Mani/Pedi Om

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Last Thursday I indulged in a gel French manicure and a pedicure.

My unrecognizable hands now look as though they’re ready to become the newest cast members of any Real Housewives franchise.  My toes, tipped in red, are perky little Phalanges of Joy.

I didn’t stop there.  Lady Clairol stopped by and washed the blossoming swath of grey on the right side of my head away with a box of Medium Cool Brown.

Next stop?  Oh, I think I’ll have someone apply and then brutally rip away molten wax on my lip, chin and a few other places I’d rather not mention. It’s time to take care of the excess hair that has plagued me since puberty.  It’s just what my self-esteem ordered.

If only I could nurture my inner beauty with the same zeal.

I have a difficult time with balance.  I sometimes ignore the shades of gray and go right for the black and white.

This is not a particularly strong quality for a yoga teacher to have.

But I’ve been working on it.

I’ve figured out that I CAN have a pedicure AND care about Japan.  I can wear nice yoga togs and buy the guy who sits in front of Whole Foods a sandwich.  It’s not one or the other.  I can do both.

I can care about my Self without sacrificing compassion for others.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m never going to win any awards for altruism.  I don’t give a percentage of my income to charity, I don’t tithe, and to be honest, the guy outside of Whole Foods sort of bugs me.

Maybe it boils down to give and take, checks and balances.  Or maybe I never quite figured out that we all deserve to have a little fun – a little joy in life.  That includes the guy outside of Whole Foods.  But it includes me, too.

Mani/Pedi Om.

Harvest Follows Trust, Not Control

Harvest follows Trust.

I’m great at control.  Trust?  Not so much.  Surprised?  How could a yoga teacher not embrace all that life has to offer with an open heart and unending faith in the Universe?

Easy. I’m human.

Remember eight days ago, when I wrote “I can kick adversity’s ass”?  Well, I’m not really feeling it anymore.

A friend continues to remind me of Rumi’s words “the cure for the pain is in the pain.”  To be honest, I find deeper comfort here:

Oh soul, you worry too much.

You have seen your own strength.

You have seen your own beauty.

You have seen your golden wings.

Of anything else, why do you worry?

You are, in truth, the soul, of the soul, of the soul.

It’s a scary thing, relinquishing control, opening myself to the possibility of disappointment or failure.  But what can I do?  My choices are limited.  I can stagnate.  Keep living the life I am living.  Or I can hold tight to possibility, spread my wings and fly.

The Stories We Tell: Open Doors

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We all have stories, don’t we?  Our stories shape us.  They direct us.  I was going to tell you a long-winded tale about how I came to teach yoga but to be honest – it’s a yawn fest.

Let’s cut to the chase:  there have been times in my life when I’ve shown strength and power.  There have been times when I’ve curled up into a ball, terrified.  It’s the human experience.  But I’ve always tried to pay attention to open doors.  In Donegal, when the door to yoga teaching opened, I stepped through.  I was almost two hundred pounds and had trouble reaching the top of Port Road in Letterkenny without stopping for breath.  I had never taught yoga before.

To prepare for my first class, I listened to my teacher’s voices.  My teachers taught with humor and compassion.  That’s how I wanted to teach.  I remembered how their kind words and gentle instruction brought me out of my head and into my body all those years earlier.  I remembered how they opened my heart and changed my perspective.  That was the kind of teacher I wanted to be.  I wanted to open hearts.

I arrived at the housing estate in Raphoe, helped to push back the living room furniture and listened as exhausted mothers chased their children outside to play.  And then, as six women stood in Tadasana, I asked them to close their eyes….

I never looked back.

My point is this.  I wasn’t afraid.  Nervous?  Oh, heck yeah.  But fearless, too.

We’re taught to make peace with the past, not to dwell in it.  We’re advised to not worry about a future we cannot predict.  We’re asked to flow in the present.

But how?  I guess it comes down to this:  we can’t be afraid to step through the open doors, even if we’re unable to see what’s on the other side.

If I can abandon my craving for control, if I can embrace the flow of the present, if I can charge blindly through the open doors, then maybe – just maybe – I’ll discover once again the girl who danced with arm flailing reckless abandon.

Fate, Faith & Free Will Part I: Or Maybe I’ll Just Keep My Nose to the Grindstone

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Tarot from Piedmont, n° 0 (Ël fòl / The fool]

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On Thursday afternoon I stepped out of character for an hour and had my Tarot cards read by Susan Levitt.  Susan has written several books on the Tarot, astrology and Feng Shui. In the early 1980’s I attended her workshops at the now defunct Two Sisters Bookshop, across from Stanford Park Hotel. In fact, for a time I dabbled in card reading myself.  But I could never get past thinking, “Seriously.  You’re telling me that the card I pull from the deck is my destiny?”

The answer to that, of course, is, “No.”  Maybe a card reading can offer some counsel, or maybe act as a guide.  Maybe it can gently usher someone toward the right path.  But rather than predicting the future, perhaps a card reading simply offers an interesting look at current conditions and how conditions might change based on the choices we make.

I chose to talk to Susan because I wanted confirmation.  Reassurance.  Proof.  Oh, let’s face it.  I wanted answers.  In the end, I did not hear what I wanted to hear.  But I was given plenty to think about.

So today I’m asking myself:  what is the difference between believing in the power of a deck of cards and the power of what most folks call God?  Because I don’t know that I believe in cards, but I do believe that there is an Energy in the Universe that is bigger than me.  I have Faith.  I believe in pre-determined Fate. And I know there’s a strong chance I’ve screwed up what was meant to be my Fate with a little bit of errant Free Will.

Quite often I find myself wondering what life would have been like had I not gone to Ireland.  In 1994, the year I left for my decade long Odyssey, I was a sullen woman consumed by envy.  I wanted what everyone around me seemed to have:  Love and connection.  Success.  Family.  A home.  I believed if I moved away from what fed my envy, I would find the life I craved.

It didn’t quite work out that way.

Part Two:  Hanged Men, Magicians and Learning to Yield to the Situation (no, not THAT Situation!)

 

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

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Ferry Building San Francisco after the 1906 Ea...

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I love the architecture of the Hyatt Regency on Embarcadero.  A cross between Logan’s Run and The Poseidon Adventure (after the rogue wave), it’s all sharp angles, shafts of light and heavy concrete.

The last time I was here greenery trailed from each floor like the Gardens of Babylon.  But this year, in an attempt to brighten a dark winter, a thick fringe of white lights hang from the ceiling ending about twenty feet above the atrium restaurant.  The effect is dizzying.  Seizure inducing if you’re of that ilk.

The good news.  I woke at 5:30 with a new game plan.  Galvanized.  Hopeful.  I jotted down a few ideas before they melted away, drifted back to sleep and woke again to see the red sunrise reflecting off the Bay Bridge.

After a shower I walked over to the Ferry Building, enjoyed a non-fat latte and strolled among the fruit and vegetable stalls.  Yes, I strolled (those of you who know me know that I do not, by nature, stroll).  I sampled fermented carrot (an acquired taste) and pickled okra (yummy even on an empty stomach) from the Cultured Pickle Shop and then made my way back to the atrium restaurant for breakfast.

I may have been a little harsh yesterday.  There are plenty of wonderful reasons to attend the conferences Yoga Journal hosts around the country, month after month, on and on, forever and ever Amen.  Ooops.  I think I meant to say “Om”.

Give me a moment to contemplate these reasons while I dig into a bowl of steel cut oats large enough to provide sustenance into next Tuesday.

Right.  Sorry.  Can’t do it.  Trying to defend these conferences is a little bit like me trying to defend chiropractics.  While I know having regular visits to a chiropractor resonates with plenty of people, it doesn’t with me (for the record, I’m a fan of acupuncture).  And I know there are attendees here who are being opened to new ideas, new ways of thinking, new poses.  New ways of being.  And, with all sincerity, that is wonderful.  But I’m not.  Because in the back of my head there’s a little voice whispering, “this isn’t what yoga is supposed to be.”

I think the epiphany arrived as I worked through a rack of organic bamboo/cotton blend/75% spandex yoga trousers woven by Blind Monks from Tibet.  Or maybe Alabama. The clothing was very beautiful and very, very expensive. The tag suggested that wearing the pants would change my life.  I’d find freedom.  Liberation.  Breathtaking beauty.  Wearing that particular brand of clothing pretty much guaranteed powers of levitation on the way to Nirvana.

I understand that we pay a price for what we love and that in the 21st century Yoga is Big Business.  But can we try to make it a better, more beautiful and honest business?  One of the reasons I support Jason and his Three Minute Eggs (see yesterday’s post here) is because he doesn’t promise Enlightenment.  He doesn’t suggest I’ll be more wonderful than I already am if I use his eggs.  He simply made a good prop better.  You have to admire his ingenuity while slapping yourself on the side of head and saying, “why didn’t I think of that?”

As far as teachers go, that’s why I admire Paul and Suzee Grilley and Gil Hedley.  They teach from the heart, with humility.  Yes, I pay for their teaching the same way I pay for Jason’s blocks.  But they share their knowledge with loving generosity.

My life challenge is jealousy and envy.  So I suppose there is always the possibility that these feelings of cynicism are coming from that dark place.  Would I feel the same way if Yoga Journal asked me to teach?  Am I jealous that I don’t have a book to hawk or a clever prop to demonstrate?  Maybe.  Maybe not.

Or maybe the truth is my heart is weary of watching the thing that has given my life depth and character being demeaned by the competitive marketplace in front of my eyes.

And maybe I learned more than I thought this weekend.

.

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.

Pain is a Squeaky Wheel

As I was leading my Tuesday evening class towards Savasana I had a brilliant flash of unoriginal thought:  Pain is a spoiled brat – a squeaky wheel that rattles and drags and pokes until it has taken over. It’s the child constantly tugging at our shirt tails – distracting us and pulling us away from our authentic selves. Yep.  Pain – physical or emotional – is a brat.  It always wants to be the center of attention.

And there we are, giving pain permission to tap dance across our shoulders, pound on our lower back or punch it’s way through our digestive system. How can we say ‘no’?  After all, it’s always there – always shouting – always demanding attention.   (And I guess this is where I should clarify – I’m not talking about the pain of illness, symptoms of disease or broken limbs – anything that means a visit to our primary care physician or – God forbid – emergency room.)

Pain loves being center stage.  But I believe, within us all, there’s peace waiting in the wings. I believe that there is a place in our body that is tranquil and quiet.  Calm.  It makes no noise – it doesn’t squeak or make a show of itself like pain does.  Sadly, while we’re giving all our attention to pain, we turn our back on calm. If pain is the toddler tugging at our shirt tails then calm is the quiet child we forget exists.

We need to listen.  Not to the squeaky wheel – at least not all the time – but to the silence.

Let’s find some time this week for stillness – to find the place within that holds our ability to be centered, calm and tranquil. Let’s breathe in peace and create the clarity and balance we crave.

Everyone is different, but this is what works for me:

  • My place of calm is my solar plexus, the hollow just below my breastbone.
  • When I imagine my breath moving into that space – my heart center – perspective returns.
  • To see the breath moving more clearly I’ve given it a color (yellow).
  • As I breathe I visualize calm filling my entire body until there is no room for discomfort or anxiety.
  • Finally, I see my breath, in my mind’s eye, moving outside my body, wrapping around me like an aura, protecting me.

Reading for Pleasure

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I read for pleasure yesterday.  Yes, that’s correct.  I read.  For pleasure.

The morning began like every other morning.  I woke, came down the stairs in the house where I’m taking care of Frodo the Magical Golden Retriever, and opened my notebook to check emails while the coffee brewed. (The dream I had last August of continuing the morning meditation and yoga practice begun during Yin Teacher Training has collapsed.  Old habits die hard – but that’s for another post.)

On this Saturday, my heart just wasn’t in the emails.  Or working on my novel The Growing Season.  I wanted more from the day than the same old routine.  And so I put down the laptop and picked up Gil Hedley’s Reconceiving My Body, cozied up on the couch, and opened to the first page.

Six hours later – with a few breaks for lunch and dog walking – I read the last sentence, “I truly appreciate your interest” and closed the book.

I’ve mentioned Gil Hedley before.  I’ve posted his “Fuzz Speech” online, as have many of my friends from Yin training.  I’ll be participating in a one-day anatomy intensive with Hedley in February and a one-week cadaver intensive in April.  Reading this book was the beginning of my preparation for these workshops.

The thing is, Gil Hedley is an odd duck.  Admittedly, so am I.

Reconceiving My Body is a love story.  Sort of.  It’s the story of how Hedley went from wanna-be-Priest to PhD to Tai Chi Guy to Rolfer to Somanaut to Husband to Father.  It’s a deeply personal story and yet the story he tells belongs to everyone.  Who hasn’t struggled with faith, with sexuality, with finding their path?  How many travel through life playing the role of the victim until we finally learn to take personal responsibility for our actions? Ultimately it is trust – not faith – that leads to redemption.

Good teachers are hard to find.  Based on what I’ve seen, what I’ve heard and now, what I’ve read – I found one.

(I know, I know…you’re heads are still wrapping around the idea of a “cadaver intensive.”  That’s all right.  So’s mine.)