

It's a perfectly human reaction. The first time I saw chunks of one of my syllabus in another instructor's syllabus, I thought, "Hey! That looks familiar. I'm not sure I dig that." Aaaaaand then I remembered I pretty much stole most of my syllabus from other teachers when I first started. Once again: who benefited from the instructor who used excerpts of my syllabus? The students. The instructor. The only one who was momentarily hurt? My delicate ego.

But it only hurt for a few seconds.

I totally get the very legitimate reasons for why Bikram would want to copyright the series. As I said on Alive in the Fire's blog, I want to take a Bikram yoga class. I want my Pranyama followed by Ardha Chandrasana followed by Padahastasana. I don't want the teacher to ask for "requests" at the beginning of a yoga class. Don't mess with the order, dammit. Don't touch that dial. Bikram doesn't need a copyright to keep people coming to his studios. I'm not going to other studios because when I want McDonald's, I'm not settling for Jack-n-the-Box. Or Hardee's. Or whatever else y'all have on the east coast ;-)

And before I finish my little tirade, what gets me most of all is that it seems like Bikram (or his handlers?) are proud of the fact that they go after every studio. Check out this self-congratulatory note on his copyright page on his website: "The asana sequence copyright registration joins Bikram’s growing portfolio of registered copyrights and trademarks that lie at the heart of the proprietary Bikram Yoga system. Bikram can now easily and effectively enforce these rights."

Yay! He can now sue easily and efficiently. Phew. Now that his portfolio of lawsuits is growing steadily, surely no one will dare to bait his wrath!

That's just what I keep thinking my plagiarizing students will realize. Hmm. We're not quite there yet.

Please note that I am not pro-plagiarism, nor am I pro-copyright infringement, or pro-badness in any way :-) I am not a legal scholar, so take my comments on copyright with a grain of salt. I know it takes a great deal of critical thinking and due diligence to use source material responsibly, and I am definitely pro--, uh, that!

If I could offer up a paltry piece of advice, though, it would be this: Let the karma yoga you preach about actually be your karma yoga.

Trails Untrod

2011-11-11T13:57:00.000-08:00

Do you ever feel like "doing the posture" is an incredibly lofty goal? Do you ever want to laugh in the teacher's face when they say, "One day you will touch your forehead to your toes!" Not in this lifetime, right? (Those of you who can do this, well... I guess I'm not talking to you ;-)

What force entices us to undertake these seemingly impossible challenges again and again? It seems like inside and outside the hot room, challenges we've seen time and time again are placed before us. I think of 'em as "Deja vu Obstacles": The frustration I feel in the balancing series, the claustrophobia that sets in during the floor postures, the heart-pounding head rush of Camel pose. And don't even get me started on stuff in my personal life. Boy, have I been here before.

I've been thinking a lot about these patterns lately. I feel like I've been stuck in a certain sticky cycle--one you'll have to buy me a burger to get me to open up about--for quite a while now. I get out of a tough situation, and I breathe a sigh of sweet relief. Then, I notice a pretty trail open up before me. I happily toss my stuff into my wheelbarrow and skip down it, thinking, "This time it's going to be different." Almost immediately, though, I can see it's not. The trail is as well-trod and worn, and before I know it my little wheel has slipped right back into the same rut.

What compels us to sign up for more of the same?

To answer, indulge me in a little detour into my grad program. One semester I took a seminar on William Faulkner. The teacher, a grumpy PhD who was itching to retire, assigned me a presentation on his short story, "Red Leaves." Part of the story centers on a slave (known only as "Negro"), who has been assigned to live and work with an Indian chief. (Criticism of this white Southerner's problematic portrayal of Native Americans and black slaves is duly noted.)

When the Indian chief dies, the nameless slave panics, knowing that it is his fate to be buried with his "master." Although he has been prepped his entire life for this hard fact, the slave runs for miles and days, trying to outrun his fate, saying, "Ole, grandfather. It is that I do not wish to die." At last, though, the slave gives in and is caught, led back to the village to meet his death.

When I was to present on this story, the only instruction I was given was to be prepared to tell the class why the nameless slave ran. I read and reread the story, thinking there must be some magic sentence in the text to help me answer the professor's question. Finding none, I stumbled nervously on the day of the presentation until she asked me the question outright. "Why did the slave run?" "Uhm, because.... ah, that's Life," I managed to spit out. "Human beings are compelled to live, and no amount of conditioning can take away our desire to live."

I think this is the same force that compels us to take up that trail again in the hopes that it's fresh and untrod. Or perhaps it's that we take up the trail in the hopes that we'll have the strength to propel ourselves out of the rut in the hopes that we can continue marching toward our goal. We may know deep down that it's our fate to fail to touch our forehead to our toes, but that doesn't stop us from unrolling our mat in the hot room day after day. No amount of neurotic conditioning should rob us of our will to attempt improving ourselves again and again. Find that pretty trail. Get your wheelbarrow ready. Try, try again.

_____________________________________________________________________
You can read "Red Leaves" here.

Yoga Babies

2011-10-29T21:08:00.000-07:00

Yoga babies. No, it's not an attempt to rip off the ever-growing yoga clothing industry, nor did I witness some strange new Mommy-and-Me mutation. It's the perfect description for the class I had today.

Now, babies have been on my brain lately. Not in the way you might think--I'm not gettin' knocked up anytime soon--but I have been thinking about 'em. A dear friend welcomed her first child into the world recently, and following her experiences with that has been fun. I'm also in the mid-semester grading slump that hits all of us teacher types. (Non-teachers: please forgive your teacher friends for their inexplicable yet cyclical October/April madness.) To prevent myself from falling into a pit of grading despair, I take a few moments here and there to let my thoughts get all innocent and childlike. There's a big difference between this internal monologue: "Goddammit. How did you make it to this level of college without learning to use a fucking apostrophe?" and this one: "I notice that this student takes a creative approach to the conventions of English!"Ahh, a beginner's mind can be a welcome relief to the drudgery of the day.

Back to yoga. Today's class was a steamer. To boot, there were quite a few first-timers, which meant the instructor had to spend a bit of time here and there attending to Fixed Firm poses and ankle-holding issues :-) And there was just... something in the air. You know those classes that seem to have bad energy? Those ones in which us students remain obstinate and listless, wrung out like an old rag, despite the best efforts of a wonderful instructor to keep us going? It was one of those.

As the normal hour for class to be over approached, we were still postures away from being done. As I lay on my back between postures, I noticed bizarre things--people walking back and forth (to get what, I don't know), the wheeze and moan of a newcomer. At one point, I turned my head to see the instructor walking the rows during mid-posture savasana. She knelt down between two new students, whispering some sweet reassurance to them. Enviously, I wanted to know what she was saying. Couldn't she see we were all suffering, too?

That was when it hit me: our class was a bunch of yoga babies. There we lay, little infants, exhausted, begging for relief and attention. The teacher was ultimately of no use in this matter. And I think that the best of teachers, mothers, husbands, lovers, friends--none of them can do anything but remind us of the fact that we are already worthy of our own love. Isn't yoga all about self-care? Ain't it a tool for us to tend to our weary, irritated, and ambivalent souls?

So, it's OK, little yoga babies. We can throw our little tantrums and wish our teachers would tell us "take it easy, honey." But even sweeter is the realization that we already have the ability to soothe ourselves.

Lions and Camels and Nietzsche, Oh My!

2011-10-22T21:10:00.000-07:00

"Writing is like magic because you cannot see the simple psychology you are weaving, the questions you are asking, the way you are reshaping how you interact with your world," writes Rebecca K. O'Connor, author, falconer, and blogger on The Rumpus.

I wasn't able to articulate why I haven't been able to blog lately until I read that wonderful piece of O'Connor's. Lately, I feel like I'm seeing life so clearly. In looking back over the stages when I've blogged most often--and blogged best, if I may be so bold--it was when I was mired in little tragedies I was willing to share with you all. I was desperately trying to peak behind the fabric of my experience, and writing was the fingers that allowed me to grasp. For a moment, perhaps I'm taking a break from weaving that simple psychology.

These past few months have led up to a pretty big change in my life. I made a decision that took far too long to arrive at, but the relief that swept over me after making it was so welcome I don't regret the lost time one bit. I feel now that I've been on my knees, begging for mercy, for over two years, and I finally heard a voice saying it was OK to get up. And, mind you, not one of those "Hello, E, it's schizophrenia calling" kind of voices. Something different.

Anyway, how wonderful it is to finally stand up! Nietzsche and, oddly enough, Sufi poet Rumi write that spiritual unfolding occurs in three stages: the camel, the lion, and then the child. In the camel phase, we feel we have been burdened with the suffering of our existence. We trudge onward, until finally we kneel, as a camel will, under the weight of our burdens. We surrender completely. It's only then that we can rise up like a lion, full of the strength and majesty we need to meet our challenges.

OK, I get it--it's kind of a cheesy comparison. (That's also an odd thing to say about something Nietzsche-generated.) But you know, don't we all get to feeling like we've been taking a knee from the weight of our burdens for far too damn long? Moreover, I bet we also all know what it feels like to finally set that heaviness aside and rise the fuck up. I'm feeling it now--every sleepless night, every jagged meditation session, every scalding tear, every desperate conversation with friends, every scrawl in the journal, and every sweaty yoga class--they do add up to something far bigger than the sum of their well-intentioned parts.

Ahhh. Life is good. I teach, I sweat, and I sleep. The only downside is that it doesn't provide me with much inspiration for blogging :-)

But I know from living in a dualistic universe that these things are cyclical ;-) I'm sure the camel will be back, but for the moment, I'm sure enjoying being a lion.

Being Breathed

2011-09-25T19:22:00.000-07:00

It's not often I scramble for a pen when I hear someone speak. When I'm listening, I like to let the person's words wash over me. I like to get lost in the scrunch of facial features, of animated hand movements, of soft or rushed tones of voice. Buddhist teachers tell us that if we hear something we like, it's resonating with what we already know. No need to form attachment to words--we already know it all.

But I've been haunted by this quote by poet W.S. Merwin since I heard it two weeks ago. "Little breath, breathe me gently," he writes, "for I am a river I am trying to cross."

Ah. So much here. I think we all know what it's like to experience anxiety and fear. What happens when we perceive something as being fearful? The breath takes over, enlarging itself to spur the body to action. We panic. But with attention, even in stressful situations, we can encourage the breath to remain gentle.

I also like the author's implication that we are not forcing ourselves to breathe. Even as we bring our attention to it in yoga or meditation, it's ultimately an unconscious action. It's a natural part of our existence. Knock ourselves out with a hammer, booze, or drugs, and the breath will soldier on. It holds us. It's our rock--it will always be with us, until it's not, and until we are not. It's like something is breathing us. (Maybe that's why noticing it can be so centering.)

I think we struggle to cross our own rivers all the time. We have a tide of tendencies, of habits, compulsions, and obstacles that arise constantly. They can seem overwhelming, and it's so easy to lose sight of that little breath. But to remember that we are being breathed, well, that would sure go a long way to fuel our little boat.

Caesura

2011-09-04T11:23:00.000-07:00

It's been a while. It may be even longer before there's an actual post to speak of. The change of the semester starting has seemed awfully big this year, and while objectively, things are good, there seems to be a bit of a sea change going on in my life. Makes it hard to write, knowing that these uncertainties will be etched into some corner of the internet for all eternity.

It's just a caesura, a brief rest in this particular musical score. I'm sure I will be back! Don't think for a moment that I've stopped going to yoga or reading your blogs :-)

The Fort-Builders

2011-08-12T20:52:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, my brother was my favorite person to play with. We'd enter into our own world, fashioned typically of boy things like sticks, Star Wars toys, and GI Joes, and everything else would drop away.

When he and I were really young, one of our favorites was to build a fort out of the couch in the spare room. I think it's a common experience for fort-builders: ironically, they're kinda frail. My brother and I would take the cushions off and rearrange them very meticulously so that they surrounded the couch with just enough room for us to slide in on one side. Once we were inside, we had to move very carefully so as not to collapse the walls surrounding us.

There was always something so thrilling about that activity. The joy was in the doing: in the placement of the cushions, the imaginative reasons for making the fort, and the cautious entrance. Honestly, I've forgotten moments after we actually got inside. I imagine we looked at each other, reveled in our creation, and then got bored and punched our way out. Or maybe we started fighting and it all came crumbling down ;-)

I think most of the fun was in the acceptance of the cycle: you build, you love what you're doing, you appreciate it for a moment, and you let it all wash away so you can build it up again. This is particularly easy for kids to do, I think. Think of the way a toddler passes his favorite toy back and forth with you. He trusts that what you take from him, you will give back. (Maybe it's harder for us adults, but I digress...)

I feel like I'm on a similar cusp. I feel this especially strongly today. This morning, I took a step back and looked at what I've been building as I was recognized in a special tenure ceremony. For those who don't know, tenure is kind of a permanent position granted to teachers after you put in some dues and demonstrate you're qualified for the job. (Please note, not all teachers who deserve tenure are afforded an opportunity to get a job, especially these days.) It was such a lovely experience, and what was especially interesting about it was the reminder that the times we're most honored are the ones in which we're the most humbled. I stood on a stage with 12 other faculty members, feeling those two extremes pretty profoundly. I allowed myself to recognize that I've spent the last six years lovingly, joyfully (mostly) building this little fort, all the while knowing I was dependent on all those who continually show me the way and build with me. I may have "done it," but, at most, all I did was combine ideas I pretty much stole from everyone I've befriended along the way. That's the way it is. We build together, and when we're doing it right, we love the process.

It's so like yoga, isn't it? The teachers tell us over and over that it's not the degree to which you exemplify the posture, or whether you get your forehead to that knee. The more joy and compassion we bring to our practice, be with the posture, and are able to let go and happily embrace the next, well... I can't help but thinking those forts will become just a little more solid.

No LTR!

2011-08-05T16:39:00.000-07:00

For the first time since I've started teaching, I am able to write these words: It's the end of the summer, and I'm ready to go back.

We start up in one week. A WEEK. It's odd. This has been a pretty wonderful summer, and I haven't checked off half of my summer to-do list. Usually, the looming fall semester rains a shower of gloomy anxiety over me, but this time, I'm really ready! I haven't quite figured out where that openness is coming from this time around--maybe I hit just the right blend between intense travel, yoga, and relaxation.

One thing that I hope to take with me in fall semester are the little yoga breakthroughs that I had these past few weeks. I actually practiced regularly at two studios this summer, just for a little change of scenery! I've heard Bikram teachers say that summer's the best time to practice--your body is just so much more open and willing to change-- and I hope that some of this progress sticks. For one, I can finally get my leg upside-down L like Linda in Standing Head to Knee. I am beginning to think about lowering the elbows.

The other big change came with a teacher's help. I developed a Leaving the Room Tic (LTR), which would threaten to deploy during Triangle. It would then fully deploy during Cobra during classes that reached a certain temperature. It's like my body was calibrated: Hot classes + certain postures = LTR! LTR! LTR! I'd be out of the room and sucking down my after-class Vitamin Water treat before I could stop myself.

Until.... my teacher stopped me. She's been working (quite patiently) with me for over two years now. One of the things I like about her is that she very understanding about LTR and doesn't give people grief about it. Unless, that is, she can see it's just a tic. A few weeks ago, she saw me flip over during Cobra, a sign that I was getting ready to split, and she read my mind. She kindly but firmly encouraged me to stay, and later in the class she talked in general about identifying patterns in your practice that you can then work through. This was great. It was just the push I needed. I knew I could leave if I really had to, but if I didn't have to, why go? It just sets you up for bailing on a regular basis.

Since then, I've stayed in the room. No LTR! It doesn't mean I don't sit down when I need to, but at least I don't leave. Maybe that discipline will stay with me once school starts, maybe not :-) Hmm. Maybe I am going to miss summer after all!

Judgment Takes Time

2011-07-31T17:43:00.000-07:00

How's this for a lesson learned from a posture clinic? Judgment takes time.

Actually, I didn't learn that particular lesson at the posture clinic. I got that one as I was driving home. More on that later. First, I want to share a little bit about the posture clinic with Jim Kallett this weekend!

Jim's a good speaker, and the fact that he lectured for over three hours straight without me boring me out of my mind says a lot. A couple of standouts. One is that Bikram has an incredible life story. I'm sure you teachers have learned it by heart, but for those that haven't, go look it up somewhere. Gurus, smallpox, shattered knees, Paramahansa Yogananda's brother, feats of strength, Richard Nixon, Shirley McClain, jeez, the list goes on. I have heard all these details in dribs and drabs, but it was impressive to hear them told all at once, in narrative form. (Once again I see the truth in what poet Muriel Rukheyser says: "The universe is made up of stories, not atoms.")

I got some good advice, too. "When you get to a fork in the road, there's an easy way and a hard way. Always take the hard way," Jim said. Damn good advice. That one really resonated, particularly because I am one who revels in the easy way. Seriously, I just heard the ding of my microwavable macaroni 'n cheese announcing its done-ness.

Standing Bow

In the spirit of taking the hard way, when I could tell we weren't going to get to the floor series so I could get individual corrections on Cobra, I volunteered for Standing Bow. Now, I really struggle in this pose (like all of us, I suppose. It's a challenging posture). Jim had pointed out earlier that most people tend to fall into "made of steel" or "noodle from Milan" categories. I am kinda in the middle. I'm not naturally a noodle anywhere but in my hips--I had to melt down the steel over a period of years to get where I am today. I'm also reasonably strong, but I feel like I've been stuck on a plateau of my own making for a long time now.

Jim hit the nail on the head. He didn't say much after forcing my leg up to the ceiling, but he after letting me go, he said, "You're resisting. You have a lot of resistance." I couldn't help noticing he didn't say that to anyone else who came up.

There was some other good stuff at the posture clinic, but the biggest lesson came on my way home. I skipped the class at the end because I felt nauseous and had a budding migraine (resistance, anyone? Easy road, anyone?).

On my way home, I got into a minor car accident. I'll spare you the details. In retrospect, I was stuck by the calmness of the accident itself. There I was, driving 65 miles an hour, slowing down to pull off the freeway, when I saw the crate in the middle of the road. Within a span of a second, my mind had assessed the situation: "Shoulder on the right. Cars on your left. You are going to hit that crate." So, I hit the crate.

It wasn't until I was on the side of the road, exiting my car to see what the hell that god-awful scraping sound was (the crate instantly punctured my front tire), that the fear started washing in. "Oh my God. I could've died. Someone else might hit the crate. What do I do? My head hurts. Who do I call? Why did I cancel AAA?" Compared to the aftermath, the actual moment of "the accident" was quite calm.

I saw that three others had hit the crate before me. One of them bravely grabbed the crate out of the way before changing his tire so others wouldn't hit it. As I waited for my friend's son to come out and help me put on a spare, I started talking to the young woman who was also waiting for her tow-truck savior. Turns out, she's a Bikramite, too. We kinda gawked at each other in learning this--she'd even practiced at the studio I was coming home from.

What lesson is this? What do I take from this?? The only one I can process, after stress-eating on a fast-food fish sandwich and french fries and sleeping for twelve hours, is this: Judgment takes time. Worried about an accident or disaster? Don't be. The thing itself isn't nearly as frightening as anything your mind will make it up to be later.

Just Enough Slack

2011-07-25T15:36:00.000-07:00

I saw this cartoon in The New Yorker a couple of weeks ago and have been waiting for it to make an online appearance so I could share it with you :-)

From a July New Yorker

Ain't that just the way it is? (And isn't this cartoon so Bikram?) OK, OK, I suppose I can grab my toes and get the back of my knees on the floor, but I will simply not get my forehead to the toes in this lifetime. I appreciate my body but also recognize its limits.

One of the things I like about this cartoon is the look of, well, distress on the woman's face. I totally relate to her. My mind is oriented toward success and overcoming obstacles. When I sense that they are extremely far-off or likely impossible to overcome, I get a little sad. And scared. And maybe even a little pissed off.

I guess the important thing to remember is that the point is not that we overcome the obstacle. It's like having a giant ball of yarn bouncing around behind you. You can ignore the ball and let it bounce around behind you, knocking people over and getting in your way, or you can take up the yarn and work at it, slowly, gently. You know you're never going to disentangle the whole thing, but it's enough that you work, piece by piece, until gradually you have just enough slack that you can do what you need to do.

Security!

2011-07-17T11:14:00.000-07:00

Picture this:

It's 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday. You're sleeping peacefully, as any rational person would be. Suddenly, all hell breaks loose: you are hit by a wall of sound so overwhelming it feels like your body is being struck. You tumble out of bed, terrified. The cats are already hiding in the closet. You dumbly register the thought, "The alarm is going off," but it feels like so much more than that.

This was my morning. After realizing what was happening, I went through almost comical routine of beating the smoke detector with my palm until I realized it wasn't what was making the noise. No, it was the supposedly-defunct alarm system that came with the house. I've lived here for three years now, and nothing like this has ever happened.

Man covers ears. Like I did.

I'm one of those people who has to learn a lot from movies and/or television. While there have been many cinematic depictions of the "alarm scenario," I realize now that those scenes resonate only with those who've lived it. There's simply no way to convey the volume of sound that they emit. Forget the burglar--the goddamn alarm is scarier than any robber. (Interestingly, the thought of a real break-in only registered in the furthest regions of my mind.)

I was so disoriented that it was all I could do to stumble outside and call the police. As I waited, I apologized to groggy neighbors emerging from their homes to see WTF was up.

And that.... in that period was waiting I had one of "those moments." It was like I got myself quiet and allowed this space to form around me. Maybe it's what they mean when they say "collect yourself!"

One of the lessons we learn as we sit in meditation or do yoga is how to become ever-friendlier with discomfort. The heat wills us to grab the water bottle and guzzle, but we abstain because we know that we will pay for the cool but momentary joy by feeling nauseated in Camel pose. Similarly, giving into the sensation of boredom in meditation ("I'm bored! This is pointless!") leaves hidden places unexplored. Why not push past that sense of discomfort and see what else is there?

I think that's what kinda happened as I was sitting on the stoop in front of my house. The ten minutes since I'd called the police seemed like hours, no doubt exacerbated by the embarrassment I felt in causing my neighbors to awaken at an inhumane hour. As I was sitting, I vaguely recalled a time when the home alarm emitted a quiet but irritating beeping sound. By pushing the asterisk button on the control panel, it stopped. With this in mind, I steeled myself and covered my ears as I ran inside, making a beeline for the control panel. And ya know what? It worked. I hit the button, and the beeping stopped. I cannot tell you the relief that flooded over me--I almost started crying.

Shortly thereafter, the police arrived. They each had their ideas about what to do with the malfunctioning alarm, knowing I would never, ever choose to experience it again. (One of them had the well-intentioned but not-so-bright idea of ripping the control panel from the wall. I ended up paying the neighbor's electrician friend to dismantle it. Funny how much safer I feel now that the alarm is now truly defunct.)

So.... what if I had collected myself a little sooner? What if I had sat in that (albeit extreme) discomfort instead of running around like a headless chicken, calling the police, waking neighbors, and destroying my own property?

Collect yourself a little sooner: it's the task of a lifetime!

Days like Sardines

2011-07-15T13:59:00.000-07:00

I'm behind.

It's mid-July. I have less than a month before school starts back up, and I'm behind.

My summer to-do list was pretty extensive: Go to the beach a lot. Cook a lot. Figure out my bizarre-o dreams. Achieve enlightenment. Or, at least, find a meditation group. Replace the comforter on the bed. Teach a class and do it well. Travel. Have FUN.

I'm behind. I hate this feeling, and it's exacerbated by the fact that I've been sick all week. I haven't been to yoga since Monday, and I'm already woefully behind on the class packages I indulged in (I bought classes at two studios! To say nothing of the many restorative yoga class I've missed at the adult school!).

I'm behind. I hate this feeling, yet... maybe it's just what the doctor ordered.

In an email to a friend of mine I lamented this loss of time due to illness. In response, my friend gently suggested that my body might be calling out for a rest from all of this summer R & R. She might be right. It's experiences like these, where I'm strapped into my skin like Hannibal Lecter into that straight jacket and mask, that I wonder what all my daily doing is really about. During the school year, I look forward to a lazy summer the way I dream of a bottle of coconut water during a particularly hot yoga class. But summer arrives, and I pack it full of must-dos, inventing tasks that I rationalize are essential to my existence.

Packed like sardines

So... the big question. What, in God's name, am I avoiding by packing my days like sardines? Is even half that stuff essential to my existence? It might take me a lifetime to figure out, and even placing my toes at the edge of that very big pool is a frightening idea."My mind is like a bad neighborhood; I try not to go there alone," said Anne Lamott. Maybe it's best not to go it alone, or walk too far too fast ;-)

The good news: despite almost a week spent in bed, I'm having a fun summer. I'm behind on yoga. The only cooking I've been doing lately is of rice and soft-boiled eggs. I've only tried one meditation group, I still have that cat hair-infested comforter on my bed, and I've only been to the beach three times. But damn, those were fun times. And maybe some quiet pool-wading was on the summer to-do list after all.

Que linda es la vida: Look at all the costumes!

2011-07-10T09:25:00.000-07:00

"Wipe your hands on your costume, and bend forward to pick up your foot."

The costume concept has really been with me lately. In the hot room these past few days, it's like I hardly know myself; some days I'm a rockstar from another planet, others I'm a mouse huddled in the corner, toying quietly with my water bottle as the rest of the class launches themselves into Balancing Stick.

I gotta say, I love the variation. During the semester, I often feel like a woman who only has two or three outfits: Teacher! Colleague! Exhausted person desperately trying to make the most out of a few ounces of spare time! But during the summer, ay. Que linda es la vida. I feel like a spoiled princess who gets to try on a thousand dresses, reveling in the different fabric, texture, and colors of each, knowing there's nothing stopping me from wearing what looks good that day.

(Case in point: I just wrote an extended analogy about wearing fancy dresses. If you know me in person, you know I'm the girl who thinks that wearing a bra makes her suitable to go out in public. This girly-girl post is a summer special, folks.)

It's when I have the time to play with all the different costumes in my closet that I feel most like myself. Maybe that's just the way life is: we go through phases--new mommy, cashier, invalid, writer, mountain climber, liquid eyeliner-wearer, thrift store-hunter--and some of those outfits are like uniforms we're forced to wear for a while. Though some outfits are given away, some are mainstays that will haunt the closet for a long time.

I know I've been referring to a lot of super-smart spiritual teachers lately, but the person that kept coming to mind as I toss this post around is Tori Amos. (Please, please, bear with me ;-) She did an album a few years ago called American Doll Posse. The unifying concept of the album--God, do her recent albums have unifying concepts--is that the songs are sung from the point of view of Greek goddesses: Demeter, Athena, and all those other righteous chicas I never took the time to learn about. While the album isn't quite as "solid" musically as some of her earlier stuff, I think that idea is kinda cool.

“It’s not just, ‘I’m going to wake up and play dress-up today,’" Tori Amos says about the point-of-view thing. "What I'm trying to tell other women is they have their own version of the compartmentalised feminine which may have been repressed in each one of them. For many years I have been an image; that isn’t necessarily who I am completely. . . I think these women are showing me that I have not explored honest extensions of the self."

Yes, I just quoted someone talking about the "compartmentalized feminine." But it's summer, and I'm gonna say it: hell yeah, girl. We all have warriors, dainty doilies, surfer dudes, broken hearts, sneaky wits, and sensual lovers inside us. (And if ya think about it from a cosmic, multiple-life perspective, that concept becomes even more interesting.)

So go on. Look in your closet. Which one you gonna put on today?

And enjoy my fave song from ADP :-)

"Is there a love lost and found?"

Bad Teacher

2011-07-07T20:07:00.000-07:00

Feel like her today. Don't look like her today.

Warning: I am in a foul mood. It might be exhaustion from days spent babysitting little cousins in a strange house. It might be the feeling that I'm behind on work and can't catch up. Probably, it's a sense of entitlement: it's summer. Why am I teaching??

Even worse: I took a couple of hours off from grading, figuring that if I was profoundly cranky, I should be prevented from having any interaction with students in order to prevent psychological damage. When I finally returned to the job, the first email I sent addressed the student by the wrong name. www.Failblog.org, anyone? Revocation of tenure, anyone?

I am a pretty even-keeled person. Even when I'm extremely tired or stressed, I try my best to shove it deep down and maintain a general aura of complacency (very healthy, I'm sure ;-) And this, this burning sense of irritation and entitlement, only vaguely tied to the self-loathing I'm intimately familiar with, is so foreign to me. I feel like calling it a day at 7:54 p.m.

I'm taking the rest of the night off from work and interacting with other human beings. I'm going to sit on the couch with a box of Nerds, watch Pulp Fiction, and maybe even sign up for an all-day Bikram workshop that's taking place at the end of the month. There's nothing like dreaming about the future to distract you from your current state of despair, right?

So... when y'all are cranky, and I mean throw-in-the-towel-at-8:00-so-you-can-get-this-awful-day-over-with cranky, what do you do? (Please wait until at least tomorrow to offer holier-than-thou answers such as yoga, meditation, or good deeds, or I will throw a cyber-book at you.)

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*edited to add the following uber-important update: Nerds helped, Pulp Fiction not so much. I've gotten waaaay more sensitive as I've gotten older, and the violence was kinda unsettling. Got me all aggro, to. Woke up a million times better, and a juicy Bikram class cooked away the residual cranky :-)

My Right Path

2011-07-01T18:45:00.000-07:00

It's a time for important dates. Soon, it's the 4th of July. Last week, it was my two-year anniversary at my Bikram Yoga studio. In less than a couple of months, I'm going to hit the big 3-0.

I have been having so. much. FUN this summer. Lots of Bikram Yoga! Lots of restorative yoga! Naps! Good food! Catching up! With every sun, sweat, family, and friend-filled moment, though, comes some pretty intense reflection. I think that's the nature of dates in general, right? They remind us of our limited time on this blessed planet and invite us to think about whether we're living our lives the best way we can. This series of anniversaries have been no exception. I don't think one can step into the next decade without asking, "Did I do enough with those years? Am I really on my right path?"

One of the reflective activities I've been devoting my time to this summer is reading. I have five books in my bed right now, and I'm actually making pretty good headway in all of them. One of them is In the Buddha's Words, a collection of his teachings. It's dense and reminds me of reading the Bible, which, no offense, is not that exciting, so I view my time spent reading it as devotional practice. In a comforting and oft-quoted passages I reread earlier this week, the Buddha is at the end of his life. He tells his devoted but confused disciple "be a lamp unto yourself."

The instruction invites us all to consider what is true for us. As helpful as religious instruction can be, and as devoted we may be to our wise teachers, our belief system has to resonate with what we already know to be true. At best, religion is like a compass. It simply points us in a helpful direction. But whether we have the energy to get ourselves on the path, whether the destination even seems like it would be a cool place to go to... well... that part has to come from inside.We ultimately have to feel the destination is worthwhile and the path the right one, or else we'll get tired, bored, and call a taxi to take us back.

Of course, the trick is that it can take a lifetime(s) to discover what it is we know to be true and to set upon the path we deem right for ourselves. I feel like a newborn baby when I try to think with this in mind, and at the same time feel blocked by mistakes that I already seem to make over and over again. (How is it possible to feel too young and too old simultaneously?)

I have, however, learned or become convinced of the importance of the following things. These are *some* of the truths that comprise my own path, the lamp I will look to when it seems like it's all pretty dark out there.

I really, really love swimming in the ocean.
I am as worthy of my own love.
Everyone is worthy of my love.
Travel is hard, but damn, is it worth it.
I love air conditioning.
I love heating.
I am terrible at sleeping, but when I do, it's worth the effort it takes to get there.
I would love to be a "real" vegetarian, but sea creatures taste really, really good.
I need a lot of alone time.
I am always so glad I gave up the alone time to be with others.
It's OK to lose yourself in a book or in watching wind move plants.
It helps to be still.
Without yoga, I would not be the person I am today, but my hamstrings will probably never become more flexible than they are right now. There will be no forehead to toes in this lifetime.

Those are little truths on my path. What are some of the truths on yours?

Please... Make Me a Borg

2011-06-28T12:43:00.000-07:00

Resistance is futile

...do I even need to explain the reference to the Borg? Or to the phrase, "Resistance is futile"? For those of you who were not lucid between the years of 1987-1994, or for those of you who are not pop culture nerds who research utterances that seem to refer to something generally understood, please Google "The Borg Star Trek." Also, if you don't know who the Borg are, you don't need to talk to me anymore ;-)

It's summertime, and the living is easy for She-Who-Eats-Yolks. Well, mostly easy. I have slept in until the record late hour of 9:00 a.m. I have stayed in bed until all hours of the night (i.e., 11:30 p.m.) reading Ann Patchett's new novel, State of Wonder, imagining my bed to be a boat cruising down the Amazon, my cats snakes and other such jungle marvels. I have yoga'd at other studios, gone to the movies, signed up for a meditation group, hiked, cooked. I even plan on baking. Yes, there will be baking.

There is, however, the tiny inconvenience of teaching one online class, which prevents me from oozing into a complete puddle of decadent, summery bliss. What amazes me is how this class, which generally demands no more than an average of two or three hours per day of work, absorbs much of my mental space. Through studying yoga and meditation (and also just observing what happens) I've learned that the resistance to those approximately two hours per day probably adds up to as much time as I spend actually working on the class. I wake up in the morning, and one of the first thoughts is, "I should really respond to those discussion boards first, so I can enjoy the day." During yoga: "I should've done those discussion boards earlier. Now I can't focus." After lunch: "Damn. I should really do those discussion boards." And on and on.

Once I actually sit down to respond to the discussion boards, however, it's so easy. It's relatively enjoyable! I like my job. Why so much resistance to actually doing it? Hey, Borg ship, you giant cube of lights, wires, and drone people. Come get me. I'm ready to stop resisting.

A Return, Part II

2011-06-21T20:04:00.000-07:00

I think people fall into one of two basic camps: there are those of us who always want to go out, and there are those of us who want to go home.

I like going home so much that I leave just to experience the joy of returning home. After two weeks in Latin America, I turned around and spent a long weekend in Big Bear Lake with family. We played, we lounged, we ate, we boated, we chatted, and we slept. But damn if it doesn't feel good to go home. I've been yearning to get back to a regular yoga practice. Let me tell you: your yoga teachers are right. It does help to attend class regularly. After three weeks of being gone, it feels like I'm starting over. It's humbling beyond words. The "it's never too late to start from scratch again" is of little comfort when I feel like it's my first time in the hot room.

I'm seeing now that I cling pretty strongly to routine. Traveling is a way of reminding me how great it feels to cross the threshold back into the world I've created for myself. An interesting connection: I happen to remember at least one of my dreams each night (keeping a dream journal is waaay too much work for me--I only record the really weird ones ;-). A while back, I was in a pretty tumultuous relationship. A couple of months into it, I started dreaming that I was on some sick, torturous vacation, struggling to get home. I never made it. Every dream, every night was like that.

The relationship persisted, and so did the dreams. Two days after we broke up, though, I had a magnificent one: I was at a party with friends, and I drove home. I stood on my balcony and watched the mist settle over the valley as the sun came up. I rarely have those "I can't get home!" dreams anymore.

So, I'll toast my Diet Coke to those homebodies happy to cross their own thresholds. It's good to be back, eh?

A Return

2011-06-14T20:26:00.000-07:00

Blergh. I've been opening the blogger.com page for three days now. I returned home from a little trip to Guatemala, Belize, and Mexico late Saturday, and I suppose I've just been processing ever since. I have a new found admiration for bloggers who post almost daily, regardless of what's happening in their lives. For me, it seems I must arrive upon some perfectly appropriate insight to share with my imagined audience :-)

It's taken a couple of Bikram classes to "reset" me. The trip... wow. How to sum up such an

experience? Sometimes, language is a way in, and sometimes it's a barrier laden with cliches. Parts of the trip, like waking up to the sound of the Caribbean from my cabana on the beach, were like this:

Tulum, Mexico

Mayan Ruins, Tikkal

It's not Zico!

Parts of the trip, though, such as the relentlessly hot, air condition-free hotel rooms in Flores, Guatemala, rendered me brain-dead, baffled, like the moment when your eyes set upon "Alaskan" coconut water. Yeah, you yogis think you’ll be ready for the heat, but it’s one thing for sweat for 90 minutes, knowing that at some point, the buckets of liquid will stop oozing from your pores. When there’s no end in sight, though, it’s a completely different story.

I've got an endless list of the "good" things to talk about. The food. The crumbling churches in Antigua. The jungle surrounding Tikkal. Jumping into cool water after riding in a van for hours through Mexico. Did I mention the food? Camaron del ajo, conch steak, ceviche, ceviche, ceviche. And, randomly, the best nachos I've had in my life.

And there were challenges: riding in vans for hours. Watching soldiers pile out of their trucks to surround a nearby vehicle, enormous guns aimed at the driver. Having sweaty Apocalypse Now nights, sleeping in dead, humid air, because a local politician cut the power to our electricity (i.e., fans) so people couldn't watch a TV program portraying him in a bad light.

And then there are the spells of pure joy and connection to experience, found usually in unexpected moments, like the tiny gecko that graced my hotel room in Mexico, as if to say adios. Eating dinner by candlelight because the power was off. Realizing on the 8th hour of a cramped van ride that this is it, this beautiful ride is what I came here for. The real experience defies expectations, right?

Mi amigo de Playa del Carmen

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*Sorry for the crappy formatting, y'all. I suck at blogger.

Settled: Good. Clingy: Bad.

2011-05-28T09:05:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I undertake two journeys. First, I will delight in my childhood friend's wedding, humbling myself by going "all-out": hair and makeup, a navy evening dress, festivities and well-wishing. Then, my father and I fly to Guatemala, where we will travel through jungles, beaches, colonial cities, and whatever else the universe has in store.

A thought hangs in the back of my mind, like a bat reluctant to let go and whip out of its cave and into the evening sky: I've been feeling so ... settled lately. And not in an "I'm settled because I scooped me up a good guy" kinda settled. But lately, stuff 'round these parts just feels right. I delight in a morning yoga class, followed by an hour spent reading a novel for fun, eating what I want, and sleeping when and as long as I want. Why would I want to leave?

Settled is great. Clingy, however... not so hot. When I get super-honest about what holds me back from complete friendliness to this experience, however, I notice a lot of the clingy stuff--my friends and family, my cats, my school, my yoga, my computer, my cereal, my Jon Stewart :-) I'm trying to remember that it will all be here when I get back and that the experience that awaits me--beaches, long bus rides, colonial cities, underwater adventures, Mayan ruins (even the recent drug cartel attack in Guatemala)-- is no worse, no better. Trying to remember that the clingy stuff is just fear.

My Jon Stewart

For some reason, this quote from Pema Chodron is on "repeat" in my head this week: "I've seen it all, and I love it all."

Namaste, y'all!

"Aha!"

2011-05-26T09:06:00.000-07:00

Serves me right!

Right after my post about rockstar classes--the audacity with which I spoke of driving the yoga truck--I was back to my normal ho-hum yoga classes: painful standing series, temptation to sit out Triangle and/or the next posture, and an overwhelming desire to leave the room during spine series. The anticipation (and, admittedly, anxiety) of travel and the changes it brings have hit.

"What's the use?" I whined during a particularly growly class. Our bodies are borrowed. Each time we look in the mirror, we're older. We're all marching steadily toward the grave, funeral pyre, etc. Why bother struggling and straining as we do in yoga?

I feel like an uber-nerd mentioning Insight Meditation teacher Jack Kornfield again, but I've just gotta. He addresses the question that I'm posing quite beautifully in an article of his. In honor of Oprah's farewell, I allow myself to say, I had a total "Aha" moment.

Kornfield writes of a meditation student so full of anger and judgment at the other students. At just the moment the student was about to leave the retreat from frustration, he ever-so-faintly noticed that he had the ability to see the connection between the physical manifestations of anger (tightness, shortness of breath) and his thoughts toward the students that were pissing him off. This realization was enough to keep him at the retreat. "He realized that his body had become a mirror," Kornfield writes, "and that his mindfulness was showing him when he was caught and where he could let go."

There's not really much more to say here. I think that most of us who practice yoga are comfortable with the idea that the body manifests its emotional traumas. As one of my teachers recently mentioned during class: "I have a very tight hip. When I was little, something happened, and my hip contracted." She had no need to elaborate further--those two sentences spoke volumes. That tight hip is her bodily reflection of whatever pain (emotional, I assume) she experienced as a child.

So... what's the point? "Aha!" There are a lot of good answers to that question.

___________________________________________________________________
If you're interested in reading the (pretty awesome) Kornfield article, you can check it out here at the Shambhala Sun.

"Self-Hatred? What is that?"

2011-05-24T19:10:00.000-07:00

Earlier this morning, I read the comments on my most recent blog post. I always love reading comments, but the encouragement here resonated especially deeply. In the post, I fumbled around with the idea of taking pride in my own actions. It sounds like I'm so not the only one who struggles to be able to do that!

Again and again, one of the recurrent themes that comes up amongst friends and acquaintances is the idea of not being good enough. At the end of the semester, teachers often feel a sense of failure mixed in with "it's all gonna be over soon" relief. We think that some students didn't "get it," or that they won't pass, and we take that on ourselves. In the locker room after yoga, I hear students engage in similar self-flagellation over a class that didn't go well. "I just didn't drink enough. I shouldn't have had that second brownie last night. I was thinking about my kid, and my standing series sucked." And these aren't simple observations--we seem genuinely disheartened by our own perceived shortcomings.

A divided mind

Where does this come from? It's so pervasive, despite our varied life experiences. Maybe it's partly a western culture thing. That would explain this reaction from the Dalai Lama, anyway. (Yeah. I'm finally quoting the Dalai Lama. It was bound to happen, right?)

On one of the Dalai Lama's first visits to the US, Sharon Salzberg raised her hand and asked him about how to work with self-hatred. "Self-hatred?" he repeated in English. "What is that?" It took some back-and-forth with the translators and questioner before he finally understood. The Dalai Lama had to ask Sharon for clarification, and he needed the help of translators before he finally understood what she meant. Finally, he said, "I thought I had a very good acquaintance with the mind, but now I feel quite ignorant. I find this very, very strange."

There's probably more than one way you could interpret this lack of understanding. Naysayers might say he lived too sheltered a life, or that his teachers overlooked a really big concept. I've also heard it explained, though, that self-hatred is a very western concept. Possibly, Tibetans have their own slew of neurotic tendencies, ones that simply don't encompass self-hatred. His Holiness probably had to spend a few months in the US before he witnessed the vast expanse of self-loathing behaviors. Or maybe he finally watched a Woody Allen movie.

While I am certainly in no position to draw a conclusion about cultural differences between East and West, the story about the Dalai Lama floored me, probably because it gives me hope: it is possible to live so appreciatively that it doesn't even seem possible to grasp the idea of self-loathing. May any human be so lucky as to exchange that problem for a horse of a different color!

Shadows. Yoga. Narcissists. Gold. Suddenly, it got all ephemeral.

2011-05-21T16:51:00.000-07:00

I've been having such rockstar classes lately. I just love it.

Yogis joke about the yoga truck. Some days you get hit by the yoga truck, some days you ride it. Dare I say that today I kinda felt like I was driving the yoga truck, as if I were a unionized trucker schlepping goods across the state in record time. I'm gonna allow myself this little dip into narcissistic thinking 'cause, well... it's rare for me to do so. Typically, my thought turns toward what is wrong with my practice, behavior, teaching, grading system, etc, and when I'm momentarily released from it, dammit, I'm just gonna wallow.

Narcissus

I mulled over the rockstar class, as I typically do with every class (except for the nightmare classes that threaten to haunt my dreams). Yes, my teachers are pretty freakin' great. Yes, I'm almost done with grading. Yes, I'm about to take an amazing journey to Latin America. But none of those things really get at why periods in our yoga practice are just better than others.

I am certainly not qualified to answer that question, but I've noticed that my practice "goes downhill" in the middle of the semester and revs back up again once the finish line is in sight. That cause and effect is obvious. But what's behind it? I tend to start getting very un-narcissist about myself halfway through the semester. Spirits flag in class, students start dropping, my grading load triples, and I figure pretty much everything crappy in the universe is my fault. Then, yoga becomes one more place to practice counting the reasons why I suck. It's almost like I have this idea that because things are "not going well," yoga should reflect that. Probably, the opposite should happen. I'm strong, I'm remarkably flexible, and dammit, I've been doing the same freakin' 26 postures for two years without a break, to say nothing of the years of other types of yoga I've done before.

This is an oft-quoted passage from Jungian analyst Robert A. Johnson that might explain things:

"Curiously, people resist the noble aspects of their shadow more strenuously than they hide the dark sides. To draw the skeletons out of the closet is relatively easy, but to own the gold in the shadow is terrifying. It is more disrupting to find that you have a profound nobility of character than to find out you are a bum. Of course you are both; but one does not discover these two elements at the same time. The gold is related to our higher calling, and this can be hard to accept at certain stages of life. Ignoring the gold can be as damaging as ignoring the dark side of the psyche, and some people may suffer a severe shock or illness before they learn how to let the gold out."

Wow. So much there. The gold metaphor doesn't really work for me personally, but the concept of being frightened by what I'm good at really resonates. Glad I'm not the only one on that. Thanks, Jungian analyst guy, for making me feel a little less alone there.

I think yoga gives us the perfect opportunity to see "these two elements" so clearly. When I'm in class, I'm so aware of my body and thoughts. The criticism of self and other, as well as the pride I feel for myself and the other, are observable. So, I really feel those "shadow" classes and those "gold" classes.

No idea if I'm making sense here. No idea at all. Did it all get ephemeral? I'm sorry.

Good Movie. Memorable Mother's Day.

2011-05-09T20:46:00.000-07:00

Holy Madre de Dios. 100 posts.

I just felt I had to acknowledge that. I'm not going to mention it again. I think. I'm actually going to fill my 100th post's text box writing about pain.

I spent the better part of the past weekend (or is it the worst part?) dealing with a migraine and its after effects. I don't get migraines nearly as often as I used to, thanks to yoga, growing up, eating slightly better, and having hormones that don't belong to a teenager.

I've always been floored by the pain migraines create. All headache sufferers know that even a small one bugs waaaay more than it should. And migraines give you the extra benefit of making you queasy and throwing up! And then hurting your joints and muscles because you're doubled up in pain! What a good reminder that the body is interconnected. Yay.

Now that I don't get migraines as often as I once did, when they come, I'm floored by the riveting fact of pain itself. I spent a good half-hour slumped on the bathroom floor, my head leaning against the cool tub, trying to focus on the pleasant smell of Dove soap while I moaned through the pain like a teenager experiencing her first hangover. I may have even thrown in a "Mom, heeeellllllpppp meeeee"--to a mother who passed away five years ago--for good measure. (Believe me, the fact that I'm got one of the two migraines I've had this year the day before Mother's Day is not lost on me.)

But all that isn't really what I wanted to say about pain. There was something almost profound about what I was experiencing. The really bad part lasted about six hours, and that time was like a six-hour meditation. There was no distraction from myself. No turning on the TV, no Youtubing, no phone calls, no yoga poses, no emails, no cleaning the litterbox, nothing but my own unpleasant thoughts and sensations to lie/slump/sit with.

Perhaps because I was finally forced to sit so still, all this mental and emotional pain came roaring up. A lot of stuff about my mom that I had simply not dealt with came out and whacked me across the face. It was like that time I was a kid, minding my own business on the playground, sitting by a tree with a book during recess, when a soccer ball randomly fell out of the sky and onto my head. (Seriously, all that happened.) It was there, waiting for me to be captive by something to go, "Oh, remember this? You knew you'd have to face it at some point." There was no escape.

Eventually, the pain began to lift, ever so slowly at first, as if feathers were being pulled off me. I could finally focus on something of my choosing. Many Buddhist scriptures begin, "Oh nobly born, you sons and daughters of Buddha, remember who you really are." I recited that in my head like a mantra, and each part stood out so clearly. I could write paragraphs on each part--being nobly born, remembering who we are instead of learning who we are, etc. There was some real comfort there in spending some time with that one line.

Finally, I got out of bed and watched Terms of Endearment until I knew I was well enough to sleep. Good movie. Memorable Mother's Day. Peace out, blogging world. I love that I can come and write here.

The Soup that Makes Up Yourself

2011-05-05T20:11:00.000-07:00

1950's TV Dinner

I ate a frozen dinner today that looked a little like this. I suppose the food itself was slightly less disgusting-looking than the 1950s version to the right, but the packaging was just as neat. Everything was politely divided--mushrooms, rice, tofu. Play nice, kids. No touching.

I got to thinking after I ate the frozen dinner after a particularly gooey yoga class: is that at all like human nature?

A friend posted that she'd reconnected with someone she grew up due to Facebook. For some reason, her post of gratitude for FB's powers of connection reminded me of soup. It's almost like those forgotten or shuffled-aside experiences are part of the soup that makes ourselves up. Sometimes, that pot of soup simmers away on the stove for so long, by the time you sit down to enjoy it, you forgot what was in there. You go back to the cupboard and remember: Maybe it was the old bottle of thyme you found on your mother's shelf. Rosemary taken off a neighbor's bush. Maybe it was the basil, picked fresh and chopped lovingly from the yard. Or, less elegantly, it was the expired teaspoon of Mrs. Dash seasoning salt.

Remarkably, the Mrs. Dash can actually blend with other ingredients that seem distinctly different. Simmer on the stove for a few hours, though, and it begins to really be something. And just try to take out the flavoring from a pot of soup (what do scientists call it? A chemical change?). It's not possible, because they've melded together to form something distinctly new.

Soup... much closer to who we are, I think. A colleague asked me to do something today, and I was struck by the complexity of my response. There was an immediate desire to say yes. But I didn't think it would be best to do what she asked of me, so I also felt a sense of confusion: she wants me to do X, and I think X is wrong. And then guilt for knowing I'd say no and let her down. All of those feelings boiled up, surfacing simultaneously.

There just doesn't seem to be much of a dividing line. I am not inclined to use this blog as a platform for my views on hot-button issues, but when I hear about people rejoicing in the death of others I can't help but think of soup.

A line from Aleksandr Solzenitsyn:

"If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?"

He's right, I guess, especially in his desperate "If only it were so simple!" cry. If only we were TV dinners. We could just cut out the pathetic attempt at fried chicken and feast on mashed potatoes and succotash. But we're a little more like soup, I think... just try and fish out an ingredient of the soup that makes up yourself.

College. Yeah.

2011-05-02T21:08:00.000-07:00

"College, huh?"

Tonight, I was reminded yet again how our multitude of neuroses can be reflected right back at us in the hot room. I must warn you: even as I blog in the cool evening from the comfort of my captain's chair and sip from a cold glass of water, the neuroses are flying off the shelves. I think they're forming a tornado in the middle of the room.

I slunk into my Monday evening yoga class, dreading the experience. It's pretty warm in San Diego this week, and the studio seems to absorb that extra heat. Plus, it's Monday, y'know? Blergh.

The hardest part of tonight's class, though, was not the heat. It was the bitchy comment this fellow practitioner made to me in the changing room before class. OK, OK, it was probably my reaction to the comment that got me all worked up. Damn, though, did I get worked up.

I've talked to this yogi before. She's a teacher, and she knew I was a teacher, too. When she learned I taught at the college level, she raised her eyebrow and said, "Really?"

Tonight was more of the same. She walked into the dressing room, took one look at me as I was changing, and said, "College, huh?" Uhh. I look young. I know I do. Fine, OK, I am young. And I probably don't deserve my job. And I'm probably just scarring the 120 students that come into my class each semester. I'm a giant waste of time and money. I'm such a loser. I should be kissing this teacher's feet. She has every right to question my existence on this planet.

Please tell me I'm not the only one who knows this downward spiral.

Class started up right away, and I didn't have time to ask her what she meant by her question. I spent the class in a mental tug-of-war: "What was her problem? She doesn't know me. I'm a good teacher. No, I suck, I don't deserve this job, I want to be eating salad. Blah!"

The balancing series reeeally sucked today.

Then, right between the first and second set of Triangle, I got it. What a perfect mirror this yoga is. Yeah, I guess there's a possibility you could question the motive behind her comments. But I torture myself with those negative thoughts about my work all the time. I don't need an actual human to get me going on 'em. Until I excavate through those thoughts that are already there, they'll come back, again and again.

After class, I dragged myself to the locker room and managed to gasp a request for explanation of her "College, huh?" comment. She didn't answer directly, but she did share that, like many teachers across the state and nation, she's been pink-slipped. If, by some miracle in the state budget, she does get to keep her job, her class size will increase, and funding for their materials and activities will drop. And even more than getting that "don't judge" reminder, I saw she was a really nice person. She was just fuckin' worried about her life.

The conversation was really humbling. Seems I got a double message: some people have a right to bitch. Also, I'm as quick to judge myself as I am others, and that's just never helpful.

Bird with Lace Wings

2011-04-26T19:17:00.000-07:00

Naughty!

I ditched grading and yoga today. In my desperate attempt to cling to the bliss of spring break, I left work, put on my hiking boots and revisited a lovely spot not far from my house. I saw a coyote slinking around the creek, lizards mating, cocoons, a giant millipede (yikes!), and these cotton candy-like tufts of seeds being blown across the canyon.

On the hike, trying to escape from a blaze of tedious, work-related thoughts, I thought about those moments before thoughts start to form. You know the ones. You witness something spectacular--an overpowering smell, a marvelous sight, or an enrapturing song. Moments arise when you're just "there," and your mind stops. For a moment.

At one point during the hike, I noticed something flying overhead. I had one of those thinking gaps where I simply experienced. It was like a black bird with light beaming through its wings just happened.

Then my mind started up again. My first thought was "bird with lace wings." It didn't even seem like a thought. It was more like a flicker of energy, this gentle label. I looked longer, though, and my thoughts formed a more cohesive (and depressing) story. It was a crow. It didn't seem to be flying too straight. It had patchy spots in its secondary feathers, where pieces were missing--due to illness, a fight, I don't know. Maybe it couldn't chase after food or other birds very quickly now.

I'm describing a process that happened in less than the blink of an eye. I saw something so startling it shocked me out of that powerful blaze of thoughts. Then, a story started to form, and things quickly went from good to terrible. The holes in the crow's wings that had initially inspired the beautiful thought, "bird with lace wings," immediately took on a very sad quality. Talk about an Easter moment: how quickly birth and death occur! A bird happened, my thoughts flared up, and my mind kinda stabbed the whole experience to death by forcing relentless thoughts on it.

I'm reminded, again and again, how tremendously powerful our thoughts are. Forget weapons of mass destruction: it's our thoughts that do the most damage of all. I suppose that's why we crave yoga and meditation. We set time aside to allow those moments before thoughts to happen. We observe our mind (and body!) in action. I think Bikram puts it as "You walk the dog or the dog walks you!"

How powerful these thoughts can be, huh?

I got an F? Good.

2011-04-23T15:22:00.000-07:00

I'm good at a great many things. I'm a good baker, a good friend, a good nature-watcher, a good traveler, a good reader, a good teacher, and a good morning-riser. Part of me hates the idea of grading, but as a teacher, I'm compelled to do so ;-) In these things, I give myself a solid A or an A-.

If I had to grade myself according to polite society's standards and give myself F at something, I'd fail myself at finding a partner, at "being in a relationship." (As I type this, in a reflective state, I see the absurdity of the statement. In truth, I'm in relationship all the time. Always was, always will be.)

Polite society would tell me I've failed at every attempt at forming a life-long partnership. Some men have left me, and I'm tempted blame myself for being leaveable. Most I have left, and, apparently, I enjoy blaming myself for leaving. I realize that there was nothing "wrong" with them, that they're no more flawed than any of us are.

Still, I leave. And, if given the opportunity, I just might leave again!

Upon leaving/being left, there is an initial sense of despair. It usually comes from the agonizingly universal "WTF is wrong with me?" question. As the years idyll by (ahh, the turning of another decade--I'll soon be 30!), I can no longer cling to the "I just haven't met the right guy" delusion. Time to take stock, time to look at who I really leave when I walk out the door. Time to see who it was I left long before the guy walked out on me.

So... where to go from here? How to take stock? Or, a more immediate question: how do I comfort myself in the face of this pretty painful realization?

Darlene Cohen, a Zen teacher who passed away recently, writes of how her pain has been a source of great strength in years past. She suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, and despite this, it's said that she had a tremendous healing spirit. This passage is a little long, but bear with me--it's pretty powerful:

"People sometimes ask me where my own healing energy comes from. How in the midst of this pain, this implacable slow crippling, can I encourage myself and other people? My answer is that my healing comes from my bitterness itself, my despair, my terror. It comes from the shadow. I dip down into that muck again and again and then am flooded with its healing energy. Despite the renewal and vitality it gives me to face my deepest fears, I don't go willingly when they call. I've been around that wheel a million times: first I feel the despair, but I deny it for a few days; then its tugs become more insistent in proportion to my resistance; finally it overwhelms me and pulls me down, kicking and screaming all the way. . . I can never just give up to it when I first feel it stir. You'd think after a million times with a happy ending, I could give up right away and just say, 'Take me, I'm yours,' but I never can. I always resist. I guess that's why it's called despair. If you went willingly, it would be called something else, like purification or renewal or something hopeful. It's staring defeat and annihilation in the face that's so terrifying; I must resist until it overwhelms me. But I've come to trust it deeply. It's enriched my life, informed my work, and taught me not to fear the dark."

There's so much here, really. But what stands out to me now is that Cohen recognizes this pattern: pain, resistance, despair, and finally, the giving way to something beautiful, to an energy that inspires everyone that comes into contact with her.

I think that pattern is evident everywhere. Yogis know it. The more we resist the hot room or a dreaded posture, the greater the pain we feel down the line. But it's precisely that depth of pain that enables us to feel tremendous joy when we finally surrender. The depth of pain enables us to radiate a fuller joy that is reflected by those whom we encounter later.

I'm fortunate not to have a lot of physical pain, but with each F I earn in a relationship, I add to the mucky shadow Cohen talks about. I'm really not complaining, though. I'm actually quite happy! What a powerful reservoir to draw from in the future. Maybe one of these days, I'll stop resisting ;-)

F? Good.

To suffer, to be restless

2011-04-21T13:58:00.000-07:00

Warning: this will be reflective and rambly. Until tomorrow, when I reluctantly drag myself into the office to get caught up on work, I'm on spring break. I'm sleeping a lot, observing cats, reading, hiking, doing yoga, and catching up with friends. As a result, the normal constrictions of time, routine, and purpose have been loosened. I love it.

One of the things that often comes up when I'm "on break," though--be it summer, spring, or winter--is a sense of restlessness. When I am in the throes of grading, when my day is accounted for in 15-minute intervals, I crave a break. Try as I might to balance things out by taking it slowly and appreciating the moment, at a certain level of business, I shift into a hyper-manic mode. Whatever I might be feeling deep down is completely washed aside by the tsunami of activities.

Then, the break finally does come. And it's beautiful. I have a deep appreciation for things I ordinarily don't even notice: the cats' daily routine. The feel of the finished wood on top of my computer desk and the rough, unfinished wood beneath. I notice way the dirt crunches under my feet; the way the pavement refuses to break apart under my weight; the squish of mud next to a creek.

I also notice a profound sense of restlessness. "The break is here! Lovely! ....And, now what? OK, we'll read for a half hour. Then, some light yoga. Then, a snack, meditation, a nap, and finally, Bikram." And before I know it, half a day has been spent in planning the day. It was this dharma talk by Sally Clough Armstrong that gently reminded me how great a part restlessness plays in Westerners' lives. (In the talk, she also refers to her experience teaching meditation to new converts from India, and how students from the region don't seem to have the same problem. Interesting stuff.)

If you find yourself also noticing a deep sense of restlessness, maybe this insight I got will help you too: it's progress to notice your restlessness. If you notice this at any particular moment, treasure that realization, because that feeling is probably there most of the time, but it's been hidden beneath layers of activity. As I see it (and as I derive from Armstrong's talk), restlessness is one layer beneath the "doing," the relentless onslaught of activities we schedule to avoid boredom or anxiety. Under the layer of restlessness is probably something even deeper we've been avoiding. But we can't get there unless we keep diving past the layers!

I remember reading literary criticism of Toni Morrison and William Faulkner, and critics referred to both of these authors as having an "unflinching gaze," a willingness to look, and look, and look, despite how ugly (or restless) the picture seemed. So, I'm thankful for the break's opportunity to continue looking, despite that continual urge to run away by going to Target or out to dinner ;-)

To end, here is a quote by Woody Allen on suffering that Armstrong refers to. On my better days, I compare myself to Tina Fey in 30 Rock. On my rougher days I've been known to think of myself as the female Woody Allen. That can't be a good thing. Don't be like Woody Allen.

“To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But then, one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; not to love is to suffer; to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be happy, one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness.” --Woody Allen

Unbound

2011-04-18T20:31:00.000-07:00

I'm stunned. I've been leveled. I've been flattened by a joyful steamroller.

It's spring break in my corner of the world, and it got kicked off on a most lovely note. A gorgeous childhood friend is getting married in a month, and to celebrate, I took a drive up the coast with some girls I've known since elementary school. The gloomy SoCal weather magically dissolved, and we spent the weekend lounging by the pool, picking citrus, and soaking in a hot tub under a luminous moon as we celebrated marriage, babies, and almost 25 years knowing each other.

So, where's the "stunned" part come in? I'm not quite done processing, but we all came home and, via a chorus of emails and text, agreed that the experience was even more amazing than we'd anticipated.

I think, in part, that these girls have finally grown up. We were never an uber-catty, high-drama bunch, but what little of that there was seemed to completely drop away. It was almost dream-like--it seemed like each of us had learned to make room for the other person in the time that had passed from our last trip together: my lovely friends knew that I would be the first one to sleep, the first one to wake, and to spend a quiet hour to herself doing yoga and basking in the sun before everyone else arose. I could see that this recognition, this knowing, was felt as deeply by them as it was by me.

I lowered my achy, stiff torso into standing backward bend in my Bikram class this morning and felt so grateful for the warmth, friendship, and this sense of being unbound that we all seemed to experience this past weekend. I bow to it, and I let it go, trusting it will be felt again and again.

Santa Barbara loveliness

"Body is a playground," or, How I got into Yoga

2011-04-06T18:54:00.000-07:00

I must confess: I've become a Bikram traitor! Again! Heheheh.

OK, I know there's really no such thing. But I admit to feeling a little naughty when I walked back into my Bikram studio after taking a few days off to try some vinyasa classes. I have been having a great time at this studio. I've been humbled, I've been uplifted, but mostly, I've been reminded that, as my newly-favorited self-help guru Byron Katie says, "The body is a playground."

I have not shared much about my history with yoga on this blog, but my time at these classes inspired me to reflect on how I came to it. I've been doing yoga since I was 16. I can hardly believe it--that means I've been doing yoga for 13 years! I can actually say I have a history of doing yoga now.

When I was 16, I joined a gym to impress my then-best friend. She wanted to "get in shape," and I wanted her to like me more. (Typical E!) She wanted to take step classes and lift weights. I was drawn to one of the (only) two yoga classes the gym offered.

(**I should mention that I do not come from a gym-rat family. My dad golfed and played racquetball, but no one ran or worked out for the sake of staying healthy. I was never overweight as a kid, but I was always un-athletic. I couldn't touch my toes, do ten sit-ups, or run a mile. I surely failed all those presidential fitness tests--you can forget the competitive sports. No, seriously, I'm still trying to forget tetherball.)

I finally got up the courage to go yoga without my friend. From my first class, I was hooked. After all those years of awful P.E. classes and feeling lame because I couldn't even touch my toes, I finally found this way in. And it was all for me. It didn't matter that my hamstrings and shoulders were tight, that I couldn't balance for shit, couldn't breathe right, or that I didn't know what I was doing. It was like someone had given me this permission, this key to enjoy how I felt, regardless of how "good" I was actually doing in comparison to others. Body is truly a playground when you're open to it, no matter how you feel.

Wouldn't you know it? That key has continued opening doors. I was an introverted kid--still am, in many ways--but I don't doubt yoga gave me the ability to stand a little more confidently on my own. Of course, I touched my goes. My friendship with that mean gym girl dissolved. I started looking forward to school, rather than hating the world when my alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. to wake me up. I made cool, new, happy friends through that yoga community. I even convinced my mom to let me go on a yoga retreat in Mexico when I was 17, something I never would have wanted to do if I hadn't known yoga's ability to open me up, to tug gently at the tension binding me together.

I remember overhearing my mom, who had initially wondered about my new-found interest, talk on the phone to one of her friends a few months after I started yoga. "There's something different about her. She even walks straighter."

In coming back to that vinyasa style class, things are definitely a little different. It was humbling. Though I could be wrong, I doubt I'll ever see the physical progress I saw when I started at 16. But physical strength or flexibility were never really the point, were they? I needed to get myself to that yoga retreat when I was 17, and that had nothing to do with touching my toes. Who knows what other journeys await? I might become the most social person on the planet ;-)

I'm so glad I went to that new studio. Even though some of that playground equipment was rusty, it was so fun to give it another spin. After two classes there, my Bikram return was the most phenomenal class I've had in a while. I look forward to finding a new balance!

Yay, yoga!

We all Surrender

2011-03-29T08:01:00.000-07:00

When I was a teenager, U2 came out with a greatest hits album. It was the one CD my entire family enjoyed equally, that is, except for the song "Bad." In our universal dislike of this song, we'd instantaneously agreed to skip it during family road trips. "NEXT. 'Where the Streets Have no Name' is way better."

I've come to appreciate "Bad."

"Surrender. Dislocate. Let it go," Bono sings in this meditative and steadily-building song.

What do they surrender to, someone who dies? What part of them dislocates? What do we surrender to, we who live? What part of us is dislocated, and what happens to it?

A colleague... a friend... passed away this weekend. It feels like a tiny bit of good has dislocated from the world, a piece of our big, beautiful puzzle suddenly gone. Since then, I've been inhaling the tributes that have been dispersed through conversation and the internet: emails, Facebook memorial posts, and phone calls. Their sweet smell lingers after I put down the phone or walk away from the computer. I feel oddly calm after each discussion about him.

Maybe we--"the living"--surrender the most. Any disagreements, any sense of separation between "you and "me" are dislocated, and we surrender ourselves to moments of pure connection with others as we remember the good in the deceased. I think that when we're doing it right, we all surrender, all the time.

So, Leon, amongst other things, you and I argued about music, but we both grudgingly agreed that it was nearly impossible to hate U2. Enjoy it, all!

U2 "Bad"

What are the ways it's NOT hot?

2011-03-27T19:44:00.000-07:00

They say that when one door closes, another one opens. What if you shut that door yourself? What if the universe doesn't do it for you, and you have to weigh the risks involved? "Do I want to keep walking through this door? Will another one really open?"

I spent a good amount of time recently wondering if I should shut a particular door. I pleaded with friends. I questioned my yoga teacher. I asked my family. I asked myself, and I asked the door itself. "Should I shut you?"

I don't know if "I should/shouldn't" "She should/shouldn't" statements are the best ones to let churn around one's mind. I will, however, offer up my tiny little testimony: shut the door, sometimes you see doors that have always been there. You've just been to door-obsessed to notice how unique, simple, ornate, solid, and beautifully-made they always were.

OK, back to the "I" voice ;-) One of the doors I'm seeing more clearly lately is yoga. Each time I go, it's a transformation. The possibilities for progress are always there. In the Bikram blogging world, it's a cliche to write about how a class that is "the same every time" provides ample opportunity for different experiences.

Lately, I've been taking those 20-second savasanas to question my stressful thoughts that come up during class. We've all had the "It's too freakin' hot. The teacher should really turn it down" thought. So, when I notice that's coming up, when I see the students wilting like sad Icelandic poppies in gushing heat, when I see the puddle of sweat on my towel is abnormally large, I think about it. What are the ways it's not too hot? Let me count them :-) I can still feel my body, my heart rate slows when I'm not in the posture, I keep sweating, I keep thinking... etc.

It seriously works! I've had a couple of classes lately that were hotter than normal, but my experience in the room was much better than it "should" have been.

Ay, speaking of "should," I feel like I should come back to the door metaphor ;-) Take the time to look around, I guess. They are many doors that are already open. That much, I can promise.

A not wilty Icelandic Poppy

You Good Scholar

2011-03-20T12:14:00.000-07:00

I've been learning my lessons in the weirdest places lately. I get it--we are constantly presented with opportunities to learn, but it seems like the more I turn to books or teachers for answers, I'm presented with these really decisive messages from other places.

I think learning to be honest--with ourselves and with others--is a life-long journey, but currently I'm getting reeeeeal schooled in it.

I learned a little factoid recently that told me someone I work with had sold me on a pretty big lie. I had believed it for a long time. Unfortunately, I didn't learn this factoid until the person left, and I probably won't be in contact with her for a few months. So, upon learning this, I sat, stunned and steaming in anger, trying to think of ways to let this person know how she'd lied to me and how pissed off I was about it.

There is really nothing I can do, though. She is gone, and even if she were here, what would my confronting her do about the situation? I fantasize that my lecture would turn her into the upright citizen I want her to be, but it's doubtful my words would do that ;-) Only she can do that.

Since I can't inform her that she's a liar and what to do about it, I've been sitting down with myself and asking the same question. What did I lie to her about? Turns out, plenty. I had (and still have, I suppose) a lot of professional respect for this person. She is good at her job, so any suggestion she had about my work or personal life, I figured I should immediately put it into practice. I put winning her approval first so I might feel like I was the professional I always wanted to be. Rarely was I honest about how I really felt. So I lied to her pretty much all the time, too.

Jeez. When I let myself go there in anger, I have plenty to get pissed off about, but really, is there anything I can do but go sweat it out? Or healing that anger by being more straight with the people I come in contact with from now on? (Are ya throwing up by now? ;-)

I don't know much of anything, really, but this beautiful poem by Mary Oliver deals with how the world around us is really our teacher. I hope you good scholars see that "untrimmable light" everywhere you go!

From "Mindfulness" by Mary Oliver

Oh, good scholar, 
I say to myself, 
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light
of the world, 
the ocean's shine, 
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

___
Other random factoid: speaking of nature, did you know that seals are known by environmentalists as "charismatic megafauna" due to their sweet, big eyes? I can't get over that.

Cute seal

Put It Down

2011-03-14T17:05:00.000-07:00

I made a huge life decision a couple of weeks ago, and while the process (deciding, going through with it, dealing with it) has been painful, I've already experienced a lightness I have not known for a long time.

As all regular practitioners of anything disciplined already know, your practice reflects what goes on inside. (I am also learning that how you treat others is pretty much an inversion of how you treat yourself, but that's a whole other blog!) I know this intellectually, but it hard to feel it inside at all times. I was reminded of this a couple of weeks ago when reading a post by The Lady J. In it, she was expressing gratitude for being able to let go of her "life" and just focus on what was happening for 90 minutes. The lovely LalaPiggy confirmed that she, too, knew freedom from those stressors when she was in the hot room.

I've been having such awful classes lately that I could hardly believe what I was reading. My stuff has weighed on me like a ball and chain when at yoga.Yes, the classes brought relief, but only because I suffered so tremendously when I was there that I was simply yoga-stoned by the time it was over. I would spend the majority of the class pondering things going on in my life.

It even manifested in very specific physical hindrances. For months now, I could not kick my leg out and hold it the entire time. Ever. Either set. I couldn't get my head to the floor in separate-leg-stretching pose, and this is a girl who has been doing yoga since she was 16.

But now that I made that choice, I feel like I've put a tremendously heavy weight down, and I can simply go further than I could before. Sometimes, I can hold my leg out the whole time, the kicking leg getting closer and closer to being flexed. I can also usually get my forehead to the floor.

Nothing, of course, is much different in my world. I still wake up, go to work, grade papers, play with kitties, read, write, do yoga, watch tv, see friends and family, sleep, and start the whole thing over. On one level I can see so clearly that what causes us stress is just the thoughts. It's arguing with reality that freaks us out, and that war is fought entirely in our heads. I can also see, though, that sometimes you just gotta put some things down in order to move forward and kick that leg straight.

No advice here, just reflections. Thanks for reading! :-)

I told her what was happening.

2011-02-28T16:29:00.000-08:00

I told her what was happening.

I'm a person who likes to project a certain image. I like to seem cheerful, easygoing, and when someone I trust gives me a direction (i.e., "Lock the standing knee!!"), I try to do it. I tend to do it in all walks of life, and it shows up in the hot room too.

Lately, though, it hasn't been quite so easy to be obliging. The yoga teachers say, get up and do the pose. They tell us to kick harder. They tell us to stay in the room. I want desperately to oblige, but some days I just can't do it.

I finally talked to my studio owner. I told her I had a lot going on in my life right now, and that I've been carrying my anxious burden into the yoga room. It was hard, telling her that. She's a steely, tough woman herself, and she doesn't invite a lot of that touchy-feely stuff. But I'm so glad I opened up.

"I can get really, really anxious," I told her.

"I know!" she responded. I was kinda surprised. I thought I hid it well. I forgot that the hot room strips away all guises. I ended up telling her some of what I was going through, and that I was so anxious some days I didn't think Bikram yoga would be good for me. Hearing her respond kindly was enough to make me realize it was good for me.

She reassured me that it was OK if I left. Interestingly, she understood that in some situations (not just extreme physical conditions) it might even be in my best interest to leave the room, especially since it isn't a chronic thing and is tied to what tends to be going on in my life. I walked away thinking progress would happen at its own rate.

So, I opened up. And I'm glad I did. The next two classes I had were amazing. Not even tempted to leave the room, not even tempted to skip a posture. Opening up to my studio owner and saying, "Hey, I'm uncertain and unsure that this is right for me" was just the move I needed to make.

I think that underneath the hard-core boot-campy talk that some teachers tend to bring to the classroom, this is a pretty compassionate practice. And if you don't believe it, ask your teacher!

What Makes a "Good" Teacher?

2011-02-21T14:33:00.000-08:00

I've been appreciating good teachers lately.

I've been thinking of the qualities the teachers I value as "good" have in in common. When I was still in school, I thought good teachers had to have an air of confidence and a developed ability to read the room. I thought they had to be brilliant--many steps ahead of the students they taught. When I started teaching composition, I thought this, and I also thought a sense of humor would endear the students to me and thus, learn the material better.

Now that I've taught for a few years and been a student for over 25, I know of no universal checklist of qualities that one can aspire to. We never get the chance to sigh satisfactorily once they've been attained. I know plenty of people who are intelligent, funny, and who initially appear confident. But the teachers that reach me again and again seem to have a well-defined sense of who they are.

There's a fairly new yoga teacher in town who helped me see this. I remember the first time she walked into the room. She looked young, geeky, and did not have a strong, commanding voice. She didn't force herself to be cheerful or firm. She continued to seem young and geeky and didn't pretend to have a commanding voice. But damn if she didn't get the best class out of us. And I've seen her do that again and again.

This teacher has a particularly gentle way of encouraging us to try. Rather than make it seem like we're rockstars if we do the pose and not trying hard enough if we sit it out, it seems she simply points out that it's possible to do the work. Last week, she singled me out in Standing Bow pose. Normally, I'm falling all over the place in that posture, and teachers who know me don't bother to correct me or offer encouragement. (I don't mean this in a "those teachers suck!" kind of way. Let me make my point.) It takes a real act of bravery to offer them encouragement in just the place they need it.

I think it was the last side of Standing Bow when I realized she was talking to me. "Yep, you've got it, E," she said. "Just keep kicking." I don't remember what else she said, but it was so nice to really feel her reach out to me in just the posture I feel the weakest in. It was exactly what I needed to hear, and I finished the pose pretty strongly.

As a teacher, I too know that it's hard to take a leap of faith like that for a student. I see now that it's because that yoga teacher was not a drill sergeant, because she was being her normal, geeky, joking-about-a-book-I-read-last-week self, I knew it would be OK if I fell out. That was the exact thing I needed to go forward--I needed someone to reassure me it would be OK if I "failed." It was like the criteria for being a good student had dissolved, too.

Like all those self-help messages that emphasize that we should be who we are, we need to give ourselves permission to be ourselves when we teach, when we work, when we parent, etc, even if we are nervous, silly, or irritated. There's no need to force yourself to act a certain way--you're already OK as you are. This is the message we need to hear again and again. Maybe that's why it feels so wonderful to get a teacher who sees this!

Oh God. Here it comes: A Valentine's Post.

2011-02-14T17:20:00.000-08:00

"Happy Singles' Awareness Day, dude."

I overheard a student commenting sarcastically to his friend as I walked through the hallways today, feeling kinda grumpy about Valentine's Day. Jeez. It's a cliche to point out what a useless and industry-generated holiday this is. For those of us who aren't in a relationship, seeing the ads of happy couples, people walking around with pink gift bags, flowers, and balloons can be a painful reminder of what we think we don't have. For those of us who are in a relationship, the holiday can make us feel pressured to express emotions we may not actually be feeling, or buy a bunch of crap we can't afford that the other person probably doesn't even want. Corporate bottom line? For the win! Individual? FML.

There was something about the student's comment--which actually resonated with what I'd been feeling in the buildup to this "holiday"--that actually snapped me out of my self-righteous sarcasm. It does suck to be reminded of loneliness or feelings of disconnection. It does suck to feel like we've got to please our man or woman by buying or doing things.

Even the cynic in me, though, must grudgingly admit that the holiday has at its essence a good message. While at the grocery store yesterday, I saw little pots of flowers that made me think of a couple of really great women friends I work with, so I bought 'em and put 'em on their desks this morning. It just... felt... so.... good!

Of course, the TV ads tell you to buy a diamond ring for your girlfriend, or your family tradition says buy some chocolates from See's. They don't show two platonic female friends exchanging flowers. But that "I'm glad you're in my life and I'm thinking of you" message is one we all deserve to hear, and one that feels really good to say!

So, let's use the skills we develop in yoga and meditation. The message is perfect! The delivery might not be so good and may even be driven by the bottom line, but go back to the message and let that drive our action and thoughts instead. Doing so is what makes us feel connected and loved.

Dare I say it? Happy... Valentine's... DAY. I'm thinking of you.

Heather/a South African flower

A New Challenge

2011-02-09T18:24:00.000-08:00

Scared. Wrung-out. Confused. Elated. Joyful. Sick. Powerful. Irritated. Uncertain. On any given day lately, it seems like I experience all these emotions, often within the span of a very short period of time. As someone who values steadfastness, I'm looking to bring a little more equanimity into my life, so I've undertaken a "challenge" of a non-Bikram-but-very-Bikram-related kind.

I've been incorporating meditation into my life lately. I've been studying it in books and listening to talks on meditation and Buddhism from sites like dharmaseed.org. Yoga itself is a form of meditation--I often think Bikram is a meditation trial by fire: learn to be in the moment or you're a gonner.

But I've been feeling like I've been in the "learning about meditating" phase for a long time. It's time to really roll up my sleeves and establish a routine that I stick to unfailingly, like brushing my teeth in the morning or greeting my kitties when I come home from work.

Sharon Salzberg, a well-known Vipassana (I think!) meditation instructor, has a new book out called Real Happiness, and in it, she challenges people to take up meditating 15 minutes or more a day for a month. On her website, she's asked readers to begin the challenge at the start of February, and invites people to blog about what they're experiencing and share in a sort of online sangha (Buddhist community).

Admittedly, I don't actually have her book. But I have read others and have met her in person and listen to her talks, and I've undertaken the challenge of meditating 15 minutes a day. (15 minutes is a long time.) While I don't plan to blog about it all here, I'm sure future posts will be influenced by what comes up.

So far, it's been very ... interesting. Just like in practicing yoga, when meditating, you never know what's going to come up. Sometimes you can get a sense of real peace and joy, sometimes demons wake up and rattle their cages, and sometimes it can get boring. One of the keys I've learned from exploring Buddhism is a lesson I don't think most of us get: not to judge. As stuff comes up, it's inevitable we want to attach judgment to it. "Oh her. She was so cruel to say that. Didn't she realize how thoughtless she was being?" And then I am mad at myself for feeling judgment when I should be feeling nothing but warm, fuzzy lovingkindness. Sometimes I am able to remember: don't judge... not even the judgment part.

I'm trying not to set rigid goals for what I'm going to "get" from this little challenge. I'm trying not to have expectations. But I am pretty sure that looking into the pool of my mind, watching the mud settle, and seeing what lays on the bottom is a good place to start.

Peeking Around the Doorframe

2011-01-31T20:32:00.000-08:00

Hi!! *Peeks around shyly from door frame.*

I've missed y'all! Believe me, I'm here. I just haven't been coming out of my little house, or sitting on the porch and waving, or even shouting "hello!" from the window. But know that I'm watching, looking out and glad to know there's a happy little yoga blogging community out there.

It's been a while since I've posted. Sometimes, the stuff that swallows up your life just doesn't belong on a blog!

But that doesn't mean that stuff doesn't belong in the yoga room. Man, I don't need to tell you, it's nice to have something steady to come to whenever a good sweat is needed.

I've been reminded lately of how much of a barometer yoga is. Weeks where I'm happy and calm, I march straight up to the front row, confident that my practice will simply be what it is, and that I don't need to worry about what's going to happen. Weeks where things are more challenging, I hang out in the back. My mind takes over, I'm wobbly, and I feel like my classes aren't "good." Always, though, I am pretty sure the yoga affords me tiny glimpses of awareness I wouldn't otherwise get, to say nothing of the physical benefits.

Fortunately, my new work schedule (it seems to change semesterly!) allows me to practice at different times, and I love how different the practice is at various times of the day! I get up for the 6:30 a.m. class on Friday mornings, and I'm solid and steady. I do all the postures and I'm happy to be there, like I've discovered some secret cache of time and place that only a handful of others know about. 9:00 a.m.s are a struggle, but I always feel like I won some sort of epic battle. And then, there are the p.m. classes. I suffer, I struggle, and then I struggle because I'm mad at myself for struggling. Fortunately, I leave cleansed, refreshed and just a bit lighter on the inside and out.

So... home is warm and safe, but I sure do miss my network of yogis. Know that I'm here and I'm reading!

Falling's not so Bad

2011-01-07T17:51:00.000-08:00

So, the holidays. I was looking forward to a couple of weeks off, enjoying our family's usual lazy-paced way of celebrating the holidays and then taking a few days of R&R before getting back to work. But life has an odd way of tweaking (or in this case, twisting) your plans around until they sit squarely on their heads.

A couple of family emergencies came breezing through, which prevented me from getting me to yoga as much as I'd like and from doing online anything except the Blog Roll Skim every couple of days. I miss y'all--the yoga, the blogging community--but I'm also grateful for the closeness that grows between family and friends during crises like these.

After the holidays passed and the two situations got somewhat under control, I hopped in my car and drove to Mammoth Mountain for a few days of skiing. Although I'm missing my boyfriend, who had to fly out to deal with his own family emergency, I'm allowing myself to enjoy a breath of clean, cold mountain air, dear friends... and the drama that comes up while you're on the slopes.

Even here, hundreds of miles from home, I am reminded of how you really can't escape who you are. Even up here, "away" from everything, my own neurotic tendencies come out. I follow my friends down big, scary ski hills, and it's a constant struggle to just be present. Just like in a Bikram class, my mind takes over. (It's a little scarier to hear yourself say "you are not gonna make it!" when you're barreling down an endlessly long hill.) In a desperate attempt to combat this tendency, I do the same thing as I do in Bikram: try to be in the moment. Notice what's happening. Feel the difference in texture of the snow as the skis race over it. Or, when I'm really scared, the Buddhist proverb, "Mind like sky," will do the trick.

What's also interesting to notice is that, just like in work, love, and life in general, it's the middle part that gets me scared. I'm excited at the beginning, but when I'm far from the start and can't see the finish line, I panic. It's funny to observe that happen at warp speed when you're coming down the slope.

There have been so many beautiful moments, though, and they don't always come when you expect them. I took the following photo after I'd fallen. I just lay there, exhausted at the middle of what was then a difficult run for me. After the jarring fall, though, I was just there. No thought, just sensory experience. Too bad it took a fall to get out of my head!

I hope you are enjoying your Januarys! Stay HOT!

Falling's not so bad if you stop to take in the view.

Oh, the Memories.

2010-12-13T21:49:00.000-08:00

I love the end of the year. I enjoy the holidays, the time off, and the turning of the old year into the new. I revel in reflecting over the year. Even if the downs stand out front and center, I manage to be able to anticipate lots of ups in the coming year.

Of course, I've been reflecting a lot about yoga class. Last Saturday, I had a pretty tough one. It was hot, it was humbling, and I had to leave the room during the standing series. Initially, I was so humbled it hurt. As I walked back toward the hot room, feeling the heat and dread radiating at me, I realized that I actually had come a long way, baby, since starting up this practice again.

I remember my first day back. I knew it would be tough, but I thought, "I run miles at a time. I'm in pretty darn good shape. I bet I do OK." Uh, no.

But from there, it was progress. One way or another. Midway through the semester, I remind my composition students that learning is not always a pretty, straightforward process. We desperately want it to be like this!

But really, it's more like this.

It goes up, it goes down, and there may be more than one way of measuring progress. Learning--progressing--in life or in yoga is so not straightforward.

I remember when I couldn't stand in standing-head-to-knee pose, even with the leg sort-of locked, for the full minute or 30 seconds. My standing leg would just burn, and I'd have to come out early.

I remember when I couldn't do Camel for both sets. I'd feel like my heart was a hummingbird and that someone was about to eviscerate me.

I remember that in Fixed Firm, because knees and ankles tight from running, I couldn't go all the way back. Kaphlbahti breathing made me feel sick, and I could never, ever balance fully in Toe Stand.

Most of all, I remember that I would always have this odd misconception of what other students in the class were capable of, even though I rarely look around the room. "You suck! Everyone else is doing this pose better than you!" I'd say to myself.

I'm happy to say all those things aren't true anymore. Well, they're usually not true anymore. Other challenges have cropped up as some resolve, and some of my hot room demons still haunt my practice.

Progress may not go in that nice, upward line, but one thing is certain: it always goes forward.

Renovation!

2010-12-04T16:23:00.000-08:00

I've been contemplating renovation lately. It's definitely not time for spring cleaning, but the holidays and the coming of the new year get me into pensive contemplation mode. I walk around the house, thinking, "If only I had the motivation to re-pot those chili plants. They've been hanging on for dear life for 9 months now. Gosh, I wish I had the time and the interior design know-how to replace those gnarly curtains in the bedroom."

You would not believe the curtains in the bedroom. They're red, they're IKEA (like, cheap, old IKEA), and they've been sagging and pretty much non-functional since I installed them two and a half years ago. I've been wanting to replace them since about five minutes after I put 'em up. I have ambitions to get a lot of projects done over the winter break because once the semester is under way, I'm lucky to be able to shower regularly.

My house needs a lot of work, but even more than my house, the inside of my head needs a little dusting and rearranging.

There's a very cool Ani Difranco song, "Back, Back, Back," that addresses exactly the idea of working on yourself now so that you're not stuck later.

She sings, "When you sit right down in the middle of yourself,
you're gonna want to have a comfortable chair
So renovate your soul before you get too old,
'cause you're gonna be housebound there."

OK, cool. Learn how to be contented with life now, because as we age, the many distractions we desperately cling to now are likely to disappear. I think most of us believe in the validity of that message, one way or another. But how do you actually renovate your soul? And what does the final "house" look like?

One of the things I'm constantly working on is my tendency to over-please. I realize that I do so even during yoga class. I think I know why I love taking classes from new teachers: I perceive them as having no expectations of me, and as a result, I "do" better. When I take a class from my studio owner (whom I love love love, by the way), I stress myself out. I wage an unnecessarily silly mental battle with myself. Because I've been practicing with her for a year and a half now, I have this self-important idea that she remembers stuff about me and holds me to a certain standard. "You NEVER sit out this posture, E. She's gonna remember! Get your fingers to your toes--that's what she's always seen you do before!" Ridiculous. Ludicrous. And as a result of that silly inner-battle, I stress myself out and add to the intensity of it all.

So, when I saw that my studio owner was teaching this morning, I made a promise to myself, a promise I apparently need to make myself before every class. "This class is NOT about her. Just listen to the words and focus on your body." Hand to God, the class was about 50% better than it normally was. I was able not to worry about what I perceived her to be thinking.

Maybe today's class had nothing to do with the actual renovation process. But maybe, I at least took out and contemplated the tools.

One day, I will actually take down those disgusting curtains.

Enjoy this cheesy video for Ani song :-)

A cocooned blob

2010-11-24T07:50:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. Among many, many things that I'm grateful for, I'm grateful for that sensation that hot yogis know intimately well: the hot room blob. You know the feeling: your legs are weak, your arms are jello, and you seriously doubt your spine is still inside your body.

OK, I freakin' hate that feeling, and it usually comes sometime around Triangle, and sometimes it makes me sit out sets of the poses.

But, as I learned today, being a blob is not such a bad thing.

Many of you already know about this lovely biological wonder, but my literature and yoga-oriented self somehow missed the day in science class when the teachers talked about how caterpillars change into a butterfly. The process fits so perfectly with what happens in the hot room.

Apparently, caterpillars do not create a cocoon, go to sleep, and simply grow wings. The entire structure of their bodies have to dissolve first before they can turn into a butterfly. As this cheesy but kinda cool website explains, the caterpillar dissolves into a blob, breaking itself down. Kind of depressing to think that you could break open a cocoon at one point during the development and see nothing but ooze, huh?

But then, these special little "imaginal cells" start cropping up, and they become more and more numerous and overtake the blobby cells. As the author of the website notes, "Eventually, [the imaginal cells] become a large community and they switch gears from simply being a group of like-minded cells into the programming cells of the butterfly."

That is the metamorphosis. The caterpillar probably doesn't have this great awareness about its fate and how it's going to change. Yet somehow, the caterpillar knows to eat a lot, create the chrysallis, and allow its body to break down and transform.

The relationship between this biological process and yoga is obvious, right? The heat and the poses breaks us down, allowing ourselves to grow into something better. None of us have really attained our butterfly statuses, but we somehow know that we've got to allow our "selves" to break down. Something is there, and once we allow the process to happen, nature/god/whatever will take its course and the right thing will emerge from the chrysallis.

Maybe the whole cocoon/transformation thing can be a meditation point for tough moments in the hot room, huh?

(You know, I wanted to post a cool nature picture here. But you also know if you've been following my blog for a while that my one weird phobia is caterpillars. Maybe appreciating their process will ease that phobia just a bit more :-)

Liar, liar!

2010-11-21T20:35:00.000-08:00

Lately I've been thinking about what it means to be honest. I mean, really honest. Some of us have a habit of telling white lies. Some of us construct elaborate scenarios about our pasts or future in order to get us what we want. We can lie to ourselves about who we really are--we can say we're stupid, no good, and undeserving of anything good that comes our way, when really the opposite is true. And then, there are other kinds of lies that we tell ourselves.

I am not a chronic liar. Nor do I enjoy telling white lies. But one of the few concrete memories I have of being a little kid involves a lie. When I was about three years old, I sat with my brother, staring at a tiny nick in my bedroom's rainbow wallpaper. I looked at my brother with what was probably a devilish grin and grabbed at the nick, pulling off big chunks. My brother, who was less than two years old and didn't really talk yet, sat and watched.

Of course, all good things must come to an end, and my mother walked in after my brother and I were admiring my handiwork. "Who did this?!" she shouted. Fear filled my gut, and I pointed my finger at my brother and spoke ever-so-convincingly, "He did!"

My poor brother, who was too young to talk and defend himself, knew before the shit hit the fan what my false accusation meant. He started crying immediately, one of the few expressions his little toddler vocabulary allowed for. My mother, who was always the most restrained, loving, and gentle woman, must have reached her wits' end. We were never spanked, but my brother got one that day.

I remember four-year-old me listening to him cry and feeling this strange emotion come up in me. I sat on that story for a good long time. Not until I was a teenager did my brother, mom and I talk about that day. My mother was shocked to learn the "real" story. My brother also remembers the incident and still feels just the tiniest bit pissed off about it. Thankfully, we can laugh about it now. It felt good, even as a teenager, to talk about it.

I don't think I tell such bald-faced lies anymore. But maybe I've just learned to tell more elaborate ones--especially to myself.

I've been practicing Bikram yoga for over a year and a half now, and I always had a regular yoga practice before I started this. I should be no stranger to stretching and strengthening by now! However, when it comes down to it, I admit I rarely give 100% in class. This is especially true in any hamstring stretch poses. For no good reason whatsoever, I am terrified of pulling a muscle in hands-to-feet pose or any of the head-to-knee poses. I get myself "into" the posture and hang out right in the comfort zone. "Save some energy for later. You're gonna injure yourself," I tell myself. "You're already working hard enough just being in the hot room."

It's as bad as the straight-up lie I told my mom as a child.

OK, so, lying to yourself about how hard you're working in yoga class isn't the biggest problem on the planet. But isn't what we do in class a mirror of what we do in life? The little lies we tell ourselves are just the walls we build to our own prisons.

Tonight, I stopped the lying in my yoga classafter being present enough to first recognize that there was no need to hold myself back in standing-head-to-knee pose. I was able to see it was just fear. I pulled my head just a little bit further toward my feet. I allowed myself to feel discomfort in the back of my legs. It may not have been "Pain sensation," but for the first time in a long time, I let myself really feel something. No fear, no lies, just feeling.

And guess what? It felt good.

It's not a Greek Tragedy. Get It Together.

2010-11-12T17:25:00.000-08:00

I should probably wait until I've processed today's class just a bit more before posting about it, but I'm compelled to write about it anyway. What follows is un-edited and probably rant-y :-)

I had the day off from classes today, and I was looking forward to a 9:00 a.m. class followed by a nice lunch, some paper grading, and then a dinner with friends. Foolishly, I was really expecting it to be a strong class. I was rested, I didn't feel overly stressed, and for me, 9:00 is late compared to the 6:30 a.m. classes I usually attend. And then, I saw that a new teacher was gonna teach! It was gonna be great!

Oh. My. GOD. What happened in there was enough to send a seasoned soldier running back to his mama's apron strings. I still can't quite figure out just what happened, but here's what I do know.

The teacher, a Greek guy visiting from Chicago, I think, was just fabulous. I had never heard his name before, but he clearly knew his stuff and was animated and motivating. Some teachers just know how to get the most out of you, and this guy was one of them. But for no explicable reason, today I had nothing to give. Yes, it was unbearably hot and humid, but something was off. That "heart ripping out of my body" feeling started up in Awkward, and it just never went away. And during Standing Head-to-Knee, I started crying.

I went to the bathroom and something just broke open inside me. I sobbed as if I had just recalled a great loss I'd swept under the rug for years. It felt like I was caught in some horrible nightmare. To make matters worse, this was happening with a fabulous visiting teacher. I wanted to soak up every moment, and instead I was having a breakdown in the bathroom.

Perhaps out of a desire not to feel like a total quitter, I dragged myself back into the room. I wish I could say I found some amazing technique to calm myself down and get it together, but that didn't happen. I spent the rest of the standing series lying down and getting up, feeling like I was in a strange new world--in no way did it feel like the yoga studio I'd been practicing in for a year and a half. After the teacher mentioned he was Greek, I couldn't stop pitying myself by comparing myself to Homer. Or Odysseus. Ha. Terrible, I know. Funny the way we can catastrophize what's happening to us.

Fortunately, after the heat was turned down slightly and we got to the floor, things eased up. I was able to do all the floor series and really enjoyed the visiting instructor's amazing class. I really, really wish I could remember what he said, because the guy talked constantly during savasanas, and almost none of it was pointless. He seemed to have a very thorough understanding of how the body worked and what was happening to our emotions and to our spirit as we practiced. He had a very unique take on things--the class felt so fresh.

I do remember one thing he said. He quoted a Native American proverb (tribe unnamed ;-) that goes something like, "when we're at the breaking point, that is when the spirit will enter." He may say that at every class, and I've heard versions of that in yoga classes before. This time, though, it hit home. It may be of little comfort to you in the moment, but if it helps at all to think of it, remember that we're pushing ourselves to the breaking point for a reason. Something is happening! :-)

A Muddy and Bright Night

2010-11-08T21:17:00.000-08:00

I was listening to a talk by Insight Meditation guru Jack Kornfield the other day, and in it, he quoted a famous Serbian proverb (you know, we just don't get enough of that Serbian wisdom these days!). The proverb goes, "Be humble because you are made of mud; be noble because you are made of stars."

This past Friday, I visited teacher training, and took a lovely evening class with a Canadian teacher named Ida. A dear friend of mine and I met bloggers Josie and Catherine, who was visiting from out of town, and just had a blast. There was so much energy in the tent that night (gee, did it have anything to do with the trainees getting the night off? The shouts of joy upon receiving the news were deafening).

It was just what I needed. After the class, my friend and I sat on our mats long after everyone else had left and talked to these bright and lovely yogis. I felt connected and alive. It was just what I'd needed after a pretty rough day. I'd spent the day with a real beast in my brain--so much frustration and, uh, not gentle thoughts toward myself. I was so down before class that I almost "called in sick" to yoga. Talk about being made of mud! Before the class I felt like my thoughts were formed out of clay, so hardened and thick that they'd be completely unmovable.

Obviously, though, I got myself to the class. Seeing Catherine's and Josie's happy smiling faces, entering that "yoga bubble" the trainees talk about, and the rockin' class itself softened up that clay.

I'm sure casual visitors to a TT class know what I'm talking about: you enter the tent and are astounded by experience of being surrounded by 400 people. You think you'll spend the class gawking at the blue shorts in front of you or the 10-foot high podium holding up the teacher, marveling at the many bodies moving in unison. Of course, somewhere around standing-head-to-knee pose it all becomes you and your mat once again. I think that's the most marvellous thing of all. Thanks to my old and new friends.

So... I don't really know what it is that enables us to be made of both stars and mud. Maybe it's the fact that we're made of of atoms that comprise both types of matter. Maybe it's because we let the sludge pile up over the stars that burn brightly inside us. Both are there, but which do we give power to?

We're made of mud, and we're made of stars. Let's feel appropriately humbled and inspired, shall we?

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p.s. A shout-out to one of the many sources of inspiration out there on 'net-land: download free talks amazing talks by Kornfield and the like on Buddhism and meditation http://www.dharmaseed.org/

p.p.s. for those of you kind enough to care about my termite saga, they are still keeping residence with me, but due to the cooling trend they are no longer swarming, praise Buddha, Allah, Mary, et al. I'm exploring my treatment options...

Of Mites and Men

2010-11-04T17:58:00.000-07:00

So, I've been counting my blessings this week. First, my yoga practice got a much-needed kick. I went to another studio this week to take a class with my former teacher, and I had a wonderful class. Halfway through it, though, I noticed someone peeking his head in the back door: it was Bikram himself! No one else seemed to notice, and I spent the rest of class going, "Uhh, was I hallucinating that?" But he was there, and I got to wave to him after class. This time, he wasn't screaming at anyone on his cell phone :-)

After that exhilarating class and talk with my former teacher, I had a great early class yesterday with a marvellous teacher visiting during training. I really connect with her, both as a student and a person, and I'm glad she's gonna teach us a little while longer. And then, God willing and the creek don't rise, I'm going to training tomorrow. My practice just feels... revitalized! And just in the nick of time.

Also, I got through a big work hurdle this week. I can't go into details, but one big stressor has been removed, and for that I'm taking the time to feel thankful.

Well, I'm trying to feel thankful, anyway. I keep getting distracted by these little crawly bugs that have begun emerging with this heat wave.

Yep. I've got a termite problem. One day, I noticed a bunch of slow-moving bugs on my stairway. Thinking they were some kind of weird moth, I vacuumed 'em up. Of course, more showed up, and then it became a full-blown swarm. I've never seen ANYTHING like it. It's like something out of a Stephen King novel. I was truly horrified that first day. I kept vacuuming and calling pest control people, completely freaked out of my mind, scratching my skin and envisioning myself being eaten alive.

They're still dribbling out. I'm still vacuuming up. I'm still processing the bad news, but at least my incessant scratching has stopped ;-) If I want to actually deal with what is a truly widespread, serious problem, I'm gonna have to tent the place. There's just one small problem with that: I live in a 6-unit set of condos, and there's no way I'm gonna be able to convince every one of those people to spend a lot of money to move out for a few days.

So, the question is this. Can we learn to be at peace with the fact that there is something endemic, some systemic pestilence in the foundation and roof of our homes? What if we can't just "get it out"?

Maybe this is where the real work begins. Maybe I'll have to find ways to stop scratching my skin and head out of horror, maybe I'll have to put down the vacuum. Maybe I can learn to accept the bugs. Or at least find a quick fix...

One thing's for sure. Going to the hot room will seem a lot more pleasant after this!

Go Sit by a Window!

2010-10-24T20:39:00.000-07:00

The other day, I sat out a second set of Camel pose and the first set of Rabbit. My heart fluttered like a hummingbird's wings and my mind hovered on panic mode. Feeling eminently sorry for myself, I flopped onto my mat and took my head into my hands. I turned gradually to look out the studio's two small windows. Rain was falling, as it has been often this San Diego fall, dripping quietly off the rafters and onto the water-logged cars below.

As if matching the level of intensity in my life, my yoga practice has been spotty. At times, I'm a fiery ball of energy, plowing through the postures with a strength I hardly recognize. But mostly, I can barely make it through class. Everything in my body and brain feels cluttered, and I feel like I'm about to suffocate.

There's just so much to do. Mid-semester evaluations. Committee work. Grading. Stopping the cats from fighting. Figuring out who to vote for. Oh, and all that regular stuff we've all gotta do, like being with loved ones and trying to care of ourselves. It can begin to feel like a house overstuffed with furniture and endless lists of chores, all so important I don't know where to begin.

I heard a line in a song that same day (the refuge of music, right?) that was like a tiny lightbulb flickering on and off. "Our heads are just houses without enough windows," Arcade Fire sing on their brilliant new album, The Suburbs. The line resonated. And then, it pissed me off.

A house without enough windows sounds pretty bad, right? Could be a prison. Could be like some of the classrooms I've taught in. Sometimes I run around feeling frustrated or sad that there aren't enough windows to open up. Why didn't the architect plan better? Didn't he think to add lots of windows? Can I hire a contractor to cut a few more holes??

I guess that's not really feasible, at least not now. I probably won't be able to transform my "home"--my head, my ego, my brain, my mind, whatever--into a cool, airy, Zen room anytime soon. Maybe, instead, the solution is to learn to just sit by the windows we do have, few as they may be, and watch the rain fall, cool and gentle, on the ground below. Maybe a tiny sip of that cool air is all we need.

Listen to "Half Light" by Arcade Fire! Do it!

Arrows and Heavy Hands

2010-10-18T21:04:00.000-07:00

I don't feel I have time or the energy for a "real" blog post, so I'm going to post a couple of random odds and ends today.

One is that I had a lovely time this weekend meeting some of the bloggers who are at or are visiting TT. We sat around a a table in a funky, off-the-beaten-path Mexican restaurant here in San Diego, eating too much, laughing and talking shop. Y'all are some fabulous ladies and devoted yogis!

That lunch was a respite from a rather hellish part of the semester. Much as I hate to admit it, the stress has been settling on my shoulders like a pair of heavy hands. Each night, I dream somethin' simultaneously awful and laughable. One night, it was the apocalypse and a friend and I, stranded somewhere in China on bicycle, fought to buy donuts from the last open vendor to tide us over as humanity suffered agonizing deaths. Then, the night before meeting the yogis, I dreamed I was trapped at teacher training, stuck in the hot room with no way to get out. I wake up, relieved the dream is over, laughing at its ridiculousness, and strive to take that attitude with me throughout the day.

When I stress, I can get wrapped up in what causes stress. "Why am I reacting as I do? Why am I not all calm and Zen yet? What incidents occurred in my childhood that made me the way I am today?! Was it that time on the playground. . . " etc, etc, etc. I've been trying to pull myself out of that mucky stuff with a well-known Buddhist analogy that I'll share with you. Imagine a woman who's been shot with an arrow. Does she obsess over who shot her, what she did to deserve it, or what the shooter's reasons were for doing so? Of course not. She just focuses on getting the arrow out. Ignore the dream and turn toward the reality.

So, y'all do the same. Forget about how the arrow got there or who might have it out for you. Focus on the glorious and horrifying task of wrenching it out of yourself. That is enough!

*Need some respite yourself? Check out these awesome yoga blogs!
http://www.japanesehamsandwich.blogspot.com/
http://www.keepitlocking.blogspot.com/
http://www.japanesehamsandwiches.blogspot.com/
http://www.nameste822.blogspot.com/

See What's Available

2010-10-13T21:55:00.000-07:00

Ahh. After a grueling class last weekend, this morning I had just the class I needed to "revitalize, re-energize, and re-organize" myself.

I woke up with the alarm at 5:40 a.m. and dragged my sleepy self to the early class. A visiting instructor taught the class, and it was refreshing to get so much and feel so alive that early in the morning. She did not take it easy on us just because it was early. She expected us to work hard, be attentive to our postures, and really be present.

I think it was in standing-head-to-knee, as we held our foot and prepared to kick out, when she told us to "see what's available." What a gentle way to get you to be brave! It's a simple way of putting it, but it was everything I needed to hear. I felt gently encouraged to push myself a little bit, knowing that if I didn't try I wouldn't see what kind of experience was waiting for me.

I took that "see what's available" idea to work with me. I had an incredibly full slate of activities--teaching and grading, being evaluated in my classes (yikes!), and so on. Part of me wonders how I'm still standing, but thinking I was just reaching for what was available in that moment was all I needed to do to accomplish what needed accomplishing.

For a few hours today, I had the sense that it was possible to live this way, all the time. I hope y'all get to feel that, too!

I stretch. I force. I stretch. I force.

2010-10-11T19:58:00.000-07:00

Do you stretch? Or do you force yourself into a posture? Normally, I think I take things pretty gently and that I never fall into the latter category, but after yesterday's class, I'm not too sure. But more on that later.

Last weekend, I went to a way cool talk on meditation given by a dharma teacher, Sharon Salzberg. It was chock full of insights that I let wash over me. Many ideas from Sharon's talk stood out, but one seems particularly relevant to yoga. Sharon discussed the difference between stretching and forcing. The goal of meditative practice is not to force the mind into unnatural realms. The result of doing that is simply more anger or fear! Instead, we work to gradually stretch ourselves out, to move out of our conditioned brains and connect with the vast consciousness that is already within us. The result of doing so is an ability to react more appropriately to whatever stimuli we encounter--we respond to a colleague's suggestion with equanimity and acceptance, for example, rather than out of fear or anger that we've been judged.

The relationship of stretching vs. forcing to yoga is obvious enough to you yogis, right? The point is not to force ourselves into a posture; we move at the edge of discomfort, trying to continually hold ourselves there, until gradually that edge moves further and further away. But what about forcing yourself to get to class? To maintain a practice? To think that this yoga is right for you when some days you're just not sure? These are the questions I've been grappling with lately.

I admit to feeling a bit like I'm forcing my yoga practice these past couple of weeks. Heck, I feel like I've been forcing a lot in my life lately! It's a time in the semester where just maintaining the status quo is hard enough--forget trying to make progress in yoga or other aspects of life. When I'm going, in, and returning from class, I have a lot more doubt than I've had since returning to Bikram yoga a year and a half ago. I wonder, "is this too hard on my body? Am I helping or hurting?" "In a time of stress, as this is, should I take it easy on myself, or make myself go to yoga in order to maintain my health and consistency in my life?" Heck, my blog is called Eat the Yolk--it's all about going for it--but maybe you gotta go through a phase where egg whites will do!

I had a class yesterday that scared the living daylights out of me. It was a super-hot one, which I can typically handle under normal circumstances. But by the fourth posture, standing-head-to-knee, a migraine headache came on seemingly out of nowhere. I felt like one of those cartoon characters that randomly got whacked over the head with a giant hammer.

It scared me. The excessive heat, the lack of circulating air, a new instructor, and the headache combined and put me in freak-out mode. I struggled to get a hold on my thoughts; it seemed they were roaches scattering across the walls as the light flicked on--they were quick, frightening, and too numerous to address any one of them in particular. Among other things, I thought of Salzberg's idea of stretching vs. forcing. In that class, I really felt I was forcing it.

I took a quick break, leaving the room to check my tongue in the mirror to make sure I wasn't having a stroke ;-) Really, I did do that! The rest of class, of course, I was OK. No strokes! The headache persisted for a while but eventually dissolved, and by the end of class I had a handle on my thoughts by recognizing them as simply... thoughts. Like the cockroaches, they're there. They can be ugly and scary, but when the light is on, they scamper away pretty quickly.

I reckon this post could seem a little wishy-washy. There's the nice idea about not forcing, just stretching, but I don't always feel I can recognize where the line lies. I know, however, that not every question can be resolved and tied up in a neat little package. Maybe the goal is to become more and more comfortable with that uncertainty.

Until I know for sure, you will probably find me at a Bikram yoga class. But I'll be stretching, not forcing! :-)

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Randomly awesome quote:
"At least he keeps the borders of his mind realm well patrolled."--Sam Lipsyte, "The Dungeon Master"

On Crocodiles, Carp, and Cowardice

2010-10-04T16:46:00.000-07:00

I'm going to blog about a topic that is usually the death of conversation and writing everywhere: a dream. No, it's not a cool aspiration for the future or hope for humanity. It's about what little movie my brain ran when I was asleep last night.

Stay with me! I promise there are profound realizations ahead. OK, well, probably, there won't be much of that. But there will be crocodiles!

They say that dreams are a way of processing. We process a monotonous day's events (I dream of grading papers. Seriously). Sometimes, they're epic. We use them to relieve stress and make sense of the world. Sometimes, we use 'em to force ourselves to face the yucky stuff buried in the backs of our minds.

Last night, after a pretty rough day, I had one of those dreams I will take to the grave. Especially now that I blogged about it :-)

I dreamed I was in the middle of a gorgeous lake. There were hilly, lush mountains around, and I was paddling in the middle of it with a friend. Instead of a boat, we had a shack. The shack, crumbling, mossy, and falling apart, began to sink as we paddled to shore. My friend and I looked around and saw hideous carp and crocodiles swimming about.

Really cool shack

But instead of being scared of being eaten alive or drowning, we just laughed. I tell you, I haven't had such a lovely dream in months. I found beauty in the scales of the crocodiles and carp. The trees dotting the shorelines and the closeness I felt with my friend overshadowed the fear of drowning. And that shack was just freakin' cool.

Isn't this just like life? Isn't this just like yoga? We're paddling as hard as we can to a shore that's impossibly far away. And we're surrounded by horrible things in a vessel we didn't predict we'd use. That's what our experiences are always like, right? We didn't choose our bodies, our towns, or our families. Heck, even the things we "choose"--jobs, friends, and soulmates--can seem oddly imposed upon us by forces beyond our control.

But life isn't lived in the absence of fear. We don't have to react cowardly. The opportunity to obsess on the scary stuff--the crocodiles, the standing backward bends, whatever pose puts the fear of God in you--will always be there. Maybe the point is to just paddle on, knowing full well we could drown on our way to the shore. So long as we can enjoy that moment with a friend and appreciate the funky moss growing on our little shack, what's the difference?

There are always going to be rough, scary days. And there's always the option of staring that scary stuff right down and loving it to its scaly bones.

The Tent

2010-09-30T18:36:00.000-07:00

So here it is... my visit to the Big Tent--Bikram's Teacher Training San Diego. I loved meeting Nameste blogger Josie. I loved being in the tent with 400 people, including one of my dearest friends in the whole wide world. I loved watching Bikram walk up onto the stage, and I loved hearing him speak the lines from the dialogue I'd heard delivered so many times by others.

I got there super early to ensure I wouldn't get slowed down by traffic or an unexpectedly weird parking situation. As I walked over to the tent, I was beyond excited to see Bikram standing by himself in the parking lot. I immediately felt giddy and childlike. Although I'd told myself to have no expectations, I couldn't help but let the excitement flood over me. I began to walk over, thinking, "there he is! He looks exactly like I imagined! What should I say to the guy who came up with the series that took away my migraines, helped me cope with stress, and keep me strong and flexible? OMGOMGOMG." And so on.

Well, as I walked over, I noticed he was on the phone, yelling at some poor sap on the other end. I figured he wasn't in the greatest mood ;-) So I decided I'd let him have his time to himself and called up Ms. Nameste herself instead.

The class itself was a trip. We are in the middle of an unusually humid and warm late September here in San Diego, and the tent encompassed that. I've never taken a class that had visible humidity. Yes, as Josie so beautifully put it, it was an Amazonian yoga jungle in there. Initially, it wasn't too hot, and it took me a while to work up a sweat. But once I did, ay dios mio. It was intense. And as you trainees and teachers know, Bikram stretches out the classes, so they are about two hours long. I don't think I've ever consumed so much water during class.

Nor have I fantasized so much about beer. I haven't had any alcohol in a year and a half, but due to the smell of beer wafting through the tent (thanks, Marti :-) I spent the second half dreaming of a Corona fria con limon.

I also dreamed about my humble studio's amazing carpet. Jeez-oh-man, the carpet in the tent is terrible. In standing separate leg head-to-knee pose, I kept feeling like I was going to fall into Chinese splits--I wanted to get my head to the floor just to prevent that from happening! And forget Triangle. No turning the towel meant no Triangle for me. Except maybe a Triangle shuffle ;-)

The Dancing J commented on one of her blog posts a while back that Bikram says all sorts of cool things you don't remember after. That definitely happened, and I think it's part of the yoga experience. You're in the moment, you appreciate what's happening, and then you let it go. What needs to stick will stick. But I do remember a couple of highlights:

--Everyone lowering themselves into Awkward. Seeing so many bodies moving in unison (and staying like that--no one fell out of the third part!) was moving beyond words.

--Laughing hard to myself when Bikram said that the only chickens in this world should be the ones going right into our stomachs. In fact, he said a lot about fear that stuck out to me at the time.

--Hearing Bikram sing a Bengali (I think) song while we were in between postures. There was something comforting about that.

--Ironically, laughing hysterically when he played some song from his album. Sorry--it was just so bad! He's better live!

--Finally, my hat goes off to the trainees for their incredible strength and dedication. I admire you all for doing what I know I couldn't do. I specifically admire a couple of folks in the tent: Ms. White, who, I thought, got unfairly picked on throughout much of class. It also goes off to a Muslim woman in in full hijab who rocked the class a few rows in front of me. I couldn't imagine wearing anything heavier than my Shakti shorts! Good for her.

What stuck with me most about the entire experience is how this yoga is so much bigger than the individual. Yes, Bikram put the series together. But he didn't invent the poses, and, like anyone, I'm sure he had a lot of help disseminating the series along the way, to say nothing of all the work it must take to set up and run teacher training. And that communal embracement of the good idea is what makes this series so magical. That's what will make the series stick around until our culture is evolved enough not to need it. But by that point, we'll all be levitating, so I won't hold my breath until it happens ;-)

I definitely want to go back. I'd love to take a class with Rajashree... or Emmy... or who knows! And meet more of you lovely bloggers. Ms. Nameste, I can't wait for another Fuddruckers' burger! There's just so much to experience!

Yay, First-Timers! Yay, Teacher Training!

2010-09-26T18:25:00.000-07:00

I dragged my first friend to a Bikram yoga class with me. (Well... OK. another dear friend took up yoga after hearing me gas on about it, but she did so completely of her own accord. Totally not my fault. Now she's way into it, but I can't take any credit (or blame!) :-)

Back to the main point. My dear boyfriend got up with me at 5:40 a.m. and came to the 6:30 class. Bless him--he's a gentle, mellow guy. He's in great shape and does a variety of yoga and other exercise, but he's not into intense workouts, so it means a lot to me that he came. He did great. But more on that later!

I'm curious: what is it like for you when you bring a friend to class? The experience reminded me that yoga always provides opportunities to see our quirky selves up close and personal! The morning of the class, I was wondering if he should even join me. I spend much of my time trying to make things easier in my loved ones' lives, not harder! During the class, my little controlling self came out from time-to-time. I was so worried about how my guy was doing: was he too hot? What if he injured himself? Oh no, the teacher didn't warn him to watch on the first set of Standing head-to-knee! He's gonna hate me afterward!

I tried to set that aside and focus on the practice. The class is designed with beginners in mind, I tried to remember. He would be OK! Funny how the mind will take any opportunity possible to spin out of control.

Of course, he was fine, and he did so well. And the teacher was great, too--very supportive and not dogmatic. He initiated a little round of applause for my guy, and told him that he had to come back when I said so ;-) It was a perfect first class, really.

I don't think my guy will ever be a Bikram convert, but it was nice to have that experience with him. Now, he understands this part of my life more deeply. I'm thankful to have practiced with him, and I'm thankful for the encouraging and kind instructor, as well as the continued opportunity to see and work on my little controll-y self :-) Of course, it was great to hear him express admiration for me for practicing the yoga regularly.

On a completely different note, I'm hoping to visit Teacher Training and take a class with the Boss himself this week! Most importantly, I can't wait to finally meet some of you lovely bloggers!

It's just One Long Class

2010-09-19T18:53:00.000-07:00

Warning. In this post, I will be modeling unsophisticated writing. I will tell you what I'm going to talk about because I'm too tired to introduce it properly. In this post, I will talk about teaching, mask-wearing, and Cheez-it eating. (Ok, I can't figure out a way to talk about the Cheez-its, but I told The Dancing J I would, so I put it in my thesis :-)

Bikram Yoga Teacher Training started this weekend. I'm happy to think of lots of new teachers coming together to better their practice and learn strategies for teaching yoga. It also hits home even more because it's here in San Diego, and because, well, some of my favorite yogis that I've "met" online are attending (including, of course, the lovely Lush over at Nameste, with whom I share a birthday).

So, I'm not a yoga teacher. I actually have no aspirations of being a yoga teacher, although if I were a little younger and more willing to throw myself out there, I'd be tempted! But I do teach, and I've been thinking lately: If I could go back to my 23-year-old self and tell her something before she walked into her very first classroom, what would it be?

I think it would be not to put on a mask.

"A man wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it," George Orwell writes in my most-favoritest essay, "Shooting an Elephant."

We put on masks all the time--we smile at the cashier even when we're feeling down, we try to tell a joke when really we want to admit we're nervous, or we feign understanding when really what we feel is disbelief. And when teaching, jeez, it's tempting to put on the thickest mask we can dig out of the closet. You know, the Mardi Gras one, adorned with sequins and brightly-colored feathers.

And then, like Orwell says, we can begin to feel our faces growing into that mask. I know that I've started off semesters thinking I needed to appear funny, warm, smart, engaging, and super-knowledgable at all times. Sometimes, I fool myself into thinking I'm pulling it off, and that's almost the worst. It can begin to snowball and get out of control--we can worry about how we're coming off rather than truly being present with the students and the material.

But sometimes I remember to step back and pull off that mask, and that, I think, is where the show is really happening. This semester, for example, I'm teaching a new class. I started out with what I thought was a bang--I thought I was on top, that the material was great, and that the students would love it and they'd learn a lot and it would be this gooey educational experience for all of us. A few weeks in, though, I could tell they just weren't feeling it. Something was off, and my trying frantically to convince them it was awesome wasn't working.

So, halfway through class one day, I just pulled the mask off. I stopped class and asked them for some feedback. I encouraged them to be honest. They were, and then I had them write down some feedback anonymously. You know what? It was so good I did that. Yes, they told me some stuff I dreaded hearing, but mostly, the feedback was positive, and I was able to take their suggestions and bring the class back on track. Hand to God, we're the better for it now. I'm more in tune with that class than with any others.

Now for how yoga ties in! It helps us tear down this mask. By the end of any given Bikram class, when my body radiates heat and my hair is plastered across my face, I've stripped myself of whatever layers I've carried with me into the yoga room. I thank the yoga teachers for always being there, for always teaching from their hearts these classes that allow us to melt away the veneer, allowing us to get in contact with our hearts.

I honor the Bikram Trainees who start in San Diego this weekend. Continue to leave the masks on the shelves and let your unique, inner light radiate. Your students will see it.

----------------

"Some place between Hollywood and its pretty happiness, and an anguish so infinite it's anybody's guess, is a place where people are all teachers, and it's just one long class"--Ani Difranco

Comfort and Complacency

2010-09-13T20:22:00.000-07:00

Comfort and Complacency. They're our enemies. Destroy them.

_________
I'd taken classes with this dude before. Typically, I'd describe him as a laid-back surfer who teaches mellow classes in a 72 degree room. You know, the classes where you hold "easy" stretching poses for so long that you forget your name, where you were born, and what the heck you're doing in asanas with cute-sounding names like Baby Pose. Child's pose. Pyramid pose.

I went into the class, sleep-deprived and sunburnt from a fabulous long day on a boat, thinking, "This'll be a cakewalk. 90 minutes of light stretching and a long savasana and the bf and I will be off eating delicious vegetarian Mexican food."

As often happens in this life on the mat and off, I got so humbled. No wait--I didn't just get humbled, I got served.

This guy just quietly, politely worked us to death. I kept looking over at my boyfriend mouthing to him, "What the heck? Are you ok??" Because it was that tough. No, I wasn't pouring sweat. I wasn't trying to kill myself. But I came face-to-face with some monster in there.

The other students in class didn't seem to be missing a beat, but I was suffering. Man, they hold those poses a long time. And some of those poses take you deeply into muscle groups I didn't even know I was related to. It was somewhere in Twisted Triangle that I had a revelation.

"Jeez, man. This shit hurts," I thought, as I slid into a pose I vaguely remember from my Ashtanga days. (OK, no, that's not the revelation.) Twisted Triangle is a tough pose. It's like the Bikram triangle--the master pose--with serious pain. To do it properly you need hamstrings like butter and a ribcage that can spiral upward like tree branches. If you don't get into the posture fully, you struggle gracelessly trying to balance. I wrenched myself into the position and took the standard Ashtanga 5 breaths, thinking it would all be over shortly. But it wasn't. We kept holding it. And holding it! Let me tell you, I sent serious daggers of "OMG I HATE THIS. LET US GO." to the teacher with my eyes.

I realized that I've been hanging out on the edge of comfort and complacency. My cozy early morning classes are ones that I can power through. I can look good, not skip postures, and feel energetic throughout the classes. But it's like I'm in the middle of this little bubble of flexibility. I'm just hanging out, not pushing the edges at all.

The Bikram class I took this afternoon (San Diego studio, with Jim Kallett and a great, great friend) took this a little further. Jim has this very steady quality about him. Initially, you think you are doing fine, that it won't really be such a bad class after all, no matter what you remember or have heard about him. Halfway through it, however, you're on the floor, wanting mommy and a cold hand towel.

(An aside: please don't use the phrase "pouring sweat" loosely. When it really happens--when the sweat comes off your body in streams instead of drops and you feel you are generating enough heat to power a small town--it's an entirely different, almost frightening game.)

Jim said something that drove this idea home, though. In Half-Moon pose, he stated the "beyond your flexibility" idea in a different way. "Your flexibility is what it is," he said. "Find your strength. Use your strength in this pose instead of the flexibility."

I see a connection here with the complacency idea. Many of us are relatively flexible physically, emotionally, or spiritually. But that can almost make things worse. It's so easy to stay there. Someone who may be at point A can struggle and get more out of the experience than someone at point Q.

Why is it so hard to remember that we need to stay at the edge of discomfort, all the time, no matter what we do?

Speaking of discomfort, there's a pile of papers that aren't gonna grade themselves :-)

A hive of yogis

2010-09-07T20:31:00.000-07:00

I'm a bee! I'm a bee!

I was thinking of that yesterday when the teacher told us (as usual) that our collective breaths should sound "like a million bees buzzing." It was a packed, steamy Labor Day class, and there was so much energy in the room that despite the heat I was humming with it. Well... for the first part of class, anyway. I spent the rest of it feeling sorry for myself and then trying to talk myself out of it: "Oh, I'm just a bee. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Don't get distracted, Self. You're a drone without a thought. But it's hot in here. I don't have mat space today. The guy behind me is loud. Blah!"

Lately, I've been distracted by how being distracted seems to be my default state of being. Papers are pouring in, and grading requires so much concentration and time management that I'm conscious of how monkey-minded I typically am. I think if you could see into my head, I'd be less like a bee in a tightly-constructed honeycomb and more like a lazy bumblebee flying drunkenly about.

This realization has been reinforced by a recent American Scholar essay by Christian Wiman I'm currently obsessed about, "Hive of Nerves." The title itself makes me think of yoga (what doesn't?). The essay is so rich--if you're at all interested in philosophy, meditation, religion, literature, or just about why stress is part of the human experience, check it out. It's dense, but each paragraph contains is a treasure box. Or a rich, sweet honeycomb, if we're gonna continue with the bee theme ;-)

In one passage, Wiman explores the nature of anxiety. Or, if you prefer, call it stress. Distraction. A deep questioning about the nature of life. Whatever we want to call it, we've all experienced it.

He beautifully describes our perpetual state of restlessness: "It is as if each of us were always hearing some strange, complicated music in the background of our lives, music which, so long as it remains in the background, is not simply distracting but manifestly unpleasant, because it demands the attention we are giving to other things. It is not hard to hear this music, but it is very difficult indeed to learn to hear it as music."

Let's unpack that a little. Don't we all know what it's like to hear some weird music in the back of our heads? Maybe it's literally a song stuck in our heads. Maybe it's our anger at the driver that braked too quickly in front of us. Maybe, if you're like me, it's the slow and steady hum of our inner critic tapping us on the shoulder to point out, yet again, what we've done wrong.

Whatever it is, it distracts us from the moment.

I think that concept is familiar enough to us! We wouldn't be practicing yoga regularly if we didn't have a commitment to bettering our bodies, minds, and hearts, and when we do that, all of the music that typically distracts us is heard clearly.

What struck me about the Wiman quote, however, was the line about learning to recognize that sound as music. Rather than trying to put earplugs in and shut out the sound, the point is rather to really listen to it, to pay attention to what's playing in the background. Otherwise, we'll only be half-hearing life itself--trying to ignore the background noise, rarely being fully engaged in what's happening. And who knows? Maybe when we actually pay attention to what's going on back there, it won't be half as distracting (or scary!) as it is now.

Is this all too theoretical and pretentious? Well, thanks for reading anyway :-) All I know is that practicing yoga on a regular basis can help us get to the root of what's making that pesky sound. And check out the article if that quote resonated at all--it's just loaded.

Buzz on, you lovely hive of yogis, you!

The hive

Get off the pedastal!

2010-08-31T20:18:00.000-07:00

Oh, man, did I get humbled this weekend. It's serious confession time.

I've been thinking recently about how easy it is to judge, and how easy it is to get caught up in a sense of righteousness about our judgment.

Last weekend, I accompanied a friend to a (non-Bikram) yoga class at his gym. Before the class began, my friend and I walked around the gym, checking out the various torture devices available. I think we were near the pull-up/dip machine when our eyes both settled on this woman. She was probably about 60 years old, and she was gorgeous. Well, she was gorgeous in that annoying, Barbie-doll kind of way. Body of the 22-year-old that I never had and all that. My friend couldn't help noting her level of superficial hotness.

I couldn't help from retorting, "Yeah, nice boob job. Plastic from head-to-toe!"

I also couldn't stop myself from thinking of her on and off throughout the yoga class (of course, she was practicing right behind me). A sense of righteous indignation just took over. Who was she, that she had to invest what must be hours into looking good and cling to a certain body image even at age 60? What happened to aging gracefully? And why was my friend, who is typically not one to comment on a random woman's appearance, suddenly swayed by this Barbie?

After the class, I took my time in the sauna, jacuzzi, and showering (hey, it was a nice gym!). The entire time--it must have been at least 40 minutes--the woman sat in front of the mirror, naked, blow-drying her hair. She was so front-and-center that I couldn't help noticing huge scars slashed across her breasts. I'd been right about the boob job. Initially, that didn't help my state of self-righteous, feminist-motivated indignation. The judgment continued to boil over. Why sacrifice so much time, energy, and pain to fight the natural aging process and conform to what is, for most, an unattainable standard of beauty?

I did my own ten-minute hair-and-makeup process silently next to the woman, steaming in my own negative thoughts. But that's when I got knocked off my pedastal. As she wrapped her towel around her and began to walk out, she said, "Goodbye! Have a nice day." And there was something so... genuine about what she said. It wasn't forced. It wasn't obligatory. She just said it.

I felt so humbled. In judging this woman for the past two+ hours, I hadn't given a thought to what she might be like as a person, and she was probably very nice. Who cares if she spends her time and money dieting and putting on makeup and getting her boobs done? It has nothing to do with me. I could've spent that time thinking about practice, sharing the moment with my friend, and enjoying my morning at the swanky gym. I think that kind of self-righteous judgment is just another way of making ourselves the center of a very angry universe.

Blergh... less judgment, more compassion. It's the endless struggle, right?

Take it!

2010-08-25T20:39:00.000-07:00

Who knew that getting up at 5:35 a.m. could be a good thing?

I've already blogged incessantly about the fact that I'm back to work and away from my cushy mid-week 9:00 yoga classes. Blergh. So, I moaned internally about that fact for a while, and I moaned even more about attending a super-hot p.m. class after a long day of work. I was starting to feel this sense of dread. I knew I wouldn't be able to get myself to evening classes three days a week--not in this Socal heat wave, anyway. I was going nuts! Would I make myself crazy getting myself to yoga, or would I let the practice slip away in the business of life?

Once I resigned myself to it, I found out that the third option--the 6:30 a.m. class--isn't so bad after all. In fact, it's pretty cool. It's small. It's intimate. By the time I wake up, class is over! ;-) In all seriousness, there's been something very special about it. I'm so busy immediately afterward that I'm not all obsessive on how the class went. Also, on the days I've gone to yoga early, I've felt so much better at work and can actually get stuff done. More willing to just... accept the day and what it brings, with less stress. I'm reminded of that Woody Guthrie line: "Take it easy, but take it."

I think we have to take it. I know that if I resist (OMG! Getting up before 6:00! The horror!), I give up stuff that matters: yoga, meditation, values, sanity.

Alright, y'all. I've been up since 5:30. Time to eat a cookie and go to bed. Isn't that part of "taking it"??

Liz Lemon, my TV alter-ego, eating a pop tart

Fish burrito, hanging on, end of summer, cartoons, whatever. I'm too scattered to come up with a title.

2010-08-17T20:26:00.000-07:00

Remember those cartoons you saw when you were a kid, when the character would cling desperately to a branch as the creature below tried to pull him down? I felt like that cartoon character today.

Those of you who read my last blog post kindly listened to me lament about the end of my lazy summer and return to the classroom. (To those of you with normal nine-to-five jobs, I humble myself before you. I deeply appreciate that no one commented that I was a self-absorbed ninny ;-) It's hard to describe the feeling of being on an extended vacation and comparing it to my "normal," workaday self. During summer, I'm much more passive. I'm an observer. I can let my days unfold slowly. During the semester, I have to operate with an almost manic energy. Once I'm in the flow of it, of course I love it all--I'm productive, I have fun, and I feel a real sense of purpose. But that transition? Man.

Talk about transition! Today was the first day back: back to the classroom, back to the evening yoga class. That clingy sensation was so strong, it took some some real doing to let go of the summer's undoing. Walking onto campus this morning, I was in a daze. Even a visit from a sweet former student did nothing to jar me from summer mode. As I walked into the first class and saw the students' open, nervous, expectant faces, I though, "Oh dear. I'm supposed to be the teacher. I'm not ready. Get me the f**^ outta here."

The first 20 minutes or so, I was not on top of my game. I was nervous. Probably, it showed a little. I made a couple of attempts at jokes that fell flat. It wasn't until I allowed myself a 10-second mental break as I walked from the rickety podium to the side of the room to fix the lights that I was able to remember that all I had to do was be present. I didn't need to be a "teacher," I just had to cover the syllabus. Then, I'd do a get-to-know-ya activity. Then, I'd briefly introduce the first homework assignment.

The students warmed up to the class as I calmed down. It was a great reminder to not act, to not try so hard to entertain, or to please, or whatever it is I do when I'm around people I don't know. And during the second class, I was much more relaxed. Even though I was "on top of it," I was on top because I was just... me, doing what I was supposed to be doing.

The 5:00 p.m. yoga class went the same way. At the beginning, I was so clinging to that branch. "Evening classes are too hot! I miss my 9:00 a.m. class. I'm distracted. I'm too tired. I like the 9:00 people better. This teacher sucks." Waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh, right?

But I bet I'm not the only one... That creature pulling us down? I think it's ourselves. It's our own mind, trying to cling desperately to avoid something we're already living with. Yoga can serve a such a microcosm for what's going on in our lives.

OK, I'm officially out of juice. There is one decadent bonus to attending the evening class: a post-yoga burrito from my favorite Mexican place! Time to go eat.

Please enjoy this completely random photo that came up when I googled "hanging on." The only connection I can make is that I am about to eat a fish burrito for dinner.

Oh, heck yeah!

It's over. It begins.

2010-08-12T12:58:00.000-07:00

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.

My summer, with all of its sprawling, easy ups and downs it included this year draws to a close. Next week, I head back to the classroom. No more staying up as late as I want, no more lying by the pool, no more catching up with friends, and worst of all, no more intimate, midweek 9:00 a.m. yoga classes.

(An aside: isn't it funny how easily the time fills up when we're on vacation? That to-do list I avoided all semester pretty much got avoided all summer.)

Mainly, I'm happy to be going back to work. I like routine. Alright, I admit it: I love routine, so long as everything's perfectly balanced, like we are in Standing Bow-Pulling Pose. I love getting up with the alarm, taking my shower, doing the hair and makeup, enjoying coffee and a shake before heading to work. I like opening to the door in my office--usually, I'm the first in the building to arrive--turning on the computer, and settling down to finalize plans before classes start.

OK, OCD girl. Maybe it's good to take a break from routine now and then. This summer has been a time for some serious self-study. I can't help but think it's reflected in the attitude I've had with my yoga practice lately. I walk into the studio, practice hard, and then I just let it go. Even better, I can usually be quite present in each posture and then them one go when they're over. I don't cling to the "hard" postures and how I performed them the way I did in May. There's almost the same level of anticipation getting into Standing Bow or Triangle as there is getting into Fixed Firm or Final Spinal. (Dunno about how it is for you, but for me, that's huge. I see now how much anxiety I carry, even in the class itself.)

Let me emphasize: I am not bragging. I love "where I am" right now. But I bet the lessened in-class anxiety has more to do with giving up that semester-length routine I typically cling to than it does some deep, inner work. Yes, I've made some progress. I think. I hope this new peace with my yoga practice sticks around, but I'm prepared to accept things as they are if that peace slips away with the stress of the semester.

The summer's over, but life is always beginning again, just like we "start from scratch" in yoga each time. It'll be good to get back to teaching, even if it means I'll have to practice at 6:30 a.m. a couple of times a week.

And yay, routine! OMG, I can't wait for the alarm to go off on Monday! :-)

You're so clingy!

2010-08-03T14:47:00.000-07:00

Yes! I'm back. Yesterday, I did my first yoga class in over a week. Last week, I was sailing around Alaska, indulging my every whim, and forgetting my every responsibility. Taking a yoga class the day after I arrived home was a nice way to get back to reality.

Yesterday's was a pretty hot, crowded class (my studio tends to be hotter than the ones I've visited, and this was hot even for them), and I had my regular, very tough teacher. Despite the heat, what was hard about the class had nothing to do with the environment or my body. I actually felt fine, physically, other than being a little tight in the hamstrings and hips and noticing an extra pound or two clinging to my stomach.

But despite my body being OK, I was just... complain-ey.

Every instruction, every correction, every slight twinge of discomfort made me want to run out of the room. Or at least whine. "Uhhh, it's hot," the spoiled brat in my brain would say. "Uhh, I can feel my legs in Awkward. Maybe I should sit it out!" Normally, such strong thoughts of leaving rarely cross my mind--I'm used to practicing in a fair amount of discomfort. But a week on vacation had put my mind in spoiled brat mode. I'd spent over seven days doing exactly what I wanted when I wanted, being entertained by marvellous sites and engaging in stimulating conversations with my travel partner and new friends. My expectations for what a day was supposed to be like were altered--a "normal" day where you get to enjoy a balance between fun and not-so-fun activities like work and chores was transformed into this week-long indulgent bonanza, where I was allowed to expect anything I wanted to come my way (except, apparently, good vegetarian food. But that's a whole other topic!).

Then, back to reality, back to yoga. My mind was clinging to cruise mode. Admittedly, class was miserable, and I sat down a couple of times during standing series. But noticing my clinginess and then working to let it go really helped, and I finished the class strongly.

I'm thinkin' this is a more dramatic example of what we do all the time. We cling to what someone said to us at work, and we envision the epic comeback while in Standing Bow. We don't get enough sleep, so we go through a class telling ourselves to take it easy because we aren't rested enough. It's all clinging. That takes us away from the moment. Let's dump that stuff like we would a clingy girlfriend or boyfriend!

____
On another note, I'm sure many of you have seen this pretty cool interview with Rachel Kaplan, a Bikram Yoga Manhattan instructor. What stands out to me about her interview is what she says about the yoga's effect on the mind (about 7:00 minutes into it):

"We're all raised a certain way; we're all wired a certain way. Bikram kind of re-wires you. . . it was this amazing transformation. I'm getting to know who Rachel is, not who I always thought I was in the world."

I guess we're all on a similar path of self-discovery, and part of traveling that path is learning not to cling to the world's expectations of you. I can't help but think that yoga--among other things--helps achieve that. To re-wiring!

AHHHH! I miss yoga! asdflkjas;lkjfasdfklj

2010-08-01T22:09:00.000-07:00

OK, so, normally I try to write posts that are nice and thoughtful and edited well and have some sort of message that is either universal or uplifting in some way. This is more of a quick rant, a pre-yoga-return venting session.

I've been away from email, Twitter, Blogger.com, FB, and reality in general as I just spent a week on a cruise to Alaska. On the one hand, it was fabulous. I spent the week seeing glaciers, whales, and exploring new towns and hiking spots. I also spent it lazing about the cruise ship with a marvellous traveling partner, taking long naps in the afternoon, indulging in tasty treats and 9:00 twilit jaccuzi baths. That's all well and great, but man, I missed the yoga. I missed the normalcy, the routine, the lack of stimulation. I missed suiting up and marching into the hot room, icy water bottle in tow, and knowing that my body would be bent and pulled into many sweaty directions. I missed getting up my heart rate and nourishing the organs and ligaments that just don't get the attention they would on the cruise ship's poorly-functioning treadmill.

There were a couple of quiet moments, however, in our massive floating Vegas-style city on the sea. After a particularly long day of hiking and deliberating over what the buffet of endlessly stomach-turning yet oddly appealing food choices, I woke up the next morning, went for a run at a rickety gym treadmill that rocked with the swelling seas, and then I took 20 minutes or so and ran through part of the Bikram series. Even that much was a relief was a relief to my over-stuffed body and over-stimulated soul. Eagle, Awkward, spine-strengthening, triangle--they all felt so good, like coming home to friends. The portability of Bikram yoga is appealing--you don't need mats, and the poses don't even look "weird" to other people desperately trying to burn off the buffet in the ship's tiny gym.

A highlight of the cruise was balancing in part 2 of Awkward as the ship was heaving on the open ocean--now there's some balancing skills! (Photo to come?) The stillness Awkward pose pt. 2 requires is tremendous--boats were rocking so much that the runners had to grab on to the handles of the safety bar at moments! But those toes, man. They can grip the floor!

So, I love Bikram yoga. Take Bikram yoga with you on your vacations! And don't forget to look at the view now and then. You never know what you might see!

Glacier Bay, AK

What helps your practice?

2010-07-20T17:58:00.000-07:00

Wow--can you believe we're midway through July? SoCal has been so temperate that it hardly feels like summer yet, but I know the season is well on its way!

This summer has been a blessing in many ways. For one thing, things have just... changed around here. I've changed, my routines have changed (a little ;-) and I've been trying new things. Contrary to what I initially thought, I've discovered that my yoga practice is enhanced when I add new things to my life. It's such a great realization--I don't have to clear my life to focus on my yoga practice; so long as I get myself there and give 100%, the practice continues to unfold.

In the last couple of months, away from school, experimenting with new ideas, I've learned that my practice is enhanced by a few things in particular:

Meditation: In the past year, I've been working on cultivating a meditation practice. (In particular, Tonglen has been really helpful. Helps you develop concentration and provides a path to really meeting and conquering the demons haunting your life--I find it a bit "easier" than traditional, "focus-on-your-breath" meditation.) I've noticed that my mind is calmer in the hot room when I meditate daily. I am able to focus more deeply in each posture on an aspect of my body. Today, for example, I thought so deeply about the standing leg in Eagle pose. It was like each muscle in my thigh came to life! I still have days when my neurotic stuff can take over, but I find that to be less and less of a challenge.
Sleep! Who knew that sleeping enough would be so helpful? :-) School isn't in session, and my external stressors are low. I'm able to get a solid eight hours of sleep almost every night, and it makes such a difference when I'm in the yoga room. Must remember to commit to sleep when the semester starts!
Eating well and when needed: This is another luxury afforded by my summer break from teaching. You know how it is when you don't have time to prepare the food your body needs, or eat when you're actually hungry. And, worst of all is forcing yourself to eat because you're on a tight schedule.
Whey protein shakes: While we're on the topic of eating well, I gotta give a shout-out to whey protein. I don't eat meat except for fish anymore, and even that is a rarity. As a result, I've gotta be careful about eating enough protein. A friend turned me onto whey protein shakes in the morning. A little almond or soy milk, some powder and a selection of frozen fruit and you've got an amazing-tasting shake. Plus, it feels so nice and light in my stomach that I can practice yoga an hour after I drink one. The attention and time spent making the shake each morning is like a meditation, too.
Not having attachments to the outcome of the practice: This is huge. I have got to admit. Ironic as it sounds, I would actually have anxiety going into class. I'd set up these weird expectations for myself--hold Standing Bow the whole time! Don't sit out a posture!-- and then I'd beat myself up or congratulate myself depending on the outcome of the class. Madness, I tell you. Also, totally common and normal. But I think these expectations need to go. The last couple months, I am able to notice when I hold a posture the entire time, or when I feel particularly focused in class, but I seem to attach less judgment to it. And that's a great feeling. There's that great quote by Courtney Mace, Bishnu Ghosh, yoga champion about competition: "[Competition] happens every time you step into the hot room, and it’s a competition between the ego and the soul. And the soul always wins." I'd take it a step further and say the soul wins so long as you're taking up the struggle against the ego. Being there (in yoga, in meditation, whatever) just helps us see that the ego has always been powerless in the face of soul.

Ramble, ramble, ramble. Enough of that! I'm curious. What helps your practice?

I'm a shrimp burrito!

2010-07-15T13:40:00.000-07:00

Hey y'all! Happy summer.

This is the time of year when us Bikram yoga practitioners should pat ourselves on the back. Or, if that's too self-congratulatory, at least we should take it easy on ourselves when it's hotter than hell in the hot room, and when we know there's no reprieve from that heat when we walk out the doors.

That said, well, I guess I'm getting ahead of myself. I haven't blogged in a while--it's my longest gap since I started Eat the Yolk. Part of that gap is due to a week spent traveling back east.* I had a blast in New York and Boston (visited a studio there--great place, although I'm not sure it could be classified as "hot yoga." Warm yoga?). But the main reason for lack of blogging has been a combination of other factors: summer doldrums, change of routine, and less--dare I say it?--less of an insistent need for yoga.

Normally, yoga is my life raft. I reach for it when I'm drowning in a sea of schedules, stress, malaise, sadness, whatever. And then, I am compelled to blog about the insights and changes that stem from those blessed classes. But with the stress-reduced summer and another serious (but good!) life change, that "OMG, must yoga now" feeling hasn't grabbed ahold of me quite as strongly as it did during the school year.

Thankfully, I've managed to maintain a 3x/week practice. I'm actually seeing a lot of progress there. I like going to the 9:00 a.m. classes--I'm calm and steady, and knowing that I have the rest of the day ahead of me is just lovely.

So maybe it's all just been a little.... too good! Until this week, that is.

Things have been heating up weather-wise in SoCal, and my personal life is getting a bit busier, too. As a result, yoga has afforded me some moments for intense growth. As other bloggers have noted, it has that ability to peel back the layers to really expose what's going on in your mind and heart--whether you like what you see or not.

Something was bugging me before yoga this morning, and warm weather drove a crowd to "get 'er done" and attend the typically sparse 9:00 a.m. weekday class. The room was immediately a pressure-cooker, and a high-maintainance newbie slowed the standing series down considerably. By the time we got to the floor, I was gone. An old anxiety had resurfaced. I was feeling trapped, claustrophobic, and overheated. The meditation techniques I'd been working with to keep me calm in situations like this immediately went out the window.

I was panicky and wanted to leave, so I let myself rifle through the thought stream in my head in the hopes that I'd find myself something to calm me down. As I lay on my stomach in spine-strengthening series, the stream of thoughts went something like this:

"You're in the ocean! It's cold! What's in the ocean? Fish, octopus, crustaceans, fish, bubbles, bubbles, shrimp. Oh, shrimp! They make a good burrito. I like shrimp burritos. I am a shrimp burrito! Just be a shrimp burrito."

Silly as it sounds, that thought actually calmed me down. A shrimp burrito is just a shrimp burrito. It doesn't get stressed by its environment. It just exists as a little amalgamation of tortilla, salsa fresca, frijoles, whatever. It doesn't cast judgments on its environment.

OK, I realize the shrimp are dead by the time they get into the burrito. They don't cast judgments 'cause they can't cast judgments. But still, the thought kinda sorta makes sense? We're in yoga! We don't need to think so much. After the burrito thing, I was able to simply notice what was happening. There was less judgment, and ultimately less panic. When I thought of the heat, I also thought of how incredibly efficient my body was at cooling itself down. What a remarkable little system we have inside ourselves! We can stay in a room of over 110 degrees, do strenuous poses and get our heart rate up, and get to the point where we feel comfortable. Isn't that incredible?

Just be the burrito!

Shrimp Burrito Man

**Must acknowledge other amazing bloggers for already commenting on this summer blogging phenomenon!

Maximum relaxation?

2010-06-26T08:20:00.000-07:00

Regular practitioners of Bikram Yoga often hear the phrase, "Maximum exertion to maximum relaxation." (Teachers: is this part of the dialogue? Or just a Bikram-ism?) It's a good reminder. You work, struggle, and sweat, giving 100% in the posture, and then you let go completely, allowing your body and mind to restore its natural rhythm and prepare for the next pose.

But I've always found that whole relaxation thing to be, ironically, a big struggle. I remember when I first came back to yoga, those savasanas between the postures were the times where I really had to keep a handle on my bucking bronco brain. By the time I hit the floor, I always wanted to bolt from the room. I was usually OK during the postures--relaxing between each was the problem.

Fortunately, that part of class has gotten easier with time. In fact, I am to the point where I can really sigh and sink down into the floor, enjoying each of those juicy, nourishing 20 seconds. Too bad it's not floating over into my outside life a bit more!

I can't help see the connection to the seasons of a teacher's life! Like may people, I think I crave that perfect balance between work and fun, between business and relaxation. I don't want to be up to the gills in teaching and all that comes with it, but I don't want to feel bored or purposeless. Maybe striving for that "perfect balance" isn't realistic. If we don't give it our all sometimes, how can we ever see what we're capable of? And if we don't allow ourselves to relax completely, how do we ever truly come back to equilibrium? Part of learning to accept the moment is acknowledging that the moment is often not what we want.

I mentioned in a previous post that I'm off for the summer. I went from the maximum exertion of the regular semester to the relaxing dolldrums of summer. Occasionally, I need to work on losing the desire to "bolt from the room." I'm learning just sit with who I am and what's around me. (It's actually getting better! I bet that by the time I get the hang of it, school will be starting again ;-)

I'm in an extended 20-second savasana. I should just take it, right??

Plateaus and progress

2010-06-22T09:20:00.000-07:00

Hello, blogger friends! OK, so... while I've been reading your blogs avidly, I have clearly been lacking on doing posting of my own. Maybe I'm in the doldrums of summer, or maybe some recent (good) changes in my life have distracted me a bit. Another likely culprit is that I'm at a bit of a plateau in my practice, and I want to cocoon into that, rather than blogging about it.

In class, I have to struggle to turn off the negative, cynical narrator I've got in the back of my head: "oh man, I'm still only here in Standing Head-to-Knee? I can't get past step two." Lately, I have to remind myself that progress isn't necessarily reflected in an ability to go deeper into the postures. It can be manifested elsewhere, outside the hotroom.

I had an interesting experience last night in another, Ashtanga-based class. Just a litle bit of background: when I was 16, I started taking Ashtanga classes and practiced Ashtanga quite regularly for about ten years. Toward the end of those ten years, I did "pure" first series at least twice a week.

Now, there's a posture in first series called Marichasana D.

It's like the Bikram Spinal Twist on crack! Marichasana D was my nemesis. Every time I'd get to that part in the sequence, I'd think, "It doesn't matter how flexible or strong I get. My body isn't built for this pose; I'll never do it without the help of the teacher." Well, last night at the Ashtanga-y class I took with a couple of my dear friends, the teacher gave us an opportunity to try it. And I slid right into it.

Mind you, I'm sure I didn't look anything like the picture. I think my right knee was off the floor. But I was able to do it! And I did it after a two-year hiatus from Ashtanga.

The experience was such a great reminder. You don't always see the progress right away. It's not a steady, uphill climb, with the mountain top getting closer and closer. Sometimes, the evidence of your work happens later--much later--and in unexpected ways. I may still be stuck in Standing Head to Knee, but there is progress in my life in other areas: I can easily do a four-mile jog. Panicky and racing thoughts are stilled much more quickly after beginning this practice. I've actually taken up sitting in meditation each morning (now that is the scariest undertaking of them all!)

It was also cool to note that only after a steady Bikram practice that I was able to get into that pose. I guess the series, "simple" as it may be, really does prepare you for everything else!

Strawberries and Shaktis

2010-06-10T18:06:00.000-07:00

Today in class, I thought of strawberries. It's summer, and I've been eateing them, standing over the sink and nibbling them up to their little green tops.

As I set up for class this morning, I caught a look at myself and my new, strawberry-colored Shakti outfit. Me, a yogi, wearing Shaktis? Not so unusual, you seasoned Bikramites might say. Let me explain. It's actually my first pair. I've been practicing Bikram yoga for a year now, and it took me three months to rock the sports bra in class. I tend to be a fairly conservative dresser, however, and I just haven't felt comfortable enough to wear Shaktis.

However, I was in need of a new bathing suit, and Shaktis? It says right on the label that they're great for surfing. Clearly, they're cute and well-made, so why not skip the hassle of shopping around and just get what will work? I bought the strawberry-red pair, and in my dresser it sat for a week. Today, though, I wore it to class. Just to see what all the fuss was about. Just 'cause I need to be in the know.

And... I can definitely see the appeal. They attract attention. My teacher applauded me for finally putting them on. My mat buddy said, "girl, you look great. You look so skinny in those things!" (Kinda mixed reactions about that comment ;-) I guess they are flattering. They do feel super-comfortable when practicing, and they stay put in the, uh, essential areas. But I quickly realized that I was more concerned with my appearance as I was practicing. Maybe it was just because it was a new outfit, but I kept looking at myself in the mirror to see... how I looked in the mirror. That's not really where I want my mind to be while I'm practicing, but that's right where the mind was, spinning off on the reflection of my body in the mirror.

Then, 'cause of the whole strawberry thing, my mind darted over to this little anecdote in this lovely book I'm reading called Everyday Zen, by Charlotte Joko Beck. In it, Joko recounts a classic Buddhist story about a man chased off a cliff by a tiger. As he clings to a branch, he looks at the tiger above, and sees another tiger below. He knows he's doomed. But he also sees a ripe strawberry within reach. So what does he do before plummeting to his death? He eats the strawberry. You can guess the ending of the tale.

What's the point? And how does that point relate to the silly outfit story? Well, the story is another reminder of the importance of being in the moment, regardless of how tempting the circumstances swirling around ourselves might be. As Joko asks, "Isn't every moment the last moment? There is no moment other than this."

So, uh... comparing looking at my legs in a new red outfit in a yoga class is nothing like being able to savor the last moment before certain death by tiger mauling. But it's one silly example of how distracted we can get, and one more example of how we should pay attention to the moment, even if it's not a juicy strawberry, and even if there aren't tigers at our backs. The moment deserves our attention.

I think I'll reserve the Shaktis for boogie-boarding and body surfing. At least for now :-)

_____________________________
*Please note that I am in no way dissing Shakti activewear. I am especially not dissing the wonderful wearers of Shaktis. In fact, I love my outfit. I may wear it around the house come summertime! If I were slightly less distractable, slightly less concerned about my appearance in public, and slightly more rich, I'd probably have four pairs and rock them in every class. They're great. I just have some hangups, is all, and I felt like blogging about 'em :-)

What surprised you?

2010-06-04T14:48:00.000-07:00

What surprised you when you started practicing yoga? What continues to surprise you?

It's been almost a year since I've been back to Bikram yoga after a ten-year hiatus. I've never written a "why I came to yoga/what it did for me" post. Some of that is just too personal to post here, although I've alluded to most of it in the 44 posts I've written since establishing this blog. But maybe framing this discussion as "what surprised me" about practicing yoga is a way to approach it.

My first surprise in coming back to Bikram yoga was a strong and sudden conviction to do so. I was training for a half-marathon, and I'd started getting migraines more frequently. I'd also stagnated in progressing in my training for the run. I knew something had to change. I'd noticed a Bikram studio had opened up near my house, and there was this little bug in the back of my mind consistently chirping, "Go back to yoga! Do the yoga!" It had this whole... cheesy... meant to be feel about it.

What also surprised me was that first class back felt like home. I'd been there before, even though I was an 18-year-old spring chicken the last time I'd practiced. In class, the teachers often say that the yoga has a cumulative effect, and I felt that. I remembered the postures, I remembered the fear, and I remembered the dialogue (hearing "Knee is solid, concrete, lamp-post!" was like hearing an old mantra or prayer).

I knew after the first class that this was going to be a major part of my life. In practicing just twice a week, the migraines quickly went away, and I've only had one since. My tendons, muscles, and ligaments opened up like thousands of "flower petals blooming." My back pain from the scoliosis lessened considerably. My butt tightened up. My thyroid levels normalized.

Best, best, best of all is the surprise I won't into too much detail here. I don't struggle nearly so much throughout the day. It's like I was spending my life swimming back to shore, and suddenly I was handed a surfboard and could use that instead. It's still an ocean--I'm still going in the same direction--but I have this great tool at my disposal to help get me there.

And then, there's the blogging community itself! Talk about unexpected. I remember Googling "Bikram yoga blogs" and being so pleased to find The Dancing J's blog, and later the lovely likes of Hannah Just Breathe, Back to the Mat, and Svadhaya 101. (I wish I could list 'em all.) The support I feel in exchanging comments, tweets, and FB posts is beyond encouraging. And as a result of the blog, I've made at least one deep friendship that will likely last a long, long time. Now that, I didn't expect! Look what can happen when you open your heart to it.

There's so much to be grateful for! Namaste! (and thanks for putting up with such a sentimental post ;-)

Why twice?

2010-06-02T13:38:00.000-07:00

Summer is on its merry way, and in yoga class today, my thoughts turned toward the swimming pool. I think the train of thought went something like this:

"OMG, I can't believe how much I'm sweating already. It's only Awkward pose, and already my clothes are soaked. I look like I just got out of the swimming pool. Swimming pool, yeah, like when I was little kid. My brother and I could stay in that pool for hours."

"Yes! Now it's Eagle pose, and then we get a water break."

"But Mary, mother of God, why do we have to do every pose twice? Why twice?!"

My thoughts drifted back to the swimming pool now and then during that class, and I ask the "why twice?" question a couple more times. Sometime during savasana between the standing and floor series that I thought of my first swimming lesson as a child.

I was three or four years old, and I had never gotten my head under the water before. As you swimmers might remember, getting the head underwater is a huge step for beginners. I was in the shallow end with the teacher--an old, firm, but calm woman--and she had thrown plastic sea creatures onto the bottom of the pool. After we got into the pool, she very quickly and very precisely touched the back of my neck and said, "You're going to get the sea creatures! GO!" and pushed my head under the water.

I came up coughing and frightened, but I got no sympathy from the teacher. She asked firmly but kindly, "Did you get the creatures? Did you get them?" I remember shaking my head no as the tears rolled down my face. Before I was fully able to process what was happening, she said, "OK, you'll get them this time." Before I had a chance to protest, she said, "breathe in!" and shoved my head underwater. This time, I reached out my hand and grabbed one of the plastic toys before she released her grip.

I remember that feeling of "I did it!" when I came back up. It was mixed with fear, of course, but I felt a sense of pride and elation. Even better, when I left the swimming lesson wrapped in a big towel, the teacher handed me an enormous home-made cookie to nibble on as we drove home.

My mother later told me she was horrified when the teacher pushed me under like that. But you can't argue with results, and the teacher got them right away.

I'm thinking that this little story might relate to the "why twice?" question. For beginners especially, the poses are foreign and frightening. Even for experienced Bikram yogis, the body in the asana varies so much day-by-day that they can seem a little like being underwater for the first time. There are days when I feel like I'm doing Camel for the first time. So much comes up, and so much feels new. But we get to try it again, to go deeper, to get it right this time. And, we get to try right away, before we have a chance to protest.

Maybe our yoga instructors are like that swimming teacher. They push us into a world we are not familiar with, and then they push us into it again. And eventually, we can learn to breathe there, to really be there. That's where the sense of accomplishment comes in, and that's why we leave the class feeling better than being nuzzled in a towel and eating a freshly-baked cookie.

OK, well... the sense of accomplishment is great, but I'll still take that cookie!

Windshields and what is there

2010-05-27T21:01:00.000-07:00

"I know that sometimes, all I can see is how I feel

Like the world is on the other side of a dirty windshield.

I'm trying to see through the glare

I'm struggling just to see what is there"

--Ani Difranco, "Virtue"

Windshields! You can get clarity in the oddest of moments.

I'm one of those people that hate labeling days. I feel like it's an exercise in futility to label a day "bad" or "good." A wonderful seed could have been planted during that bad day, and a choice you made on a good day could come back to haunt you later.

But jeez-oh-man, I gotta admit: this was a rough day. It started with a tough yoga class. It was scorching hot, and there was a serious lack of energy in the room. I swear, I was one of three people who didn't leave the room. I did, however, sit out about four sets of postures, including a set of Camel (I've grown to love Camel! I never skip it). Usually, even if my class is miserable, I feel great afterward. Not the case today--I felt fatigued for the rest of the day.

And then there was a buildup of just, well, crappy occurrences. Among other things, an issue with a student cropped up (isn't it supposed to be summer?). I got a wrong address and missed a writing class with my dad. An old man in his car literally shook his fist at me for a stupid traffic mistake, despite my sincere mouthing of "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

I was starting to feel especially sorry for myself when it started raining lightly. As I clicked on the windshield wipers, I remembered the wiper fluid was empty, so all the wipers did was smear the grime all around. I had to struggle to see through it.

That was when the line from the Ani Difranco song came to me. We get so wrapped up in our self-centered emotions and feelings that we start thinking the universe is out to get us. The universe placed that angry old man in front of me to remind me I'm a thoughtless person. Nature decided to open up and rain down on me, in San Diego, in May, to show me she has it out for me.

What an absurd way of thinking.

As lay in my bathtub after I got home, the windshield thing really came together for me. The grime and dirt is there, sure, but if I focus I can see beyond it. I remembered as I sat in the tub, soaking the day away, that extraordinary things happened today, despite the yuckiness. When I was lost and trying to find my dad's writing class, I pulled over and went into this Tibetan Gift Shop. I had a wonderful encounter with the girl who worked there. She was so sweet, she even let me use her computer to let me check my email to see if the correct address was there. There was something so kind and genuine about this young woman--even in the midst of my "OMG! Life is hard!" mentality, I could see her good-natured-ness. Before I left we exchanged names and talked a little bit about ourselves, and she said, "I hope you find what you need."

Of course, I'd forgotten all about that meeting in my grimy-window state of mind. It wasn't until I remembered there was something beyond that grimy window that I was able to remember the good stuff.

The connection to yoga will be tenuous today, but I don't think it's forced. Yoga helps us in a couple of ways here. It requires us to focus on what's truly happening and on being present, and we learn to identify that windshield and see the self-created stress as separate from what's actually happening. Then, yoga gives us a path to work on actually cleaning that windshield, so we can see clearly what is there.

Whew. What a day, and what a lengthy post this turned out to be! Hey, if you're in San Diego, do me a favor and go to that gift shop, OK? It might be just the respite you need.

A shout-out

2010-05-20T21:36:00.000-07:00

OK, I'm tired, it's past my blogging hour, and, like that extra vodka martini, I may regret this post in the morning. I had an interesting class, though, and I want to give the teacher a shout-out for handling things so well.

Y'all ever had a circus class? Well, that's what this was. No other way to describe it. Internally, I was a little mixed-up going in, and the class itself matched the emotional roller-coaster inside. First, the heaters were wacky. At the start of class, they were blowing really fast, hot air. Suddenly, we heard one give out. Almost instantly, it was cool in there (an aside: so much energy must be consumed in heating that room). The teacher had that to contend with the heat all class, but she did manage to keep it cooking.

Then, there were two newbies, and they were all over the place. One was fidgety, noisy, and needed a lot of attention. The other one.... fainted. Yes, she fainted. During Eagle pose, she got up to leave the room, grabbed the wall and started sliding down.

I gotta give the teacher so much credit. First of all, she knew something was up with this student. During half-moon, she asked the student if she was OK, and actually told her to sit down until the color came back to her face. But the student ignored her and persisted, and a couple of poses later, bam. There she was, all fainty.

I also don't know how the teacher managed to get there so fast. The woman started sliding, and the teacher was right there. She even got kneed in the calf--I saw the blossoming bruise afterward.

And that's all just the first three postures! The rest of class continued to be a circus--people running in and out, talking during class, etc--and I was distracted much more easily than usual. Another highlight was a really noisy guy next to me. He was moaning like he was either in extreme pain or experiencing extreme pleasure (why are those noises so close on the food chain, by the way? Shouldn't they be radically different?). A couple of times during the class, I looked at the teacher, hoping she'd say something to quiet the Moaner. But she kinda had her hands full with everything else that was going on.

Anyway... the primary purpose of this post was to give a shout-out to the teacher. She did more than just get us through the postures. The woman fainted during the first set of Eagle pose, and before the instructor had even come back into the room, she was saying, "OK! Second set! Arms up over the head." Such a rockstar. Yay for good teachers.

Best of all, by the time we got to the floor, my mind had quieted down, and I didn't even notice the Moaner. That's what it's all about, right? We can't spend our time wishing the external conditions were perfect. Let's learn how to be present... moaning and all!

"My heart leaps up"

2010-05-18T16:33:00.000-07:00

"My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!"
--William Wordsworth

I thought of this poem today and had to share it with y'all. The message here is simple and often-repeated: when we're children, we are fascinated so easily by the world. Something as simple a rainbow makes the heart leap up with excitement. Wordsworth wants to continue being inspired by nature throughout his adult life.

It's a nice sentiment, and I think most of us would agree that childlike fascination with the world is something we should all aspire to. But how often do we actually let that happen?

It's the end of the semester for me, and this is always a time of mixed emotions. There's the anticipation of a long summer with plenty of stretches of idyll time. I can't help craving that when I'm in the middle of a stressful semester and stress levels are as high as the stacks of papers. But I simultaneously feel some apprehension. The routine will be gone--everything I rely on to give shape to my week will disappear overnight. As someone who needs a bit of routine and order, I'm finding my heart "leaping up" with anxiety from time to time, rather than the joy Wordsworth writes about.

So, today, on the third-to-last day of work of the semester, I found my thoughts bubbling up with apprehension. To combat this, I sought out a colleague to eat lunch with and worked on turning myself over to the conversation instead of dwelling on how I felt. As we were walking back to our offices, we both noticed how alive the campus felt, despite it being quiet and empty due to finals. The clouds were evaporating, the grass seemed fragrant and richly green, and the spring colors were so vivid. Our hearts were "leaping up"--this time, in a good way!

OK. How to tie this all in to yoga? ;-) One thing is that without the yoga, I doubt I'd have the awareness to know that something was amiss when I feel anxiety about the end of the semester. I'd take that as "normal."

But because I leave class so calm and wrung out, the tables are turned. I know what being in the moment feels like! Then, those moments of apprehension are correctly identified as "abnormal," as something to be worked on. Working it all out is an endless task, but without the ability to identify what the mind is churning on, we can't make progress. And our hearts don't leap up at the rainbows!

You want me to breathe? NOW?

2010-05-13T20:38:00.000-07:00

Anyone else occasionally get the sensation that they're just not breathing enough?

In the workshop I've been blogging about incessantly for the past couple of weeks, Esak focused a lot on breathing--pranyama, 80/20 breathing, and "holding the breath" when initially going into the postures. I had the realization today that in some classes I'm scared to breathe. What. The. Hell.

I walked into class tonight after a really busy day: classes, grading, workshops, errands, and then yoga. It had felt kind of like a marathon, and I was almost a little cocky that I was riding that wild horse of tasks so smoothly. The class really humbled me, and I could tell that the panicky feeling I was getting had nothing to do with my physical state of well-being. I was creating it. I was not exhaling and inhaling as much as I normally did.

The most troubling part of it all was that even when I realized I wasn't breathing enough, I couldn't get myself into a rhythm. Despite backing off the postures, I couldn't get back on track with the breath, and I began entering panic mode. And the most frustrating thing was that I couldn't blame it on lack of sleep, on what I ate, or what I didn't drink. It was all in my head.

The other most troubling part ;-) is thinking about where else in my life I'm not pulling enough air into the lungs. I think this idea is both literal and figurative--I can tense up and hold my breath, and I can mentally hold onto the day's events, to not let them go. In either case, not exhaling has consequences.

Back to yoga. When I'm feeling like I'm not breathing, first I'll try to gently bring awareness to that instead of focusing so intently on the posture. In worst-case scenarios, like today, I resort to singing, "Just breathe. It's gonna be OK," to the tune of that silly Lady Gaga song, "Just Dance."

Bringing up the Lady Gaga thing reminds me to be aware of my own... limits? Idiosyncrasies? Lady Gaga is... showy. Often inane. Not the most impressive musician on the planet. But her music is crack to me! Also, I keep a package of Trader Joe's oreos in the cupboard, just in case of an emergency. Also, I like the smell of skunks. Also, I can really, really get caught up in the day's herd of wild horses as they gallop on by.

But there's no need to. It's OK to acknowledge my own limits and tendencies, quirky as they might be. I can ride the horse when I need to, and hop off when I reach the destination. Just breathe, E.

Right??

______________________________________________
** what a constellation of topics this post has: breathing, Lady Gaga, a horse metaphor, and an admission that I like skunks. Can you tell my mind is all over the place? ;-)

It's SUPERnatural.

2010-05-10T19:05:00.000-07:00

I'm still riding a yoga high from attending Esak Garcia's workshop this past weekend. I got so much from this workshop that this will be, at best, a general overview. Later, I'm sure I'll share more about what I learned and how it's being incorporated into my general practice.

The day began at 9:00 with a class taught by Esak. He's a great teacher--precise, motivating, but in no way arrogant or showy. For some reason, what I remember most vividly from the class was his focus on ankles. In Pranyama deep breathing, especially when talking about contracting the thighs and buttocks, he mentioned the ankles. It felt odd to think about ankles contracting (is it humanly possible to bring those together? Not for me, anyway), but in doing so, I had awareness of my body from the head to the toes. One extra part of my body felt alive!

He also talked about ankles in Eagle pose--not just wrapping the ankle around, as the dialog states, but really squeezing the ankles together. I think that's a contraction that many overlook. Must remember that one!

One of my goals for the class was to make it through without skipping a posture. I didn't quite achieve that. It was an incredibly hot class, and I sat out a set of Triangle. Oh well. I'm actually not bothered by the fact that I sit out postures occasionally, so long as I know I'm working my max and not leaving the room. Not all expectations are met ;-)

OK, so, the posture clinic. I loved how Esak set it up. He didn't begin with a laundry list of postures to gloss over; he set it up according to higher concepts that he used the postures to illustrate. I won't go over every posture and list everything I remember from it all, but here is a general overview.

The first concept was breathing--I believe he used the term "breathing like a master playing guitar" to introduce it. Here, he focused on Pranyama (duh, and more on that one later) and Half-moon. He really de-mystified 80-20 breathing for me, and the clarity I got there was so needed.

The second concept was Hatha yoga (Hatha, the physical practice of yoga, translates to sun+moon. It's all about balance.) The third theme was backbending (lots of focus on identifying the thoracic part of the spine--Balancing Stick, Half-tortoise), and the fourth and final concept was Raja yoga, which was a little short due to time constraints. But at least there we talked about coming into the postures quickly, no fear--Camel, Standing Backward Bending and the second part of Awkward.

For now, I'll just talk about two posture insights I got. One was on flexing the foot in the second part of Standing Head-to-Knee. He had us really work on it. First, we practiced flexing the foot while it was on the floor and seeing the muscles above the shin come to life. Then, he had us hold the pose, foot kicked out, while he came around and ensured that we were all truly flexing it. It wasn't until he came over to me and poked at that muscle that the foot really flexed for the first time. Very cool "a-HA!" feeling on my part. It ain't easy to actually flex that foot--it's much more than pulling the toes back slightly.

I could see that it was not Esak's style to use himself as examples for what the postures "should" look like, and I liked this about him. He mainly used the students as examples (including me in Pranyama!), which allowed him to give them even more feedback. But, among others, he did demo Standing Head-to-Knee, and in doing so, he pointed out a truth about yoga (and life, as far as I'm concerned) that most people overlook. He said that to perfect this pose for a competition, his teacher (Mary Jarvis) had him do it ten times a day. Then, twenty. He said that before competing, "I did the pose of thousands of times."

Isn't that reassuring to hear? It's just practice. It's just time. I think we are engrained with this myth that mastery comes from innate talent or ability. But no. It's time spent. Certainly, some may have more natural flexibility than others, or a body type that makes certain poses easier than they might be for others, but like us all, Esak didn't improve until he did the pose again and again. Doesn't that bode well for the lot of us? :-)

(By the way, if the idea of mastery from practice vs. innate ability interests you, go buy Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers. He talks about this concept in detail.)

I also got a much deeper understanding about what happens and why in Pranyama. Esak talked a lot about the diaphragm and why sucking in the stomach helps. In part, we need to suck in the stomach because doing so compresses the internal organs, "allowing air to go into parts of the lungs that don't normally get used." I knew the second part, of course, but I hadn't thought of the internal organs getting squished down to make room for the extra air. Very cool. He asked me to demo the posture, and I was happy to hear that I was on the right track with it. As you know, it's really hard to keep the stomach sucked in when exhaling, but it can happen. Sort of.

It was at this point that Esak mentioned that what we do in yoga is not un-natural, it's supernatural. He was big on reminding us that in yoga, things do not always feel that great. There is often pain. Not injury, of course, but intense discomfort. Yoga goes beyond the everyday range of motion, taking what we do in everyday life to a higher (super) level. The extra air you pull into the lungs in Pranyama, the intense backward bending you do in Camel--we don't do that without making the effort and deciding to do so because it's needed.

So... make the effort. Put in those hours! And, finally, I'm done for now :-) It really feels like I'm just scratching the surface.

Esak Garcia, flexin' that foot

No expectations! Well, maybe one or two...

2010-05-06T19:55:00.000-07:00

Is it really possible to set aside our expectations for yoga? For me, it's a lofty ideal. It would be great to wake up and not think about what I want to happen--be it in my writing classes, when I go out to dinner, and, especially, with yoga.

I do strive to set those expectations aside in my practice, but with the Esak Garcia workshop coming up, I can't help but get a little excited and just hope certain things will occur. Maybe I could just reframe and call it "goal-setting" ;-)

The workshop begins with a class taught by Esak. Then, we have a short break, followed by a seminar/posture clinic/whatever that goes until 4:00. Goal #1: don't sit out any of the postures and just enjoy the class and new instructor.

I know it will be impossible for Esak to go over all 26 postures, and I'm sure I'll get a lot out of the discussion of whatever postures he chooses to discuss. Goal #2: appreciate insights into whatever he chooses to have us work on.

OK. My lofty "appreciate what's offered" ideal ends there. Here's what I want! I'm really hoping he has us work on Half-moon. I can't seem to get enough of teachers telling me not to get scared in Standing Backward Bend, and I've already posted about my curvy spine in Half-moon. I've never had a teacher single me out and tell me they could see I was capable of much more, but I know I'm capable of so much more. I can't seem to push myself enough here by adhering to the corrections given to the class. I need to kiss my fear of those poses goodbye, and a little one-on-one might just do the trick.

There are other poses I feel a little... blank about. By blank I mean that I simply have no idea what I'm doing and wonder if I'm getting anything out of them. In Standing Separate Leg Head-to-knee pose I have no idea what my hips are doing, yet the dialogue is specific about "right hip forward, left hip back." I'm also afraid of injuring myself on the forward bends, so Seated and Standing Separate Leg Stretching poses would be great to work on.

That said, regardless of what Esak chooses to do, I'm really looking forward to the workshop and spending a whole day on yoga. I'm going to take lots of notes, bring a camera, and hang out wiht my mat buddy. Only 20 people or so have registered at this point, so we should get some individual attention. You know I will share any insights I gain from this!

Look at what we can let go of!

2010-04-29T20:56:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I've ever had a love-hate relationship quite as volatile as the one I have with the heat. Right now, I'm thinking that the heat is simultaneously the cause of and solution to the misery so often felt in the yoga room.

I went to class last night with something weighing pretty heavily on my mind. I'd had a rough day, and my mind was so preoccupied with what happened I was beginning to doubt my ability to make it through the class. I just felt like I was drowning in emotions. Once again, though, I was remindedof how needed this yoga is in my life right now.

As class began, two thoughts were jockeying for position in my head. One was about what happened during the day, and the other was about the heat. "Jesus Christ, it's hot," I usually think to myself as I walk into the room. I've found that the more obsessive my thinking, the harder a time I have surrendering to the heat. Normally, I let go of the "it's hot! Life is hard! Poor me!" thinking pretty quickly. But probably because of what was going on in my head yesterday, I was having a hard time accepting I was about to be turned into a hot, sweaty mess.

Have y'all noticed a connection between the relationship to the heat and what's happening in life? Is it just me? After a class like that, I'm thinking that the heat is this perfect symbol of what happens inside as we practice. We go into the class thinking, "Jesus Christ, it's hot." (OK, I won't put words in your mouth. I do ;-) We almost want to cling to that thought, to hold onto the day's problems, to not surrender to the sweat that's beginning to pour out of the body. It's the same thing that we do in life. There's the present moment, but it's so easy to get caught up in problems and drama that have no relevance to what's going on.

Thank goodness for the postures, the teacher, and the heat! They beat us back into the now. You don't survive otherwise. Hard as we may try to stop it from coming, the sweat starts pouring out, and in proportion as we surrender to the act of letting go, the outside problems drop away. Even if it's only for moments at a time, the problems fade.

I couldn't believe how much my mood changed during that yoga class. I walked in not knowing if I'd be able to stay in the room, I was so upset from what had happened that day. But once I let go, such a tremendous set of peace settled in. My practice, body, and mind were so calm and steady. I can't begin to express how grateful I felt when I realized, as I came out of Camel pose, that at least 45 minutes had passed without thinking about what was going on that day.

The challenges are still there. Jesus himself would probably say, "What the hell? It's hot." But look what we can let go of!

___________
Wouldn't you know? I felt like today's class was cold. Now that's fodder for another post...

So, where are you?

2010-04-26T21:43:00.000-07:00

Hey, my Bikram partners in crime. It feels like we're in a "let's see other people" phase of our relationship. You all are clearly there (thanks, as always, for your comments!), but since the 101-Day challenge has ended, I feel like there's been a bit of a lull in the BBC (Bikram Blogging Community ;-). That's OK, though. I'm not complaining. I know we'll always be together.

The last three weeks or so have been interesting to observe. I'm reminded that energy and passion needs both subject and object in order to thrive. Maybe because yoga is about healing ourselves so we can better serve the world, we need to be reminded of who is actually in that world. (You!) I feed off the energy y'all radiate when writing about your yoga practices in your blogs. Your passion inspires me to improve my own practice and to share in this BBC.

So, where are you? In your practice? In life, if that's an appropriate question for you?

I admit I haven't been as attentive to the BBC as I could be, either. It's hard to keep up with Life once she's on her way. I've been pretty busy. I think the dust will settle a bit once the semester's over, but it's currently a whirlwind. I am definitely getting to yoga, however, and I am feeling fairly optimistic about my practice lately. How wonderful that when life plops you on the roller coaster and makes you ride and ride, there's always yoga to get you to "concentrate, meditate on yourself" for those special 90 minutes.