Maybe I Have His Smile

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Today I decided I wasn’t a writer.  I was done.  Not up to it.  Why did I want to write anyway?  Didn’t all that time spent jotting down ideas, taking notes and blogging simply distract me from my “true” calling?  Didn’t it take away from the time I could be practicing Yoga, nurturing a tenuous connection to what might be the beginning of a social life, or watching So You Think You Can Dance?  Besides, the plastic bins of research gathering dust in my kitchen took up too much floor space in my already cramped studio.  I’d be better off taking them down to my storage locker.

Nope.  I was done.  Finished.  Finito.

And then this happened:

I went back to the family photographs my mother gave me when I visited her last September.  Only a few include images of the father I never met. I have no idea if I walk like him or if I have his sense of humor.  I won’t find out if I’m impatient because he was, or if he liked spicy food.  But maybe if I looked hard enough I could see something in his face.  Tonight I needed to be convinced he and I shared something.  I held the photographs close and then, with my face just inches away from the mirror, I searched my eyes, my cheeks, my nose.  Like almost every other middle-aged woman, all I could see was my mother looking back at me.  I stared at the photographs and back again at my reflection.  I compared his image to my mom’s and then me until finally I could see it.  There it was.  His smile.  I’m pretty certain I have a bit of his smile.

As I slipped the photos back into the treasure box I keep them in, I thought about the protagonist in the manuscript taking up space on my kitchen floor.  She’s just sixteen, but she’s missing a dad, too.  I wondered what she might feel, how she might react, seeing her father for the first time.

I opened my laptop and took a few pages of notes for a manuscript I haven’t touched for three months.

It turns out maybe I am a writer after all.

 

 

 

 

 

Half Moons and Flying Dragons

I remember the evening twenty-five years ago when our teacher led us into Ardha Chandrasana (Half Moon Pose).  I had been attending Karl’s class for just a few weeks and it was my first Half Moon.  It wasn’t pretty. I distinctly remember thinking that night would be my last night at Yoga.  My standing leg was shaking, my extended leg’s hip was screaming and my brain was telling me “This is nuts. You can’t do this.  Just go home.”

But I didn’t go home.

To this day Ardha Chandrasana ranks as one of my favorite poses.  Several classes after that first attempt, when I smoothly transitioned into the pose from Triangle and felt the strength in my balancing leg and the openness in my hip, I was free.  I felt like a soaring bird.

And when I introduce Half Moon to a new class for the first time, teaching in the same studio where I was taught, I always stand in the spot where I attempted the pose for the first time and tell the class “Things change.”

These days I’m adding modifications to my Half Moon.  Sometimes, with limited success, I bring my fingers up from the floor to rest the hand on my heart chakra.  More often I’ll take the ankle of my extended leg and pull myself into something I’m certain has a proper name but I call Sideways Bow.

We grow.  We learn.  We fall down. We try again.  We grow.

It took a lot of prying to open my mind to a new way of thinking about Yoga.  My practice was firmly rooted in Iyengar.  There was no other way.

But things change.

While I will probably never, ever understand how I can further my Yoga practice while listening to rock music (please, someone, explain this trend to me), a few years ago I was encouraged to explore the possibility of a fluid, non-alignment based practice.

Enter Flying Dragon. Wait a minute, wasn’t that a Bruce Lee movie?

The truth is, I can be a little bit…ahem…rigid in my thinking.  I like having a place for everything and everything in its place.  Just like an Iyengar practice. I’m not saying Iyengar theory is rigid, only that it might appeal to someone with rigid thinking.

When Suzee Grilley introduced the Flying Dragon sequence to us on a summer morning at teacher training my brain was telling me, “You can’t do this.  This isn’t Yoga.  Give Up.  You’re too out of shape.”  My brain even said this, “You’re too old.”

Several mornings later and I was flying my dragon with joy.

Flying Dragon is the cure for my rigid thinking.  I can feel my soul open to the universe when I practice Flying Dragon.  It lifts my spirit.  It is a balm for the type of depression that feels heavy and leaden.

Different approaches to Yoga fill different needs. Right now I need less formal alignment and more fluid movement.

And for the past few weeks I’ve had this idea in my head that I can’t shake.  There’s a local park not far from my home, and I see myself there, teaching Flying Dragon to anyone who wants to learn.  When I mentioned this to a friend he suggested I was ‘giddy’.  I probably am.  But the thought of a Flying Dragon Flash Mob puts a big smile on my face.

So that’s what I’m going to do.  If you’d like to free your rigid mind – or just feel like flying your dragon – join me for a morning of Flying Dragon (with a few Golden Seeds thrown in for a nice warm up) this Saturday at 11:00 in the park on Homer Street in Palo Alto.

Update:  Four hours after I posted Half Moons and Flying Dragons the August (August?  Seriously?) issue of Yoga Journal arrived.  My “Sideways Bow” variation of Half Moon has a name:  Ardha Chandra Chapasana.  Whew.  Now I can sleep tonight.

Me, Rod Stewart and High School, 1975

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High school gymnasiums in 1975 had an unmistakable odor – a combination of sneakers, sweat and pom-poms.  No amount of low lighting, Charlie perfume and Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers could change that.  But we still showed up for the dances.  On a Friday night in rural Pennsylvania there wasn’t that much else to do.

Guys leaned against the edge of the gym stage and girls slipped under their arms like accessories.  Four hips stayed pressed tight together with legs wound and lips nibbling until our driver education teacher sauntered by with one raised eyebrow and a waggling finger. Being caught necking was quietly admired as girls who had guys looked down at girls who didn’t with a mix of pity and pride.

Lynyrd Skynyrd’s endless Freebird took couples to the dance floor until the seven-minute mark, when the song broke away from fulsome ballad to screaming rock anthem.  As couples returned to their post at the gym stage, clutches of girls took over the floor and danced in circles to The Captain and Tennille.

And then I heard her lyric opening notes.  Maggie May. I didn’t know who Maggie was, I didn’t understand how she wore him out and I didn’t care.  I loved that song. Two thick whacks on the tom-tom, a ringing guitar and Rod’s dry rasp and I was there.  That night I ran out into the center of our empty high school basketball court and I danced to Maggie May.  Alone.

More than thirty years later I can still remember those four minutes of my sixteen-year-old life.  I remember being watched from the edges as I whirled across the floor.  I didn’t care who saw me and I didn’t care what they thought of the weird girl dancing with herself.  I felt free in my body.  Free in my mind.  I knew exactly what the rest of my life held for me.  I knew I’d always be as strong and confident as I felt in that moment.  And I knew I’d always dance.

Truth or Consequences

I’m sorry.  I’ve been distracted.  I’ve been spending some time with my new blog at skirt!, which you can find here.

You know how it is. A website offers you the thrilling opportunity to write for free and you can’t pass it up.  They massage your ego with an application process that makes you feel special.  Chosen.  You say, “Oh, yes, I want to write for free!” and off you go.

It’s all right.  I don’t mind.  I know it wasn’t six months ago that I posted I would never give my writing away again – complete with a link to Harlan Ellison’s rant – but that was then, and those were different circumstances.

We never used to practice in public.  Secrets used to be between our hearts and the diary we hid under our mattress. Today, however, every nuance of our lives is documented.  I can’t believe this is a good thing, and yet here I am, willing participant.

Over sharing is the norm.  Bad behavior no longer shocks us. Instead, it numbs us. Bores us senseless.

My blog on skirt! is deeply personal.  In contrast, I’ve skirted (pardon the pun) around issues here at Practically Twisted.  Hedged a little.  When my Practically Twisted posts arrive at the precipice I dodge the truth with a bit of alleged wit.

I have no regrets about what I’m currently sharing with a couple hundred of the closest skirt! friends I’ve never met.  My ego (today at least) is healthy enough to believe that maybe my posts will benefit someone living with similar circumstances.  But as a writer telling a personal story I need to be clear with myself.  How much of my truth am I willing to share? How much of our truth should we share?  How much does the reader need to know to keep the truth compelling enough to turn the page?

Rainy Mornings, Smoked Salmon and a Girl Named Turtle

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The Bean Trees

Image via Wikipedia

I didn’t know this until today, but I love rainy June mornings.

Typically I tend to resent Saturday mornings.  I want to be like normal people.  I want the option of lounging about.  But my constitution won’t allow it. My body clock wakes me at six and I’m immediately consumed by the need to open my laptop and write.  What usually happens, of course, is that I leap out of bed, open my laptop and check emails.  This morning, with the rain tapping at my window, a miracle occurred.  I was convinced to keep my eyes closed for an extra ninety minutes.

When I did finally pull myself together, I was off to see my 90-year-old West Point graduate client for an hour of stretching and movement.  A widower, he’s typically quiet and reserved – except when I crack one of my notoriously bad jokes.  Although I really shouldn’t be encouraged, he’ll reward me with his hoot of a laugh.  Let’s just say there was a bit of hooting going on today.

After that I had brunch with a friend.  Ok, I’ll admit it.  It was with Mr. On Line.  What can I say?  I know this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be done – I think you’re supposed to treat online dating a more like a job.  I’m just not the type of person to set up coffee dates every free second.

To be honest, at this point I’m inclined to put an end to all the OKCupid stuff and consider myself lucky that I’ve made a friend and didn’t meet an ax murderer in the process.  Sort of file it under been there, done that.  Besides, I met Mr. On Line’s amazing cats today.  Any day that involves a cat NOT showing instant disdain for the strange, dripping wet  human standing in the living room is a good day.  It probably helped that I had the lingering odor of smoked salmon on my fingertips but all’s fair in love and meows.

Is this becoming one of those loathsome, tedious, drawn out blog posts that become mind achingly dull in their monotony?  Is it?  IS IT??  Great. Because guess what I did after I bonded with the cats?

I took myself to the Cantor Museum on the Stanford Campus and spent two hours there.  To see this.  Which was amazing.  If you’re in the area and appreciate books, typesetting, paper and etching – don’t miss it.

And then I went home to read.  For pleasure.  From 4:30 to 8:30 PM.  Just me, Barbara Kingsolver’s The Bean Trees (loved it) and several cups of pu-erh tea.

In other words, with the exception of my morning client, I managed to experience the day without an agenda.  Without the need to cross things off a list. (Ok…I confess… there was a little of that.)  But still it was an extraordinary day for Mimm Patterson.

Ps…by the way, this whole reading for pleasure business is fantastic!  I don’t know why I never considered it before.  Now there are a slew of books in my queue – my next Kingsolver will be The Poisonwood Bible.  After that Steven Harrigan’s Remember Ben Clayton.  Tomorrow it’s Velva Jean Learns to Drive by Jennifer Niven.  And then I’m on to all the books I said I’ve always wanted to read but never have…

Let the Dust Clouds Settle

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Me. In my favorite chair. Sitting still.

Flummoxed.  I’m flummoxed.

Even though the weather in the Bay Area has most of us convinced it is still March, the truth is we’re six months into 2011.   Hard to believe, isn’t it?  I’d love to say that so far it’s been an exciting, productive one hundred and eighty days (give or take) but the truth is so far this year has been about introspection and healing.  At least for me. And, for now, there is very little I want to share about that.  Except maybe to say something we can always count on is change.  Nothing ever stays the same.

Instead I’ll tell you that I emptied my change bucket on Memorial Day and discovered that throwing the days collection of quarters, nickels and dimes into an old water bottle could yield – after sixteen months – three hundred and twenty dollars. Coin Star took a small chunk of that, of course, but I still had enough for two sessions of therapy and a few groceries.

And I’ll tell you about how I arrived for a hair cut at my favorite corner salon and ran out of it thirty minutes later looking not unlike an East German gymnast circa 1964.  Attempts at home to re-style the odd and uneven razor cut with any gel, mousse and wax left in the back of my closet since 1992 failed.

Fortunately, when I returned to the salon today they happily re-cut my hair for free.  Crises averted.  I thought I was going to have pull out my acid washed mom jeans and Sally Jesse Raphael glasses.

And that’s pretty much it.

I’ve not even checked in with eHarmony for new matches or OKCupid to count the arrows in my quiver.

Instead, I’ve begun to consider the benefits of sitting still.  We spend so much of our lives chasing dreams and goals, stirring up dust, racing towards something that at times is impossible to identify.  I think I’d like to find out what happens if I let a little tranquility roll over me.  What will I see if I let the dust settle?  Maybe I’ll find out everything I wanted was right next to me all along.  I was just moving too fast to notice.

The Great Online Dating Experiment of 2011 – Part I

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Somehow I just don't quite see the two of us working out...

If eHarmony is the alleged online dating equivalent to shopping at Neiman Marcus, then OKCupid is Ross Dress for Less – you have to do a bit of digging before you find a potential gem.

I’m about ten days into the Great Online Dating Experiment of 2011 and I have to tell you – it’s not going so well.  Let me rephrase that:  it’s going slower than I expected.  After three days of inappropriate matches from the folks at eHarmony – who seem  under the impression that I would be interested in seventy-year-old men whose dream vacation is a Donny and Marie Concert in Branson, Missouri – I signed up with OKCupid.  I mean no offense to older men, Donny or Marie (whose lips are looking fabulous these days, by the way) or the fine folks in Branson.  But seriously eHarmony – that’s what your big ol’ computer surmised from my profile?  That I was looking for a road trip to the heartland in a kitted out Winnebago?

I exaggerate, of course, and to be honest it’s probably not eHarmony’s fault.  I’m sure the computer did its best with the information I provided.  Here I am, with (according to a friend) a “facility for writing” and I can’t string three words together that describe my wondrousness.  My profile is flatter than a stale matzoh cracker.

Wouldn’t we be better able to rally to the cause of love if profile writing was a group project? I’ve been thinking that it’s not an altogether bad idea for friends to form Profile Writing Groups.  Imagine…a few good friends, a little wine, a couple of laptops and a few hours later one great online profile.  Now that’s my idea of fun.

Of course, meeting a total stranger for coffee might be fun, too.  And, believe it or not, despite painting myself a tepid beige, it looks like that’s what I might be doing this weekend.  My palms are sweating at the very thought.  But it’s good to know that I attract more than sweet, Winnebago owning retirees with a hankerin’ for a road trip.

The Healing Power of Yoga. Any Yoga.

I taught my first Yin Basics Workshop yesterday at the California Yoga Center, my home studio.  One hour of theory followed by an hour of practice.  Nine beautiful yogis joined me.

Teaching a workshop requires a different skill set to teaching a class.  I felt challenged by the task of explaining the theory and practice of Yin in sixty minutes and then further challenged by the questions raised by students coupled with my self-doubt.

It was a great afternoon.

And yet, this morning I’m convinced that despite the training I’ve completed, the workshops I’ve attended and the books I’ve read I really know nothing about Yoga.  After thirty years of practice, my knowledge only scratches the surface of everything there is to know about how Yoga affects the body on a spiritual and cellular level.

It was a wake-up call.

Meanwhile, labels are beginning to irk me.  I’m beginning to get the feeling that we’re all making it up as we go along.

During our workshop the question that is always asked was asked yet again:  What is the difference between Yin Yoga and Restorative Yoga?  I tried to answer by explaining my experience with the restorative class I attended two weeks ago (read about it here).  The student asking the question – who is a yogi for whom I have great admiration – replied:  “That wasn’t restorative.  In my restorative classes we do eight to ten poses in an hour and hold them like we’re holding them today.”

And yet, at the end of my Restorative Yoga experience two weeks ago, I felt restored.  So who’s to say it wasn’t restorative yoga?  And maybe what she’s calling Restorative is really Yin?  And does it really, really matter?

The truth is I want to feel restored at the end of any yoga practice.  I want to feel connected.  Grounded.  Free of doubt and fear.  I want to feel my blood moving and warm, living muscle tissue.  I want to experience an ease of movement in my body, my spirit and my soul – as though I’ve come home to something I longed for.

That’s how yoga heals.

Soul Mates, Online Dating and Therapy

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Milano, Italy

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I did it.  Something I’ve refused to do for years.  On-line dating, eHarmony style.

Oh, and I also began therapy.  But more about that later.

I don’t know when or where or even if I’ll meet my soul mate.  Yes, I believe in soul mates.  I believe there is someone looking for me and when we meet the connection might not be instant but it will be profound and the love we fall into – despite our flaws, our disagreements, the challenges we face in life – will be unfailing.  I believe that.

And for years I believed love and connection was out of my reach.  That somehow I didn’t deserve it.  Besides, I had plenty of platonic love and connection with my yoga students.  Weren’t my cravings for romantic love selfish?

As friends know, I’ve always hoped I’d meet someone – anyone – at the salad bar of whole foods as our tongs tangle over the romaine.  When I mentioned this recently on Facebook, a friend replied, “I think meeting someone at the salad bar is a toss up!”

He’s right.  If I want love and connection – if I want to find the soul mate that at this very moment is looking for me – then I have to increase my chances of finding him.

It’s been forty-eight hours and the potential matches are rolling in.  All eight of them.  One of them is someone I’ve known for years.  How weird is that?  I archived his profile immediately (eHarmony’s lovely euphemism for ‘delete’).  But now I’m asking myself, is online dating for the birds, or does eHarmony know something I don’t?

Now…about that therapy…..

An Old Dog Learns a New Trick

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I may have mentioned once or twice that in Chinese Astrology I am a Yellow Dog.  Not only am I prone to drooling in my sleep but I can also catch a Frisbee between my teeth, forgive instantaneously and love unconditionally.  I am also fiercely loyal.  Loyalty is, at times, a curse.  It makes it difficult for me to try new things without feeling as though I’m being unfaithful.

But on Sunday I overcame those feelings and attended my first ever Restorative Yoga Class.  I was on a quest. I needed calm.  I wanted my mind to clear and my nervous system to unwind.   I didn’t need to break a sweat.  I didn’t need to feel the burn.  I didn’t need my heart pumping within 85% of its maximum rate.

I considered a Yin session at home, but I’ve been making an effort to get out more.  And so that’s how I found myself at my local JCC at 5:15 on a sunny afternoon.

Chihiro is a lovely teacher.  Confident and quiet, she demonstrated all three poses we completed in the hour-long class.  Yes, that’s right.  THREE poses:  the first was a supported chest opener, the second took our legs up the wall and the third was supported relaxation.  As my body melted into the work, Chihiro observed, corrected and comforted students with a whisper.

In my Yin class on Monday, I mentioned the Restorative class.  Several students wanted to know the difference between to two styles of yoga.

Here it is:

The Difference Between Restorative Yoga and Yin Yoga

Restorative Yoga uses props to create support and reduce stress on the body. 

Yin purposely places stress on the connective tissue.

Yin requires that the practitioner open to discomfort rather than requiring comfort in order to open.

It was important for me to allow my inner Yellow Dog to run off leash.  Chihiro’s restorative class offered the support I needed and I learned a valuable lesson.  Even though my yoga loves are Yin and Iyengar, there are times when other schools of yoga are better able to heal my body, mind and spirit.