Shanti Town

Grace in the Space...

2012-02-01T13:53:00.000-08:00

"While individuals vary, the natural pace of human beings is slow. In an atmosphere of slowness, kindness and thoughtfulness flourish....Hurry (pressure) makes one slightly insane.... You cannot be violent to yourself (rush) and expect your [practice] ultimately to meet your standards. Being slow is a teacher."

- Gail Sher
Writing the Fire

I inherited my father's hyper-punctuality. I spent countless hours as a child, entertaining myself in movie theatre arcades, waiting for movies to begin to which we had arrived forty-five minutes early. If there weren't any video games in the vicinity for my brother and I to while away the time (and often there wasn't) it would mean three quarters of an hour watching corn kernels spin in the popcorn popper.

I apologize, in advance, to my own future children, as I'm sure they are destined for a similar fate...

I can't bear to be late. Being late makes me feel like the earth is spinning in the wrong direction. When I first moved to New York, I would give myself an hour to get anywhere. Sometimes more. I have, more often than I would like to recount, been the first one at a rehearsal, at a party, at an audition, at a class--for gods sake--even classes I didn't like. I have, even as an adult--unfettered by parental time tables--found myself much too early for a movie and (sadly) too old for the arcade. Pop, pop, pop goes the popcorn popper.

But, it's not the punctuality that I've come to find troubling...it's the hurry. E.g., to be added to the above list: first one finished with her test, first one done eating, first one across the street, first one to the end of the book, first one to the end of the sentence, first one with her hand raised, first one to know what to say to you in this troubling situation, first one to the silverware drawer, first one in bed, first one out of bed, first one to the passenger seat, first one to finish her to do list, first one to start thinking thinking thinking upon waking waking waking, first one with the bright idea, first one with the funny, first one to the end of the inhale, first one to the end of the exhale, first one to the end of this paragraph...

(you get the idea.)

I checked out a book from the library the other day on yoga and anxiety (it's for research, okay, Mr. Librarian...it's for research), and I was reading a chapter all about the symptoms of anxiety and the traits of an anxious person, going along at my usual break-neck pace (I've always been a very fast little reader, able to take in entire chunks of text at a time), and as I sped to the end of the paragraph, I read the following: "Did you hurry to the end of this sentence? Go back, and read it again. Slowly."

Yikes. You mean, this whole time I thought I was just a super special smarty-pants speed-reader, and you're telling me that I might just be...rushing? Anxiously?

(I can literally HEAR my husband smirking as he reads this.)

There are three things in my life that make me slow down: my husband, my writing, and my yoga practice. My husband, because just the feeling of his arms around me or hands on me or voice in the room actually changes my physiological make-up, I'm sure of it. It's happened ever since we first met...I can remember the way his voice on my voicemail, even at the very beginning, made me feel like I could just...breathe...easier. Writing does it because, well, writing just does that to me--quiets me. Similar to husband's arms around me as calming influence (though not nearly as sexy) is the feeling of my fingers on the keyboard. It changes my chemical makeup.

And then there's the yoga...oh, the yoga.

My body seemed to know, when I began to practice seriously, that there was an untapped wellspring of grace somewhere in that clutzy form of mine. And one day, it just let it out. I remember being in a class, and moving between two poses and feeling, suddenly, that my body was no longer made of body...but of silk. Or water. Or thick smoke. I remember feeling like I could move, not just the grosser elements--the big limbs and muscles--but everything in my body, all the way down to the ends of my hair. I could move from my cells. I could move from my skin. And I felt the way that pose could slip into pose into pose into pose...and, oh my, oh my.

This, you have to understand, born from a girl used to feeling more scrappy than serpentine, more used to the sound of her body accidentally running into things than the sound of breath moving through it...the feeling of grace, I'm trying to say, was not one I was used to.

I remember thinking, "well geez, body, if this is was what you were made to do...why didn't you tell me sooner?"

And as I practiced more and I more, I realized that in order to feel all of this juicy stuff...in order to really move from my toe-tips to my hair-tips...I had to slow down. I had to allow some time. Things don't melt all in a flash...it takes a slow steady application of heat, (if you don't want to end up with just a bubbling pot of burnt). It's this way with food, and it's this way with muscles, and it's this way with pesky and particular thoughts. There has to be room and time for things to transform.

But, until very recently, this slow-ness has been confined to the space of my mat...it has been my sole refuge of slowness. Until recently. When, for whatever reason, it has finally become apparent to me that if I want larger change in my larger life, I have to take what I am learning and make it...larger. I have to begin to stretch out my little yoga-bliss-sweater so it covers the whole of my life. Which means, consciously bringing tools out of the classroom and into my living room/bedroom/kitchen/waking life. Which, in this case, means slowing down.

Walking a little slower. Talking a little slower. Doing less all at once. Breathing. More. Thinking. Less.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Our natural pace is slow. When we are relaxed, when we are calm, when we are happy, things move slowly. Our breath. Our thoughts. Even the changes in the room around us. Haven't you noticed--when you feel turned on or connected to your life, you suddenly have time to notice the way the breeze moves the curtains just so? To notice the sounds of a chain cling-clanging against a far away fence somewhere? To notice the way the little hairs on your arms wiggle? To notice the color of the sky outside the window? Has, in those moments, has the speed of the world changed...or have you?

If you have some time today (heh heh)...try it. Take something slow. Anything--a walk down your block, the next forkful of food you bring to your mouth, the speed at which you are reading to the...end....of...this...sentence.

Try it out. See what happens.

A Little Friend Blog Love...

2012-01-31T09:53:00.000-08:00

(friend blogger in question...Ericka Kreutz)

Please go here and read this.

If you are married, have been married, are about to be married, love someone, once loved someone, hope to someday love someone...you should read this.

Such a beautiful portrayal of real actual sane worldly love, and what a mind-trip it can be to try and hold your love up to the fun-house mirror of the wedding industry. Stellar writing, beautiful insights...just, f-ing awesome.

Tina Turner and Sthira Sukha...

2012-01-26T22:27:00.000-08:00

"You know, every now and then

I think you might like to hear something from us

Nice and easy but there's just one thing...

You see, we never ever do nothing nice and easy,

We always do it nice...and rough!"

- Tina Turner

The truth is, that yoga is not one-asana-fits-all. The truth is, that some of us need things nice...and some of us need things rough... And, after myriad conversations lately with teachers and friends and students alike, about the benefits of fast versus slow, short versus long (yoga, people, I'm talking yoga), and yin versus yang, I have come to believe that being able to differentiate which of these creatures you are (one who needs it nice, or one who needs it rough), is of vital importance.

There is a sutra (yes, back to the sutras) that reads...Sthira Sukham Asanam. Ain't that pretty? Sthira Sukham Asanam--even without the meaning, don't you just want to say it? Sthiiiiiiiiraaaa Sukhaaaaaaam Aaaaaaaaasanaaaaaam. (Sanskrit Sigh.)

It means that the asanas (the postures) must be both steady and sweet. Or soft. The asanas must be both steady and soft. Both firm and sweet. Both steadfast and giggly. All of them. Every single one. And so it goes with the entire practice.

And so it goes with life.

And there are so many reasons that this is a beautiful (challenging) instruction, but a big one of them is that it can become a diagnostic tool for each individual student. Most of us...most of us will know right away which of these things we are, intrinsically, and which one of these things we could use a bit more of in our lives. We're either the type who is great with structure, great with muscle, great with remaining close to the center and close to the line...we are the focused one, the studious one, the one who can push and sustain and maintain and achieve. We are Sthira. We've got sthira covered. We're all arm balances and twenty chatarunga push-ups and breath of fire and hey, man, this savasana thing isn't really for me.

Or.

We're the type who likes to melt. We're the type with water-open-hips and soft eyes and we like to siiiiiiiigh a lot when we drip down into a forward bend. We are the gigglers the deep meditators...we bring the open, we bring the groovy, we bring the patient smile and we aren't afraid, you know, to throw caution to the wind now and then, to take the great risk of loving. We are Sukham. We've got sukham covered. We're all easy splits and curving backs and oh, wait...what were we talking about?

And for each of us there is a medicine. Sthira Sukham Asanam. Nice and rough. Not one. Or the other. But both.

And so perhaps, my dear readers, perhaps if you recognize yourself in one of these...perhaps if your jaw is clenched even now as you read (did you notice?), perhaps instead of muscling your way into yet another (fill-in-the-blank), perhaps you could soften today. You have been given a gift after all...you have been given the gift of strength, of fortitude, of pushing through and rising up. You know your boundaries. You feel your feet underneath you. You've got that steadiness thing down...so perhaps it's time for some sukha, some succor, some sweetness. A little more sugar in your bowl, perhaps? A bit of an exhale, eh, lovely?

And for you...you who have drifted off into revelry already during the course of this sentence, you who don't know why you should bother to tense up when there's so much melting to be had (did you notice?), perhaps instead of softening in to one more (fill-in-the-blank) today, perhaps this is your chance to hug in. To fire up right there in the center line of you and to make some firmness where before there was only give. You have been given a gift, after all...you have been given the gift of sweet surrender, of wide-open-ness. You've got that softness thing down. So, perhaps, it's time for some sthira, some muscle, some steadiness to shore you up. Perhaps it's time to take a big breath in, and hold it, just to feel the power swirling around.

Sthira Sukham Asanam. Not one. Or the other. But both.

Found Item. Now Shared.

2012-01-22T22:13:00.000-08:00

Found this:

Thanks to her.

And this.

Purple and Blue and Yoga All Over...

2012-01-19T14:27:00.000-08:00

Took these pics for a promo for one of my new classes. Please file this under shameless self-promotion.

Time Out For Schoolin'...

2012-01-18T13:16:00.000-08:00

I have written before about my love of the Sutras. Patanjali is my guy.

I have a now slightly beat-up copy of The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali translated by Sri Swami Satchidananda (a famous guru dude), that I cherish. There is a picture of Satchidananda on the front of the book, in pink robes, sitting cross-legged on a bulk-head in front of a river. In the picture he's laughing and looking somewhere just off camera. He's got a long white beard and curly dark hair and I like to pretend that he IS Patanjali. He seems so sweet, like if I met him somewhere, he'd hug me instead of shaking my hand. He'd pull me into those pink robes and he'd just hug the fearful right out of me. Sometimes I forget, altogether, that it's the smiling Swami on the front of the book and not Patanjali, and I look at that picture and I think, "Patanjali...you're my guy." And then I realize that Patanjali lived THOUSANDS of years ago (well, at least 1400 years ago, depending on who you ask), and they didn't have photos back then. So, it would be more accurate to say, Satchidananda is my guy.

Neither one is alive, so hopefully there isn't going to be a wrestling match in the cosmic soup for my devotion. I love you both, okay guys? I love you both.

Anyhow, this morning has been a sutra visiting morning. Of all the texts of yoga (many of which I still have yet to read) this one is my hinge-pin. Maybe it's because the sutras are so like poetry, that they get right into my bloodstream the way poetry does. Maybe it's their succinctness, their flexibility, the way that they build, one on top of the other, to form a complete picture. When I was young and first studying acting, I used to love the way a line of Shakespeare could be endlessly dissected. You could take it apart and take it apart, image by image, even word by word, and every time you dug deeper, the meaning changed, just slightly. Or got brighter. Or weightier. The sutras are like this. Some of the sutras (or so says the smiling swami) are so deep and multi-layered, they actually contain the whole meaning of yoga, and thus the meaning of all the other sutras, within them. Meaning, if you can just really GET even one of the sutras...you get them all.

I love that.

The sutra I was re-reading this morning was Sutra 1:2, the second sutra in the first book of the sutras. (There are four "books" of sutras, each one on a different aspect of the practice of yoga. Book 1 is "The Portion on Contemplation"...it contains the philosophical foundations for the rest of the books.) Sutra 1:2 reads:

Yogas citta vrtti nirodhah.

Which means, as translated by the Swami, "The restraint of the modifications of the mind-stuff is Yoga."

I'm about to nerd out on this...are you ready? Get ready!

It would be easy to read this sutra and think that it said, essentially, "the restraint of the mind-stuff is Yoga". Which would make some sense...we hear so much about clearing our head, about living from our heart instead of our mind, about choosing our thoughts...it wouldn't be unreasonable to think that the practice of yoga is about restraining the activity of the mind. But, if you look closer, what it actually says is:

The restraint of the MODIFICATIONS of the mind-stuff is Yoga.

Meaning, what we're being asked to stop doing, if we're practicing yoga...is the modifying of what's in our minds. Meaning, what gets in our way is not the stuff in our heads, intrinsically, what gets in our way is all the attempts to change or control or modify that stuff. And I think, if one were to look really closely at what's happening inside the mind, there would be a whole lot of unnecessary activity that could be characterized as "modifications".

Isn't that...liberating?

That means, that our nature isn't flawed. It means that--and this is the little experiment that is constantly being conducted in yoga studios and meditation studios and massage parlors and places of healing all over the world--that if we just leave ourselves alone, then...there we are. Done. Enlightened. At one. Peaceful. That is the natural way of things. And by leaving ourselves alone, I of course don't mean just zoning out and filling up on food or drink or sex or television or phone-calls or whatever...I mean the radical, courageous, deeply humble act of allowing whatever is there to be there. No exceptions. THAT, according to Patanjali (and the smiling hugging swami), is yoga.

And what that also means, and the deeper implications for all of us engaged in any kind of spiritual practice (whether you know you're engaged in it or not, you artists, dancers, mommies, chefs, gardeners, and all manner of makers of things), is that IF you are using your practice to fix or alter or control the natural movement of your mind...well, then you're not practicing.

This is the big trick of it...you can sit down and meditate. You can go to yoga every single day. But if you're using those practices to modify your sense of your self, to inflate or punish yourself, to prove something, to run away from something, or just to wall yourself in to the space you consider right or safe...those aren't the actual practices. They might LOOK just like them. They might SOUND just like them. But, from a standpoint of spiritual growth, they're like...holograms. You could reach out and stick your hand right through them.

So, the big challenge--the gauntlet that's been laid down by Mr. Sutra himself is--are you using your life and the practices of it, to open...or to close? Are you, moment by moment, sloughing away all the impulses to make things right, or are you caught up in the constant cycle of improvement? One is Yoga. One is not. And isn't that a relief, to know that Yoga is not some goal attained through some number of years of practice, or some thousands of sun salutations...it is actually the thing that is there when you stop getting in your own way.

It is, what already is.

Sunday Share...

2012-01-15T18:44:00.000-08:00

I so loved this article on MINDBODYGREEN by Nancy Alder, read it here...I just had to share.

For anyone who is new to yoga, for anyone who finds they have a tendency to push or over-work in class, for anyone who has been injured in the room, or has just felt nervous about the whole putting-my-body-in-the-hands-of-someone-else thing...this article is for you.

Ma'am, please put the self-help book DOWN.

2012-01-09T15:08:00.000-08:00

So, the other night in bed, while my husband and I were reading (hot, I know), he happened to glance over at the book I was sighing and "hmm"-ing about (I am one of those readers who can't resist out-loud commentary. I do this even when I am alone. I also involuntarily make all the faces that actors in whatever show or movie I am watching, make. I am a full-body information in-taker. I can't help myself.) Anyhow, he looks at my book, he looks at me, and then he says:

"Are you sure you don't want to read a novel?"

I immediately get mock-offended, "Yes, I'm sure I don't want to read a novel. I want to read this book. The one that I'm reading."

"What does that even mean," he asks, peering at the book's cover as I try to curl it closed around itself, "the Art of Manifestation?"

"It's about manifestation." I say, "Now can you please leave me alone?"

In the hubby's defense, he is not anti-books about manifestation. He, not being steeped in the new-age literature soup that I am thoroughly boiled and braised in, actually thought that the "manifestation" being referenced was a much more esoteric and probably more nuanced thing than was actually being talked about in said book. I don't think any part of him thought I was reading a book about how to manifest things. I think he thought I was reading a book about, oh, the spiritual world versus the physical world, or some such lofty stuff. No, unfortunately not. I, sadly, just want to learn to manifest stuff.

His encouraging me to read a novel was not born of some distaste for non-fiction, it's just...I read a lot of self-help books. And most of them, save a select few, just tend to make me anxious. And, if you were married to me, you too would want to help me avoid excess anxiety, as I am very much that way wired.

I was 21 years old the first time I read a self-help book. I was trying to quit smoking. I got myself a copy of The Easy Way to Quit Smoking, by Alan Carr, and I covered it in a brown paper bag, the way I'd learned to cover my textbooks in college, so no one could see what I was reading. (And, yes, I quit smoking. And, yes, I attribute quite a lot of it to this book.)

The next self-help book I ever got was when I was 22 years old, and I was trying to recover from some crazy food issues. I don't talk about this period of my life much on the blog, but I went through several years, when I was younger, of trying every which way possible not to eat food. At my lowest point I was surviving on a diet of ephedrine, cigarettes, coffee, and one salad a day. Anyhow. No need for all the gory details...this is only to say that I had...some issues, around food. And then, a sort of awakening, brought on by a real bottom-of-the-barrel moment, when I decided I needed to do something about it. So...I went to the bookstore and apparently the book gods were smiling on me that day, because without really knowing what I was looking for, I picked up a copy of Geneen Roth's, Breaking Free from Compulsive Eating.

This was the first self-help book that really changed my life.

Geneen Roth had been a yo-yo dieter (to say the least) for most of her life. She had been anorexic, she had been bulimic, she had been an overeater, an addictive eater, a no-carb girl, an all watermelon girl, a vegetarian, a protein-a-phile...you name it, she had done it. And I, at this point in my life, really identified. Because I was obsessed with food. If you knew me during this period, you may not have known this, since, like any real (and dangerous) obsession, I kept it deeply packed and hidden away, but I, for several years of my life, spent nearly every waking hour thinking about what I could eat, what I had eaten, what I should be eating, how much I weighed, how much I should weigh...etc., etc..

So, when I started reading Ms. Roth's book, and she talked about her own mental and emotional burn-out, when it came to what she should be doing with food, I felt like I had found the right book.

Because she, Geneen--because she had literally tried every single diet and eating plan and eating disorder on the market, and all of them left her in exactly the same predicament, she made a really radical decision. She decided that she would throw out all the prescriptions and just give her body, for once, exactly what it wanted. Her hope was, that if she could just start listening to her own body...maybe IT would know what to do. And because she had gained and lost weight a million times before, she knew that if the experiment failed, she could always go right back to The Zone Diet...or whatever was on her list at the moment.

So, she asked her body what it wanted. And her body answered: chocolate chip cookies.

And for the next two weeks, Geneen Roth ate nothing but chocolate chip cookies. She sat down at a table with a plate and fork and knife and ate plate-fuls of chocolate chip cookies. She ate them for two weeks because for two weeks, every time she asked her body what it wanted, her body said: chocolate chip cookies.

Chocolate chip cookies were, it should come as no surprise, the food she had been denying herself for years. It was the food she loved, and feared, the most.

But, at the end of those two weeks, she asked her body again what it wanted, and her body said: baked potato. And that was the beginning of her long walk back to herself.

It gets me a little choked up just writing about this, because, you have to understand, I was living in a head and a heart so full of prescriptions at that time, the idea that I could abandon them, AND that something more truthful and more sustainable might arise in their place...was a revelation to me. And it not only started my journey away from being a food obsessed person, it, I think, started me on a spiritual path. Though I would not have known that, at the time.

It's amazing to me when I look back, because, well...I rarely think about food in this way anymore. Actually, I would say, I never think about food in this way anymore. I never obsess about food or my weight. Sure, I have days where I feel a little fatter or a little more slim, but for the most part, it's just not a part of my life in that same way. And that is amazing to me, because at the time, if someone had told me that there was a future in which I never worried about my body in a way that ruined my day...I don't think I would have thought that was possible.

The power of manifestation, yo.

Okay, but I'm way off track. The point of all of this is, the other night, when I was reading (yet another) book about what I should and should not be doing, spiritually, and Paul asked me if I wanted to read a novel instead, what it felt like he was asking me was:

Are you sure you don't want a chocolate chip cookie?

Yes, I want to read a novel! Yes! Yes, I would like to put down this book. Yes, I would like to put down all of the books and the practices that I use to reinforce the idea that I am broken and I need to be fixed. Yes, please. Yes, I would like to just give the big middle-finger to the salads of my internal life and I would like to eat a goddamn chocolate chip cookie, please. Yes, I would like to, finally, for once, really believe that I already know all of the things I am trying to learn to remember. Yes, I would like to read a novel. Yes.

So, I did.

I put down the book on manifesting, and I picked up a another book--this one a story about a doctor in the far east in the early part of the century. A fiction. A novel. A big romantic epic of a book. And, you know what? It's delicious.

The Yoga of Sophia...

2012-01-04T18:13:00.000-08:00

Okay...I'm almost embarrassed to be posting this. I probably should be a little MORE embarrassed than I am. Really, I should be embarrassed enough not to post this at all, but...c'est la vie!

So, I was gawking around the internet digging up dirt on the Katy Perry/Russell Brand break-up (she is his teenage dream, no longer), when I came across an interview with Mr. Brand (whom I love and adore and think is possibly a genius and even more possibly, a totally enlightened dude) on the Ellen show, where he talks about this little girl, Sophia Grace, who was also on the Ellen show and whom he looooooooved. And, because ol' Russ was so enthusiastic about said girl, I had to go check her out, and what I found was the video I've embedded above. (And lots of other videos that I have NOT been wasting my time watching. Heh heh.)

I was so, so taken with this little lady...she is super adorable, yes, and obviously talented, double-yes, but the best all-time ultimate BEST thing about her is how fit to burst she is with ALIVEness. She is just, like, milking every moment for its super joy juice.

(That's right. Joy juice. I told you I should be more embarrassed.)

Anyhow, I know that it's such an old trope to point to the joy of children and say, "See...that! We should all be like THAT!" It's not fair, right? Because, what do they know? They haven't been tested, (most of them), they don't have jobs or relationships or frustrated hopes...and they don't know what the hell they're doing for the most part, so how are we supposed to take an example from that? I don't really want to jump around in a pink tutu and glitter (well, maybe I do. Sometimes.) But, I think the point is, and the reason real-life examples of truly joy-jolted kids can be so great--is that it is a potentiality. Kids like Sophia, they are just the most extreme example of the expression of the joy of being alive that we're all born with. And we look to children because, well, because we all started out as kids. Which means, we all started out this way...and then we have all lost it, or some part of it (or, most of us have). Somewhere. Somehow. And from the moment we lose it, we're all, whether we know it or not, just trying to get it back.

And I used to feel like, well...what a cruel trick. What, we all get gifted with this total presence when we're born, we're all born into the world as these little enlightened beings and then we ALL lose our grip on it? That seems...what's the point? Why not just let us keep it, huh, Mister (or Mrs.) Universe?

Well, I have met, in my life, just a few adults who seem to have figured out how to resurrect this ancient, long-forgotten, va-va-va-voom for life. And the incredible thing about them is that, they are experiencing life with the wonder of a child, without being an idiot about it. Because, let's face it, when you're a kid...you're kind of an idiot. (If you are a child, and you're reading this blog, a. you probably shouldn't be and b. YOU are not an idiot. YOU are a genius. Also, if you are reading this blog, and you have children, THEY are not idiots. They are enlightened geniuses).

But...imagine! Imagine getting to have that much bouncy-bounce-in-your-chair fun in your life AND to also be a functioning, contributing adult-with-all-your-baggage member of society! That is like--that is a deadly combination. Deadly, in the best way.

So, take six minutes, watch little miss Sophia, and enjoy. Enjoy, a lot. And then try, if you're of a mind to, to enjoy ONE thing in the rest of your day, as much as she is enjoying every minute of hers.

Pramada, Po-tah-to...

2012-01-01T13:15:00.000-08:00

New York has had its way with me this Christmas.

I'm not sure I deserved this kind of glove-less treatment from a city I have spent so much time mentally romancing over the past many months, but that's fine, NYC...I can take it. So, here follows:

A Short List of Things Which Happened On Our New York Christmas Vacation:

1. On our first night in town, my husband's IPhone got stolen. He left it on a table in a restaurant in our beloved Brooklyn, discovered it's absence maybe 20 minutes later, ran back to the restaurant...and it was gone. This was no tragedy, I'll admit, but it was an immediate snag in our settling-in, and required lots of internet time, and a $450 gift to our local ATT store for a replacement phone.

2. My tooth fell out while eating a piece of ginger candy. (Okay, it wasn't actually my tooth...it was a crown, but still!) We were sitting in our apartment, having just finished a meal from one of our favorite local take-out places, I took a hearty bite of a piece of ginger candy, felt a less-than-delicate pulling in one of my molars and then, like a tiny little canon ball, my crown rocketed across the living room. "My tooth fell out!" I cried, horrified. "That's your TOOTH?!" Cried Paul, even more horrified. This was remedied by some phone-calls to dentists, and a trip to a drugstore to buy some temporary cement.

3. Our washing machine exploded. Apparently someone (me) didn't close the door to the washing machine hard enough (but the little light was on that said it was locked!), and so when I went back to check the progress of the clothes, what I found instead was a bathroom covered in suds. Covered. The bright side was, as we were mopping and toweling and bucketing water and foam off the bathroom floor I did think, well, at least now I KNOW the floor is clean.

4. Paul burned his finger badly on a kettle of water, causing some angry little blisters to rise up on his thumb. I think this may have happened simultaneous to the washing machine exploding.

5. For Christmas...I got pick-pocketed. Eight years I lived in New York, people, and never, not a once, did a single thing get stolen. Ever! And perhaps it's because of that, that I felt okay carrying my BRIGHT yellow wallet in a BIG open bag.... Ah, sigh. While going to see our traditional Christmas Day movie, someone decided to lighten my load, taking my wallet from my bag, and promptly spending $150 from my credit cards on subway passes. Again, not a tragedy...just a lot of calling and cancelling and lamenting...but by this point in the trip we were both starting to feel that New York had it out for us this holiday season.

6. Oh, this one is the worst. Worse than having an IPhone and a wallet stolen in the same week? Yes, I'm afraid so. Existentially worse, at least. While we were wandering around our neighborhood, a couple days after Christmas, looking for some levity, we ran into one of our neighbors, who was walking his very sweet and very old dog. And while we were talking, right there on the sidewalk, the dog started to have a massive seizure. The dog's owner knew what to do, as the dog had been having seizures recently...they think he may have a brain tumor...and so he just held him sweetly, trying to soothe the poor little guy as his body rocked and quaked. Paul and I, not knowing what else to do, just stood there quietly with them until the seizure passed. It was rough. More so, of course, for the dog's owner, who has had him for thirteen years and who neither Paul nor I have ever seen without the dog in question. They are best friends, without question.

Through all of the other minor aggravations and irritations and snags and snafus, we had been holding ourselves steady...just dealing and recovering and moving forward, but there was something about that dog and his seizure and the weight in his owner's eyes that really sent the LIST into sharp focus. What, we both wondered, is going on here?

I have been pondering it for days.

Paul has suggested that it's all just about the two of us being out of shape for New York--that the city is just trying to remind us that it's not all hotdogs and art galleries--which seems right, but not exactly it. And for awhile I freaked myself out thinking it has something to do with being LOST or, worse, being STOLEN. With what being lost or stolen? Our souls, of course! Or...our Self. Or...ugh. Just fodder for my in-house fear-monster.

But today...today, I think I have happened upon it. If not the "why" then at least a lesson in how to think about two-weeks full of craziness.

There is a sanskrit word, Pramada, which means, essentially...negligence. Or, carelessness.

(Need I say more?)

It's talked about in the Yoga Sutras, and it is listed as one of nine distractions that become obstacles on the path to practice. Now, I really thought when I started investigating this morning, that I was just going to end up reading about elephant-headed Ganesha (remover of obstacles), and that I was just going to have to do some deep-hearted praying to that little dude. But, when I came upon this word, pramada, I realized that ALL of the things listed above (save the dog, which I'll get to later), came about as a result of negligence or carelessness on our part: the phone left on the table, the ginger candy eaten (even though my dentist told me to avoid such things), the washer not closed properly, the hot kettle mis-handled, the bag left open...all of these all of these ALL of these...are (gulp) a result of carelessness.

What the Sutras say is that, whether it's negligence or laziness or instability or whatever, these nine distractions are, well...distractions. To growth. To practice. And WORSE, once the mind gets focused on the distraction in question, it quickly gets promoted from distraction to full-blown obstacle. And when it's an obstacle, you'll know, because that's when you start freaking out or shutting down or doing whatever it is that is your particular "something's wrong and I'm upset about it" reaction pattern. Example: I am not paying attention (distraction)...wallet gets stolen...I discover stolen wallet...I freak the f- out (obstacle).

And so...what are we supposed to do? Because all of these distractions, it also says right there in the Sutras, are common. They happen to everyone. So...I'm supposed to, what, keep a manic eye on my purse? That does not paint a very yogic picture. And that's not it, of course...the distractions are not symbolic, in and of themselves. My wallet didn't get stolen in order to teach me to be less trusting in crowds or more fretful about my belongings. The distractions point to something larger. They point, in this case, to a distracted mind. Numbers 1-5 listed above, all of these could have been avoided. Every single one. And they could have been avoided with the simple act of attention.

Ah yes. Paying Attention. That thing. I've heard of that.

Well, what about the dog, you ask? How did that little guy's distress have anything to do with your negligence?

Well, as I review my little list of New York foibles, all I keep thinking is that, the moment of standing there on the sidewalk, waiting out that little dog's seizure with his owner...it was, however upsetting, still a moment of deep and singular attention. It was, I think, a very stark reminder. Because, I know from experience that the universe will keep bringing you things to get your attention back into the present. It will start with something small (lost things, exploding appliances, burned fingers), and then make the signals bigger and bigger (and often worse and worse), until finally you have no choice but to focus.

So the generous universe, it has given me a very clear, and very long-winded edict to pay attention. To pay better attention. And, in honor of that sweet doggy and my dear husband and my deep wishes for 2012...I am going to do my best to follow it.

Here's wishing you a very joyful, and very present New Year

Broke Down Belt...

2011-12-23T08:10:00.000-08:00

Took a beautiful class last night at my beloved Laughing Lotus (that's right, we're back in NYC for the holidays, ah sigh)--which always feels to me like coming home. Even though the studio is blowing up in popularity and expanding and expanding and expanding, I have just sweated and blissed-out and suffered so many hours on those floors, beneath those colored curtains and spinning fans...as soon as I step into the place I feel remembered. If not by the people who are there, which changes of course, and becomes less defined the longer I'm away, then at least by the walls and the ceilings...even by the bathrooms, which I spent many a night scrubbing in return for my free yoga classes.

On this trip I have been longing to MOVE in the way I only feel moved in my practice there. So, as quickly as I could after arriving, I got my butt to class.

And as we began, Ali (one of my most beloved teachers), talked about how valuable the Vinyasa practice is because of it's constant changeability. (I don't think she used that word...I don't know if that IS even a word, but I like it: changeability. It reflects what it is.) She talked about how important a practice it is for life, because of this ceaseless motion--something that is so FELT in a Vinyasa yoga class, and can be much more obscured in life, as we all try to pretend that it isn't the case. That things are not, as they are, always always changing. And I felt so moved by this. Even though it's not a new idea--I've probably heard and even said it, a hundred times over. But yesterday, having barely just arrived back in New York, back in our apartment in Brooklyn, back to all our books and plants and dishes and things that have just been left here, waiting for us, back to our old neighborhood, which is more new every time we return (new shops, new people, new atmosphere)--I needed to be reminded. I needed to be reminded not too hold on too tightly, to anything.

I read once that all suffering is caused by stopping the natural flow of the mind.

And I remember when I read this I imagined a factory--some great conveyor belt, carrying on it all my thoughts and feelings and ideas, and that in its natural state, in its prime-functioning state, that conveyor belt just smoothly silently steadily flows. It just moves by, carrying all of the stuff of my mind. And everything goes along swimmingly on that big ol' belt, until I see something that seems broken or put together wrong, or maybe just an empty space I feel shouldn't be there. (I'm the foreman in this factory, I guess, or maybe just the conveyor belt operator...that's still up for debate). And when that happens, when I see something a-miss, I get all into a fuss and I pull the red lever that stops the movement of the belt, everything comes grinding to a halt, and I rush over and start fiddling or fixing or what-have-you, trying to perfect the products of my little mind-factory.

And of course, of course, this is where the trouble begins.

Things back up. Production slows. People get frustrated. Everything, which was moving along of it's own accord before I got involved, starts to feel...overwhelming.

If I could just leave that belt alone...if I, if we, could just allow it to carry on, just allow even the broken pieces, the gaps, the stuff that's upside down or just badly put-together...if we could just allow that to continue its movement, if we could just trust that our job isn't the perfection of what's ON the belt, but merely that the belt continues to turn...wouldn't things be sweeter? Couldn't we just admire? Wouldn't so much more get accomplished?

I am thinking about this so much lately...as there is so much about the holidays that encourages looking forward and back, and I am trying as much as possible to stay steady in the present. But nothing, I've found, roots me quite as deeply and sweetly in the natural movement of my life as does, well...moving. Moving as I inhale, and moving as I exhale. Moving so that my movement is a reflection of my breath. My breath which is ceaseless in it's progress. So, Shanti-towners...if your conveyor belt feels stuck, if you're trying to glue some broken something back together before you let things move again, maybe...maybe just put it back. Release your little red lever. And let your life move.

The Creative Act. Step One: Just F-ing Do It.

2011-12-13T11:49:00.000-08:00

When I first got back from my honeymoon, I was so overwhelmed with the desire to DO something, that I promptly bought a bed, a desk, two rugs and some curtains and went right to work rearranging our entire apartment. (It looks good, y'all). And when I got done with THAT...I had a minor meltdown about my utter lack of additional things to do.

For about a week I decided I was going to quit everything.

I was going to quit teaching yoga, quit this blog, quit most of the things I am currently doing, and get myself a nice well-paid job producing movies.... I even went so far as to start sending resumes. Overly earnest resumes with doubly-overly-earnest cover letters, warning the recipient of said letter not to be swayed by my long and storied past as an actress...that I was done with all of that! That I had gotten real! That I had wised up and settled on this very sensible path of climbing the ladder from assistant to studio head.

Heh heh.

Luckily, following some very wise advice from my very wise husband, I held myself at bay. I was not going to quit anything, not right away at least...I was just going to wait. Because maybe the desire and the fear and the anxiety about what I was and was not supposed to be doing with my life, would pass. Or calm. Either way, I was not going to quit. (Yet.)

Had I been 21, instead of 31, I would have--as soon as I'd felt that fiery itch, as soon as I'd gotten even a whiff of the terror that I might be In the Wrong Place...I would have taken a giant hammer to the vase of my life and smashed it. I would have closed up shop and scrambled my way into some new (and eventually equally fear-provoking) situation. Thank god for age.

But, because I didn't do that...because I wasn't going to allow myself to do that, I found myself...well...stuck. Stuck with the feeling. Unable to relieve said feeling by just tossing my life up in the air and giving it a good swift shaking. And so I had to utilize some other skills, ones I didn't even know I had. The main one being the ability to just keep moving. I made a promise to myself (after wasting a few days feeling terrible about everything) that I would not waste any days feeling terrible about everything...that I would just continue. I would continue to teach and continue to write and continue to live my life and I would not, as is my wired way, try to run away or fix or drastically alter...anything.

And as I began to do that, this crazy thing happened. I began to realize how much room I actually had in my life. Without spending so much time examining and reexamining how things are going (All. The Time.) I could actually start to feel the mysterious forward movement of things. And it felt--spacious. And full of possibility.

Maybe some of you don't have this problem, but I am the kind of person who needs to clean the kitchen in my apartment, before I can sit down and do anything. And I try, almost always unsuccessfully, to apply this same way of working to my entire life. MEANING, if my proverbial "kitchen" isn't "clean", I don't do anything. This means, because I'm talking about a mind and heart and thought-kitchen (instead of a physical one), that what I end up spending all my time doing...is constantly cleaning the kitchen. And always in my head is this imaginary someday, when the kitchen will finally be clean, and then I, finally, will be able to get to work.

But that someday, never comes.

And so what I discovered, because I made myself leave the f-ing kitchen alone for once...was that, the problem isn't the mess. The mess is never going to be clean. The mess, probably, doesn't even exist. What matters is doing what you want or love or feel compelled to do, in spite of the mess. What matters is taking action anyhow.

And I feel this way on a micro level, even about something as small as a yoga class...you know, there's a million reasons in a day, not to make it to class. Too busy, too tired, too grumpy, wrong timing, wrong teacher, wrong outfit...etc., etc.. But what happens is, if you can just take that FIRST step, if you can just put your yoga pants on and get in the car or get on the train...the rest of it takes care of itself. The creative act has its own motor. So, as soon as you start the thing a runnin', it will just take you with it. And suddenly class is over, you're lying there in savasana, and you did it. And usually, you're so grateful to yourself for having done it.

All it takes is the will and the courage, to get your pants on, and get in the car...

Whhoooooooosh! I love you!

2011-12-04T20:50:00.001-08:00

Do I need to apologize for being so long in posting? I don't know! I'm sorry!

Ugh.

Sometimes I just, you know, run out of things to say. And I figure it's best to spare you all my rummaging around for a straw to grasp, and just let there be these (sometimes) necessary silences on the ol' blog-a-roonie.

But now I'm back! I've thought of something to say! Hooray!

Okay, so, last week, as many of you know, there was a crazy weather event here in Los Angeles...on Wednesday night winds of many many miles per hour (up to 40 knots) hit most of the city. It was very exciting. All night long we could hear the wind shrieking outside, plants blowing over, furniture being dragged across the outdoor patio by the skinny fingers of mother nature--it was something else. My husband barely slept. I, who can sleep through anything (including once in middle school, feat of all feats, sleeping through an honest-to-goodness fire evacuation during an overnight in the school gym)--even I was a little tossy-and-turny due to the ferociousness of the weather.

Now, if you live in a place like Kansas or...New Orleans...or Texas...please forgive we inhabitants of La-La-Land for freaking the heck out about some blown down trees and broken street-lights. We know not what we do.

But, it was, you know...a moment.

I remember, not long after I first moved to New York in the early 2000's there was that big Northeast blackout. I was at the Crunch Gym in Union Square, fake-running on some kind of elliptical, when the whole floor just went quiet, except for the whicka-whicka sound of several people who tried to keep on running on dead machines. (Gotta get that burn!) I went outside, still sweaty, and everyone on the street was gawking up at all the buildings around them...waiting. 9/11 was still very fresh for a lot of people, so I think there was this communal held-breath while folks tried to figure out exactly how worried they should be.

And it was August. So it was hot. Really hot.

I was subletting a little studio apartment in Chelsea, and I had no idea whether there were candles or flashlights or any of that, so made my way back home while it was still light out, and holed up. Later a good friend stopped by with whiskey and some much-needed conversation. I was in the midst of being heartbroken over a newly ended relationship, and I was new to the city and I had been feeling just so...alone. It's the funny thing about New York...there are so many people around, all the time, but somehow, when you're lonely, the presence of all those strangers just makes you feel lonelier. But, I remember, the morning after the blackout, I walked out my door, and instead of just pouring myself into the sea of nameless pedestrians as per usual...I felt like I was, for the first time, walking into my neighborhood. The power was still out, the sun was still out, and people were gathered on stoops...and in little clusters outside of still-dark restaurants. People wanted to talk to each other. To find out "how was it for you?", "isn't this crazy?", "how long will it last?".

I remember that moment as the turning point. The turning point of my broken heart mending, and the moment I felt like I had finally arrived in New York, as a resident, and not just a scared interloper.

And although Wednesday's weather-drama wasn't nearly so dramatic...the same feeling was in the air. People were talking to each other. People were marveling at trees and towers and checking in with their neighbors..."how was it for you?", "isn't this crazy?", and, if they happened to be one of the unlucky who lost their power..."how long will it last?"

I spent the better part of Thursday, the day after the storm, driving from client to class to class to client, and I marveled, the whole day at the traffic. It was TERRIBLE, yes, there were dozens of blacked-out street lights, but still...it worked. People, unaided by men in orange vests, in our individual and usually utterly separate cars...we all started working together. Even at busy intersections, one in particular in my neighborhood where two giant streets split and merge, making for 10 individual lanes of traffic all trying to go and merge and turn and pass...even at those intersections, where people are normally giant a-holes trying to get their way first...we all turned practically nunnish in our deference. You go, and then you go, and then I'll go.

And I was so moved by all of it...the way that (oh my god, nerd-out alert)...the way that Mother Nature or the Universe or whatever you want to call it, gifts us with these moments, where the curtains that normally hang down between us and everyone around us...get lifted. Just for a second. And we suddenly remember that we are in a community of people. That we are connected to each other. And that when shit gets crazy, when roofs are blowing off and trees are falling down...that we're not in it alone. Now, obviously I've never lost anyone close to me in a disaster...and for those who have, I'm sure it's much more complicated than this. But I hope that those people also, when the dust has settled, have felt held by their community. I'm holding you, right now, in my thoughts...if that's any comfort.

It's easy to forget--mainly because our relationships with individual people can get so complicated--but we do, for the most part...we do all care about one another. Or at least we do, when push comes to shove. And I think it's worthwhile to remember. Especially when we're grumbling our way through lines or through traffic or through whatever, that those jerks in the car in front of us, that they're the same jerks who are going to slow down and make sure we're alright if our car goes skidding off the road or if a tree falls on our house.

You get it.

I love you. (And I think you love me too.) Namaste.

There's a Fireplace in Your Center.

2011-11-18T11:09:00.001-08:00

Turkey Day is fast approaching! (Thanks-a-Chickie, as my dad likes to call it.) The time when we gather together with friends and family and try not to let them, and the giant meal, and the nearness of Christmas and New Years and oh my gosh, where has the time gone...drive us all to distraction.

I love the Winter...I love that it gets dark early, that it gets cold (even in LA), and that collectively we just want to snuggle up and spend our days in warm candelit rooms...it's so sweet. But, in addition to the dark-cave-like quality of Winter there is also this...holiday frenticism, that can make a person feel speeded up instead of slowed-ed down.

So, in the face of these cross-winds a blowing (one that is slow and steady and says, hey, just bundle up, drink some tea, fuggid about it, and the other which just kind of whips your hair around in your face), it's more important than ever for us to find the center...and to go there.

The center of what?

Well...in the yoga philosophy, the body is thought of as having these layers, these sheaths, all of which surround a constant center. Right at the center of the body. The sheaths are all the stuff that is NOT that center. The sheaths are the physical body, the energetic body, the mind, the emotions, our wisdom, our bliss--and then, at the center of all of that is...um. Just, uh. Total Awesomeness. What's at the center can be conceptualized in a lot of different ways. The yogis just call it the self, or Atman, but it is sometimes described as light, as pure awareness, as God, as source, as truth--whatever you want to call that big perfect divine A-HA! Which exists at the center of every single one of us. (I like to call it Total Awesomeness.) And the practice of yoga, is really just a practice of diving down through all these layers, through all these sheaths, until we can rest in this sweet center, and then try to live from there. (Try to.)

And I feel like this image, of peeling away the layers, is particularly potent in the Winter. As if, at the center of our body is where the fireplace is, and when we're stuck out in the cold, way out on the fringes of our experience, our job is just to start opening doors and traveling deeper and deeper in, following the trail of warmth, until finally we get to that fire lit parlor, way down deep inside.

What's so beautiful about this is that, yoga practice or no yoga practice, we can all be scavengers for our bliss. We can all use our basic powers of deduction, to find the fire that burns at the center. It goes like this: is this door warm? No? Wrong door. Is this door warm? Yes? Open door. Go deeper in. Look for the next door. Rinse and repeat.

That's it...just like a bunch of blind mice, following the scent of burning wood and charcoal, we can find our own way into the center of ourselves and our lives. Without assistance. Without books or tapes or teachers...we just have to reach our hands out, and look for the warmth.

So, if you're feeling the chill. Or if you're feeling shut out...miles from the hot chocolate and s'mores that are waiting for you deep down in the center of your experience, just take your hands out of their mittens, and start feeling for a hot doorknob. I promise, it's there.

Mouth-Hang-Open-Asana

2011-11-12T23:10:00.000-08:00

Break ton Neck from Alex Yde on Vimeo.

Shanti-Town Podcast, Episode 6: Meghan Currie

2011-11-07T14:49:00.000-08:00

Episode 6 of the podcast is now up! You are in for a real giggly treat...because Meghan Currie is, oh sigh...I have no objectivity. She's awesome. I had such a great time Skypeing with her from her home turf of Vancouver, BC. We talked yoga, we talked art, we talked adventure, and we spent way too much time talking about high-fives! (Sorry, Meghan, I wasn't able to find any high-five sound effects, but I think we fare well, anyhow.) Okay, take a listen. I hope you enjoy. And you can find out more about Meghan at her lovely exuberant website. Be sure to check out some of her videos while you're there...they will not disappoint! (Oh, and for info on the big motorcycle adventure Meghan is about to embark on, check out her Wandering Yoginis website).

Sneak Peek!

2011-11-05T20:30:00.000-07:00

I had a super inspiring conversation with yoga goddess Meghan Currie of Vancouver, Canada for the next episode of the Shanti Town Podcast this week...and I can't wait to share it with you! In the interim, as I get to work editing together our conversation, here's a little Meghan Currie gloriousness to whet your appetite (I hope to have the interview ready to go in the next few days). Just try not to love her!

Read This Book!

2011-11-02T08:20:00.000-07:00

Full disclosure: I love Suzanne Morrsion. There is evidence of this here, and here.

So, I was very excited to get her book in the mail (that's right folks, I got a reviewers copy, just like a real writer would!), and also very nervous to get her book in the mail. Although I knew from being an avid follower of her blog that she was a good writer, there was always the off chance that her book wouldn't be very good. And then I would have to lie. Or just pretend that I had never received it.

Luckily, I didn't have to do either of those things.

Yoga Bitch; One Woman's Quest to Conquer Skepticism, Cynicism, and Cigarettes on the Path to Enlightenment, is everything it is cracked up to be. Following here is the email I sent to Suzanne after finishing said book:

Yeah, um...notice the date stamp on that email? That's right. September 16th. It's November, people. I am a terrible book reviewer. But, being of the "it's never too late" mind-set, I now present to you (drumroll, please): My Review of Yoga Bitch!!!

Ahem.

I remember when Suzanne went on her trip to Bali in 2002. Well, I remember seeing her after she'd gotten back...or at least, I remember hearing from people say that she was IN Bali while she was there. Suzanne and I went to college together...we were friendly, but not friends, so I have only foggy memories of her departure to Bali. I didn't even really know what yoga was, when I heard that Suzanne was overseas, training in it. I did remember being surprised, even with my paltry knowledge of yoga, since nearly all of my memories of Suzanne up to that point involved wine and cigarettes. I remember being impressed. I remember thinking, well, maybe I've got this girl pegged wrong.

After reading Yoga Bitch I realized that, while Suzanne was clearly 11 million times more in touch with herself than I was during those college years (don't ask)...going to Bali for a yoga teacher training WAS as out of character for her as it seemed.

After 9/11, while preparing to move to New York from Seattle with her then-boyfriend, and sort of freaking out about all of it...Suzanne decided that going to Bali to study yoga with her favorite teacher and some fellow seekers, was just what she needed to infuse her life with some clarity. Little did she know that she'd be shacked up with a bunch of yogis who thrived on journaling, hero worship and um, pee. As in...urine. As in...drinking it. I can't even...this subject is well covered in the book, and in other reviews of the book, so I'm just going to leave it at that.

(Would it be terrible to admit that while Suzanne was writing about all the myriad reasons that her fellow yoga-school mates were engaging in pee-drinking, that I thought, well, gee! If it does all THOSE things.... Argh! I'm a sheep!)

Anyhow, the book is funny and insightful and moving...it's a "yoga memoir" yes, but really it's a book about a woman who is probably too smart for her own good (hollah!) trying to find her way in the world. It's about a woman who wishes she didn't need a little spiritual guidance, finding herself in a spot where nothing else will do, but a little spiritual guidance.

And, it's about a woman who, while engaged in all of the above, has a serious earth-shaking moment of transformation.

This is the thing that I've not seen talked about in a lot of the other reviews of Suzanne's book, and for me it was the most riveting part of the book...I'll try not to spoil anything here, but whilst on her Bali adventure, Suzanne has a...what would you call it? An awakening. A real one. For those of you not versed in yogic lore, there is something called a "Kundalini rising" that can happen to a yoga practitioner. It is the Grand Prize of yoga. The mythology goes that there is this coil of Kundalini energy that sits at the base of the spine, lying dormant, just waiting to be roused so that it can shoot up the spine and, well, make you enlightened. That's right, dormant enlightenment. And Ms. Morrison (lucky duck)...woke up her Kundalini. Accidentally. It's an amazing story, made even more amazing by the hilarious pot-shots she takes at herself while recollecting her time walking around Bali, acting like a saint.

Yoga Bitch is a memoir, it's a love-story, and it's an incredibly insightful look at what it means to start down a spiritual path, even when you are the last person in the world who would ever use a phrase like, "spiritual path". Suzanne is an incredibly gifted writer with a lot of wit and a lot of heart, who is able to delve into deep emotional depths, without ever being ooey or gooey. In a nutshell, go get this book. It's awesome.

Go to Suzanne's website for links to the myriad places to buy Yoga Bitch. Or just go to your local Barnes and Noble and look in the "new non-fiction" section. Last time I was there it was on the table right between Malcolm Gladwell and Kendra Wilkinson.

Raaaaaaaawwwwrrr! Or; Dressing Up On the Inside

2011-11-01T09:05:00.000-07:00

First, some business...the podcast is not over, folks! I know it's been awhile, and for a moment there I thought it might have breathed it's last, but no! I'm doing some revamping, I'm setting up some interviews, so look out for Episode 6 in the next week or so! And, on that note...if there's someone out there you'd like me to interview...a yoga teacher, a yoga enthusiast, or just someone doing amazing work in the mind/body world...let me know!

Alright, so, yesterday was Halloween. I know it was Halloween, because there was a woman in a skin-tight full-body leopard-print cat-suit in my local coffee shop at 7:45 in the morning. There were also many fat adorable babies dressed as bugs and fruits and dragons being carted around by their proud mommas all day long. This is the best part of Halloween...the fat dressed-up babies.

I have never been a dresser-upper. I get sort of weird and shy and embarrassed when I have to put on a costume and I'm not in a play. In college it was fun...but in college halloween (for the women, at least) is just an opportunity to look as sexy as possible.

Anyhow...I thought about leopard-print cat-suit woman a lot yesterday.

I thought about how often in yoga, or meditation, or art-making or whatever...the goal, stated or otherwise, is to remove costumes...to remove masks...to reveal. Which is worthwhile, no question. But can feel, sometimes, very heavy. Very serious. What is sometimes forgotten, is that there is a more aspirational way to approach a practice. A way which involves trying on a version of ourselves that is not quite a reality yet. A way which allows us to zip ourselves into our favorite cat-suit for a day, and see how it feels.

And what's interesting is that this spiritual "dressing up" can feel just as weird and awkward and potentially-embarrassing as getting your morning coffee in full Halloween garb. I mean, once I got over feeling a little giggly about the cat-suit woman, my next thought was, "my god...she's brave." I can barely leave the house in short-shorts without feeling a little flush-faced. I can't imagine what kind of heavy sedation I would have to be under in order to wear a skin-tight body-suit out of doors! And why is that? Why is it so thrilling/scary to dress up?

I think, it's because people are going to look at you. People are going to look at you, and they're going to know something about you. You are going to be revealed. You are going to be bright. You are going to be taking up space in the world.

It's an old trope, I know...we're not actually afraid of the darkness, we're afraid of our own light, blah blah blah. But, you've met those people, haven't you? The ones who are really standing in their full glory? Who aren't apologizing for their existence? Who are unabashedly reaching for what they want? Those people are big. They're bright. They may as well be wearing a leopard-print cat-suit. (If we're talking about Beyonce, then it's possible that she IS wearing a cat-suit).

"Realized" people take up space. And people are going to look at them. And some people are going to look at them and think, oh my god, awesome cat-suit! And some people are going to look at them and think, oh my god, you look ridiculous! And that is the risk we take when we're revealed.

And maybe it's just me, but I think that can be pretty f-ing scary.

So, if you didn't get a chance to put on a Halloween costume this year, maybe think about dressing up today. No one has to know. It doesn't even have to fit you exactly...you don't have to have the perfect thighs you've been waiting for in order to slip into that leopard. Just, for one day, step into the fantasy of yourself. Yourself as dynamic, yourself as bright and alive and unafraid. And if someone giggles at you while you're ordering your coffee...just remember that they wish they could be as brave as you are.

Things We Have Control Over...and Things We Do Not.

2011-10-29T01:16:00.000-07:00

We are back at the gate. Again. I don’t know how long it’s been since we first taxied away and looped the runway, and came back again…and I don’t want to know.

Travelling with Paul—it’s easy. I never worry—about bags, about delays, about extra long security lines. I know he’s going to be right there to help lift my bag on to the conveyor belt, or hold my jacket while I run to the bathroom, or tease me about my lousy attitude if I haven’t had my coffee/water/wine (depending on the time of day). I have come to rely on this. I have come to take this as a given. So now, when I have to brave the airport alone, I feel unprepared at best…and like a sniveling grump-o, at worst.

And this afternoon, when I left our Brooklyn apartment to come home to our LA apartment (don’t ask), the weight of my over-packed carry-on was like a premonition in my hand. I did a quick mental calculation of subway steps and train transfers, and walked out into the whipping cold—all by my lonesome.

It’s ridiculous, folks, for me to feel this way. The number of years I spent navigating all the ups and downs and transfers of my life solo—there is no reason I should feel so besotted with loneliness at the thought of, gasp, carrying my own bag AND purse AND jacket. The. Whole. Way. Alooooooooone.

Alright, so…I lug my bag down the appropriate number of train steps, I brave a subway transfer or two, I wait diligently for the appropriate “A” Train to come by, the one that goes to Howard Beach/JFK, and not the one that goes to all the other millions of places the “A” Train goes. I am assured by a very grumpy woman who is also carrying a suitcase (I wrongly assumed she was also airport-bound) that the train will say on the side that it’s going to JFK. This does not turn out to be the case. (And when grumpy-suitcase-woman snuck on to an unmarked C-train without a word…I became deeply suspicious.) However, sneaky suitcase woman or not, I ended up on the right train, somehow…though the whole adventure takes me a lot longer than it should. And this is it—the beginning of things taking longer than they should.

The train, the other train, the harried trip to the self-check-in kiosks…all of it took longer than it should. And at the airport, as I’m shoving my scarf into my jacket and fretting about whether my carry-on is going to fit properly into the overhead bins when I get there or whether, like it happened on the way there, some nice old man was going to have to help me jam it into one of the compartments while a dozen aggravated travelers wait behind me…the strap of my purse breaks off my arm. (This early death may, and I emphasize may, have been hurried along by my trying to jam my laptop into a purse that a laptop for certain does not belong in.) Regardless of the cause, it breaks…and the guilty laptop and several other things go spilling out onto the floor.

“Oh, your purse broke!” Calls out a woman from across the way who is trying to be helpful. People are always trying to be helpful like this when you’re in New York.

Yes, thank you, I said. I noticed.

As I knelt down, repacking my now-disabled purse, I kept hearing my friend Saskia’s voice chanting in my ear, saying, “the hurrier I go, the behinder I get.” It’s something that her father used to say to her when she was young, and it stuck for me, just as it must have for her. I love it. The hurrier I go, the behinder I get.

Now barely able to keep my personals in check, I go hurrying (yes, I know) down the million mile airport hallways to the security check point where, for some reason, only three of the many security lines are open and traveler traffic is at a standstill. I look at my watch. My plane will begin boarding in fifteen minutes. I can feel my face starting to get flush.

There are very few things that upset me more than being late. It is a pathological upset for me. That, and food getting cold before I am able to eat it. These are two turns of fate that make me feel like I am losing my grip on the handlebars of my life. Being late makes me crazy. I used to have serious meltdowns about it. I have gotten past that, now that 1. I am an adult and can’t really justify having meltdowns about totally meaningless things and 2. I have been late enough times in my life that I now know the world won’t end. However, the fact of my aloneness and my giant carry-on bag and my broken purse and the idea that I could miss my plane through no fault of my own, was all conspiring to elevate my temperature and heart-rate and internal rage-o-meter.

And as I stood in line, shuffling from one foot to the other, sighing and rubbing my forehead and aggressively planting my bag in front of some chick who kept trying to cut in front of me, I thought back to the yoga class I had taken the day before.

There is a new (ish) studio in my beloved DUMBO neighborhood that I am trying to pop into when we’re in town, and I was lucky enough to get into a class yesterday with a teacher I knew from Laughing Lotus, back in the day. She’s lovely and either Australian or South African—(she is cool-accented, wherever she’s from) and wild-of-hair (like me) and grounded. She’s one of these teachers who has studied yoga with all kinds of people in all kinds of styles, and you can feel it in her teaching—it’s round and robust. Full.

Anyhow, for all her gifts in the yogic arts, she started class wrestling with the stereo. The studio’s stereo system is apparently finicky, and so for the first several minutes of class all we could see was her prone body and the back of her curly head as she coaxed the volume on the ancient set up and down and up and down. And as she fiddled and groaned about the volume (which refused to budge), she told us how she’d been reading an article earlier that day about all of the things in our lives we think we have control over but actually don’t. “Electronics,” she said, twirling the volume up and down, “elevator buttons…we think that somehow pushing that button over and over again is actually doing something…but it’s not. It really has no effect on it, at all.”

And I thought about this, as I stood in the security line, trying not to scream.

What, honestly, was there to be done? All the griping and forehead wiping in the world wasn’t going to make things go any faster than they were going. My angry face was not going to stop me from missing my plane, if that’s what was going to happen. The fact that I, good student that I am, already had my laptop and liquids and shoes ready to go when I was still fifty feet from the conveyor belt was not, as much as I might want it to, going to change anything about the behavior of anyone else in line in front of me. I was stuck. That elevator was going to come when it was going to come, no matter how many times I pushed that goddamn button.

(And let me just tell you…it was a lot.)

And for what felt like the dozenth time in as many days, I thought about how much easier things can be, what a relief they can be, when you can just get comfortable with where you are. Even (god forbid) if it’s not where you want to be.

The universe does not owe me an on-time flight. It certainly is not so deeply indebted to me that I am allowed to act like an a-hole, just because I am in a hurry. No amount of mental gymnastics are going to change the reality of slow trains, slow lines, and broken bags. So, why does it feel like it might? What is it, what little crossed wire in the brain makes it seem like if we just get upset enough, if we just grouse enough or pout enough or rail enough against…that things might actually rearrange themselves in front of us, and more to our liking?

It’s never happened that way for me. What happens for me is that I get myself worked up into enough of a lather, enough things break or malfunction or trip me up (literally), that I eventually have no choice but to surrender to the reality of the situation. This elevator is not f-ing coming, and so I had either better take the stairs or find something interesting to read while I wait, because I am going to be here for a while. And when that happens, when I’m able to snap my little internal control freak in half, then things open up. Suddenly the line doesn’t move so slowly, the machine-operators don’t seem so incompetent, and before I know it, I’m sitting on my plane. Happily engrossed by the in-flight magazine…waiting to take off.

Speaking Sanely...

2011-10-22T16:12:00.000-07:00

So, I have to admit, I listened to this interview with Mormon author Joanna Brooks because I wanted the dirt! I wanted the juicy insider-info about the Mormon church! I wanted the gossip-monger satisfaction of secrets revealed! I wanted to dish about weird underwear and weirder customs!

But that is not what I got...

Joanna Brooks is, according to her website, an "award winning writer and scholar of religion and spirituality"...and also, a Mormon. She is a Mormon who grew up in a conservative Mormon household, but as an adult sort of accidentally turned into a feminist. And then not-so-accidentally married a Jewish man. Whoops! She is a Mormon who struggled and volleyed with her faith, but who ended up making a decision that so many people, on so many spiritual paths, have made before her--which is to not abandon the religion to which she was born, even though at moments, it might have felt like she should. And, because of this, she is a Mormon who has found a way to expand enough to hold all the nuances and contradictions within a faith that she obviously loves very deeply. And I will tell you, Joanna Brooks may be a Mormon, but as far as I'm concerned...this chick is a yogi.

I loved her so much, I wrote her a fan letter (email) immediately upon the conclusion of the interview. She and Ira Glass are now the only two people I have written fan letters to. (As an adult.)

(And for those of you who know my deep love for/borderline obsession with Ira Glass...that is saying something.)

Joanna Brooks wrote me back. Ira Glass did not. Point, Joanna.

Okay, so full disclosure--I don't know a lot about Mormonism. I had a good friend when I was growing up who was Mormon, but we were young, and all I knew was that her family had a big store room full of food and supplies (the encouraged "years worth of food"), and that she, my friend, was constantly in pre-teen agony about the boy she loved not being a Mormon. When I was graduating from high school, years after she and I had grown apart, I got an announcement for her wedding. Not, of course, to the not-Mormon boy she was in love with. To some other boy, someone I'd never met. At only 16 myself, and just beginning to discover the world, I remember feeling so...disappointed. How could she get married? She wasn't much older than me, maybe two years at most, and at the time I thought, well, that's it for her. She's done. She would get married and then there would be babies and babies and more babies, and that would be it.

So this, until today, was my basic understanding of Mormonism--it was strict, you couldn't marry who you wanted, and if you were a woman, your job--your life--was going to be about having babies and being a wife.

And then there's the, ahem, politics of the Mormon Church, which are unquestionably ultra-conservative slash deeply disturbing. And though it's not really integral to this post, I do feel like it's important to mention that I do not agree with the stance of the Mormon Church on gay rights or women's rights--or on social issues in general, it's probably safe to say--and no interview, no matter how lovely, is going to change that. Though of course, the same could be said for the Catholic Church, and the Evangelical Church, and for countless others. I just want that on the record.

But, it's not the Mormon Church that I found so moving, it's not the history and ritual of the Mormon faith--though it was beautifully rendered by Ms. Brooks in her interview--which inspired me to first write to her, and now to write this. It was, instead, the power of her flexible, and sane way of speaking about her faith, that moved me.

I have realized, since writing this blog these last few years, that if I have any goal in mind...if there's anything that I really WANT from all this writing and interviewing and talking and teaching and practicing, it is to seek out and nurture spiritual sanity. To figure out how it is that those of us who are on fire with God in some form or another (whether your God is one God or many Gods or whether your God is Art or Breath or Movement or just the sacred stuff of your Life)--how is it that we can bring this God into our lives in a way that is real, and meaningful and leaves room for the very necessary doubt and constant change that is so much a part of our world. Is there a way to be a person of faith and have a dialogue about it that doesn't include dogma but DOES include divinity? And love. And compassion.

And people like Joanna Brooks make me feel like that goal is accomplishable.

Because, without question, she and I are very different. We have very different backgrounds, and very different conceptions, maybe, of the practicals of God--what that looks like, how it came to be, and how to call it by name--but I would imagine, though I can't speak for her, that our ideas about the essence, the heart, of God...are probably very much the same. The easy road, of course, is to retreat to opposite corners, to claim lack of understanding and to grudgingly go on our ways. The difficult thing, and the thing that Joanna Brooks is trying to do, that all of the teachers and speakers I respect most are trying to do, is to stretch the walls of her understanding of God so that it becomes more inclusive.

I was reading something the other day by Thomas Traherne, a "metaphysical poet" (thank you, Wikipedia) from the 17th Century, and he was talking about how we all, as children, are born with a divine knowledge of presence--the world is new to us, and everything is one unfolding mystery. But, he writes, the real work, the real trick of divinity, is not to somehow go back to before we knew anything, it is, instead, this process of "unlearning" everything that has darkened our view thus far. This is the more miraculous thing, he says: to travel from corruption back to innocence.

And I couldn't help but think of Joanna Brooks, and how devoted she is to this work, not of abandoning her faith, but of instead, stripping away the layers of corruption, to get back to the sweet center.

Check out the interview, if you have a chance, or Joanna Brooks' blog: Ask Mormon Girl. And then let me know what you think of her and the work she's doing...yay or nay?

No Butts About It...

2011-10-19T10:48:00.000-07:00

We are great fools. "He has passed his life in idleness," we say. "I have done nothing today." What! Haven't you lived? That is not only the fundamental but the most illustrious of your occupations. "Had I been put in a position to manage great affairs, I would have shown you what I could do." Have you been able to think out and manage your life? You have performed the greatest work of all. In order to show and release her powers, Nature has no need of fortune; she shows herself equally on all levels, and behind a curtain as well as without one. To compose our character is our duty, not to compose books, and to win, not battles and provinces, but order and tranquility in our conduct. Our great and glorious masterpiece is to live appropriately. All other things, to rule, to lay up treasure, to build, are at most but little appendices and props.

- Michel Eyquem de Montaigne (1533-1592)

Need I add anything to that...?! Maybe just this (written by the same dude):

It is an absolute perfection, and as it were divine, for a man to know how to rightfully enjoy his being. We seek other conditions because we don't understand the use of our own, and go out of ourselves because we don't know what it is like within. Yet it is no use for us to mount on stilts, for on stilts we must still walk with our own legs. And upon the loftiest throne in the world we are still sitting on our own ass.

What My Head and Drew Barrymore Have In Common...

2011-10-12T10:05:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking a lot lately about posture. Blame seeing too many photos of myself with round-y shoulders, blame an ever-increasing (sometimes aggravating) awareness of how my body is moving through space, blame the simple fact that I'm teaching yoga, so I feel like I probably shouldn't be, um...slouching. All. The. Time.

Whatever the reason, it's been on my mind.

When I first started noticing my own sometimes suspect shoulder slumping, I asked Paul, (no demanded, actually), if he would please point it out to me if he ever saw my posture go all wonky. Which he, dutifully, did...but only on a few occasions, because I don't think he could stand the look of abject horror that crossed my face if he happened to remind me at the wrong moment. Oh, I'm sorry, whaaaaaaaat?! My posture isn't good enough for you? Well, excuuuuuuuuuuuuse me!

Poor guy.

First, let me just say that my own particular misalignment, turns out, is not an uncommon one. My shoulders round slightly, my head pokes forward, and the back of my neck compresses. (Pretty!) The result is the picture an eager-yet-uncertain student. Or of a person endlessly reaching for something with the tip of their chin...or...ugh. It's depressing, just writing about it.

I take some small comfort in the fact that Drew Barrymore and I share the same affliction.

(Oh, Drew...sigh. Just one of the many things we share in common, I'm sure. Why can't we be besties?)

So, okay, so I'm interested, obviously in having good posture for all of the body-mechanical benefits. I want fluidity in my body and efficiency in my muscles, but I'm MUCH more interested (surprise sur-freaking-prise) in the psychological and emotional what-fors behind the whole thing.

Here's what it feels like in my own body: it feels like some part of me thinks that my head reaching forward is keeping things under control, like that if my head can beat my body--can cross the finish line first--then I'm going to be in control of whatever is in front of me. My head, in this position, is in front of my heart. It is, in some ways maybe (and I apologize for the necessary cliche-ness of this next statement) it is protecting my heart. I mean, of course it's NOT. But it feels like it might be. Because I'll tell you what, anytime I remember to lean my head back in a yoga class or, like I did just before sitting down to write this post, I stand against the wall with my butt and shoulders touching it and then press the back of my head into the wall...the vulnerability I feel when I get my head in proper alignment...is marked.

In the yoga philosophy, the front plane of the body represents the individual, the egoic, self, and the back-plane of the body represents the universal, the larger self. If this is true, then the larger self is something we only have to lean back into, and the little "I" self is always something that's just out in front of us. And while I'm sure you could diagnose a head-reaching-forward posture as something which is simply the result of too much time on the computer or in the car, or talking to people who are taller than you (I made that one up), I'm going to venture out on a limb here and say, maybe...maybe it's something bigger than that.

Maybe Drew Barrymore doesn't feel totally safe resting back into that big unknown. Maybe Drew is a bit of an overachiever (being famous at age four, or whatever, for being totally adorable...I think that could do it), and maybe the only way she's known how to navigate is by reaching and grasping and "me first" ing. And maybe this used to be something that helped her survive, but maybe now it's just doing more harm than good. Maybe her little system would like a break. Maybe if Drew could just, exhale, and lean her little head back...who knows what might happen.

I'm talking strictly about Drew Barrymore here, obviously, not anyone else. Just to clear up any confusion. If any of you thought I might be talking about...someone...else. I'm not. I'm really just going to keep my analysis to the postures of celebrities. Tune in next week when we'll delve into some deep discussion about Jennifer Aniston's lumbar curve. Wowza!

(Alright, I'm talking about me.)

I have no real solution to this posture dilemma, except that I am trying to remember to sit up straight, and to tell my little head (softly) that maybe she doesn't need to work so hard all the time. Maybe the world won't end. Maybe her life won't go slipping out of her grasp if she just...rests back every once in a while.

Now if someone could just send me Drew Barrymore's number...I could tell her, too.

A Man on a Mission...

2011-10-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

"Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just get's better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle."

- Steve Jobs

Digging Deep

2011-10-05T11:49:00.000-07:00

It's raining. The rain in Los Angeles is one of my favorite things. It drives Paul crazy because all of LA is designed for outdoor living, and so on rainy days it's hard not to just feel...left out in it.

I, however, have always been a lover of the rain. Having been a child who was much happier reading books or playing pretend in the confines of my own room than going, ugh, outside...the rain was the perfect wash-away-er of any playtime guilt. No need to make excuses for not stomping around in the woods...it's raining! Also, having grown up in the Pacific Northwest, the majority of my childhood memories are under-written by a soundtrack of rain--rain on the nylon tent roof, rain being whisked away by the shoosh of windshield wipers, rain filling the gutters and splashing down the sides of the house. The smell of rain, the feel of it, the patter as it hits the sidewalk below the window...it is a tool for load-lightening. So, today I am happily ensconced inside, letting the rain sooth my tired brain.

Yesterday I went to class for the first time in several days.

My practice lately is hard-won. I came back from the wedding with a lot of questions about my life at large, and for the first time, my heretofore-blissly-uncomplicated relationship with yoga has become, well...complicated. In a class I taught on Monday I talked about how important dedication is, and how it's easy to devote yourself to something when it brings you nothing but pleasure, but the challenge is to devote yourself to something even when you don't want to. Like for me, lately, going to class. One of my favorite teachers at Still Yoga, Gina Zimmerman, likes to quote this saying:

"If you want to strike water, don't dig twenty wells ten feet deep. Dig one well two-hundred feet deep."

In private Gina has told me that her meditation practice used to be a catch-all of methods. One day she'd try one technique and the next day another. When she found her teacher, she told me, one of the first things he said to her is that the worst thing you can do, when sitting down to meditate, is think, "what should I try this time?" His point being that dabbling, when it comes to a spiritual practice, isn't going to lead you very far. You have to dig one well, and dig it deeply.

The trouble, I find, is that usually for the first, oh, fifty-feet of well-digging, things go along swimmingly. It's all sand and grass and silt, and you feel like progress is yours for the having. Until, eventually, you hit rock. And you're just banging your shovel against it in a spray of sparks, feeling, for the first time maybe, the impossibility of the endeavor.

This is the moment you either tell yourself that you're probably digging in the wrong place and that you ought to pick up and move elsewhere. Or you continue. With only the faith that there IS water down there, and with your aching arms as the only proof of forward movement.

There was an article in this week's New York Times magazine about these two schools in Manhattan, one a fancy-pants private school in the Bronx, and one a charter school for lower income students, both run by progressive headmasters, both of whom are deeply engaged in a mission to change the way that studentship is measured. For years both of these men have been studying trends in learning and psychology in order to develop a practical way to both measure and develop character in their students.

Their reason for doing this?

At both the fancy-pants school and the charter school a disturbing trend was emerging. Those students who had done the best, academically, were exhibiting the largest failure rate in college and beyond. At the private school it became clear that the students of privilege were so accustomed to sailing through their life that they crumpled at the first instance of push-back, post-adolescence. And for the kids at the charter school, the students who had learned how to get the grades, had not learned how to have optimism about their future. No one else in their family had managed to do it, so why should they?

The problem for both sets of students was the same...they had not learned how to fail, and they had not learned, in particular, that after failure must come re-commitment.

Grit, both of these headmasters soon discovered, along with qualities like optimism, curiosity and zest for life, were the real factors that contribute to success. Not GPA or even IQ scores.

Grit. The trait that allows one to set a goal and follow-through, no matter how long it takes, and no matter how many obstacles show up along the way.

Grit. To keep on digging, even when it feels like you're going nowhere.

The Bhagavad Gita, one of the great (and aggravating) texts of yoga, is full of recommendations for enhancing grit:

"It is true that the mind is restless and difficult to control. But it can be conquered...through regular practice and detachment. Those who lack self-control will find it difficult to progress in meditation; but those who are self-controlled, striving earnestly through the right means, will attain the goal...

Through constant effort over many lifetimes, a person becomes purified of all selfish desires and attains the supreme goal of life."

Phew! Talk about taking the long view..."constant effort over many lifetimes"?! That is one deep f-ing well. But the point is well-made. Keep on keeping on. In meditation, in particular, the idea that we could learn to control our mind--our mind which we have been letting run wild, most of us, for as long as we've been alive--the idea that we could achieve this without real discipline and dedication is just...foolish.

And so it goes for anything that we want. To change our habits. To make a contribution to the world. Just to achieve the very simple trophy of saying we are going to do something and then actually DOING it...these things take devotion.

For myself, I am going to class. Even if I'm not sure I want to. I am writing. Even if I'm not sure I have anything to say. I'm finishing the articles I have started reading, I'm making recipes into food, I'm studying and progressing and completing, even in those moments when I don't know why I'm bothering and what it's all for. And though for the most part I'm having to just put up with the little voice in my head that says we should just shove off and find another place to dig, there are moments, like yesterday when I was in class, where all of the sudden the sky turns a dusky pink and the sidewalk becomes a sudden matrix of raindrops, when I feel like maybe all I need to do is just...keep...digging.