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.

Memento Mori

All Hallow's Eve tonight. Spirits walking the streets and all. Dia de los Muertes calaveras, ghosts of Halloweens past. My brunch today was living proof that you cannot reconstruct the past. Last year's event was much more celebratory and populated. We had a guitar and some drums, which may have helped. I'm not complaining. My friends brought good spirits with them today and though our conversations were more subdued, I enjoyed the mellow, even keel and let things be what they were. The candles are still lit now a full two hours after the last guest left. I'm mesmerized by the steady burn, hardly a flicker. The centerpiece, a dedicatory altar of sorts, is beautiful with pictures mostly of grandparents and one of my cat, Django, who died about this time last year.

My maternal grandma is close to dying. The latest news from my mother is that Grandma Florence's body is shutting down and we may be attending a funeral in the next weeks. A body shutting down. Organs ceasing to digest food that is no longer needed. Timelines and memory broken up and fading. Should I be ashamed to admit that I haven't seen my grandma in years? The last visit I remember was nearly four years ago when she stayed at a rest home after a spell of illness. She knew me then, but wouldn't now. My sister stayed closer to Grandma over the years, paid a visit yesterday and says Florence talked mostly about Spring City, where she was born and raised. But then again, that's what she talked about when I was younger and would spend a week or two at her house every summer. In my mind, Grandma was exotic, maybe even glamorous. She walked with a limp, one leg shorter than the other and I don't know why. Not polio. I don't think. Her tan face powder in the pink sky-lit bathroom smelled soft and alluring. She painted on eyebrows every morning and went out dancing on the weekends with Grant, my step-grandpa. She was a talker, fascinating at times, scary at others when she'd read parts out of books about Revelations and the apocalypse. Boring, too. She had lived through the Depression and could recount tale after tale of kids who were poor as church mice, bless their hearts.

This news of her closeness to death stirs up feelings of isolation and estrangement for no other reason I can make out than that we, Florence's descendents, are a band of introverts. The last time I saw my mom's siblings together was at Aunt Virginia's funeral a few years ago, and that strange shyness in conversation and look was absolutely familiar and disconcertingly comforting. Sheepherder stock, used to long summers in high meadows, I suppose. Rugged introversion, maybe. Or maybe this is just me feeling a lack of connection to a woman I do not understand and love nonetheless.

Which Are You?

I read Roethke in college, and all these years later "The Waking" bubbled to the surface of my thoughts this morning as I mused about relationships and ways of being with others. "Of those so close beside me, which are you?" That line I both do not understand and do (if I think by feeling). Compassion and love feel different tonight and I can't quite explain why. I didn't get out of bed in time to make a 6AM yoga class, so as a penance of sorts I sat 15 minutes of zazen. The usual suspects of mind chatter ran round and round and I wondered why I even bothered. Still, later in the morning I stepped out of my classroom for a minute onto a cold, semi-white playground and felt the profound emptiness in the space around me. That was a moment of grace. Without those brief encounters with stillness I'm rushing through my days, saying things I think I should say, thinking I'm teaching students to read, calling out yoga cues to a room of warm bodies, living more by idea than by living. OK, this probably doesn't make sense to anyone who's not inside my head. I'm trying. Be patient. Occasional emptiness makes it possible for me to be in a classroom of 2nd graders and experience them as human beings. How could I ever think to be a teacher without that? Of those so close beside me, which are you? Do I really see?

Tonight the woman I wrote about earlier came to my yoga class. She has been fairly steady and makes slow progress. She doesn't fall any more, but still looks lost. Last week I greeted her and she looked at me in a way that I hastily interpreted as neediness. I didn't know what to do with that. Yoga cues, yoga cues, tuck that tailbone, root and extend. However tonight I asked her after class how she was doing and I learned that she has recently lost her husband. That was not neediness, but grief, grief, grief. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. How fucking egotistical of me to think I had something to "teach" here. Great Nature has another thing to do to you and me. 

This shaking keeps me steady, I should know. Life is bigger. Love is bigger. I'll be damned if I understand it, but I learn by going where I have to go.

The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.


Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.


Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.


Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.


This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

What Would They Do if I Sang Out of Tune?

Quick post tonight. I'm back from a most rejuvenating long weekend in Moab with nine other women who have been my friends these past ten years. Call me lucky, blessed or whatever. If you don't have a set of YaYas, you need to get one. I laughed longer and heartier in these four days than I can remember in awhile. We practiced yoga in the ranch house living room during a rainstorm, followed by a hip-hop dance party, a wiggy photo session, hot-tubbing, hiking and hours and hours of gab. It's hard to believe that after ten years we still surprise each other with our stories. Pinot Noir helps. We cook for each other, taking care. There is no master plan. We don't all participate in every excursion. Want privacy? You got it. There's an organic cohesion. We are none of us two peas in a pod. This is what I love.

Relationships. Interesting things. As devastatingly unsophisticated and uncynical as this may sound, I'm grateful for them all--for the foils they present to my own sense of self. For the chance to see the other in others. I'm home and happy to see the faces of my family, content to think of all the friends I've known. I might even be grateful for those who've made me say on other occasions that hell is other people. Maybe that's pressing it. Still, I'll not look this gift horse of a weekend in the mouth. Why not sleep well tonight?