Lists, Love and Epiphanies

An list from a few years ago...I'm exhausted looking at it.

There’s nothing like a Wednesday morning epiphany to get my juices flowing.  I’m still obsessed with the advantage and disadvantages of keeping detailed lists and goals and objectives.  The merits of having a game plan.  (I’m also wondering how we determine what is instinct and what is illusion but that’s for another post).

Yesterday I walked Rose the Labradoodle without my ever-present iPod and discovered that not having my brain bombarded with Green Day, downloads of Michael Krasny (I have a huge crush on his voice) and the occasional Miles Davis opened my brain up to the possibility of – yeegads – random, spontaneous, creative thought.  Who knew?  Unplugging the external cacophony gives us a chance to listen to what’s going on deep inside.

And here’s what I came up with on Rose’s walk yesterday:  Most writers create a story arc – an outline of who their characters are, where they’re going and how they’re going to get there.  A beginning, middle and an end.  The story arc is roughly hewn list that chronicles the events that move the plot forward, the set backs the protagonist may endure, and the big payoff – why the heroine began the journey in the first place.

But a story arc is simply a road map.  It’s malleable.  It’s possible to turn left and venture down an unmarked avenue.

Cue big flash of insight.

When I think of my life as a series of lists, goals and objectives I set myself up for failure and disappointment.  The list is too long, the goals are too high. All I can see in my mind’s eye is that white piece of paper and one bulleted 10-point Helvetica command after another. My self-esteem is fragile enough already.  Why would I do that to myself?

But – if I create a story arc for my life then I acknowledge that there has to be room for uncertainty, moments when I decide to turn left instead of right, unexpected opportunity.  It doesn’t eliminate a game plan – I still want everything I want with all my heart and I know that I have to work for it.  But in my mind’s eye I can see my arc play out like a stunningly framed Ang Lee movie.

So, good-bye dry, boring lists.  Hello, The Story of Mimm.

Take a moment.  If you’re a chronic list maker like me, how does it feel to release those rote set of goals for a moment and instead see your life as an amazing story?

Lists, Love and Equilibrium

At last, the dust seems to be settling.  How do I know?  I made a list.  This seems like a silly indicator that equilibrium is coming home to roost.  But I am the self-proclaimed Mother of All List Makers. My last impressive list was created in the middle of January from the Embarcadero Hyatt when, disillusioned by the Yoga Journal Conference, I hid out in my hotel room for the weekend and pretended I was on a writer’s retreat. Before that I had my list of New Year’s Resolutions.  And before that it was Fifty Things to Accomplish in My Fiftieth Year (that one began three years ago – I’m still working on it).

Lists are about control.  They make me feel safe.  If I have my list I know where I am supposed to be.  I know where I am going.  Nothing can hurt me or distract me or pull me from my path.  I have my list.  Here’s my list for today:

Monday 11 April

  • 6:00 Rise: Shower, eat, feed Rose & Bella, walk Rose, meditate, post blog
  • 9:00:  Tom in Sunnyvale; d/o new clothes and stuff at home
  • Leave car at Sarah’s (walk)
  • Credit Union
  • 11:00:  FMG
  • Lunch
  • 1:00:  Avenidas
  • Sarah’s:  Rest, write, walk Rose; flowers for Bobbie & Harkins
  • 7:30:  Yin
  • TO DO:  contact Ann re. workshop; follow through on lost paycheck, poop scoop,  look at Abby’s letters from week 4, check submissions, think about query letter for cadaver workshop, drop off envelopes at CYC

It’s very routine.  Nothing exciting.  And it continues to Sunday, when I leave for San Francisco and my weeklong cadaver intensive with Gil Hedley.  The most exciting moment is when I break from my Wednesday evening tradition (staying at home) in order to leave the house for a home cooked dinner with Bettie, Richard and Dena.

This week’s list reminds me of an incident that happened about eight years ago.  I was going though another difficult time and decided I needed to talk with someone.  At my first meeting with a therapist, I brought The Ultimate List. I was so proud.  It proved I really wasn’t troubled.  It proved I had my act together.  The list was eight pages of 10-point single-spaced Helvetica and covered the next five years of my life.  I can still see the astonishment behind the therapist’s attempt to remain neutral. She looked at me and asked,

“Why do you feel you need a list?”

Wasn’t it obvious?

I didn’t remain in therapy for very long – eight years ago there were too many doors I was unwilling to open and the ability to bore cyberspace with musings on some wacky thing called a ‘blog’ was merely a twinkle in some geek’s eye.

We all experience periods of difficulty (even yoga teachers).  The goal, I suppose, is to remain functional while processing the events in our lives that have knocked us off-center.  Lists keep me functional.

The danger is that they can shut us down.  Put us in a box. Lists can create a life so ordered and precise that there is no room for an open heart.  For love and joy.  For connection.

I want love and connection.  But for now, what I need is the safety of my list.

My yoga practice this week will nurture the equilibrium I’m returning to.  There will be plenty of balance poses – including my favorite, Garudasana – and strong standing sequences.  I feel I need the grounding precision of an alignment-based practice this week.  I also need to comfort my heart, and for that I’ll turn to the organic fluidity of Yin.

When you step on your mat this week, take a moment to check in with your emotional state.  If you’re leaning too far to one side, how can your practice help bring you back to center?

Learning from the Past to Connect with the Present

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My parents divorced when I was two years old.  That is not unique.  Plenty of parents divorce.  But this was 1960.  My mom and her new husband JD put my sister and I in the back of the family Buick and headed north, away from Texas toward my mother’s parent’s home in Pennsylvania.

I never saw my biological father again.  It was as if he never existed, and I was too young to know any different.  In fact, until I was twelve years old I believed JD was my real dad.  I overheard a private conversation between my Mom and JD and discovered the truth.  To avoid punishment, because I shouldn’t have been listening, I kept the discovery to myself.  I didn’t ask questions, I didn’t confront or throw a tantrum.

But I did what I think most twelve-year-old girls would do – I fantasized about meeting the man whom I was part of one day and calling him ‘Dad’. I didn’t know the circumstances of his divorce from my mother. I didn’t know he was prone to violence.  And I didn’t know I was too late and that a woman he had pushed too far had picked up a gun and shot him three times in the back.

When I was sitting at my mother’s kitchen table this past September I asked to see a photo of my dad.  She looked at me, sighed then walked back to the end of her double-wide trailer and retrieved three thick scrapbooks.  Over the next four hours I looked at images burnished by time of people I never met but somehow felt connected to.  I searched faces hoping to find someone who looked like me.  Maybe I had Annie Barber’s nose; or maybe my blue eyes came from a cousin in Colorado. Mom told me about their talents “he was a musician”  “she loved to paint”  “your Great Aunt Mimm was a real cut up” and then, when we reached the third photo album, “here’s your father.”

She handed me a black and white photo about the size of a matchbox.  A man wearing flannel pajamas holds a tiny baby to his chest.  The baby is me.  There’s a small Christmas tree standing on a table behind him, and evidence of torn wrapping paper.  I was born in November.  I am one month old.

My reaction caught my mother and I by surprise.  I did not inherit my mother’s talent for stoic rationalization.  I began to sob.

“What are you crying about?” she asked.

I could not stop looking at the photograph.

“I’m trying to figure out where I fit in.”  I took a breath and sucked back my tears.  “I don’t know where I fit.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

Of course she didn’t.  This was something I had to discover for myself.

I continued to examine the image.  I searched his dark eyes for any sign of anger.  I examined the angle of his head – did he seem annoyed?  And then I looked at his hands.  His huge hands cradled me carefully.  In that moment, as the click of the shutter captured darkness and light, my father loved me.

So often in our Yoga practice we are asked to ‘stay present’.  We’re told to not venture into a past we can do nothing about and cautioned against veering into a future we can’t predict.  But if we don’t understand how our past has shaped us it becomes more difficult to understand the choices we make in the present.

In order to be fully grounded and engaged with our authentic self, we must keep a connection with our past.

How has your past shaped your present?  How does your past influence how you feel about your future?

There’s Healing in Staying Still

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In late May of 2005, on my first full day in America after a decade away in Donegal’s cool and rainy climate I stood outside of my hotel room in the Nebraska sun with my former college art professor.  I was wearing a short-sleeved cotton blouse and cotton trousers.  I remember how those clothes felt strange to me.  Too light.  Too feathery and thin against my skin.  But as we walked to Richard’s car across the blacktopped parking lot at ten o’clock in the morning the sun began to penetrate.  It began to heat my blood and wrap around my bones. I felt my body melt and become limber.  My damp and moldy joints began to flex. For the first time in ten years I felt warm.  Warm through and through.

Today is one of those breezy and blue Northern California days that beg a person to come outside to play.  And while I’m not so much in the mood for playing – despite Rosie the Labradoodle’s persistent attempts – I am in the mood to feel warmth wrap around my bones.  I’m in the mood to be still.  I’m in the mood to close my eyes and experience the change of temperature on my skin as the clouds roll over the sun.

I’ll practice yoga today, but not on the mat.  Today I’ll find my yoga practice in the sound of a kid practicing violin a few doors down, the shouting squawk of two blue jays in the plum tree and the persistent hum of traffic on Homer Street.

While life spins around me, today my body, my heart and my spirit will stay still.

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

Ouch.  OUCH.  May I please say it one more time?  Ouch.

You may have noticed that my posts have been all over the emotional map for the past ten weeks.  I tried to stay on topic.  But I couldn’t. I was too preoccupied by wildly fluctuating hope, joy and despair.  Manic would be an appropriate description.  And what else other than out-of-control peri-menopausal hormones would bring on such mood swings?  Well, you know what?  I don’t really want to go into it.  Let’s just say it’s time to dust myself off and resume regularly scheduled programming.

As the weeks progressed and it became clear that I was not going to have the happy ending I wanted, I found myself seeking solace in the things I love:  teaching yoga and writing.

My mind would not settle long enough to write anything more than a few short essays.

But the yoga?  The yoga was a blessing.

I filled classes with gentle heart openers and soothing forward bends.  When I needed grounding I took classes through strong Warrior sequences.  When the friendship was going well I celebrated with Flying Dragons.  And when it wasn’t we did Flying Dragons anyway.  In my Yin classes I challenged myself to teach poses that wouldn’t be my favorite.

At home, I began the meditation practice I’ve been talking about since August.

But the last two and half months have left me in this strange place of being grateful for the experience of love and connection – no matter how brief the time was – yet mourning for the tremendous loss.  I’ll admit it.  I’m sad.

It seems sometimes that because we practice yoga, because we are teachers, we somehow have the means to rise above heartache.  It’s not true.  I teach yoga. And I’m human.

Margaret’s Brain on Ice

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One year ago today it was standing room only in Emancipation Hall on the lower floor of our nation’s capital. I was there, with most of Margaret’s family, to see her receive her Congressional Gold Medal for service as a civilian WASP pilot during World War II. Twelve months later, Margaret and I still meet every other Thursday at 10:00 in the morning for a yoga lesson.   Her body doesn’t move as easily as it did last spring. Her joints ache, especially her shoulders.  Her mind, however, is as sharp and sassy as ever.

Today I suggested icing her shoulder after our workouts.

“But I can’t be fiddling with that stuff – it leaves no time for poetry.”

Her voice was a layered mix of smoke from the ten cigarettes she treats herself to each day and 87-year-old ornery mischief.

“What?”

“If I’m messing around with those damn ice bags, Mimm, I can’t think of the lines of poetry.”

“You mean having a bag of ice on your shoulder…”

“It muddles my brain, Mimm.”  She laughed and cleared her throat.  “If I’m doing all that ice and heat stuff to keep things moving, well, it’ll move those lines right out of my brain.”

I shook my head in disbelief and began to pack up my equipment.  That’s when she began:

She is as in a field a silken tent

At midday when the sunny summer breeze

Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,

So that in guise it gently sways at ease,

And its supporting central cedar pole,

That is its pinnacle to heavenward

And signifies the sureness of the soul,

Seems to owe naught to any single cord,

But strictly held by none, is loosely bound

By countless silken ties of love and thought

To every thing on earth the compass round,

And only by one’s going slightly taut

In the capriciousness of summer air

Is of the slightest bondage made aware.

“That’s Robert Frost.”

“That’s beautiful, Margaret.”

“How am I supposed to remember that with a bag of ice on my shoulder?”

“I don’t know, Margaret.”

I was all packed but I didn’t want to leave.  I love Margaret.  Sometimes when I arrive and she opens the door she’ll stand for a moment.  Her nearly sightless eyes will look me up and down and she’ll ask,

“What fresh hell is this?”

How could I not love her?

We laugh together.  We solve the world’s problems.  We work on solving mine, too. She does not give me a single inch of leeway.

Today we talked about death.

Margaret taking a look at her Congressional Gold Medal with her magnifier.

“I’m not ready to go yet,” she said.  “I like what’s here, and I don’t know what’s there.”  And then she began to recite Emily Dickinson.

In 1944 this tiny, pixie haired woman flew military aircraft so large she needed two pillows and a packed parachute to reach the rudder.

If Margaret doesn’t want to ice her shoulder because it muddles her brain, she doesn’t have to.

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.

 

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.

.

Come On, Everyone, Get Happy!

I am getting tired of people confusing the hope and optimism I experience on a daily basis for naivety.  Seriously.  Get over it.  I can’t help myself.  I’m a happy person.  A few years ago I had a roommate who enjoyed calling me a ‘Pollyanna’ whenever I expressed any positive thoughts about – well – about pretty much anything. And then, over the weekend, my Mom said to me, “I was naïve like you are.  I trusted everybody.  I believed in love…but you can’t trust anyone.”

It must be very sad to wake up every morning believing there isn’t one soul in the whole wide world batting for you.

Listen, it’s not like I spend my days skipping through imaginary fields of flowers, the air filled with birdsong and woodland creatures gathering ‘round to bask in my glow of giddy positivity.  It’s not like that at all.

Anyone who’s been near me when I’m pre-menstrual knows I have a fierce snark streak.  Traveling companions know that I throw f-bombs at bicyclists who run stop signs (not directly at them, of course – I wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings). And don’t get me started on people who bring more than fourteen items to the Express Check-out line at the local Safeway.

Like everyone, my moods vary.  They can cover the gamut of the Seven Dwarfs in the time it takes you to watch an episode of the Big Bang Theory.  But underneath it all is the knowledge that everything will be all right.  This isn’t a ‘hope’ or a ‘wish’ – it’s a knowing.  I know.  Some people wear their bitterness and cynicism as if it’s something to be proud of.  But if I didn’t know there was good in the world – or the potential for joy in every moment – I would lose my mind.

Opening Your Heart

The truth is, while I believe it’s possible for individuals to have a predisposition toward being either preternaturally happy or melancholy, it’s yoga that elevates my mood and keeps it elevated.

Of course there are other mood enhancers, but why would we choose a cheap, processed sugar-filled meal over a fresh, organic feast?  The first might provide a fast high, but it’s inevitably followed by a mighty crash. A regular yoga practice sustains me.

Let’s Get Physical

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand that the asanas in yoga have a physiological effect on our body.  We can feel the stretching and strengthening, the twisting and the rush of blood.   But the poses have an emotional effect as well.  For instance, forward bends tend to be calming while backbends are heart-opening energizers.  And that’s pretty much any forward bend or back bend.   As you might have guessed – I’m a big fan of the back bend.  My favorites?  Simple, supported poses that utilize props to protect the lower back:

How simple is this?  Nancy has used Three Minute Egg blocks to arch her spine and support her head.  But the same effect can be achieved with a bolster and pillow.  And you can see the lift in her chest as well as the way her shoulders open back.  Her legs are straight, but knees can remain bent or placed soles of the feet together in cobbler’s pose.  Come out of the pose when your body tells you to (although I wouldn’t hold the pose longer than ten minutes – but that’s just me).  Follow the pose with knees to chest.

Not only will opening the heart energize and enhance your mood, it will reverse the chronic rolling forward of shoulders computer work and driving encourages.

Go ahead – get happy.

A Private Practice

One of the things I promised myself when I returned from teacher training was that I would continue with the 30-minute meditation we practiced each morning.  Without fail I would rise at the crack of dawn and sit in quiet contemplation.  Every morning.  For thirty minutes.  Without fail.  Oh yeah, and then I’d add thirty minutes of yoga.  Adding this to my crowded schedule would have the alarm going off sometime around five.  That’s actually before the crack of dawn.

And yet, I tried.  For about three days.  Until my plan was shot down by my pesky snooze alarm.

So how do we do it?  How do we keep the promises we make to ourselves?

Easy.  One step at a time.  With forgiveness.  By accepting that the desire to change should be a joy and not a chore.

The new plan?  Three days a week.  Ten minutes at a time.  Either in the morning or the afternoon.  On some days maybe both.  And when it becomes a part of who I am, then four days a week, and then five.

You see where I’m going here.  It doesn’t matter if it’s meditation, or asana practice, or going to the gym.  Change doesn’t happen over night.  We don’t go to bed on a Sunday evening and wake up on a Monday morning a new person.

It takes commitment and patience.  It takes love.  And we’re worth it.