It's two weeks since I proved I could pee and fart on my own and hence be trusted to take care of myself post-surgery. I'd say recovery is going about as well as one could hope after having a blessed surgeon paw and snip around in my belly to remove what I now call (thanks to a dear friend's contribution) the BFU (Big Effing Uterus). The fibroid had all but swallowed the organ and grew to six times its normal weight in grams. I'm down to one Ibuprofin at night, more as a security blanket than anything. I find I like to have a slight bit of pain so that I imagine I can be aware of what's happening on the healing front. I can't always read the twinges and throbs accurately, but I trust them to signal when I get restless and want to do more than is prudent. And what will I write on this side of that life-changing event? A gratitude list. Yup, a boring, reduntant old gratitude list. Everybody's doing them these days. They're all the rage. But why not acknowledge the things that give me pause, add richness and dimension, and boost the endorphins in my brain just thinking about them? It's a positive, maybe naive, gesture, and here goes:










1. A cancer-free pathology report. Needs no 'splainin'.



2. Having a PA for a friend and a surrogate big sister. She'd give me the straight poop when no one else could, and the straight poop--good, accurate, thorough information--is just what a gal like me needs in times like these.



3. A balmy Indian Summer. My daily outdoor excursion in my PJ's surrounded in warm sun, blue sky, and the brilliant fire of dying leaves.



4. A change in the air this morning. I walked around the neighborhood, still in my PJ's, and took a good look at the spindly cosmos, defiant zinnias, alyssum, fall crocus, marigolds blazing away their last bit of color. The crisp apple crunch kind of air around my face and a nice, functional robe letting in only just enough of the cold to let me in on the change of season at hand.



5. Cats. Quiet cats. I can't tell you how satisfying it is to recline back and watch the boys slink, lurk, snooze, wrestle, investigate, and just be.



6. Good books.



7. A competent substitute teacher holding down the fort until I return.



8. Funny get well cards from my students. One had a picture of me on a gurney, advising me not to roll away. Another, read when I was in a bit more pain, wishing me a fun time, a great time, and that no one would be mean to me.



9. Family. This really isn't in heirarchial order, by the way. These are people who love me and whom I love. That's good, isn't it?



10. Netflix. Let's not denigrate decent, or even occasionally trashy, entertainment.



11. Nourishing food. Carrot juice and hummus, amazing raw Thai lettuce wraps, brown rice, vegan chili, whole grain no sugar muffins. Let food by thy medicine says Hipocrates, and these gifts from friends and family were more effective healers than any chicken noodle soup I've ever tasted.









Aw, there's more, but I'll stop here. Me thinks this blog has run its natural course. It's been a fun exercise in expression and writing, but it's too personal for a public forum. So until I dream up something that would be worthy of acquiring a following of readers, I'll retire from the project. I'm happy to do so, because the last thing on my gratitude list is:









Simplicity. This recovery period has given me the gift of slowing down and paying attention. I like it. Life will get busier, but I'm intent on keeping it only just busy enough with things I find relevant and valuable. That's all. I have no desire to fritter away the minutes and hours of my life with anything less.

Starting Over

If my life had a soundtrack it would be Modest Mouse all the time these days. I've stumbled onto  Ocean Breathes Salty, and Missed the Boat, both ditties capturing a sense of bewilderment at life and wondering what constitutes not wasting it. An approaching surgery date and my nasty habit of catastrophic thinking force me to consider what is truly important and how the hell is it I find myself rushing through my days and schedules. It's likely I'll live after going under general anesthesia, despite my exaggerated and self-absorbed worries to the contrary. Once the fog of pain meds lifts, I figure this unanticipated halt  will give me time to assess what is essential and what is crap. It's a chance, really, to slow down. I'll have every excuse to say no to obligations. I'll have every opportunity to minimize and, I hope, find richness in less. That's about as much a positive spin as I can put on this thing, but it's enough.  World at Large gets me thinking on how, though I've physically not moved around too much, life seems marked by starting over and starting over, moving from one phase to another. I stayed at home with my kids when they were little. I've worked simple jobs since. I threw pottery for a season, knitted scarves for everyone I knew another. I find myself in this teacher role lately. All the pleasure and insight from my past six years from yoga will now significantly change. I don't know which parts of me will hang around. I feel like I'm heading out to the porch to have a thought, but when I get to the door will I be able to stop? I don't know. Let's see. At any rate, the Dashboard is broken, but I've still got the radio.

Disease a Metaphor?

A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.
Walt Whitman 




I loves me a little irony from time to time, I truly do. In fact, the very day I wrote and published my last post on floating on, not fighting the river, I went in for my routine summer physical. I do it every year, only apparently I missed last year. Sort of wish I hadn't done that (or had done that--which?).  But no sense crying over spilled milk, right? Long story short, an ultrasound and MRI later I find myself looking at an October surgery date to remove what I've come to fondly call my BFT--Big Friendly Tumor. Friendly on account of the likelihood that this lovely companion is benign. Big because it extends a whopping 9.5 cm above my uterus and measures 8 cm front to back. Or, as the MRI tech let slip, "That thing's gotta be as big as my fist!" Ironic that I'd be needing my own advice so soon. As Elizabeth Bishop wrote: 

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

She goes on to recommend practice, practice, practice at this One Art, starting small then moving up to places, names, uteruses--things like that. Things like rental car keys sitting at the bottom of Flaming Gorge Reservoir and the few hours badly spent there are simply a warm-up for the inevitable biggies: relationships, identities, life. I get plenty of practice. In fact, last Monday I misplaced my keys after a yoga class and only just found them this morning. My usual strategy of resting assured that they will turn up eventually worked, only quite a bit more slowly than usual. Ah, well. So you'd think I'd be pretty good, maybe even stoic, about my latest adventure in losing.


I've been through the five stages of grief a few times, even while realizing that my simple affliction is nothing in comparison to what others are facing. I'm not sure what my post-surgery life will look like, how long it will take to build up my yoga practice, how my students will react to having a substitute teacher for a month, how my body will function minus an organ. I've been on an Internet research rampage, weighed my multiple options and accept the choices I've made. You have to take what you read on the Web with a grain of salt. You all know that. There are enough anecdotes out there to keep the toughest of us quivering in the dark for a lifetime. Fortunately I'm blessed with good friends who have been there, done that and gone on to LIVE tremendously satisfying lives. No guarantees, of course, but a girl's gotta have hope.


The threads of thought that rub me the wrongest are those that suggest these physical maladies are really metaphors for things like blocked creative energy, latent self-destructive tendencies, that sort of thing. My brain is as much a meaning-making mechanism as anyone's, but this kind of thinking only adds a layer of guilt to an already bothersome set of circumstances. I don't believe for a minute that if I could only somehow release pent up energy in my root chakra this delightsome growth will bid me adieu on its own. I'm not discounting a mind-body connection; I'm only saying this level of belief in it goes too far. Things arise and things disintegrate. That's an undeniable fact. I'm joining Walt Whitman's team and delighting more in a morning glory on my windowsill than in a theory of why things are they way they are. 

The Flip Side of Serendipity

Well, there's serendipity and then there's serendipity. I've wondered this week about the flip side of the happy accident. What exactly would that look like? Random, it could not be. Intentional, planned misery. Or maybe the unintended crummy consequences of our deliberate plans. I've had plenty of those shipwrecks, but they're not my focus today. I'll sidestep that version of unserendipity and consider the converse of this pet term to mean a random happenstance that does not immediately make me feel good.

Consider: Last week I needed to take my car in for safety and emissions update. I drove to the Jiffy Lube just down the street and was informed their emissions computer crashed, but I could quickly motor my way to one of their other shops a few blocks away. I did this, only to be told again the emissions computer had gone down. What a coincidence, right? Twice in one day. Must mean something. Well, yeah, it meant I had my car checked out at Lube Doc instead. Still, my sci-fi fed imagination couldn't help but wonder how this diversion to my plan may have altered the trajectory of the universe (which revolves around me, in case you didn't know this). Was the chit chat with the man in the lobby somehow significant? We'll never know for sure, but I'll accept any tokens of gratitude for the fact the world as you know it did not come to an end that morning.

Now I'll give you a peek into my recent family vacation that was chock full of accidents, happy or otherwise, and we'll take a closer look at good/bad luck. A good friend hosts an annual tribal gathering at Flaming Gorge Reservoir each year. He is one of those people who knows everyone. Each year he single-handedly reserves a shit-load of campsites for about 60 - 80 people, give or take a kid or two. Most years he reserves the "good" site, the one with running water and showers that sits a hop, skip, and a jump away from the lake and good cliff jumping. This year he reserved late and we found ourselves pulling into an unfamiliar primitive ground. Can you say stinking outhouse shared by 60 - 80 people give or take a kid or two? We were unprepared and brought no water. OK, no worries. I drove to the crook-in-the-road convenience store/raft rental shop and bought some. How covenient. The place was dirty and hot, but we'd be rafting the Green River and hanging out at the lake during daylight hours. I could rustle up some flexibility and go with this flow.

Friday we rode to the lake with our good friend towing a couple of kayaks. The kids paddled around for awhile, learning to steer or not to steer, as they pleased. They jumped from cliffs and swam around while  Significant Other and I kayaked around the wakes of speedier, flashier boats and explored a few nooks and crannies of the reservoir. Good way to kill time. I didn't want to be there, but I practiced this newfound optimistic flexibility and enjoyed the water if not the sun. Meanwhile, dusk approaches, we direct our boats and bodies back to the shore and rental car parked in the lot. Chris asks for keys which I had no recollection of having. He had taken them back to the car before our float to lock a few valuables in the trunk. I'll spare you any gruesome details and simply state that the keys were not found. Anywhere. We called the local sheriff--fortunately handy at the dam (Homeland Security and all) who unlocked the car. Did you know most rental car places don't stock spare keys? It's policy. We ended up having the car towed to the nearest town an hour away. Expensive accident. Not quite serendipity, but can I fill you in on a little secret? It didn't ruin the trip.

See, I'm thinking serendipity is little more than a placebo. Blogger Sabio Lantz commented on my last post "'Serendipity' is usually post hoc rationalization to make us feel good about the inevitable." Well said, dude. And I'm inclined to believe there's nothing wrong with that. Studies have shown that much of the benefit of pharmaceutical anti-depressants, for example, can be attributed to the placebo effect.  This certainly isn't a scientific certainty, but I'd like to propose that serendipity is cheaper than Prozac, and all it requires is a little attention, flexibility, and openness to uncertainty and change. I am no shining beacon of equanimity, but I happily report that the rest of this doomed vacation was just fine. Though we were required to rely on the kindness of strangers for the duration, we enjoyed a happy float down the river the next day in kayaks and rafts. My kids made friends with folks they didn't know. Chris and I synched up our energies in a two-person kayak, and during the slow times on the river I had time to muse on how chock full of metaphors a few hours on a river can be. For example, the less you fight the river, the more you pay attention, read it, work with it, the more pleasant, exciting, adventurous the trip will be. I had a Modest Mouse soundtrack playing in the back of my thoughts: "We'll all float on OK." And we will.


There are tragedies greater than losing one's keys at the bottom of a deep lake. Upon returning I learned that the partner of a dear friend was diagnosed with breast cancer and had an immediate double mastectomy scheduled. She's since had that operation, and latest report is that she's getting through with humor, trash TV, and loving support. The spouse of a colleague died of cancer that week as well. I won't make light of the loss or the pain, and I can't call it serendipity, but this is part of the flow as well. We can fight the river, turn our backs to it and fall off the raft, or we can watch it with attention and enjoy the ride. We may still fall off the raft, but that's part of the ride, too. All right already.

Serendipity

Ah, aptitude for stumbling upon a happy discovery quite by accident. My sister and I have been using this word frequently of late, an inside joke that was born from a moment when an esteemed professor used it with boyish giddiness to describe a chance encounter he had experienced. It's a bright, cheery concept and as long as I'm open and flexible I begin to have more of these uncanny near misses, chance meetings, and pleasant surprises. Now, I'm a skeptic. Really. OK, prone to fits of magical thinking from time to time, but usually I try to step back to take a more naturalistic view of events and coincidences. So I don't know what to make of serendipity except to laugh with delight and enjoy the little joke without expecting much more from it.


On Sunday my sis and I had plans to drive to Metropolis with friends. We would visit a Zen center there, then head to a local pub before making our way up a hillside to catch some soundwaves of a concert that rise up the slope above the heads of the ticket-buying crowd below.  D was late making it to my house and we were picking up a friend on the way. I got chatting and missed the exit, had to turn around to pick up friend S before we could really get moving toward our destination. I noticed a not-so-subtle current of anxiety rise: would we be on time? I didn't want to enter the center after everyone had begun to sit. My eyes would flit from the road in front of me to the clock on the dash. I'd make mental calculations. My clock is six minutes fast, so subtract that, guess how many miles we had to go, figure in miles per minute. We might just make it in the nick of time. Meanwhile, D's friend L calls while we're on the road. She thinks she's made it to the center, which in reality is hard to tell because it's tucked inside a renovated Art Space building. She'll wait outside until we arrive. I take the offramp into the city with five minutes before the Buddhists will begin meditating. I hang a left, then a left, then a right, hoping it's the right street, discover I've undershot by a block. No worries, I can just hang a left ahead and we're right there. Nope. It's right turn only, so I make a U-turn and drive back to the previous street. As we're driving back, S,  from the backseat, says, "Isn't that L?" We look back, and there sits L, texting away in the shade in front of the wrong building--the building that is exactly one block east of the Zen center. We stop, holler at her to get in, then get to the center, a little late, but there. It's quiet. A handful of meditators sit. I'm sheepish as I gingerly lift the velcro strap of my Tevas, but we tiptoe our barefoot way to some cushions and settle in barely detected.


What's the big deal, you say? No big deal, but there I was thinking I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, only to find out I was right were I was. Had we gone straight to the Zen center and not found L there the time spent tracking her down would have thrown us embarrassingly behind schedule and we might have simply slunk off to the pub with our tails between our legs earlier than planned to wash down our veggie burgers with a 25 oz. Hefeweizen, and we would have missed one of the most beneficial Dharma talks I've had the pleasure to hear. 

New Day

Watched the Harry Potter grand finale with my Bellatrix LeStrange daughter last night. It was OK. Gave me, how you say, closure? Anyway, the sun is shining and the weather is sweet. Makes me wanna move my dancing feet, only I'm going to a teacher's conference instead. Two days of listening to the same speaker. Better be good. No, better be spectacular. Well, it could be, right?

Things look bright this morning. Feel right, you know? I'm in a good place. Hope you all are, too.

White Blank Page

Stealing the title from a song by my newest musical fascination Mumford and Sons feels right enough now a full month since my last blog post. The computer screen presents its own version of a white, blank page as does my mind, all but for a bit of longing I feel for a quiet, clean slate with no intrusive words or thoughts. Now what would Mr. Freud have to say about that? But the words they do intrude and I'm here again on a slow July afternoon ticking away at the keys with nothing more exciting on my mind than the thought of weeding a garden.

The large plot my sisters and I have cultivated is growing. The potatoes, squash, beans and corn are thriving, as are their fiercest competitors, weeds. Now in the thick of the season I go to the garden to commit a slew of murders on the bindweeds (we called them morning glory when I was a kid) and the red roots my grandpa says can be used to fatten pigs. It's tedious, but only as tedious as meditation. Once I'm there and in a groove, I rather enjoy it. I've unintentionally chased mother spiders carrying egg sacks into nearby holes and left beetles scurrying for the next patch of overgrowth, only to be disrupted again my my pink gloved hands of the goddess. If the earth is soft, the roots slide out with satisfying ease. Similarly to beginning a bike ride or working through sun salutations, I start out with my mind chatter racing on an on about pretty much nothing: imaginary conversations I'll never have, plans, lists, sentences I think I might write. Chit, chit, chit, chit. I can get pretty worked up emotionally. It's a hoot, really. So I'm constantly reeling my attention back in to my breath, the the next stem I'll pinch just below the soil, the feel of a bead of sweat making its way down the funnel of my spine. After 20 minutes or so I can look back and see the cleared space behind me with only the foliage of potato plants. Mmm. That's nice. On a good day I can slow the monkey mind down, too, or at least recognize it for the biological functioning of the organ we call a brain and not Ultimate Reality. That's nice, too. I get a little less worked up then.

Yesterday I spent two and a half hours in that weeding dynamic, feeling good about clearing, erasing, creating some white blank page.  I began to see myself there on the edge between cleared space on the left hand and rampant jungle on the right, sensing the next generation of jungle was waiting to burst into the empty spaces the moment I turned my back. As nice as the quiet is, I also saw in me something that likes noise, disturbance, passion. I wrote before about this thick, comforting, human mess that is life and poetry. A part of me wouldn't trade in the mess for all the equanimity in China, and I have to be honest about that. Well, that is until I see the wreckage left in the wake of passion fueled by fantasy and mis-viewing the world as it is. Maybe there's right passion, a fierce kind of love that's based in reality. Where would be the fault in loving life, as it is, with one's whole heart? (Even if life doesn't appear to return the affection.) But right view first, I think. You have to really see it to love it. I doubt I do, at least fully. So I turn to the right and start picking at the unnecessary grasses and vines that would choke the life out of plants that will nourish me later. And so it goes.

Like I said, nothing more exciting than just this. My summer break has been all about weeding. This morning I ravaged my bookshelves and let go of most titles crowding the space on my shelves. I also turned in a letter of resignation to the fitness center where I teach yoga, opening the space for my own practice. I need more room to breathe when I get back to the daily ins and outs of teaching school. I've weeded most TV out of my system, too. I watched a few shows at the beginning of summer, but now I like not watching someone else's drama or hearing someone else tell me how the world is. I'm functioning on minimal plans which keeps me from feeling disappointed when they don't work out anyway. I've been frequently, pleasantly surprised by serendipity and have relished the company of the living, breathing people around me more. Summer vacations are a luxury, a perk of my job, I guess. Can I maintain some white blank page when I'm back in the thick of the game playing my role in this fast, modern culture? Time will tell.

Getting to Know You

Getting to know all about you.
Getting to like you,
Getting to hope you like me.

OK, so I gave "The King and I" a negative review. Doesn't mean I can't steal a few lyrics to suit my blogging purpose. Here's the deal: I bought a new road bike, a KHS Flite 232 to be exact. This was leap for me. There was nothing wrong with my trusty Specialized Rockhopper that I picked up at a yard sale for a mere $150. Talk about love at first ride. I've written about it before, that immediate connection, a sense of freedom and fun. It pays off in joy to be ignorant of what a bike is "supposed" feel like. My green mountain beauty was a bit big for my size, her nubby tires, great on gravel and dirt, were slower on the pavement where I usually rode. And I had no idea, nor did I care. Back to that question of when do we simply feel content with the life we're living? I started thinking about things like aerodynamics and speed. I started watching road bike cyclists out there on the streets, calf muscles bulging with each back pedal, sleek bodies streaking along with traffic. I thought about taking longer rides, rides beyond the potential of my beloved cycle. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind the notion of a century ride holds powerful sway. I started saving my pennies from teaching yoga toward the investment that a road bike would be.

A few weeks ago, after some searching, I found a decent little road bike at Urban Downfall, a local bike shop run by a handful of friendly college dudes who were friendly enough to answer my questions and adapt this lovely lady to fit my body. I'll go back in a few weeks, most likely, to get the pedals switched over to clipless with cleats, but even as I write this I wonder what I'm getting myself into. I didn't anticipate the ambivalence I'd feel riding this new velocipede home. First there was the learning curve--new shifting and braking mechanisms, lower handlebars, a distinct lack of shock absorption. Then, strangely, a feeling of guilt arose over betraying my perfectly good cycle sitting at home in the garage. I took her out on shy little rides at first, awkwardly attuning to the feel of the ride. Like a contact lens wearer sliding a finger up the bridge of her nose to push up non-existent glasses, I'd reach for brakes that weren't where I expected them to be. I found this bike had expectations, demanded a little more of me that my carefree, easy rider.

Ah, but we had a sweet canyon ride yesterday morning, and the relationship's on! The launch was a little slow, and my legs resisted and whined until we found ourselves, bicycle, legs, and me, all synched up on the Provo River Trail. That's when things started to get good. Transitions between gears were smooth; we had a rhythm going. The water in the river was high, birds sang or screamed everywhere, and we climbed our way gradually through the mouth of the canyon. Gliding through Nun's Park and an easy switch of gears to a very efficient ascent up the only steep section of the road--about 10 feet--until we were sailing along under the canopy of overgrown scrub oak. No crowds thronging around the base of Bridal Veil Falls, no barefoot babies or folks with cameras snapping shots of their kids wading in the water. I ignored the pedestrian only signs and breathed by to the park. There I took in three steady breaths, knowing this good, blood pulsing endorphin rush was temporary, but enjoying it all the same.

There are probably thousands of life lesson type things I could dream up and work into this blog, but I'm gonna resist the temptation to try to appear wise and let this simple ride be just what it is and nothing more. That's good enough.

A Little Help From Billy Collins

Summer vacation is here. I've had several blog posts running through my head, which is annoying. I'll be sitting, standing, or biking through an experience composing sentences all the while like a demented tour guide. I'll quote the ever charming Billy Collins.

Who said I had to always play

the secretary to the interior?

I'm delighting in horoscopes for the dead, finding the right poem for the right moment much the way a faithful Christian might close her eyes, flip The Holy Bible open, and place her finger on the verse God herself intended her to read. I'd like to share with you how "Thank You Notes" made an hour in an LDS chapel for the baby blessing of my new twin niece and nephew an enjoyable spot of afternoon, my usual resistance and defensiveness dissolved. The sentences are still floating around in my skull for that one, so maybe tomorrow. Instead, I'll share these lovely lines, and hope Collins doesn't mind my zealous appreciation for his fine way with words:

My Hero

Just as the hare is zipping across the finish line,

the tortoise has stopped once again

by the roadside,

this time to stick out his neck

and nibble a bit of sweet grass,

unlike the previous time

when he was distracted

by a bee humming in the heart of a wildflower.

Took the opportunity to be distracted by a bee humming in the heart of a wildflower on a walk through Liberty Park with my mom, sister, and daughters. Good times nibbling at bits of sweet grass ahead these next few months.

Under the Influence

We’re endlessly looking at how others do things, for inspiration and ideas … but we end up wanting to try those things too. That sounds harmless until you realize that you’ll buy almost anything because someone wrote about it and made it sound amazing. You’ll live a life of an endless series of purchases because of what other people are doing. And it never ends.

Even if you don’t buy stuff, you’ll change your life endlessly, based on what others are doing. You’ll give up your couch, you’ll stop buying Ikea furniture, then give up your cell phone, then give up your computer, then start doing yoga, then become a Zen monk, then create a tech startup. Those things are amazing, sure … but when does it ever end?

When do we ever feel content with the life we’re living?

I don't know, but blogger Leo Babauta asks a relevant question, and one that's been on my mind this week of exorcising demons of sweetness from my life. It comes down to an acute case of diet confusion. In a sense, diet, food, takes the place of religion in my life. I mean that. It provides a sense of structure, a group of commandments with an implicit understanding that if I follow them I'll be saved from obesity, cancer, lethargy, depression. It fills the ethics hole as well--eating plant-based, though not 100% cruelty-free, feels that way, has been touted as better for the health of the planet, too. Combine this with philosophical and political undercurrents against the trend of big-business patenting of DNA codes and exploitation of animal and human life and I have a Way of Life as opposed to a means of keeping the body alive.

Most certainly way back when, when humans were new to this game of eating, we ate whatever didn't kill us too quickly and whenever we could. So now I read so many disparate sources about how our diet reflects or doesn't our evolutionary needs, how certain ways of eating can cause our cells to resonate at higher frequencies (whatever that means), can stoke our inner digestive fire or leave food to coldly rot in the gut. I've been a diet whore, acting similarly to the way described above. I tried the Atkins and South Beach diets about 15 years ago when I was significantly overweight and depressed. I lost some weight but felt heavy and slow nonetheless. I gave it up. Went back to eating whatever and remained overweight and depressed for a few more years. I joined Oprah and Bob Green next and gave up the white stuff: sugar and starch. I ate lean meat and vegetables, few grains. Lost a LOT of weight. Started practicing yoga and riding a bike. Lost a lot more weight. Felt good. Happy. Holy Grail? I dunno. From there I refined my eating further by giving up meat. Still felt good. Happy. Even better, I felt a sense of purpose. I began to care about pesticides both for their effect on my body and on the planet. And though I'm a skeptic by nature, I have to admit that these beliefs still hold, whether they are ultimately true or not. I'm pretty sure they don't make me a better person. Occasionally I still feel a twinge of moral superiority, but not as frequently. Especially when I've seen how easy it is to get lured in by the white stuff again. (By the way, day 4 and enjoying a distinct lack of craving and persistent thoughts about my next snack.)

It's gotten a little too complicated, though. I'm ready to take it down a notch. Simplify. I'm tired of looking to experts and wondering if the diet is greener on the other side of the fence. Simplify. I'm gonna stick with this no sugar place I'm in and try to rely on my own experience to find a good sustaining balance. Simplify. That's all.

I want to end this post by sharing a stanza of Billy Collins' Thieves. Funny, when I toggled to Amazon to create the hyper-link an ad for the Kindle came up and my gut reaction was both a feeling and the thought that I gotta get me one of those. Maybe the best we can do is pray for our daily patience and then some to have a little space between us and all the influences, space in which to feel a little  contentment with the life we're living. I've read and re-read this poem recently. This stanza makes me laugh, sigh, gives me a sense of urgency, a nagging reminder about clocks and schedules, the thrill of breaking taboo to steal a moment to do nothing but sit on a rock and watch, a thirst for and a tiredness of the long song of life that ends too soon:

Give us this day our daily clock

I started to chant

as I sat on the hood of this Volkswagen of stone,

and give us our daily blood

and our daily patience and some extra patience

until we cannot stand to live any longer. 

Plates of Lettuce

My first day of recommitting to sugar-free living, yesterday, brought me into a rather pissy state. I was greeted in the faculty room by the aroma of a panful of hot, gooey, gluteny cinnamon rolls, compliments of the cafeteria. Ain't it sweet how we offer gifts that lead to ill health and bloated bodies? I walked on by like the good girl I can be, but not without a little tantrum from my inner 2nd grader. No fair! How come everybody else gets to eat cinnamon rolls? This sucks. At lunch my salad, which included almonds for good fat and protein, sounded really boring. I didn't want it. Lack of desire to go out was the only thing motivating me to sit down and eat the damn thing. At the table was a homemade lemon merengue pie. No again. Everyone else seems happy with their sugar-fest, why not me? Wah, wah, wah. At home my dinner of Buffalo tempeh (steamed tempeh covered in sugar-free hot wing sauce then baked) gave me some comfort. The high protein made me feel full, the spice convinced me I haven't consigned myself to a life of bland gustatory experience, and the steamed broccoli was sweet enough to keep me from scheming for ways to get a dessert in that wouldn't constitute cheating. I still felt pretty irritable, just not hungry and irritable.

The sun rose this morning, in spite of how the universe had conspired to make me miserable. I took it slow and easy, sitting awhile with my cat watching the light move across the tops of trees and through the blades of grass. I felt solid. Later at school I ate a balanced lunch with greens and some beans for plant-based protein. My big iced green tea was nicely bitter and I was satisfied. No fits until the faculty end-of-year dinner. The school secretary had offered (I didn't ask) to buy me, the resident vegetarian, a nice, delicious salad in lieu of the meaty fare ordered up for everyone else. I'd been looking forward to it. But, and this is totally understandable, she got so swamped printing out report cards and helping teachers square away their financial accounts, that she forgot to place the order. The regular menu included a green salad, white dinner rolls, mashed potatoes, roast beef with mushrooms, thick slabs of homemade fruit pie a la mode. To add tragedy to my already sad options, I got in line late. By the time I reached the salad, the one with the chunks of radish, cauliflower and broccoli had been served out and the caterers refilled with a big bag of Costco lettuce. Lettuce. I filled a plate with Romaine and a shred or two of carrot, squeezed a little onion dressing on the top and sat down with my colleagues. Well, yeah, I whined inside, but I drew on what little grasp I have of meditative presence, breathed and questioned the accuracy of my perceptions.  No conspiracy. It was even a little amusing to sit and watch my bruised ego bemoan the fact that it couldn't get no satisfaction. (Everybody else got some!) And I also knew that I was good just where I was, and OK not eating the rolls or potatoes or pie.

It's an uncertain business looking for dietary balance. It's a matter of intuition and changing, shifting needs and circumstances. But it isn't a tragedy. Tonight I'm feeling pretty good. I've got a date tomorrow morning with Odo to watch the sun rise, I'll spend the last morning with this year's 2nd graders, do a little clean-up in the classroom, then let the summer begin. I've got a new road bike awaiting its maiden voyage, yoga classes, family vacation, and a little space between me and a nasty habit. If that's not nice, I don't know what is.

Do It Again

I got myself into a bit of a '70s music funkadelia this weekend. My friend's yoga studio is closing down, which led me to consider a new iPod playlist that conveyed my sense of appreciation, sadness, and acknowledgement of impermanence to accompany my last session at Yoga Sun. Seems going retro fit the bill and my list looked a little like this:

Cat Stevens -- Moonshadow
Three Dog Night -- Shambala
ELO -- Strange Magic
REO Speedwagon -- Roll With the Changes
Supertramp -- Give a Little Bit
Styx -- The Grand Illusion
Boston -- Peace of Mind
Yes -- I've Seen All Good People
Echo & the Bunnyman cover of It's All Over Now, Baby Blue
Nancy Sinatra cover of Like a Rolling Stone
Fleetwood Mac  -- Songbird
Elton John -- Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
Supertramp -- Even in the Quietest Moments
Kansas -- Dust in the Wind

The inclusion of Kansas was admittedly maudlin, but I had a moment where I realized this may be the very song that planted the seed for my current interest in Zen Buddhism. I remember, or have constructed a memory from many bits and pieces, sitting in the car as a young lass in the '70s becoming absorbed in the lyrics, "nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky," and wondering if even the earth and sky last forever. It felt so deep, true, and sufficiently melancholy to me then. Even today it's a nostalgic wake-up call.

Five yogis including myself showed up for this final Sunday practice. Instead of a regular class we placed our mats in a circle, facing each other, and each moved through our own sequence, united by sweet ujjayi breathing. At a point, we all seemed to make our way to the floor and Russ introduced some acro-yoga partner poses.  I noticed in myself that I have an easier time trusting my supporting partner when it is my time to fly. I doubt myself when it comes to supporting others in flight. Curious. A worthy point for self inquiry. Fortunately this did not translate into me dropping anyone, but as a human being and a teacher I would like to know if this is an area where I can change.

A tune that did not make it into the yoga list, but which captivated my attention for multiple playings is Steely Dan's Do It Again. Don't we all know the experience of doing again something we don't wanna? I'm sure I'm not the only human being with habits. The more time I spend in meditation the more I'm aware of these tracks of thought and action that play themselves out over and over again. To some degree I can step back and see these from a new perspective. I have the idea to explore during this upcoming summer break from teaching school whether I can free myself from a few of these balls and chains--give myself a little wiggle room, so to speak. I'm going public with probably the easiest, most tangible habit and I'll share with this blog the ins and outs of once again weaning myself from a pernicious addiction to sugar. I've been free before, but working in an elementary school and allowing myself to fall into over-activity has brought on a slow erosion of my resolve. Sugar is my crack. I know it does me no good. It doesn't even give me the pleasure reward it used to, but if I take a little, I'm mindlessly reaching for more. So back to square one. I've signed up to see if Spoonful of Sugar Free's 30-days of tips and camaraderie will support me in the attempt. Maybe you find yourself in the same sweet snare. Join in, if joining's your thing. Let me know how it goes for you. Mutual support could be a good thing--maybe I'll figure out how to be the acro-yoga base afterall.

The challenge begins Wednesday, June 1st, which means I'll probably order pancakes with syrup for brunch this morning. What can I say--knowing I'm intending to give it all up only makes me want it more now. Maybe I'll make another choice. Let's see.

Fire and Ice Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. Robert Frost

I'll confess I had my share of jesting over the most recent apocalypse non-event, but not even nearly full-hearted jesting.  My Facebook nod in the doomsdayers' direction merely stated that it was a beautiful day in which to be left behind--and I meant it. After a week of rain and drizzle the sun made an appearance, even if the Son didn't.

I spent the morning of the last day that wasn't teaching a yoga class then ventured to my hometown to work a large garden plot with two of my sisters. My grandpa has gardened all his life yielding enormous bounties of tomatoes, corn, potatoes, turnips--all good things. This year he has offered up a section of land and access to his city water shares. My sisters and I decided to put all our agrarian local cooperative talk to the test. The soil was heavy from the recent rain, but with my brother-in-law at the helm of a rototiller we worked it into decent shape and planted  several long rows of potatoes and corn. We'll get beans, tomatoes, squash and greens in later this week. It was a lovely day. I had no desire to be lifted up from the earth, not when I could smell fresh loam under my fingernails and casually chat about what's wrong with the world with two people who share a similar perspective on account of our common upbringing.

Saturday evening, 7 PM MST, 6 PM PST, my daughter played multiple roles in a Hamlet parody. She stole the show with her Granny Polonius. I looked around to see if anyone was going to be lifted up but the only levitating was that of was human laughter, and isn't that just as it should be?

Don't get me wrong. I understand doomsdayers on a certain level. Something begins; something ends. That much seems to be true of just about everything. Whether the sun goes supernova or we humans consume ourselves out of house and home, banking on the end of the world as we know it is a safe bet.  I felt this personally on a field trip with my 2nd graders to a local museum. Standing in the paleontology room inspecting the length of a full-scope historical timeline I took in the reality of the blip human existence is in the big scheme of things. I can smile wryly with Billy Collins when I read:

It doesn't take much to remind me

what a mayfly I am,

what a soap bubble floating over the children's party.

Standing under the bones of a dinosaur

in a museum does the trick every time 

And still, there I was on Saturday, cutting seed potatoes into plantable segments as though there were plenty of tomorrows in which to enjoy a harvest.

Not the Post I Had in Mind

I'm feeling good right now. After a week of sinus congestion, itchy eyes, and activity overload I'm at ease at home, having spent a low-key Mother's Day out with my family. I love that my girls are old enough now to enjoy a movie like Jane Eyre and my husband willing enough to see it with us. If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.

Even more, it's been a week of encounters with failure which has interestingly enough lifted me out of a personal funk. The lift began with last week's post on being wrong. What a great find that TED clip was. Throughout the week references to failure and making mistakes serendipitously crossed my path, beginning with comments by fellow blogger Sabio Lanz. In response to the Kathryn Shulz TED lecture he wrote:

What we do when someone disagrees with us. We assume one of the following:

1. They are ignorant
2. They are idiots
3. They are evil

How about:

4. I wonder what delusions and joys we share in spite of our disagreement?

5. How can I let our differences positively effect me and maybe change me?

The last two items--Sabio's contributions--jarred me out of a habitual way of looking at the world. This habitual way is to assume hostility from those whose views differ from my own. I don't know if this is an evolutionary, instinctive trait. My storyline flows from an assumption that having left the faith of my childhood, my local community, family, friends, and most co-workers has put me in a precarious position. I assume they all think I'm hellbound for not believing what I don't believe. This religious departure has been a sticking point for me personally, a place to get hung up. I've interpreted my differences of perception with my faithful neighbors in ways that have left me feeling isolated. In varying degrees I've dealt with the feelings and managed to get along however awkwardly, sometimes biting my tongue, sometimes sticking my foot in my mouth. I have not made it a habit, however, to wonder what delusions and joys I might share with these folks in spite of our disagreement, let alone ask how I can let our differences positively affect me and perhaps, gulp, change me. I recognized right away that this is an ego thing--an attempt of my impermanent "I" to assert and define itself in fixed terms. My sinuses cleared at the same time I felt myself breathing easier about acknowledging impermanence. I felt myself let go of some of my wariness about making my secular way through a highly religious crowd.

The following day, Thursday, I sat in the faculty lunch room listening to a co-worker talk about how a suicide presented an opportunity to share with someone the "Lord's" plan. My gut reaction was to look away, try to eat a little faster, and find  a way to excuse myself. Instead, I looked up at this individual and tried to see the human being in front of me--complex, just as impermanent and difficult to define as myself. I did not share the particular delusion of which he spoke, but I wondered which other delusions we might share. (My tongue is in cheek here with the word 'delusions,' please know that) We both seemed to feel heavy over the thought of another individual calling it quits. We also have common concerns about the children we teach. Surely there is more to our common humanity. The rest of the afternoon I felt lighter, happier, more interested in the people around me.

Thursday night Glee Season 2 Disc one arrived from Netflix in my mailbox. I'm embarrassed to admit I watch this, but I'm only human, so there you go. The episode "Grilled Cheesus" was genius and touched all the right thematic buttons for this week. One character makes a grilled cheese on an old Foreman grill and sees the face of Jesus burned into the toast. He prays to the sandwich and three of his wishes are granted. The episode explores an array of spiritual options through cheesy show tunes and popular music while relying the heart attack of the casts' gay character's father to lend it the appropriate gravitas. Kurt, the gay character, doesn't believe in God and is put off by the offers of prayers by the other members of the Glee Club. I related. He gets to experience in this episode letting differences positively affect and change him. No, he is not converted, but he recognizes his need for these others, and comes to appreciate his friends' sincere efforts to comfort and support him. Lighter and lighter still.

The big questions--who are we? Why are we here? Why does any of this exist? How did life come to be? How should we live? What happens when we die?--these are bewildering conundrums. As the school counselor tells the disabused Cheesus dude, everyone has to deal with them. I feel a little less inclined to judge those around me who take comfort in the face of these questions by believing in a personal God who looks out for them. I find my meaning through other avenues, through attempting to live as honestly and consciously as I can. I know I fail to live up to this ideal daily. I appreciated reading this week the words of Yogi/Zen meditator Michael Stone

By committing to a practice of being quiet, waking up the intelligence of the body, and listening and communicating as best I can, I try to embody the teachings of the dharma in everything I do. This kind of commitment always gets me in trouble because I continually fail. Failing becomes the practice.

So I continually fail in reaching my ideals of compassion, health, yoga/meditation practice. My philosophy doesn't spare me from the day to day troubles of having to deal with people, some of whom I like and others who rub me the wrong way (and those who feel similarly about me). But failing becomes the practice, and I'm OK with that. I'm taking on a renewed sense of commitment to my practice, to waking up from my funks and delusions when I can, and to being happy in this puzzling but breathtaking universe and world of people, places and things.

Fallor Ergo Sum

Whatever precautions you take so the photograph will look like this or that, there comes a moment when the photograph surprises you. It is the other's gaze that wins out and decides.
Jacques Derrida

I've often said I reserve the right to be wrong, an escape hatch, perhaps, for being careless with my words at times. Recently I've had a lapse of faith in my reasons for writing. Why do I do this? I blog rather than keep a private journal because the possibility, not the requirement, of a reader, I hope, will keep me honest, willing to consider an alternative view--willing, in short, to be wrong. Jacques Derrida is credited for saying that every reading is a misreading--that is to say, whatever precaution I take so this blog will sound like this or that, there comes a moment when the words surprise me. It is the other's (mis)reading that wins out and decides. Well, that's an entirely new aspect of public writing that caught me off guard. It shouldn't have, probably, because on some level I know how difficult authentic communication is. I've participated in plenty of what I call "parallel universe" conversations with other people. We go along talking and it seems we either agree or disagree but know what it is we agree or disagree on, and then my partner in repartee makes a comment that reveals to me we, neither of us, have heard what the other was truly saying. SHOCK! Waste of time? Maybe not. Maybe the value is simply in the recognition and the reattempt.

Recognizing this recently in terms of blogging gave me a case of virtual laryngitis. I lost my voice. I began thinking about Zen Buddhists (other Buddhists, too, maybe) or philosophical yogis who take vows of silence. It's possible that keeping our mouths shut is truly the only way to be honest, to avoid misinterpretation. But where's the fun in that, right? Besides, someone is bound to take silence the wrong way, too. Yesterday an acquaintance of mine posted this TED Conference clip on Facebook and voila! I'm cured. Not without some trepidation, mind you, I return to clicking away my perceptions on this keyboard wondering who will read it and why. Kathryn Schulz says early on in this talk, "The single greatest moral, intellectual leap you can make is to admit you might be wrong." I agree. This single concept has been the seed center of my philosophical/spiritual/whatever perspective for more years than I can remember. I might be wrong. I don't know.

Believe me, this does not give me a sense of moral superiority. (Do I pity the fools who don't get it? Maybe. OK, so at times it does give me a sense of moral superiority. Don't worry, though, I also anticipate a moment in the near future when this rug will be pulled out from under me and I'll be sitting on the ground rubbing my bruised ass while watching stars and birds encircle my head. I won't be  feeling so damn morally superior then.)   In terms of this little blog project, this exercise in expression is more an endeavor at affective creativity than an intellectually rigorous invitation to debate. I really don't mind when someone disagrees with me philosophically, and I'm not too invested in winning a battle of right ideas. However, where I do get stuck is on feeling that when I attempt to strike a certain emotional chord that it will resonate with all people in all times exactly the way it resonated with me. There's my Achilles' heel. I can quote Ira Glass via Kathryn Shulz with ironic experience that my intention when writing was that "this one thing was going to happen, and something else happened instead."

I may be wrong here, but I think the crux of what Derrida says is that the artist or even mere instigator of the conversation is not the creator of the meaning. There is no such thing as intellectual property, despite copyright laws and patent offices. Now I'll be pulling in too many disparate sources with my next leap, but bear with me. This connects for me with the Buddhist idea of emptiness. No form. Even our perspectives of the tangible world are just perspectives--open to interpretation, seen differently from another angle. That's a daunting thought, isn't it, to recognize this illusion that we've been standing on solid ground, that the world may not be, in fact, probably is not what we thought it was? But it is only when I recognize this--never when I'm stuck in feeling safe and right--that "the world turns around and astonishes" me.

I'll end this post with a quote from Shulz, in case you've been pressed for time and couldn't listen to her entire talk, or alternatively were so enthralled with my writing you didn't want to interrupt it by clicking the hyperlink:

"If you really want to rediscover wonder, step outside of that tiny, terrified space of rightness and look around at each other, and look out at the vastness and complexity and mystery of the universe, and be able to say, 'Wow. I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong.'"

Maine Coon?

Before Saturday I'd never heard of such a cat breed as Maine Coon. My husband's cousin, an electrician, stopped by to look at some broken light switches and stepped back in awe as Argus, our Big Friendly (Feline) Giant sauntered into the room. "You got a Maine Coon?" He asked.

What? That's just Argus, the bigger half our kitty brothers duo Argus 'n' Odo. Odo's got short hair and a mean lean frame, but identical Jellicle cat tabby markings as Argus. Maine Coon? We were abuzz with excitement. We searched through Wikipedia and Cats 101 in quest for the Truth about Argus. Big? Yes. Above average intelligence? We think so. Friendly? Yup. He's also interested in people but not clingy, sometimes chatty. The tufts of fur in his ears extends beyond the outer edge of his external ears. He has tufts between the toes of his snowshoe big feet. Tail as big as a feather duster, belly fur hanging low. Maine Coon! We got ourselves a Maine Coon. Don't we? Doubt sets in. Suddenly it matters. We need to know.

So what is it about we humans that drives us to establish lines of authority, lineages, pedigrees for everything? Does believing or not believing Argus is a Maine Coon make any difference at all? Chris says he likes to know because it gives him a narrative. The intrigue of the Maine Coon's story ranges from the theory that they descend from Norwegian forest cats--Chris envisions Argus padding softly across a blanket of snow in a forest of pines--to having sprung from the fortunate felines once belonging to Marie Antoinette. She was able to save them before losing her head. And yeah, the narratives add some flavor. Argus, a sea-faring cat, snoozing away atop bags of grain, helping himself to the hungry sailing rodents daring enough to nibble a bag open. This affinity for the salty sea may explain his fascination with our toilet water.

What was funny to note, though, was my own hesitation in granting Mr. Argus--affectionately called Poop Gus by those closest to him--the title. Maybe he's not REALLY a Maine Coon, I interjected. Don't get all excited, y'all. I found some authoritative breeders who would insist he cannot be Maine Coon. No pedigree. Would we be laughing stock if we were so bold as to presume? No way to know the Truth here. Maine Coon? I dunno.

I correlate both my skepticism and my family's eagerness to claim this presumably elite status for our cat to common human behavior. There are those who feel safer, I guess, if their ideas are validated by a sense of coming from authority or having been transmitted via pure lineages. There are those who are attracted to the narratives, and perhaps others who feel special or elite (Sneetches on the beaches?). Then there are the skeptics, like me, unwilling to say for certain this is this or that is that. The joke may be on  folks like me, but I don't mind. Having my doubts leaves me open to possibilities. As for Argus, I'm fairly convinced that as long as we'll rub his belly from time to time and make sure he gets a little canned cat food in his dish every morning he doesn't give a flying fart whether we call him Maine Coon, Poop Gus, or anything at all.

Hope is the slimy thing with gills that emerged from the mud...

I teach 2nd grade. I've told y'all that before, right? Here's a sample of writing that tickles both my funny bone and my fancy that there's hope for we human beings yet. The assignment was to write about the vocabulary word INCREASE. I wish you could see the elaborate drawings that go along with this piece. It includes a plethora of detailed dinosaurs, a giraffe, then a series of drawings that begin as asmall dot that grows into a larger dot, then several versions of amoebic looking things that in turn look like fish then fish with legs. This lad has an encyclopedic memory for all things dinosaur and animal. I will leave his sentence structure (or lack thereof) as written and simply allow you to enjoy the delightful thought process of this scientific thinker who has an awe for life:

Increase

means to grow grow grow

Life begian so small as small as planckton that small and then to land and got bigger and bigger! and bigger very big. The goraif is the tallest thig on erth so small to so big. 

You gotta love that exclamation point mid-sentence. Each day before he goes home he poses questions to me like, "Who would win, a lion or a tiger?" "Did you know the tiger descended from the saber tooth cat? Most people call it a saber tooth tiger but it's really a saber tooth cat." "I wonder how life began in the first place."

You keep on wondering, kid, and asking questions.

Love the Players, Hate the Play

My oldest daughter is an anonymous wife in her school's production of Rogers and Hammerstein's The King and I. I spent most afternoons this week tying her hair up into a knot on the crown of her head, spraypainting her head black and applying eyeliner out to the edges of her temples. Months of rehearsals and the work of a league of parent volunteers (of which I was not in the ranks) culminated in a series of performances that would probably surprise most attendees with its quality. Granted, everything from the characters to the accents and even the set was highly imitative of the renowned Deborah Kerr/Yul Brynner movie, but the fact that the director was able to draw this level of imitation from a group of inexperienced actors ranging in age from 5-14 made the show remarkable. Kayla was given a chance to participate in something larger than herself, and I got a kick out of her backstage bonding with fellow cast-members. The only thing wrong with the play is that the play itself is stupid.

The director made an effort in the program to assure us all that this story was fictionalized, and that she took the opportunity to teach the children of the beauties of the culture they were about to ridicule and marginalize. Ok, that shows my bias, but I don't know how else to respond when watching a stageful of impressionable minds supplicating to a statue of Buddha to help Anna stay awake for the scientific sewing of dresses even though she be only a woman and therefore unworthy of his interest. I get it. It's humor. I suppose the play attempts to reveal prejudice on both sides of the cultural divide, but it comes across as highly lopsided, and without supplemental information, these kids might walk away from this experience believing that all Buddhists pray to the eastern doppelganger to their western big guy in the sky. They might also believe that Anna was bringing progress, not imperialism in those bags that the young Siamese sailors unloaded from the dock.  But, as Kayla reminded me, it would have made boring entertainment to have the audience watch the royal family meditate for 15 minutes onstage. Yeah, OK, I'll relent.

However, to provide some counterbalance, I streamed the more human Anna and the King through Netflix on my classroom Smartboard yesterday as I worked for free filing and organizing my classroom for the weeks to come. Here Buddhism and Christianity are portrayed in a more objective light. Neither East nor West is idealized, neither is villainized. This retelling is a more objective look at history. There are Buddhists who ask for favors as readily as their Christian counterparts. The civilized use barbarians to attain their imperialist ends and the barbarians are forced to make humane decisions. It's complicated. Jodi Foster and Chow Yun Fat suit me better than Kerr and Brynner, but even I recognize that this, too, is fiction. Both versions are stories, but we humans live by our stories. Does it matter to which ones we subscribe? I think so.

It's So Friday

The Pretenders' My City Was Gone, played on the radio this morning as I made my way, late, for work. There it was, that faint smell of longing. I lifted my nose to catch the scent of childhood memories that swirled past like a breeze. I was a cat who senses something that's almost there, and then it's not. So that was a moment.

Water Dances

Have you seen Rango? No? Get thee to a theater, man!




My favorite scene is a rather insignificant one in the overall plot of this existential homage to spaghetti westerns: At high noon on Wednesdays the citizens of parched Dirt line up on Main Street, empty bottles in hand, and do a little dance. They perform this absurd ritual with deadpan sincerity and particular care to detail. They do this dance on their way to the Great Spigot where they hope to receive their ration of a dwindling supply of water. I like this scene because it highlights an obvious mass-scale OCD quality of human behavior. If we pray just right, eat the right foods, do the yoga workout with precision, then every little thing will be all right.

I had to include yoga here. It's my pet ritual, and one I have to take with a little grain of salt even as I take great pleasure in it and feel it is a useful vehicle for waking up to my life. It is a dance though, and there is a fine line between it becoming an inane rote performance in quest of something else and being simply a kinesthetic meditative experience of the moment. I will continue to practice as long as there are instances of the latter. There are plenty of other rituals in my life that I've shed off like a rattler's unneeded, too-small skin. That's how a snake grows, right? When the skin's too small, it's molt or die.

Anyway, do go see Rango, and then talk to me about it. It's an escape, but a good 'n.

When I Say "We,"

I do mean "we." We human beings. As in we human beings do some nutty things. I'll be the first to admit my neurosis. I attempt to see clearly, to act rationally, but I get caught up in stories as easily as the next guy. So I've been feeling a little, er, shall we say paranoid about my last post. It was reactive even as it criticized what I consider to be a highly reactive group. But the thing is, it's easy to make a "they," and then to blame them for all that ails you. The aforementioned fringe group does, to be sure, but then I made a "they" out of them, too. Ah, life.

We all feel a little vulnerable. I hear it every day in colleagues' voices, in the radio DJ's, on the news. How to deal with the fear? My point on Sunday was to say that it must surely be less effective to tighten up, close your heart and mind, and get all reactive. It will not bring the fruits any of us desire to try to control everything, including other people. These are the lessons I hope I get through my yoga practice and through meditation. It's not bliss I'm seeking, but an ability to wake up and experience, deal with, face what is. That's all.

Rigidity

I'm here in lovely Park City, Utah getting away, celebrating in a rather unusual way my 19th wedding anniversary. I say unusual because we've brought along our daughters and two of their friends. They'll keep each other entertained when Chris and I slip away for a tasty meal and an hour or two to be alone as seems expected on such occasions. I know this sounds really unromantic of me, but I happen to think that's a good thing. It seems relevant to mark the anniversary, but why do it mindlessly following some sort of idea of what one should do? What I appreciate about my relationship to Chris is a fluidity and flexibility we've developed over these years through transitions and even a few major upsets. What we have is an emerging acceptance of who we actually are as human beings, colored less and less with our projections and fantasies. That's worth celebrating, even if it's quietly at a small vegan-friendly Persian restaurant with a rather friendly chef and absent-minded waitress.

It's a bit of a sobering weekend, anyway, with the news of Japan's earthquake and tsunami and an acknowledgement of our fragility despite any precautions we might make.  Surrealistically I witness the disaster, we all do here in our corner of the globe, as entertainment. I searched around a bit online for insight and came across some pretty shocking shit out there. First was to read a collection of randomly stupid Facebook comments on the tragedy--people taking pleasure in this revenge for Pearl Harbor or whatever. I don't know why I'm still surprised when I discover more people don't think like me. The next was when a YouTube search on Japan earthquake 2011 brought up a clip made by The Sons of Liberty. I'm not sure who these people are, but they are apparently a militia group of white supremacist "Christians" who foresee an unspecified great disaster affecting the West Coast in April or May that will catalyze a new American Revolution in which white Christians will be fighting an epic battle against Zionist Jewish Satanist elites. I do not breathe easy that Utah falls in the "friendly" states in which beleaguered white Christians should seek refuge. The language used by this group is suspiciously similar to that used by our own were-they-really-elected-by-us state legislature: an insistence of calling the United States a republic, vilifying the word "democracy." I watched the clip, full of provocative name calling, and clean images of people in colonial dress firing cannons along with cries of "Liberty!" "Freedom!" I do not know what these words mean to these people, and I'm left with one question: Can people really be this nutty? Wouldn't you rather face a natural disaster head on, dealing with the difficulties and troubles with rationality, than live in a space ruled by sons and daughters of WTF who happen to have stockpiled a few weapons?

This leads me to thoughts on rigidity and a lack of self reflection. We humans, it seems, get these ideas in our heads of how things OUGHT to be and these ideas ossify. The Sons of Liberty are looking at these colonial dress pictures and canons and glorifying this as some sort of place of security and freedom. I'm certain that if these people achieve the kind of outcome they seek: a place where THEY are in control and everyone at least appears to go along with their ideology, life will still suck for them. It takes so much effort to keep an illusion going, and can you imagine the burden of keeping everyone else in line so that you can't see the cracks in your fantasy? This may be merely my opinion, but it does seem a better option for we folks to breathe a little more, soften up the areas where we tend to clench, and at least TRY to see things as they are. Trade in a need for certainty for a little curiosity.

I don't know. I think it's time to turn off the computer, go outside for a walk in the Park City sunshine, get a kick out of my kids' antics, breathe in the air. This is the ride we're on--absurd as it appears to be at present. Oh, for a little fun and escape, and a look at how nutty we get, go see the movie "Rango." This was a delightful departure from the expected corporate message animated flick. I especially liked the little water dance the townsfolk do at high noon on Wednesdays. I hope you do, too.

I'll opt for lazy, unoriginal, this morning and simply share a few readings and one book title to be placed on my virtual to-read list. It's a Sunday morning saturated with gray here in Orem. I've drunk my daily green smoothie, which happened to be purple on account of the addition of frozen berries and in spite of the addition of the fresh green peas I paid too much money for at Costco yesterday. My yoga clothes are in the dryer, but I'll soon slip into a pair of stretchy pants and a breathable cami and make my way to the blind shop ersatz yoga studio to take a group through the asanas. To tell you the truth, I'd rather be practicing than teaching this morning, but it's all right.

Twenty Reasons

GMOnslaught

On Bullshit

Mink River

Hardcore Zen on Emptiness

Yogi Cat

Thought I'd Something More to Say

Yow! Mortality on the mind this week, and then this morning as Chris, Brynn, and I were driving to the massage school listening to The Dubber Side of the Moon,  Time comes up. Both Chris and I are brought to tears. That doesn't happen often anymore, a song hitting such an emotional chord, much less one that synchronizes Chris' and my clocks.  Maybe it's the timing. We're in our 40's now for god's sake, shorter of breath and, well, you know the rest.

Not sure what brought on the awareness and, gasp, acceptance of the fact that I'm gonna die someday. It may have been the National Geographic article on earth's population reaching 7 billion this year. Yes, I think that's when it hit me. The video clip on the Web site is a bit too glib. Hey! Let's party like it's 2010! We only need space the size of Rhode Island for all of us to dance around? Misses the point that we're not the only Earthlings and that there's a dependency, nay, inter-dependency, for all life remaining balanced. Frankly, National Geographic disappoints in this respect. Didn't expect that from them. But getting back to my little, personal epiphany: the idea of 7 billion of us breathing in the air put my sense of self into perspective. Things could get bad for us or for our grandchildren, or somehow we'll all manage to muddle through this overpopulation with smiles on our kissers, but one thing's for sure, I'm going to live a while longer, and then stop doing that. Ticka, ticka, tock! Look at the clock!

I think I'll try to be awake for my remaining years.  How about you? I watched a clip this morning of Pattabi Jois leading a group of yogis through the Primary Series." Beautiful, but probably filmed 20 or so years ago. Where are these legends of yoga now? Guruji is not here anymore. This doesn't change my reverence for my chosen life's practice, but it puts it into perspective. I have loved my yoga this week--my body and breath coordinated, and I moved in ways that surprised myself. I'm not going to stop, but I also have to know that this is temporary. It won't do me any good to hold fast to this image of me practicing yoga like this forever and ever. Yoga wakes me up, but it could also put me to sleep if I slip into rigid thinking.

I'm off now to guide a group through the asanas, encouraging their breath, and, I hope, a sense of presence. I'd like us to slow down and stop chasing the sun for an hour, even as we salute it. I'm wishing these yogis, and you, an alive Saturday with a distinctive lack of quiet desperation.

That's What I'm Tallkin' About

This was in my inbox this morning. Check out Tricycle's article on mind/body-ness. This is the sort of practice that resonates for me.  Something to ruminate this week and write on next. Maybe.

Technology Schmechnology

"With all of our information slipping into the wireless realm, people have never needed yoga and other practices to ground them into their physical bodies more." 

~ Dulcinea Circelli - Los Angeles based yoga teacher, writer, Artist

I borrowed the above quote from an acquaintance's, a fellow yoga teacher trainee with me two years ago, Facebook page. This has been a major theme for me the past few weeks ever since that class on new literacies I mentioned in an earlier post. I have the same question now as I did then: What does it mean to be a human, embodied, in all this digital zaniness? And there's more to that question than meets the eye. I paid attention this week to how frequently I'm drawn into this collective consciousness that is our technology. I've convinced myself that it's useful, and indeed, it can be. I found a decent video clip on YouTube to supplement my science lesson on seed dispersal for my 2nd graders. Ideally we would have wandered into a dandelion field to see the blizzard first hand, and if I could find a plant that bursts and flings its seeds, that would have been more powerful. Since neither of these experiences were immediately accessible, the clip taught more than a dry lecture from me could have done. The grand finale of the clip was a rhino pooping. No way I could duplicate that.


So it's all useful stuff, right? Eh, not so sure. I know I'm going to sound like a paranoid conspiracy theorist here, but we, the bulk of the planet's nearly 7 billion inhabitants, are so easily led by the nose by pretty advertisements, misleading information that must be true 'cuz it's on the net, time ticking away at games when the flesh and blood people sitting next to us go unnoticed. How many of our opinions have been formed for us by these entertainments? I read another article this week on Ecological Buddhism, a bit depressing, but necessary to look at, I think. The interviewee mentions how the science of social control is so refined these days that it takes all a meditator can do just to be aware of it, let alone resist. (And then to read that perhaps the best a meditator can hope for is to be able to bear the unbearable when the shit hits the fan...Where's the jewel in the shit?) So there's that. 

No doubt you've heard about the tree octopus hoax, right? I'm pretty sure I'm the last person to catch wind of it. Well, there's this weird thing about being human that enables us to believe really absurd things--sometimes the more absurd, the more tenaciously we believe them. Tree octopus is case in point. Now there doesn't have to be an internet or TV or iPhone in order for this strange idiosyncrasy to manifest itself, but I'm thinking there's something about the electronic world that links directly with a more primitive area of our brain when we plug into it. We don't even recognize that our strong reactions (or lack thereof) to news and events have been conditioned, created really, by something external and not always in our best interest. 

Didn't Star Trek teach us anything?

Then there's the esoteric view. Aside from being a time vortex, getting caught up in little virtual dramas is a lot like living in the future or snagged in the past, anywhere but here, really. There's no "here." It's an un-zen, un-yoga noplace to be (or not be). Here's Zen iconoclast Brad Warner's opinion on the subject. 


Not to throw the baby out with the bathwater, I still plug in. Obviously. I'm doing it right now. But maybe I'll plug in a little less frequently, choose reality over virtual reality whenever possible. Now that this is written up, I see that I would have much rather written on the other side of the issue, about embodiment and the way my yoga practice grounds me both in my physical body and in the present. Yesterday I watched a gymful of sweaty Zumba dancers shake their booties while I waited to teach my class. They looked happy. They looked alive. There were 30 people at my class, too, getting curious about these strange, fleshy mechanisms and how they work.  Yoga and meditation do seem needed more than ever, to explore the mind and inquire about what THIS is, this body/brain/mind/life thing. A topic for next time, perhaps. For now, I'm going to quit writing and go scratch my cat behind his cute little cheek tufts.