Thai Me Up

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Thaimassage2

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I was reminded of my love for Thai Massage during Yin Teacher Training last August when Paul Grilley taught us The Stiff White Guy Routine – or what I prefer to call (after I stop laughing) “Assisted Yin.”

Assisted Yin is exactly that: one individual receives the Yin Yoga and the other provides it.  The receiver remains relaxed while the provider folds and holds the receiver’s body in classic Yin positions for up to five minutes.  This eliminates effort for the receiver and facilitates a deeper level of physical and emotional release.

Last Sunday I attended a workshop taught by Terri van de Sande from Esprit-de-Core, a lovely Pilates Studio in Los Altos (for locals it’s just behind Chef Chu’s).  Terri is a Pilates instructor and Thai Massage expert.  During the afternoon workshop we worked in teams while Terri introduced to us basic Thai Massage techniques.  I was looking for a few appropriate moves to add to the Assisted Yin treatment I offer clients.

Terri is a very generous therapist, and when she learned who I was and my reasons for being at the workshop (most of the other attendees appeared to be couples) she asked me to be her “demo body”.  Who was I to refuse a request like that?  By the end of the workshop and my stint on her futon I knew what I needed:  some non-clinical, hands-on, deep stretching, relaxing beyond belief bodywork.  Sooner rather than later.

And so, last night, I met Terri at Esprit-de-Core.  She set up her mat, asked me to lie down and put a pillow under my head.  I closed my eyes and handed my body over to her capable hands.

Thai Massage is practiced fully clothed.  More fluid than Assisted Yin, Terri pulled, held and dragged my body from one position to another for ninety minutes.  She drew me into backbends, forward bends and twists.   If Assisted Yin gives Yin Yoga to the receiver then Thai Massage, in its own way, offers a nuanced classic Yoga experience.   Most of the time I had my eyes closed and allowed the work to happen to me rather than feeling I had to actively help.

Any massage is, of course, physically therapeutic, but Terri’s energy tuned into my need to clear a little emotional baggage.  It wasn’t long before I released a few sighs and then a few silent tears.

I love Thai Massage.  Of all the massage techniques I’ve experienced, it remains a favorite.  But if you’re new to bodywork, or have never tried Thai, these tips may help:

  • Wear very loose, very comfortable clothes.
  • While the technique is practiced fully clothed, in many ways the work feels more intimate than classic massage in that the practitioner may need to place her hands and feet in unusual locations. For instance, to help stretch my shoulder, Terri put the heel of her foot in my armpit.  To work my hamstring, she “walked” her feet on the back of my thigh.
  • Be prepared to hand yourself over.  It’s important that you trust your therapist.  If you try to help while she positions your body you’ll lose some of the therapeutic benefits of the treatment.
  • Avoid eating a few hours prior to your Thai Massage.  You’ll feel better receiving the treatment on an empty stomach.
  • Drink plenty of water afterwards.


To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

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Good Question…

I was introducing a group of Spanish-speaking clients at the pain clinic where I teach yoga to the power of Yin.  A young man dressed in baggy jeans and a baseball jacket gingerly attempted to find a twist that challenged him yet did not aggravate the injury to his lower back.  He positioned a small bolster under his left thigh, relaxed and closed his eyes.  A moment later, through his interpreter, he asked me,

“Where is the mind supposed to go in these poses?”

The question, considering his lifetime practice of yoga amounted to approximately sixty-two minutes, was remarkable.

How was I going to answer without delving too deep, too soon, into all the possibilities?

I told him that in some practices we focus on the breath, or gaze toward a particular point, but in Yin we can close our eyes and free the mind to travel, and that each new position might bring up a different set of emotions or memories.

And then I confessed that there have been times during my Yin practice when I’ve entered the trance state I like to call “napping”.  Seriously.  While Yin’s startlingly challenging stretches are percolating into my connective tissue, I’m dozing.  Sometimes I can even fit in a thirty-second dream.

Speaking of Dreams…

Shortly before I woke this morning I had one of those weird “what does it all mean” sort of dreams.  Listening to someone tell the story of a dream is a bit like having to sit through four hundred photographs of Uncle Mort’s week in the Poconos.  But stick with me.  This gets good.

It was the sort of dream our subconscious constructs to help us find answers.

I’m teaching yoga to a group of people dressed for Carnivale. Every one is wearing a mask.  I can only identify one or two people and even then only based on their ‘energy’.  The scene is disordered and chaotic but not upsetting.

I am told I’ve been diagnosed with a serious illness.  To be healed, I must take the medicine handed to me in an ornate bottle. But I don’t want anyone to discover that I am ill so I hide the bottle.  Meanwhile, we’re all going on a journey and all my students are packing suitcases and gathering tickets and it’s happy mayhem.  In the excitement, the medicine gets lost in my baggage.

And then Max, one of the felines I’m currently taking care of, jumped on my chest, woke me up and I never discover if I take the medicine or if I’m able to leave on the journey.  The last thing I remember in the dream is accidentally handing over a fifty-dollar bill as a tip, realizing my mistake, taking it back and replacing it with ten dollars.  Odd.  I’m usually more generous.

That dream is going to settle over me for the rest of the day like a satisfying film.  I can still feel the mood of the dream – the tiny moments and the colors – all dark shimmering blues and silver.

I’m open to your interpretations, but I think the one thing that can heal me becoming lost in my baggage is pretty telling…

On that note, just to tie some loose ends from previous posts and to take a few tentative steps into the future:

  • No, I still haven’t canceled my cable.  Yet.  I will.
  • I’m no longer vibrating.  My beating heart has stilled. I feel more grounded than I have in months (although you might disagree when you read further).
  • I enjoyed my last day with the critique group.  I read a personal essay about how difficult it has been to process the reunion I had with my mother in September and how, when my heart was finally open to needing a mother, she wanted to talk about the weather.  Pete cried.  Terry and Henry said, “That’s the best thing you’ve ever written.” Terry added, “Submit it.  Now.”   I came home, cleaned up the formatting, wished it well and sent it off to a few magazines.  Fingers crossed.
  • I’m looking forward to the Thai Massage I’ve scheduled for Friday.  Thai Massage is a bit like having yoga given to you.  I’m pretty desperate for some bodywork.  Can’t wait.
  • And now, for the  You’re Doing WHAT? moment.  In the pursuit of new experiences, to satisfy my curiosity and to venture outside my normal comfort zone, I’m having my Tarot Cards read today.  Yep. It’s all right.  Go ahead.  Even I’m rolling my eyes.

Like a Pig in Muck

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That’s me.  Wallowing in sorrow like a pig in muck.  That’s what I’ve been doing.  Well, you know what?  My life isn’t about wallowing; it’s about joy.  The past ten days have seen me in a sorry state.  But why?  The weeks before that – beginning as far back as early January – were spectacular. Nothing extraordinary was happening.  I just felt good.  You know – the sort of good that makes every mountain of struggle an easy molehill. That kind of good.  Anything was possible.  And it kept getting better.

Until it all came to a screeching halt about ten days ago.

The Universe gave me a wee nibble of how exceptional life could be.  I was holding the most wonderful gift.  But as I stood there, wondering what to do next, in total disbelief that this was happening to me, the Universe reached down, snatched the treasure out of my hands and said, “Oops, sorry dear.  Did you think that was for you?  Sorry for the mistake, love, but you can’t have this.”

The Universe is a real tease.  (I’d prefer to use slightly saltier language right about now but it’s not my style.)

Hence the wallowing.

But what’s a chronic optimist to do?  Here’s the thing:  I can kick adversity’s ass.  My ability to put a positive twist on circumstances has driven my more pragmatic friends to drink.  I’ve been labeled a Pollyanna, naïve, vulnerable and, on occasion, just plain stupid.  I expect the best to happen.  Always.

It’s a curse.  There should be a ten-step program for people like me.

Because when the best doesn’t happen, when the errant curve ball I didn’t see coming slams into my chest at one hundred and ten miles per hour, it hurts like hell.

Still, I can only give myself so much wallow time.  As far as I’m concerned it’s better that I let my heart hold on to how wonderful it was to hold the gift at all rather than blacken it with all this feeling sorry for myself baloney.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

Besides, we really don’t know how these things are going to turn out.  Anything could happen.  Right?  Right.

On another note entirely this article in the latest Newsweek – the one with my beloved George Clooney on the cover – expresses my concerns about the development of Yoga in the West.

And when this article showed up on my Facebook feed I had to respond:

There is enough competition in life.  Enough opportunity to feel not good enough.  To feel a failure.  That is not why I practice Yoga.  I practice Yoga to open my spirit to possibility and to fill my heart with joy.  I practice Yoga to recover and to return to a place of peace when my life feels broken.

And sometimes, even a chronic optimist’s life feels broken.

Potential

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On my mom's fridge: a photo of house I lived in as a child.

I don’t know what to say about the past month.  I’m pretty thrilled February is barreling right into March.

I broke up with my critique group this week.  It had been fomenting for months, but I couldn’t find the courage.  Each time I summoned the strength to leave, someone else would drop out or move or drift away and I would feel the guilt of their leaving strong enough to enroll for another eight weeks.  Now that I’ve finally let go, I’m wondering what not having five fresh pages to share each Wednesday afternoon will do to my writing.

It wasn’t your typical critique group.  We didn’t see one another’s work until the day we met, and then we had fifteen minutes – sometimes twenty depending upon who was in attendance – to read and receive comments.  My strategy was to bring in about five minutes of reading so I could receive ten minutes of review.  Others in the group enjoyed spending most of their time reading, with little time for feedback.

You can see how one might become frustrated.

At the end of the day, though, the group gave me discipline.  And developing discipline is priceless.  I wouldn’t have a novel length manuscript under my belt if our leader Terry Galanoy hadn’t said, “That’s a good idea.  I want five pages next Wednesday.”  Classic critique may have been pretty thin, but encouragement and support was heaped upon me.  I’ll miss them.

In February I received my Get Out of Jail Free Card.  This is more difficult to explain.  I guess I had one of those experiences that cast a sliver of light on a very dusty part of my soul.   I had an awakening, of sorts.  A door opened.  That’s a good thing.  But if you’re old enough to remember the opening sequence of the 1960’s classic “Get Smart” then you know that behind the open door is…another door.  In other words, I have an awful lot of work to do on myself before my Get Out of Jail Free Card is valid.  I reckon a good couple of years.  But when that final door opens – it will be well worth the work and the wait.

At my penultimate meeting with the critique group, the only other women attending that day asked me, “What is your theme?” The men were staying shtum as the scene I had read was about a protagonist’s first menstruation.

I couldn’t answer her.  I hemmed and hawed until at last she answered for me.

“You are the sum total of your experiences.  Or not.  There has to be room for potential.”

I am the sum total of my experiences.  Or not.

Faith, Strength and Losing Control

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On the Tuesday morning that I cried in the shower, something very freeing happened.  I let go of the rules I had imposed upon myself and gave myself permission to write about anything I wanted – simply for the joy of putting “pen to paper” as it were.  (Except, of course, it’s rare anyone actually puts pen to paper these days.  Maybe I should have said, ‘fingers to keyboard’).

I don’t believe I was aware of how immobilizing my good intentions were.  The truth is facing the tables I had created to chart my progress only charted failure.  I could never meet the high expectations I had set for myself. They had to go.

I know there are plenty of writers, teachers and life coaches who would suggest I’m making a terrible mistake.  That if I don’t have a plan – if I can’t see a clearly defined goal – then I have no chance of reaching it.  I’m willing to take that risk.

Besides, I do have a goal.  It’s simple: be a better writer.

You’re right.  It’s a goal that can’t be quantified.  I won’t be able to – in five weeks or five months or five years – announce to the world “I’ve done it.  I am now a Better Writer.”  It will require faith.  And it will require that I let go.  I have to believe that if relinquish control of the flow chart that took over my life and instead find the strength to build a deep and unshakable foundation of discipline – if I write every day, relentlessly, without fail, about anything I want – then I will learn how to write.  I will be a better writer.  Goal.

As much as I would like, someday, to have those other things – a book to call my own and an audience who want to read it – I must consider this time in my career as a writer a precious gift.  This is my time to explore, to make mistakes, to discover if I have an affinity for fiction or personal essay.  It’s my time to provide myself the space to discover who I am as a writer.

And that’s what I’m going to do.

Change is Good

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Living a healthy life is accepting change. It’s about understanding how we can keep ourselves mobile, strong and flexible even as change occurs.

I’m writing this thinking about several yoga students of mine who perceive the changes that occur as we age as failure.  They seem to become angry and frustrated.  I can tell by the noises, sighs and aggravated grunts during our asana practice.

But Yoga is an act of loving kindness that we give ourselves.  Yoga is compassionate.  We can expect more from our bodies because we practice asana, but we should know by now that our bodies change from day-to-day, moment to moment.

A pose that feels good on Monday may feel bound and restricted on Wednesday and exhilarating by Friday.

Resistance – whether it is physical or mental – encourages frustration.  “Why can’t I reach the floor?” “How long are we going to hold this?”  When we should be releasing into the pose we actually begin to tighten.  We thwart our potential and deny ourselves the freedom of full expression.  Resistance is an argument we have with ourselves about agendas and expectations and judgement.  Instead of resisting, embrace what is.

During your practice, accept change.  At the same time, open your body and breath to the idea that anything is possible.

 

Free to a Good Home: My Brief Career as a Volunteer Journalist

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Last month a local non-profit organization asked me to do a little ‘volunteer writing’.  You know how it is – we’ve all done it, right?  We’ve been writing for years – maybe decades – but because we don’t have the Pulitzer we expected by age twenty-five and can’t add ‘MFA’ to the back of our name, we consider ourselves ‘hobbyists’.  Out on a lark.  Playing around.

Two little 800-word biographies of a local artist and a local volunteer.  What could be so hard about that?  A cakewalk.  Of course I said ‘yes’.

Never again.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not saying “no” to volunteering – non-profits depend on volunteers. I’m just saying “no” to volunteer writing. Ask me to be a clown, to serve meals, to read aloud – I’m there.  But don’t ask me to write.

I’d heard this sentiment before (watch this video of Harlan Ellison) but I didn’t understand.  And I still didn’t understand when I sailed through the first biography without a hitch.  Then it was time to interview my second subject.  I had my first inkling things wouldn’t sail as smoothly when – unaware that it was I who was doing him the favor – my subject arrived fifteen minutes late for our interview.  A few days later, after sending him a rough draft of the article, his email reply opened with “thank you for your efforts”. My efforts?

For some reason, that bugged me.  It bugged me bad.

The individual had some suggestions, which – despite having my hackles up – I was open to.  Some of his suggestions added depth to the story and clarified a rambling anecdote. But the three-hundred word quote explaining his thoughts on a life well lived? Not so grateful.

Still, I made the changes and submitted both articles ahead of schedule.  And waited.  Not a word.  From anyone.  I waited five days and then sent another email.  And waited.  Finally, confirmation arrived that the articles had indeed been received and only needed minor editing. Oh, and by the way, thank you.

And thus ended my very brief career as a volunteer journalist.

Am I being too sensitive? Probably.

But here’s the lesson I learned.  I will continue to work for a good cause.  But I will not give away the very same talents I use every day to pay my rent and put food on my table.

As a writer or visual artist, how do you feel when you’re asked to give your talent away?

 

Fear Trips Us Up

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I like WordPress.  Have done since the leader of a seminar I was attending encouraged all of us to write a blog as one step toward building a platform.  At the time – this was about three years ago – I was only beginning to understand how our lives were being impacted by the growth of social networking.  I’m certain I didn’t understand how to set up a blog (although I had fumbled around a bit with Blogger) and I hadn’t grasped the long-term influence blogging might have on my writing future.

But now, thirty-six months later I’m quite comfortable spilling my inner demons for the world to read.  I’m happy to share the struggles of an aspiring writer.  Let me correct that.  I’m not aspiring to be a writer.  I am a writer.  I’m aspiring to be a “successful writer”.  What is that?  How do we judge success?  Is it the first paycheck?  If it is – well – I managed that last year.  Or maybe it’s finding an agent.  Am I not a success if an agent wants to spend time selling the words I lay down on paper?  Ah yes, but I know it won’t be enough.  The book will have to be sold to a publisher.  And even then I won’t be happy until I’m on Oprah.  Or listed in the New York Times.  Or win a Pulitzer.

I dream – as the cliché goes – big.  I can see how long the road is, and, since that first and only paycheck just about filled my CRV’s gas tank – I can see how far I have to go.

So – getting back to wonderful WordPress:  as part of their commitment to the “post a week” concept they’ve been providing suggestions for topics.  I’m generally able to come up with my own – case in point my lambasting of the Yoga Journal Conference in my last two posts.  But today’s suggested topic intrigued me:

What’s the most important thing you’re putting off?

And why haven’t you done it yet? What do you need to make it happen?

I’ve been putting off making the kind of commitment it takes to be the successful writer I know in my heart I have to potential to be.  I blame my insane schedule.  I blame my raging hormones.  I blame my age – I really should have begun all this fuss earlier in life.  I blame the day of the week and the fact the sun shines on my computer screen at an awkward angle.  But none of those excuses are credible.  This is what it boils down to:

fear

Not fear of failure – I’m had plenty of failures.  I know how to brush myself off and climb back into the saddle.  I’m talking about fear of success.  What do I do then?  What happens if I actually succeed?

In the past, when I’ve thought about what success looks like, it has always involved being over-committed, flying back and forth to New York, rushing about.  Having to find my inner extrovert.  The pressure of always being good enough.  That’s the picture I painted in my head of success.

What if I paint a different picture?  What if the picture includes being able to afford a home of my own and a secure retirement?  What if the picture includes a schedule that allows me to teach the yoga that I love but also gives me solid days of secluded writing.  What if the picture includes – wait for it – a yearly vacation?

I feel better already.  Now I’m motivated.  But the question remains, how will I make it happen?

By taking the first step.

The Ugly Business of Yoga and What I Did in My Spare Time

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I decided to attend this year’s San Francisco Yoga Journal Conference mostly because Jason Scholder asked if I would help out at his Yoga Market Booth.  Jason is the inventor of the Three Minute Egg – my favorite yoga prop.  And I say that it’s my favorite prop not because Jason is a nice guy – although he is – but because it’s a versatile little piece of mandorla shaped foam.

But I digress.

I decided to attend the Yoga Journal Conference because Jason asked me to help. In exchange I’d be given a free pass to one or two of the classes being offered over the weekend.

Since classes were going to be free, then it just made sense to splurge on the conference rate rooms at the Hyatt.  And so I did.

One big problem.

I have a deep dislike for the business of yoga that only intensifies when I’m in an environment dedicated to the business of yoga.

Still, I could set that aside for ninety minutes of Yin with Sarah Powers and a morning of Yoga Nidra with Richard Miller!  I could drop my attitude and enjoy the gift.  Except both classes were sold out with no hope of my sneaking in.  But what about the other classes?  Yeah.  What about them? I had my heart set on Sarah and Richard. Everything else had a sort of “been there, done that, why bother?” ring to it.

So what’s a girl to do with a paid for hotel room and twenty-four hours to kill?

I floundered.  I checked emails.  Opened the mini-bar and quickly closed it again.  I turned on the television and took off my shoes.  The sun slowly settled as the buzz of a Friday night in San Francisco began to build.

In a reckless moment I considered ordering room service – something I’ve always wanted to do (I’m easily thrilled) but I came to my senses.  I left my room and rode the elevator down to the restaurant on the atrium floor.

Which is where I am now, enjoying a beautiful grilled shrimp and scallop salad with avocado, mango and shaved ginger.  Oh yeah.  And a glass of chardonnay as velvety as amaretto.

Today has changed from being the beginning of an exciting yoga weekend to being the start of a disappointing weekend.  But I can’t let that happen.  So I’m turning it into a writer’s weekend.

When I return to Room 408 I’ll crack the window in order to freshen the stale air that has a fetid base note of sour milk and pull on my jim-jams and wooly socks.  I’ll crawl under the stiff sheets of my king sized bed and do what I never really had a chance to do over the holidays.  Regroup.

Things happen for a reason.  The Universe tricked me into this downtime.  Thanks, Universe.

The Fat Content of a Fifty-Two Year Old Woman and other News

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It's corny, but in 2011 I 'heart' ME!

I know. Why do I need to spend money on a health club membership when all I really need to do is strap on a pair of sneakers and head for the great outdoors?  Except that really isn’t my thing.  I enjoy nature’s wondrous beauty standing still, not riding a bike over the Santa Cruz Mountains.  Instead, I crave stats.  I need to know calorie counts, miles tread, a hill’s gradient.  I need an elliptical.  And so, today, I returned to the place I forgot I loved.  The gym.  I confess.  I was nervous. I knew my fitness assessment was not going to go well.  And here’s the bad news:  thirty-two percent of me is fat.

But there’s good news, too.  My fitness level tests in the ‘good’ range for a woman my age.  Barely.  In other words, I can hit my maximum heart rate and still carry on a conversation, but I can only do two and half push-ups.  My flexibility is good (it better be) but I have postural imbalances that need to be corrected.

What went wrong?  Simple – like many of us, I stopped paying attention. I stopped packing healthy lunches and began grazing at the local Whole Foods.  And just because the food is from Whole Foods doesn’t mean it’s wholesome.  The hot bar has plenty of empty, fatty calories to choose from.  And I convinced myself yoga was enough.

And how can I fix it?  Easy. Mindfulness. Now where have I heard that word before…

I believe in Yoga.  I know it has helped my bone density, kept me as flexible as women half my age and helped me to manage stress levels.  But the style of yoga I love and the one that contributes most to my physical and mental health does not, unfortunately, contribute to cardiovascular health.  To do that, statistics vary, but most suggest thirty minutes of vigorous exercise five days per week.  In other words – I need to balance my Yin and Yang.  I need to regain some equilibrium.

I’m going to let you in on a secret.  I have a silly wish.  I’ve always wanted a lean, muscular body that shouts HEALTH.  It’s not about narcissism – it’s about how being fit makes me feel.  Which is fantastic.  Unstoppable. Confident.  Once – for a few years – I managed to maintain a decent enough fitness level to run 10-K’s on a regular basis. And to have been there and lost it is incredibly frustrating – especially since being physically fit is one of the best feelings in the world.

So I think I’m on the verge of doing something a bit crazy.  The trainer who conducted my fitness assessment today was good.  And I know enough about the body to know who’s good and who isn’t.  I want him to be my personal trainer.  How can I afford it?  I’ll cancel Comcast.  Or something.  I’ll figure it out.

The thing is, I’m tired of talking myself out of life.  Saying ‘no’ to the things I want because as long as bad things happen in the world I don’t deserve good things in mine.

Today the hosts of this blog, WordPress, suggested we write about our personal highlight of 2010. But how can I compare witnessing a Congressional Gold Medal Ceremony, or seeing my mother for the first time in twenty-eight years to joining a gym?  Yet making this commitment to myself – basically admitting that I am worth the effort – will impact my life more.  After all, I’ve heard it said you can’t love another until you love yourself.  Maybe it’s finally time for me to embrace that idea.

And now I have to ask.  What are you saying ‘no’ to? What’s your silly wish?