Jimmy Buffett + Yoga + Christmas What's Not to Love?

Hell, I just wanted an excuse to talk yoga and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a clip from Yoga Jo's of Ogden, Utah, no less, and funny folk in yoga gear. A couple of cats are thrown in for good measure.  Toss in some Jimmy Buffet and nirvana's but a breath away.

I injured my hand over the holiday weekend. Walking through an icy patch with my hand in my pocket, I fell and one of my keys punctured through the fleshy muscle of the heel of my hand. That's a strange sensation. I walked over to an urgent care facility, conveniently located across the street from the condos where we were staying, checked in, waited 45 minutes without being seen, realized I didn't need to be seen, and walked out. The wound itself doesn't look bad, but it's deep, and yesterday was the first day since Saturday that I've been able to make a fist. Just tried down-dog. Fugeddaboudit.  Dammit. No, but in truth, I've been fascinated by process of healing that began almost immediately following the injury. Once the bleeding and throbbing stopped, I removed the bandage and watched water seep from my cells to clean out the area. Each day it hurts a little less and my muscle can handle a little more. The skin regenerates and the slit begins to zipper closed. And so it goes. A friend of mine calls it "lovingly accepting what is." What else is there to do?

I taught a class last night at OFC. I wasn't able to demonstrate as much, which actually was good for me. A new guy showed up, pretty fit and muscular, but stocky (a.k.a. tight, inflexible). Having missed his spinning class, he thought he'd give this yoga thing a try. It didn't feel like my best class, but this kid came up after completely enthused about yoga and the possibility of becoming flexible. Ah, yes, the yoga high.  So supposing he didn't push himself too hard and is feeling the pain today, I think he will return. Yoga converts are the best. What do you know about yoga? Would you like to know more? I'm not kidding when I say it is for anybody and every body. I'm also not kidding when I say that just about anything you do can be your yoga if done with that loving acceptance of what is.

What this all has to do with Jimmy Buffett, however, is anyone's guess.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K28vtJ6md1o

Shopping, Shopping, Shopping

Let's just get this one out of the way, it's so obvious a target. For all the griping about shopping not being the true meaning of Christmas, there's still an awful lot of it going on. I'm going to play devil's advocate for a minute and say that's just all right with me. Generosity is lovely. Keep it up, western world! But let's strike a balance between generous helpings and gluttony. Overindulgence is an aspect of the holidays I could do without. It leaves me feeling sluggish, sleepy, slow. I end up having to overcorrect by making outlandish New Year's Resolutions I won't keep anyway. My advice? Bag the bingeing now! If the economy depends on folks like you and me digging our financial graves and adding an unecessary five pounds to our waists then it ain't much of an economy worth supporting anyway. That's all I've got to say on the matter. This wasn't my favorite clip, but it's funny enough, and it's all I have time for on this first Monday following a holiday. Enjoy your day, friends!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ZveAyEMWJ0

Some Children See Him

I've always loved this one. Am I wrong in thinking it's tucked away inside "The Walton's Christmas Special" I last watched all those years ago? Maybe, but I remember hearing it on some such program and was moved. I also really love the Wainwrights who come together to create a little Christmas magic for us.

I do think about Jesus at Christmas time. The ideal projections he stands for still resonate: peace, non-judgement, compassion, maybe even sacrifice, though that's a charged word. I get a little confused when he's used to justify some of the wars we've gotten ourselves into or when folks invoke his name while seeking political power. That's not the same Jesus.

                                       O lay aside
                                        Each earthly thing
                                       And with thy heart
                                        As offering,
                                       Come worship now
                                        The infant king
                                       'Tis love
                                       That's born tonight.

In short, this season brings to mind our hope for peace and love. This song urges us to consider what is human and essential beneath all superficial differences.  I can't be cynical about that, though I recognize the flip side of being human is also to project our fears and anxieties onto others, demonizing them. There must be some way out of here (said the joker to the thief), some way to evolve.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1lPek1zY2M

Happy Existential Holidays

Lighten up! It's the most wonderful time of the year, right? This carol, straight from The Magnetic Fields, puts a smile on my kisser. Thanks, Stephin Merritt. I can't overlook the existential underpinnings to this ditty. Whether you're awaiting Sandy, Guffman, Godot, or simply pining away for that one thing that will end your suffering once and for all, welcome to the human condition! Stop mumbling and cheer up!

Here's how a girl who practices yoga and looks at experience through zen-colored glasses observes a season dedicated, at least in name, to Jesus. (I'll get to my respect and admiration for Jesus in episodes to come--you can pull the girl out of Mormonism, but not the Mormonism out of the girl entirely). It's also a season dedicated to light--easily word-played into enlightenment. I don't know what enlightenment is, exactly, but I suspect it's an awareness and acceptance of life as it is. Anyway, as Solstice approaches, we're also all awaiting the return of the sun and more enlightened daytime hours. That's ample symbolism and meaningfulness for me. Oh, and if you're out in the hustle and bustle of holiday shopping, all I want this year is a vial of laughing gas perfume, OK? Cheers, all!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8R9QTv6rngc

Tommy Doesn't Know What Day It Is

Oh, Reader, I've gone back and forth and back again on this holiday hit parade thing. I had a silly slapstick clip of an a capella choir and a sincere post on Frenetic Friday shopping all ready and written, but I think Ill kick off my little project of seasonal  melodies with  The Who instead. The Who? Yes, The Who. I won't  comment, philosophize, or even apologize too much today, though I can't promise to refrain from doing so in the future. I'm not sure how this exploit I've taken on will unfold. I have a few clips in the line-up, some sincere, some absurd, some hopeful, others ironic. Let's look at it more as an exploration of the edges of ambivalence and yet attraction for this season of winter holidays.  As an adult, comfortable with her choices, I still feel a sense of loss having shed some of the religious convictions of my childhood. I mean no disrespect to those who still have them. This will be an inquiry into what I can retain and what I can reclaim about the meaning and relevance of the season.

If you stumble across anything interesting you think might spur on an epiphany or even a mildly keen insight into how to celebrate or observe Christmas, I take requests. That's what the comment box is for.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YPmijD6jqHs

'Twas Brillig

Beautiful day in Park City, a good place for Thanksgiving with the extended family. We can come together to share a meal, a bit of conversation, and then retire to our own condo for privacy. The highlight of the day was a brisk walk/run in the powder. A few brazen magpies laughed at us (with us?) as we bounded downhill. I felt like a moonwalker in the cushiony powder.  Snow kicked up over the lip of my boots and iced my ankles, but it all felt good--the running, walking, barely warm sunlight on our skin, and  cold air passing through our nostrils. We got a couple of pictures on Chris' phone, not too clear, but you see the quality of sunlight in the aspens, and the long, slanted shadows. It was dark by 5:00, it seems, Solstice is still three weeks away.

I'm a blur, but the light was exquisite.

Chris' shot a bit clearer. Check out that sky

It's close enough to midnight I could post the first installment of my holiday hit parade right now, but I won't. A promise is a promise, and I refuse to play even ironic Yuletide tunes while it's still Thanksgiving. Tune in tomorrow. I hope your day was full, memorable, and touched by a bit of beauty to boot.

Hey, Rocky, Watch Me Pull a Yoga Class Out of My Hat

Whew! Tonight marks the end of strange moods. I was carrying a bit of funeral funk with me today, dragging my feet toward the yoga class I had to teach.  I'd had a long day with my 2nd graders trying to find the balance between their need to yak and learn socially and mine to live without a headache. Yes, even yoginis get the blues. But I looked at the faces of the group that had shown up on their mats tonight and shifted.  Magic, right? That's yoga for you.

Did I mention my 91-year-old grandpa is getting married? Optimistic to say the least. And why the hell shouldn't he? He's marrying the postmaster of my childhood. Bless their hearts. (This is my paternal grandpa. It was my maternal grandma's funeral this weekend, just in case you were wondering).

Here's a little ditty to sum it all up:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZACwVOJXpn0

Changed

We would rather be ruined than changed;
We would rather die in our dread
Than climb the cross of the moment
And let our illusions die.
~W.H. Auden

I've always been puzzled by the conundrum this poem presents. Is it foolish of us to die in our dread, or is there something heroic in human beings that we can hold on to our dreams and illusions in spite of the reality of the moment? I lean toward the first conclusion, but not without reservations.


Shortly after midnight the wind picked up, waking me from a new, light sleep. The chimes on the deck were ringing and in my subliminal state of mind I had the impression of alien space ships moving in, or some other cataclysmic occurrence taking place. I've seen one too many movies. It's funny how these things that spring from someone else's imagination can set a pattern for my own perception of reality. I spent the next ten minutes working to erase the preconception in order to hear and experience the actual windstorm outside my window. It was enough that I could feel the draft reaching its icy fingers under the crack of the french doors next to my bed. I watched the patterns of shadows shake with life on the window curtains. Eventually I fell back to sleep and didn't think about it again until standing outside the church where my grandma's funeral had been held. The small group of family stood outside the chapel door while the pall bearers escorted the casket to the hearse. The wind served as a second reminder to release expectations and see past old patterns to the actual experience at hand.


Here is what I saw at the viewing and funeral. Grandma was laid out in her casket, made up to look natural and less frail than she truly was. Her hands were folded across her abdomen. Her fingers, long and knobbed with arthritis, looked like slender chicken feet, and her skin was thin. And so I say she was frail, but also a tough old bird who did not go gently into that good night. Funerals can be glossy affairs, remembering the good times and perhaps exaggerating them. So much talk about being happier now and in a better place causes my brain to flatline with the irrelevance of such words. I'm not angry about it. I just accept the fact that death is the end as we know it. I find all this pretending that we know what happens after annoying. My grandma is dead. What lives on is in the DNA in my cells, my siblings' cells, my children's cells. And don't tell me personality isn't in DNA. Those traits--the reserve, nearly stoic, language patterns, a look, a way of looking. My uncle, whom I only see at funerals, is a quiet man. We know each other, recognize and somewhat distantly say hello and good-bye. My Aunt Mead says "bless their hearts" like Grandma did. She adopted my sister's cat today. And so it goes.


Don't let my stoicism fool you into thinking I didn't love Florence, but I don't want to remember only a rosy picture of her. She was a complex woman, capable of deep compassion for others, but also able to hurt others. I feel there is a legacy passed down from mother to daughter to granddaughter. I can love that more fiercely than a perfect illusion of a grandma that never really existed. My sister Kate gave a heartfelt and accurate eulogy, recalling her relationship with Grandma and highlighting all that was human and memorable about her. I had forgotten that Florence had a place in her heart for homeless people, and had cared in particular about one man, Pete. She always looked for him in the streets of Salt Lake. That she loved us is unquestioned. Was she annoyed by us? Selfish at times? Selfless at others? The wind blew again through the cemetery in Fountain Green, that reminder to take a look at what was actually happening in that moment.  Following the graveside ceremony, talk centered on the roses on the casket, to who was going to meet to clean out Grandma's house, who would get what treasures or knick-knacks. Housekeeping. Physical business. The need to take care of the present.


We drove from the cemetery to Santaquin to spend some time at Mom's, and as I usually do when entering my childhood hometown, I looked to the house where I lived from age 5 - 12. That landmark had been burned, just today. The entire house had crumbled into the foundation and was smoldering, parts still burning. I made Chris pull the car into that familiar driveway so I could get out and stare dumbly at a place that had set an early pattern in my psyche. The small front yard that once seemed vast was soaked, wet maple leaves from trees that used to seem larger glued themselves to the short sidewalk. The porch had collapsed and the cement foundation had been sledgehammered toward the center of the charred guts. If I dream about my childhood, it is often in the rooms of that now non-existent house. I found out later that my grandpa had sold the house to the city and the fire department had used it for a practice burn. It's a bit surreal to learn that a piece of my childhood has been cremated. 

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.  ~Anatole France

I really couldn't tell you if that quote is comforting or disconcerting to me at the moment. Is the life we are about to enter any better than the one we're dying to? Really, who knows? However, as sad as we may be to see a chapter end, a loved grandma die, a childhood home go up in smoke, what choice do we have but to grow up, be melancholy for awhile, then move ahead?  I'd love someone to chime in and prove me wrong or at least give a compelling enough rebuttal that I would have to reconsider this position. For now, I will enjoy this glass of merlot, shut off the computer, and see what I can make of the rest of this evening.

Musings on a Quiet Sunday Morning Before the Fanfare of the Holidays Reaches Fever Pitch

Ahh, 6:30 AM on a Sunday. The kids sleep. Chris sleeps. I sit with a steaming cup of coffee flavored this morning with a coconut milk creamer. The coffee and the somewhat processed creamer are an indulgence I partake in consciously and with pleasure. I drink it from a dollar store snowman mug my oldest daughter gave me for Christmas last year. Christmas. Now there's a thought. I'm not usually a big celebrant of the traditional winter holidays, but this year I feel some anticipation in my secular, buddhish, yogini kind of way. In fact, lovely readers (I say that tongue in cheek, I know there are a few of you out there, but it's hardly a following, right? And don't we like it that way?), I'm planning a sort of musical goody fest for this blog. Beginning the day after Thanksgiving, I intend to post a holiday tune du jour with a twist. If you like dark chocolate and a little irreverence from time to time, you'll want to check in. At least I hope you will. We can all three or four of us have a sweet virtual chuckle then be on our way through the hustle and bustle of the holidaze.

But I do feel positive anticipation for the days to come. It's a dark and cold time of year, why not string up some LED lights, sing songs, imbibe (responsibly, of course) and get each other through wintertide with gifts and good will?  So the season begins with Thanksgiving, which gets so shortchanged. I'm not talking about celebrating the irony of Native Americans breaking bread with Pilgrims before the rest of history unfolded, but the idea of taking pause to experience and express gratitude can't be too harmful, I imagine.  My life has been blessed by my connections to others. I'll begin with my family for being adaptable, for our ability to support each other in our singular endeavors, and for coming together when the shift hits the fan. Of course, I must thank every yoga teacher who took the time to care enough to see the students, me included, who showed up on their mats. One particular instance changed the trajectory of my life. I was attempting vasistasana with a slightly overweight body at the time. It was hard, and I was unplugged energetically. The teacher came, held on to the wrist that was lifted toward the ceiling, gave a gentle tug that instantly connected the loose electrical currents in my body. It was my first experiential understanding of what yoga is about.  Bear in mind these acknowledgements come in no particular hierarchical order. Friends of all sorts have passed through my world, some staying a short time, others hanging around. Shpongle's album title says it all: Nothing lasts, but nothing is lost. The YaYas saw me as beautiful when I hardly saw much of myself at all. My mom gave me a sense of the value of art and an appreciation for solitude. My dad showed me that behind the wizard's curtain was this little man trying to act big. I cannot forget to mention my sister, Denise, whose irreverent humor and crazy collages saw me through a time when it would have been easy to grow over-pious and take myself too seriously. She might not know the impact her letters had when I naively acted as an LDS missionary many, many moons ago, but I looked forward to them and savored the laughter. And that's just it, we never fully know the effect our simple gestures and everyday actions have on the world at large. So you see, my life is full. What is there to do but pay it forward? I hope I can. I'll give it my best shot.

Shift Happens

Nothing lasts, but nothing is lost.--Shpongle

One of the first valuable insights I gained from my yoga practice, when I'd shake and want to cry and run from the room, was to stay and breathe through the discomfort. I'm only talking about sensation here, not the kind of pain that indicates real injury. There are times when leaving is right action, and times to stay, and, I suppose, times when there is no choice either way.  But I've learned that what happens when I stay present to what is, even discomfort, maybe even applying a little inquiry to it, is a shift both in perception and in actual sensation. In practice a deep stretch can feel physically intense and bring up emotions like fear, frustration, dread. At times it's been all I can do to stay with it and breathe, but the shift does happen, if not immediately, then gradually after I show up on the mat again and again. The actual physical sensation eases as my breath sweeps through the muscles and coaxes them to release tension. Breath also soothes the edges of fear and dread. "Stay," was my mantra for many of those first months. I did, and now have a strong body and healthier mental outlook. I don't fear as much and come to crave those deep stretches. My practice itself has shifted from simply getting through without crying to feeling a wholeness in the postures and loving the awareness of a contracted oblique abdominal muscle holding me steady in some torturous-looking contortion.

I've written about my physical transformation, and it might sound cool on the surface, but there's always an underbelly. You don't wake up from years of depressed autopilot without a major upheaval. Old patterns and buried feelings resurfaced with a vengeance. At once intoxicating and bewildering, I had an idea that I needed to cut ties with everything connected to my old life--husband, kids to a lesser degree. If this was a mid-life crisis, it was a doozy. At the height of confusion I sat at the edge of the abyss with Chris and talked about divorce. That's a hellish place to sit, but I'm glad at least to have had enough experience with my mantra to not make a reactionary leap. Chris and I both stayed with the confusion and damaged trust. We saw each other in a different light, closer to the people we actually are. It came down to a choice, and at the very second I could have leapt, I knew instead I would stay. On the flip side of this is shift and creative stability. Breath and staying power allow me to see that my need for growth and individuation was genuine and necessary. Things couldn't have continued as they were. In the energy of a big, swift change, however, the pendulum swung to another extreme.  I would have preferred to make the change without wreaking so much havoc on those around me. I felt like the voice in Neko Case's song: "This tornado loves you. What will make you believe me?" Tornado or not, the evolution was vital. There is perhaps no atonement for our blunders and missteps, but we try.

I've just learned that my grandma died today. This news brings that same sense of connection that kept me from breaking away from my family. Those quirky ideosyncrasies that were Grandma are in me. Though we lost touch, we are still connected. Grandma seemed fragile from my earliest memories, but now I'm only reminded that we all are. I find myself today looking at my daughters with new eyes. When did they become their own persons? I stop to really look at Chris--who is he? We are making the rules up as we go along, finding ways to stay connected and responsible for each other even while taking care of ourselves. We don't do it like other families. Do other families do it like other families? I have shifted in a new way and do not fear or want to run from these connections even when they are uncomfortable or dredge up hurts from the past. These relationships no longer feel stifling, but rather interesting and alive. I strive to see the people around me in each moment. I am coming to love what is unique and human about who we are as individuals and as a family.  Shift will continue to happen. I'll breathe.

Practice

My alarm clock, thinking it was 6:30, rang out a loud cock-a-doodle-doo at 5:30. I was already awake and so was merely annoyed by the sound rather than surprised into consciousness. Apparently I'm a morning person. This works for me. As I wrote earlier, I salute the sun before the sun peeks over Rock Canyon. That is to say, I practice yoga. Early. Daily. This week the consistent effort paid off in fewer creaks and groans, less strain, more fluid movement on and off the mat. I want to say this week brought on greater mental clarity, but I'm not sure I've paid my dues for that, yet. Here we go again, though. I have a date with the short primary series tomorrow, 6 AM.

I was up and at 'em at 5:40. The cats were swarming around my legs, so I fed them a few spoonfuls of mashed up meat products, brewed up a pot of coffee (yes, I'm back on the java), and sat down to read Mark Stephens' Teaching Yoga hoping for a few tidbits to pass on to the yogis who would show up for my 10 AM class. I had in mind a beginner who has been coming to class and pushing herself beyond her limits. I noticed the strain on her face and the vocalization behind her ujjayi breathing indicating too much effort, not enough ease. I could tell she took pride in toughness, would be willing to hurt herself to prove she was still young and able-bodied. Modifications are for sissies. I noticed this, but didn't find right action as a teacher. I did not create a way for her to "experience a sense of abundance in (her) practice while honoring what is not readily there for (her)." No shit! So it seems you have to practice at being a teacher, too. I made plans this morning, then, to teach a class for this one student. I would spend ample time at the beginning working with the breath. We'd start with a three-part belly breath, moving into a smooth, easy ujjayi. I would call attention to the signs of distressed breathing. I would cue the gentlest form of each asana and leave it to the more practiced yogis to extend themselves further. It would'a been perfect but for one thing: this student didn't come to class today. The universe has a sense of humor.

The best we can do in practice, in life, as a teacher, as a student, as a human being is just show up with who we are and what we got in the moment. As luck would have it, there's a niyama, a personal observance, in traditional yoga philosophy that covers this: santosa. I love how Stephens puts it, "we become humble and content in the modesty of how things are." Ha! "Santosa opens us to happiness with who we are and what we presently have." It was a good class, and in the words of Regina Spektor, "good is better than perfect." I most likely missed some signals from the class to slow things down or heat them up, but I did step back to witness a little more than I might have done had I stuck to my plan regardless of who showed up for class. I watched.  I stepped in to spot a backbend, allowing that person to feel more open. I caught a kick up to a headstand, gradually released support until the woman was balancing on her own. I wondered if the shaking in navasana was excessive. I don't know if I got that right, but it might be better that I wonder than believe I know. In the end, a long, sweet savasana, followed by the sound and vibration of an om, brought on a good end to an imperfect offering.  We call it yoga practice, but practice for what? My guess is that we practice to be human in the best sense of the word.

Seeing and Being Seen

I had an entirely different post in mind yesterday, a little lighthearted blurb about my yoga practice. In fact, I posted it, then unposted it. It's now in a metaphorical crumple on the floor of an imaginary writer's room.  It was decent writing, if I do say so myself, but my why for writing it was unclear. I wrote about my early morning yoga practice, feeling myself move into a new rhythm, adapting to a new time and space. I wrote about leaving my house at ungodly hours, welcomed only by the Cheshire Cat grin of a moon, thinning to the faintest sliver each morning, soon to disappear completely. Orion was there, too, spinning a cartwheel for me, acting as the sole witness and cheerleader of my commitment to a practice that heals my body and mind. It's the idea of the witness that seems more relevant today and connects to my personal experience of yoga and relationships to others and the world. I swear Orion was winking, saying, "I see you. I know you." That's good enough, isn't it, just to see and be seen? It's how we lift each other up in this wild place where there's enough dog eat dog already.