Ghost Cats

I have apparently survived the first week of school in spite of putting in a few 15-hour work days. My classroom, at least, is orderly. My living room, on the other hand, is littered with posterboard, curriculum guides, birthday charts and more--all work I'd like to finish before tomorrow morning. It's a tall order, I know, and so the year begins. My yoga this week has suffered. It's no wonder I dreamt last night that I was back at White Lotus in Santa Barbara for a week of yoga intensive and I had missed Beatrice's magnificent vegetarian lunch because I was busy taking care of business. This week I skipped out on what nourishes me because I spent the time taking care of a business that I hope will nourish my students. This is all OK. My practice yesterday felt good enough and I'm looking at a new week for both nourishing myself and others.

But this morning I'm getting to another story--the tale of a ghostly little intruder. Two weeks ago we were camping at Flaming Gorge, that last summer hurrah. Friday afternoon we received a call from the mother of the neighbor girl who we hired to feed our cats. Our door, she told us, was left open (What?) and when her daughter arrived a ginger tabby from two doors down had busted in on Argus and Odo and wreaked havoc. Our cats, normally mild and quiet boys, were in a puffy, hissy state and the scared girl closed the door on the entire scene and ran home, locking Gingerboy in our house. First off, let me state for the record that if our door had been left open for more than five minutes our cats would have been outside rolling around in the dirt and snacking on the green, green grass of home. But that's that. We asked our neighbor if she wouldn't mind walking over to our house to kindly banish the intruder cat from our home. We envisioned tufts of fur and pools of cat blood covering the carpet. At the very least we dreaded discovering piles of a not-litterbox-trained kitty's excrement. And what about the years of PTSD therapy to come for our boys? That evening we received a call that our neighbors had checked things out and our house seemed fine, the cats were calm and collected, and there was no evidence of any other feline presence. This was Friday.

Saturday my sister-in-law went home and was able to check out the scene. Same report, no other cat, the boys were mellow. We scratched our heads, wondered "What the???" and finished up our vacation. The house was fine upon our return. Our cats purred and made joyous infinity loops around our legs. Life was good. Monday, normal life. Tuesday, same. Tuesday near midnight my daughter went upstairs for a drink and saw a pale streak of cat run from the food dishes to the basement. A search high and low produced no cat. Kayla, infamous for a big imagination, was accused of hallucination. Poor girl. I spent Wednesday at school reading with my soon-to-be students, stayed late in my classroom. I drove home about 10 PM and picked up my girls from a friend's house. Chris had arrived home about that time and when he opened the door Argus was chasing the orange cat up the stairs and into our bedroom. Chris put Argus in the hallway, shut our door, and opened the French doors that lead onto our deck. By the time I arrived home with the girls the cat I'd only heard about had scrammed.

So this is my take on the strange, surreal incident. We go along in life thinking we know what's up. Life is so. For three days I lived in this house with my cats, my kids and my husband, just so. And all that time there was an unknown presence living, we presume now, in the wall space between our laundry room and the bathroom. I think I know myself, know what my feelings mean, where they come from. I have my stories, but I can still be surprised to discover that most likely I really know nothing about them at all. How can I explain moving along swimmingly in my day-to-day only to have a ghost cat emotion arise triggered by who knows what? I am moved to tears and sadness, and the usual explanations do not serve. Life is strange--a lot stranger than I let on to. It's my challenge to let go of my expectations and certainties to see what actually IS. We human beans have our safety nets--it's comforting to think we really know, but it's not necesssarily wise. I am suspicious of any strong opinions, my own or those of others. A little more flexibility is required so that you don't die of a heart attack when that ghost cat you were certain was not there races up your staircase to eat your cat's food.

Here We Go

The party's over. My family arrived home last night from the last of the genuine summer playtime excursions. We spent the last four days at Flaming Gorge Reservoir with friend Brian and his rather large family. Friday we rafted the Green River and Saturday we played in the water. I even taught an early morning impromptu yoga class on the rocks at the water's edge Saturday morning. The sun had been hiding behind the clouds so we called it out to play with some Surya Namaskara. We worked our way through the usual standing poses and then, because the students were all men or maybe just because it's fun and looks cool, we worked our way into bakasana. James had a little ashtanga experience and managed this quite well even given the slanted angle of his rock. Brian and Tyler moved into this arm balance with the fearlessness of a kid and both of them nailed it for a few seconds anyway. It was high energy and a lot of fun in a beautiful setting. After stretching out the hip flexors we took ustrasana, camel's pose, when I heard one of the best sounds a yoga teacher can hear, "Oh, this feels so good." And it did. Brian's niece, Izzy, took pictures and I made Brian promise he'd send them to me. I hope he remembers because I have a feeling these pictures are worth more than a thousand words.

There were more than a thousand words and accompanying emotions all tangled up in my brain this weekend, so what a relief to let some of them go. It was nice to unplug--no phone, no Facebook, no Hotmail. While my pescatarian family fished the lake I sat my vegetarian butt on a rock to observe the water, the light, and the faces of my daughters. I started this blog as a means to chronicle and perhaps inspire myself to live more simply, to keep in touch with what's essential in my life. All that is about to be put to the test as I dive back into my work--I'm an elementary school teacher. This year promises to be hectic and I pray (you know what I mean) I have the resources to come back to the emptiness I experienced after I'd looked at the water, light and faces long enough to be tired of it. I will be teaching my 2nd year of 2nd grade. One hundred and eighty days surrounded by 27 small people. I like to think they will learn to read and write well, but also hope that I will recognize that this is our LIFE--we are living our lives there in a classroom. Good teaching is a human experience. I will also be teaching more yoga classes. I have a regular Saturday gig at our community fitness center. I will be filling in for another teacher two evenings a week when she takes time off to have a baby. Additionally a good friend of mine is leaping into the adventure of opening a small studio where I'll teach one or two classes a week. Furthermore, I'm enrolled in a master's level program to obtain a reading endorsement. This is a two year commitment requiring one evening a week in class and I imagine much of my weekend writing and reading. And let me not forget my friends and family. Sound like too much? Where will I squeeze in my own yoga practice? That's what early mornings are for. This blog is to bring me back to remembering. Keep it simple--a consistent practice, a clean diet, time for breath and sleep and calm attention.

So here we go. I start the first of my teacher meetings this morning. I will frantically work to set up my classroom this evening and all day tomorrow. (I believe I'll bring my yoga mat and string together my own intuitive flow rather than hit a studio class today). Time to take a deep breath and dive on in.

I found my thrill (sort of)...

Thrill Hill post thrill--this pic does it no justice. The last 15 feet are sheer. 

Got back yesterday from the Madsen Reunion, an annual occurrence that takes place during Monsoon season at a family cabin in Southern Utah. Each year has its stories, but this year they are bigger, and some may argue better, than most. The one I'm about to tell you has the potential to be part of this family's oral narrative to be told and retold 'round the campfire for years to come. Or maybe not, I don't know. It feels that big now. Every teller is the protagonist of her telling. This is natural, so I make no apologies for shaping this blog in my own image even though the events I'm about to relate more rightly belong in someone else's tale. For me, Grandpa Leroy's ATV miracle was a lesson in interconnectedness and something else I can't quite put my thumb on.

I never quite look forward to these family gatherings the way my kids and husband do. I'm a private person and sharing living space with 16 others taxes my reserve. Cabin trips are the stuff of lore for my girls, though, something vital to their well-being. Their Grandma Terri, Chris' mom, has a strong drive to bring us all together and make memories and so reluctantly I go along. Terri and I used to be close but through the years our differences have become exaggerated and certain life choices and little disasters have exacerbated the estrangement. We meet over a Scrabble board once or twice a year and call it good. In my own head I'm convinced I'm not really part of this. It has nothing to do with me. I'm along for the ride, and if I can take enough brisk walks to quell any anxiety or rising irritability from the close proximity of 16 others with whom I feel little in common then I can make it through the crafting and group hiking and evening deer runs. 

The cabin is situated in Long Valley south of Hatch, Utah and just off Highway 89. It's an ATV ant hill riddled with dirt roads. In years past we could ride just about anywhere but little by little we are hemmed in by gates and no trespassing signs. It seemed we would have to content ourselves by riding the public access gravel only. Looking for some sense of adventure, my husband and daughter found what shall henceforth be known as Thrill Hill. It's a short trail carved into the hill with a decent lead up to a steep (I'll say 90 degree but you won't believe me, so let's compromise and say 88 degree) incline. With one driver or one driver and a small child you get enough speed to make it up the hill and catch a bit of air at the top. You can also ride it down from the top for that rollercoaster effect. On Saturday Chris and I ambled out for a ride, and after repeatedly turning back from blocked passages we headed for Thrill Hill for some adrenaline infusions. The weight of two adults, however, didn't allow for much of that. We maybe caught four inches of air at the top once. 

But this is where it gets weird, where the story becomes series of coincidences strung together and some seemingly impossible images that no one had time or even thought to capture with a camera or iPhone. Chris and I drove to the bottom of Thrill Hill and stopped just long enough for Chris to pick up the golf ball he had earlier hit across the ravine that separates the hill from the cabin. A surprisingly long drive. My daughter, Kayla, spotted us and yelled across the ravine. I could hear but not see her and merely noted how well sound carried through that distance. What accounted for the accoustics? We drove back toward the cabin and looking back once I saw my father-in-law with two neices seated behind him heading at a grandfatherly pace for Thrill Hill. Chris and I even commented on it asking, "Is that Leroy?" "Yeah, I think so." At the cabin I got off the ATV and my youngest, Brynn, got on. She'd been sulking for awhile for her turn but smiled her elvish smile, hopped on and away they sped. Immediately I heard screams from the other side of the ravine (the reverse accoustics just as good) and here's where thought stopped and instinct took over. These were my nieces' cries and not from any thrill. I heard, "Help!" and something about the 4-wheeler had tipped over and I ran. Straight through the ravine. My nephew and Kayla were behind me. Kayla ran back to tell the folks in the cabin. All I did was run. No thinking. I reached the hill at the same time Chris and Brynn reached it and saw my terrified nieces running down the hill in bare feet. I couldn't see the ATV or Leroy. Chris rode around the side to the top of the hill and I heard him yell down to me. My sister-in-law had just arrived at the bottom on another ATV so I sent the kids to her and turned toward the hill and there was Leroy's ATV resting at a 90 degree angle (and this time you'll have to believe me because any other angle would have meant he'd fall backward and be crushed under the machine). He was holding on to the handlebars, his head was over the drop-off of the hill. The ATV was perched there, just on the edge. I ran to the top and Chris and I held the axle from underneath but even with all of our weight we couldn't bring the front end down. We tried getting it to rock, but this threw Leroy off center, so Chris went to the back and dug his heels in as much as he could while I hung off the front axle. LeAnn had made it to the top to help as we were getting the ATV righted. Adrenaline aplenty for everyone, we stood there amazed at the laws of physics that held the ATV it its place, the coolness of head that got Leroy to hold on to the brakes and calmly tell the girls to get off to the side and run for help. We got the story that he'd been trying to take the hill at a slow climb in first gear for the girls' sake and as he reached the top he realized the were going to fall backward unless he gunned the gas which popped the rear tires just over the lip of the hill enough so that the vehicle could rest on its back. 

The rest of the gang had driven over and reached the scene of the crime by now. The girls were inspected and re-inspected--not a scratch. No scratch on Leroy either, though he had some very crampy hands. Then the stories began to flow. Each individual had a breathless detail to add--where he was when he heard the screams, how she scrambed to get on a 4-wheeler or into the car. Chris hadn't even heard them but arrived at the hill for a joy ride and saw the two girls running and crying. I heard a few versions where I "flew" across the ravine. Leroy had been sitting there before we arrived knowing he was not agile enough to roll quickly to the side should his hands give out before anyone came. The two girls had tried to push the ATV and then there were red ants there biting their toes. But I said I was shaping this version in my own image, so here's my epiphany, if I can manage. It resides in the silence of no thought but only action. I don't know how else to describe it. Any petty feelings of estrangement or self-pity or even self at all were not present. Last blog I wrote about the sense you can get in a handstand or a perfectly balanced yoga posture--even that doesn't quite reach the spot I'm trying to scratch, but it comes closest. It was an amazingly choreographed dance--all participants moving, or in Leroy's case, not moving, as they must to bring about the best possible outcome. The best I can say is that we were a single organism. And there's the truth of it staring me in the face. We are all interconnected, like it or not. I am as much woven into this story, this family, this human family, as anyone else. 

This isn't to say that it was all peace and joy for the rest of the vacation. No, we irritated each other, stepped on toes, shared a single sometimes smelly bathroom. But my Scrabble showdown with Terri was a bit sweeter, a bit more personal, and we shared a few details of our lives from common ground. Later that evening Terri was relating the story to a friend on her cell phone and said that angels must have been surrounding that ATV. I call it the laws of physics, but why argue semantics in times such as these?

Mmmmm.

This human bean had a great bike ride along the Provo River Trail last night. From my house to Vivian Park is about 18 miles--I think. Feel free to contradict me because I couldn't tell you if that's round trip or one-way. It takes about 90 minutes to get there and back again on my trusty green Specialized Rockhopper. She's nothing fancy, but she gives me a sense of freedom I haven't felt in years. I think about replacing her with a more slender-tired beauty with disc brakes and state-of-the art whatever, but then I remind myself that for about a month after I bought her from a neighbor's yard sale I was convinced there was nothing else in the world I wanted. Nothing. She's been good to me, and I'm as happy riding her today as I was then--still, that sleek Cannondale I tried out at Mad Dog's would be sweet.

Which brings me to the maddening conundrum of human desire--wanting. When I teach yoga I tell my students, among other things, that yoga is a balance of opposing energies. I encourage them to seek out that spot between too much sensation and not enough, tell them to reach out through their fingertips as they ground in to the floor. Somewhere in the middle of the extension is stability. There are moments in my own practice, a handstand, for instance, when that stability is reached and there is a calm weightlessness that feels like it could last forever. It doesn't last forever, of course, and I'm back in downward facing dog before you can complete your next Ujjayi breath. I expect that in between desire and contentment is a similar such sweet spot. We don't get there once and are cured for life, but come back to it as frequently as we can remind ourselves to be present and kick up and try again.

Well, my bike brings me back to the present. After the first 30 minutes my thoughts settle, first into some rhythmic kind of chanting (last night, thanks to my sister, Denise, it was to the tune of "Everything is meat, meat, meat," from the Popeye movie).  After the chanting quiets comes sheer joy in pedalling, in experiencing the cool spots under the shade contrasted with lingering pockets of summer's heat, and the smells and sounds all around. I don't wear an official biker's costume--just my shorts and a tank top. My water bottle is in my satchel slung over my shoulder. I'm even helmetless, though don't tell my daughters. Maybe I'd like to feel like a real cyclist on a sleek ride wearing only the best of Spandex, maybe not. A girl can dream, can't she? So far I'm fortunate, though, that the dreaming hasn't replaced the authentic pleasure of a simple ride through a canyon on a midsummer's eve.