yoga freedom

the wild rose by wendell berry

2009-11-08T16:38:00.000-06:00

Sometimes hidden from me
in daily custom and trust,
so that I live by you unaware
as by the beating of my heart,

Suddenly you flare in my sight,
a wild rose blooming at the edge
of thicket, grace and light
where yesterday was only shade,

and once again I am blessed, choosing
again what I chose before.

the house where margo lives

2009-11-07T16:04:00.002-06:00

{prose excerpts from Guru Schmuru, Chapter 3}
The house where Margo lives is an oasis inside an oasis. In Texas, as y'all know, everything is bigger. And more Conservative Republican. She could do without ever going to Dallas or Houston. San Antonio was alright, in a weird, murky riverwalk, minority run sort of way. But inside the Austin city limits, the air changed. The frequency is of age-old hippiedom, liberalism at its finest, college kids and dredlocked dreamers next to old farmers and cowboys.

Sure, over the years there’d been an influx of Banana Republic wearing yuppies from California and their transplanted toddlers. But the overarching sentiment in Austin was one of immense pride and joy at their cozy, crazy town. Naturally, there are pockets of staunch good ol’ boys (and their dutiful women), even in the hippest corners of freewheeling south Austin. But Margo avoids them and goes on about her life. She loves her hometown and it loves her right back.

The house where Margo lives is the pearl inside the stinky clamshell that has become her professional life. Her work life has spilled over into her personal life and now the two are a muddy mix of anxiety and indifference. The house reflects this gradual but not subtle transition in the form of piles of junk, everywhere. Stacks of papers, old concepts never nurtured, scraps of fiction, pieces of poetry, back issues of The Chronicle, take out menus from Daily Juice and Mother’s Café and Chuy’s Tex-Mex. She has let the place go, and Eddie is worse than her. She can’t even open the door to his room without getting overwhelmed and disgusted at the swarms of dirty laundry and papers strewn about.

Margo’s bedroom is now her sanctuary. She has a makeshift meditation spot there, with a mustard yellow zafu facing the wall, zen style. Her queen sized bed was a gift from her parents, who spent thousands of dollars on a variety of expensive mattresses to suit her mom’s bad lower back. Each non-refundable reject had been passed along, and Margo had inherited a gem – a pillow topped, spring loaded, memory foam bed. It is her most prized possession. Usually Margo is a champion sleeper. She falls asleep within minutes of her head hitting the pillow and commands her body to remain unconscious until whatever hour of the morning she declares. For the past couple weeks, however, she’s been tossing and turning from the wee hours of the morning, often waking up at three or four with twisted nerves and a tight neck, unable to get back to sleep until ten minutes before it’s time to get up for work. This, come to think of it, is probably another of her rationales behind smoking the reefer yesterday at the office.

Margo’s bedroom is sage green and her bedsheets are raspberry colored jersey cotton, covered in a tattered, much-loved quilt handmade by her grandma. Next to the bed is a nightstand piled with books, journals, a glass lamp filled with seashells, pens and pencils and her lavender eye pillow. Inside the drawer of the nightstand are bookmarks she never remembers to use, condoms she has forgotten are there, a smattering of cough drops and aromatherapy oils, and a handful of misplaced postcards and snapshots. The only other piece of furniture in the room is a large, low, square table which is where her computer resides, and her Royal mechanical typewriter from the 1940s, acquired for $25 from a sweet, wrinkly eyed couple in north Austin who’d sold it on craigslist. More piles of novels and nonfiction and poetry anthologies that she’d flipped through but not read. She never reads anything anymore but ad copy and cereal boxes.

Margo’ kitchen is painted the color of sangria. It is a warm, square room with a stainless steel fridge, a gas stove, a porcelain sink and a dearth of countertops. She is neither a cook nor a gardener, so the eating section of the house is ruled by frozen vegetables, canned black beans, cartons of tofu, bottle of diet soda and ridiculously expensive pre-made meals from Central Market.

Occasionally, she’ll maniacally clean the living room: dust the bookshelves; vacuum the shapeless denim blue couch, a hand-me-down she’d not yet had the energy or gumption to replace; sweep and polish the beat-up hardwoods; scrub the windows with glass cleaner until they squeaked; rearrange the papers, DVDs, magazines and books into neater, more aesthetically pleasing piles. It’s been a long time since that urge has come over her. The place is a veritable pigsty, one that reflects the budding chaos inside Margo’s own mind. Unless she cleans it out, some things are going to start falling through the cracks. It’s only a matter of time.
copyright 2009. michelle fajkus.

this is it

2009-11-03T09:58:00.001-06:00

On a hot June afternoon, my friend Amanda texted me, simply, "MJ died." I shrugged inwardly. Of course I had been a fan. I had danced to Thriller on vinyl in the living room as a kid. Everyone had. But I'd basically forgotten about him since the early nineties, Dangerous and the Oprah interview at Neverland. At the sight of the occasional tabloid headline in the supermarket, I felt sheer pity for Michael Jackson.

Lindsey and I went to the Alamo Drafthouse for his televised memorial. I was interviewed by News 8 Austin in the lobby of the theater, and later featured on local television with a descriptor proclaiming me a "Jackson Fan." I was taken aback by my flowing tears during the lengthy service. I cried as if I'd known him personally. I cried because that bright, soft ten-year old kid spirit was so tormented in adulthood. I cried in mourning of the biggest star on the planet; his immeasurable fame was both his power and his downfall. I cried at Magic Johnson and Brooke Shields' and others' personal eulogies. The King of Pop was, after all, a human being.

On Halloween night, my friend Kat and I went to the VIP movie theater here in Guatemala City to watch This Is It, a documentary featuring footage of rehearsals for what clearly would have been the coolest concert ever.We reclined in our leather armchairs and marveled at MJ -- his ever present talent (he didn't bust a move like in the Thriller days, but he still had it, big time); his soft voice ("It's all about the love," seemed to be his personal mantra. "This is why we have rehearsals," he'd say when someone fucked up); the way everyone (directors, dancers, choreographers) revered him on the set. There was no discussion of his life or death; it was, simply, a tribute to the last show put on by Michael Jackson. A spectacle that we were privileged to witness. I didn't shed a tear until the credits rolled.

from "We Had Him" by Maya Angelou

He came to us from the creator, trailing creativity in abundance.

Despite the anguish, his life was sheathed in mother love, family love, and survived and did more than that.

He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style. We had him whether we know who he was or did not know, he was ours and we were his.

We had him, beautiful, delighting our eyes.

His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.

And we laughed and stomped our feet for him.

We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing. He gave us all he had been given.

Aspirant Writer’s Credo

2009-11-01T18:57:00.000-06:00

By Michelle Fajkus, as inspired by Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones

1. The notion of a blank page is daunting until the moment you sit down and write on it.
2. Begin with or without an end in mind. Just begin.
3. Refuse to think that you have nothing valid to say.
4. Writing is a way to make sense of life.
5. Writing is one continuous, tangential discourse with your self.
6. Face it: everything is autobiographical.
7. Use luscious vocabulary without being histrionic, pedantic or esoteric.
8. Cultivate a singular obsession with harvesting masses of gooey sentences and bountiful paragraphs.
9. Good writing is relatable yet original.
10. In the physical act of writing, you have no choice but to be present.
11. When reading good writing, the reader has no desire but to be present.
12. No one ever wrote a masterpiece first draft.
13. Joy is in the journey, and there is no destination.

beginnings and endings

2009-10-30T09:19:00.000-05:00

Margeaux is high-powered. A clever, high-powered young woman sitting in her corner office on a Wednesday afternoon. Completely stoned.

In the neverending parade of weak days for salaried professionals with two weeks vacation per year, Wednesdays are the worst. “Hump day” is an ugly, little, litter-strewn island that taunts her with its equal distance from the surrounding oases of Saturdays and Sundays.

She daydreams daily about being fired but is too chicken to quit. She visualizes packing her potted fern, swiping a handful of fountain pens and waving farewell, never to look back.

What does she do, you’re wondering? For sixty to eighty hours a week, on average, she writes ads. Headlines that hook. Snappy copy. Slogans that reverberate in the target market’s mental space. Words strung together for a sole, soulless purpose: to sell. Taglines are her favorite. Short, sweet, terse ideas. Commands, usually. Just Do It. Snap! Crackle! Pop! Got Milk? Think Different.

But for the past six weeks, instead of accomplishing work-related tasks, she has been polishing her own prose and poetry, painstakingly stealing company time.

Children don’t dream of working in advertising when they grow up. Young Margeaux wanted to be a doctor, until she discovered that med students dissect cadavers and subsequently discovered the definition of cadaver. Though her top choice had been MIT (even though she doesn’t believe in calculus or temperatures below zero), she was coerced into attending a monstrous state university twenty minutes from her childhood home. Spitefully, Margeaux majored in advertising.

She’d landed a coveted internship at the third biggest agency in town, slaved for free for a semester, worked for low wages the rest of college and accepted a salaried position after graduation, lured by the corner office.

Her employer, TBD Advertising, recently revamped its corporate identity by developing a new bullshit mission statement and repainting the walls a nauseating combination of chartreuse and canary yellow.

She is a “Creative,” i.e., a member of the creative department. A whole other department has to deal with pesky tasks like appeasing clients and manipulating schedules and estimating billings. Margeaux is paid to think and to present her expensive ideas in sleek conference rooms where coffee, water and assorted, delectable cookies are served on silver platters. This pleases her ego to no end.
-------------------------------------
She leaves him, his room, his house, his street, his zip code.

Margeaux replays the episode over and over in her mind until the brink of insanity. She will get over this. It’s lust, not love. He’s no good. There are other fish in the goddamned sea. It was the sex she loved, to the point of blatant addiction. That’s all.

Seeing David again knocked something loose in her brain. In the dark of that night, she tosses in her own bed, alone, wishing she’d made more sensible choices at the beginning. There is no undo key.

What is to keep them apart? Neither has any integrity. Her will power alone is not enough. Obviously. With him she is too likely to backslide, to make a million more mistakes. Margeaux will falter in a moment of weakness. Even now, in the throes of despair, she considers calling him. Her integrity is perched on the windowsill, smirking evilly, threatening to take a swan dive.

Suddenly the only option is to leave. A change of scenery will do her good. She have nothing tying her to Austin anymore. She is sure of nothing except that she won’t be the girl who settles anymore.

why I am a teacher

2009-10-29T10:54:00.000-05:00

Teaching is, hands down, the hardest job I’ve ever had. Yet the rewards of working with children every day, seeing them grow and grasp new ideas, far outweigh the stress.

Less than a year after quitting my advertising career and completing a whirlwind teacher certification program, I stood before twenty-two eager third graders in my very own public school classroom in Austin, Texas. It had been a rocky road to get there, with a plethora of coursework, planning, preparation and anxiety along the way. I always enjoy a challenge, so I had decided to become a bilingual teacher despite my rusty Spanish. Determined to gain fluency through self-discipline, I studied hard and managed to pass the required oral Spanish proficiency test. Nevertheless, I was not fluent by my first day of teaching. One student asked me, “Ms. Fajkus, why are you a bilingual teacher if you can’t speak Spanish?” I nearly wept. “Well, I am here to learn, just like you are,” I said. Thanks to kind students, respectful parents and supportive colleagues, I survived that intense first year. It was the most difficult period of my professional life thus far.

Now, with over four years of teaching under my belt, I am confident that this is my ideal career. I am comfortable with Spanish now, although I still strive to enhance my vocabulary and fluency. I am grateful for my second language acquisition experience, as it gives me valuable insight into the struggles, frustrations and rewards students encounter as they learn English.

My personal philosophy of education is continually developing. As a teacher, I model character traits like cooperation, open-mindedness and responsibility. Helping students develop positive ways of interaction is just as important as engaging them in the curriculum. I believe all students can learn and flourish in an environment of honesty, respect and equality. Students need to be guided in acknowledging their own strengths and weaknesses. They deserve daily opportunities to practice setting and meeting academic and personal goals.

My spiritual practice has informed my teaching. For instance, being in the present moment with students by listening and speaking to them mindfully enhances a safe and effective classroom environment. Creating a warm and unthreatening space enables them to take risks and learn without fear. I recognize their genuine struggle in not always understanding concepts or mastering skills quickly. This infuses my interactions with compassion. Designing interactive lessons that emphasize the richness of human (and plant and animal) diversity helps students think, speak and act with compassion for themselves, their classmates and the global community.

a short story

2009-10-28T20:18:00.000-05:00

A bittersweet undertow had claimed her, lifetimes ago. She was leaving. So much for long talks over mugs of coffee and cider. So what if he saw straight through her smoke rings? It didn't matter that they'd walked by the ocean all summer in pink moonlight not holding hands, just touching their toes and climbing palm trees. She kissed him once, sweetly, as the tide came in. Waves pummeled their delicate shoreline sketches. She was leaving. There was no use in crying.

symptoms of inner peace

2009-10-27T11:50:00.001-05:00

INNER PEACE

Side Effects May Include:

·       Tendency toward spontaneity rather than fear

·       Increased ability to enjoy the moment

·       Loss of interest in judging self and others

·       Loss of interest in interpreting the actions of others

·       Inability to worry

·       Frequent overwhelming episodes of appreciation

·       Frequent acts of smiling

·       Loss of the illusion of control

·       Increased susceptibility to love extended

A small percentage of patients experience the uncontrollable urge to be expansive. If all of these most common side effects persist, or if suffering is no longer bothersome, you may be enlightened.

eight things i know for sure.

2009-10-27T07:36:00.001-05:00

there are a few things i know for sure, and one of them is that i am not enlightened, yet.
one of them is that yoga is not optional.
one of them is that i do not belong in texas right now.
one of them is not what's happening tonight, this december, or in 2012.

there are a few things i know for sure, and one of them is that learning your native language takes a lifetime.
one of them is that i go to extremes.
one of them is that we all have friends in high places.
one of them is that, somehow, the universe is unfolding as it should.

one continuous mistake

2009-10-25T20:05:00.001-05:00

I have had a series of small, subtle epiphanies since moving to Guatemala in early August, culminating in last night’s maniacal reading / writing / brainstorming session into the wee hours. I realized I am not close to finishing my book. I realized I need to let go of my obsession with planning and self-improvement. To just write. A lot. Without rules.

If my story is a house, it’s pretty cookie cutter and I have to remodel it into a quirky, architecturally innovative, vivid, messy, alive space. I have written scenes in which interesting things happen, but now I have to tackle the formidable task of adding more unique details. As a friend and reader advised me today, "The characters have to start living and breathing on their own." The heroine, Margeaux, is alive and well, because she’s more or less me. But the others are still composites, mixes of people I know or have known. They need to come into their own.

I boiled down the story arc: Girl meets boy. Boy is a guru, and girl is the sole member of his cult. Girl loses herself in worship of boy, and vice versa, until it is revealed that boy is not practicing what he preaches. Girl realizes she must be her own guru. This storyline repeats in part one and part two. Part one involves the pull between advertising and yoga, love and friendship, discipline and carnal lust. Part two focuses on the tug of war between Buddhism and Christianity, belief and action, moderation and excess. Part three is shadowy and yet to be determined but will involve a nervous breakup, nervous breakdown, loss of self and ultimate insight via a glimpse at Truth -- as discovered through that most divine wisdom, experience.

It is pouring out of me like molasses. In Guatemala, I have attained right-brain mindset. But it probably won’t be ready in December or January. Then again, I am (finally) participating in this NaNoWriMo nonsense that I first heard about several years ago.

Just as I was coming up against a major wall, I embarked on my Masters in Education last week. Unbelievably, the first course is called Teaching the Writing Process. Even more unbelievably, the professor (a live wire of a sixtyish American woman who lives in a co-op in Antigua called La Casa De Tres Gracias) is putting us through the writing process in lieu of lecturing on the pedagogy of teaching children to produce literature. The “final exam” is reading aloud a piece we've workshopped in the course. So, rather than putting the manuscript on the back burner, I am working on it for the class! Crazy, huh? And the reading for the class is any book on writing. I chose Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. It is splendidly amazing so far.

So here's the terrific epiphany. I am shifting paradigms. I don't need to (and cannot) know where I will be in 2011, or 2012, or tomorrow. My intention is to drop plans, objectives, goals, to-do lists. To just do it. Write. Right!?

Blog Title Credit: One Continuous Mistake: Four Noble Truths for Writers by Gail Sher, which I haven't read but may someday.

sea of salvation

2009-10-16T13:29:00.001-05:00

From The Space Betwen Us by Thrity Umrigar: "...People's faces turned slightly upward when they stared at the sea, as if they were straining to see a trace of God or were hearing the silent humming of the universe ... at the beach, people's faces became soft and wistful, reminding her of the expressions on the faces of sweet old dogs that roamed the streets of Bombay. As if they were all sniffing the salty air for transcendence, for something that would allow them to escape the familiar prisons of their own skin. In the temples and shrines, their heads were bowed and their faces small, fearful, and respectful, shrunk into insignificance by the ritualized chanting of the priests. But when they gazed at the the sea, people held their heads up, and their faces becasme curious and open, as if they were searching for something that linked them to the sun and the stars, looking for something they knew would linger long after the wind had erased their footprints in the dust. Land could be bought, sold, owned, divided, claimed, trampled and fought over. The land was stained permanently with pools of blood; it bulged and swelled under the outlines of countless millions buried under it. But the sea was unspoiled and eternal and seemingly beyond human claim. Its waters rose and swallowed up the scarlet shame of spilled blood."

¡cuidado, por fa!

2009-10-14T14:47:00.001-05:00

I am blessed to have landed in a city where yoga is growing in popularity. I teach twice a week, both at a local studio and at school. My classes here at CAG typically draw 10+ people, which illustrates the striking difference in work/life balance between Guate and the US. (I got plenty of theoretical interest at my old school in Austin, but usually only two attendees, my friend Maru and her first-grader, Mariana.)

I started out teaching in Spanish at Om Yoga in late August. This had been my dream for the past couple of years, but I'd never had a venue for teaching yoga en español. Strangely, I have regressed. I went from Spanish to choppy Spanglish to "puro inglés." I was stressing about teaching a vigorous, sweaty vinyasa class (not my natural tendency, but it's what the people want) while injecting bits of Buddhist philosophy and meditation techniques -- all in my second language. I would make a cheat sheet for myself and then get flustered about following it. After I gave the class in English, two regulars came up to me, separately, and said, "You should keep teaching in English." Ouch. But I know class flows better. Everyone understands English, and if not, they can look at me or their neighbor for a clue. Someday I'll deliver una clase fabulosa en puro español. Not quite yet.

Last night's class was lovely. Om Yoga just moved into a new, bigger studio. I arrived on time, because the taxi driver was a pro at fighting traffic. Lots of familiar faces, including two coworkers from school. After plenty of heat-building vinyasa variations, it was inversion time. I asked students to work on either scorpion (forearm stand) or headstand. I teach headstand the way I learned it myself: not using the wall, first practicing being upside down with your feet on the ground. Eventually (after days or weeks), lift your feet but keep your knees bent. Finally (after more days or weeks), straighten your legs and come into full headstand. And yet, I had a couple guys in their early twenties kicking up into headstand, immediately after I'd demonstrated to them personally the phases of the pose. They were kicking up wildly and tumbling over repeatedly. I said to the room, "Be sure your EGO is not taking over your practice. It's important to cultivate patience. Enjoy what you CAN do." Continued kicking and loud falling from the back row boys. "¡Cuidado, por fa!" I said, in the most blatantly admonishing tone I have ever used as a yoga teacher. ("Careful, PLEASE!") This is the trouble with teaching advanced poses to a roomful of strangers. No one got hurt, fortunately.

I think people liked the class. I know they liked the music, because several people came up to me after class wanting to a track list or to burn the CD. I love playing yoga DJ! The playlist included (but was not limited to): Opening by Wah, a little piano from Amelie, Be Here Now by Ray LaMontagne, Within You Without You by Los Beatles, One More Time with Feeling by Regina Spektor, House of Cards by Radiohead, My Sweet Lord by George Harrison, Marching Bands of Manhattan by Death Cab for Cutie, and, during savasana, Latika's Theme (a bigtime crowd pleaser) from the Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack.

Throughout class, I always say, "Enjoy the stretch," "Let go of self-criticism," "Notice the differences on each side without judging..." I'll leave you with a quote I read today that says it all:

"As you work, become aware of what I call the self-mutilation dialogue. When you can't do something you think you should be able to, do you rip into yourself? The inner critic is not very discerning and is seldom honest; it just cuts you to shreds. When your mind starts its self-mutilation pattern, say no and come back to your breath. Reframe the way you think of the pose so that just being willing to work on it is a win. Have a sense of humor about Handstand—or anything else you're afraid of. Become amused (instead of depressed) when the mind jumps to delusional conclusions (I'm going to die!) and be fascinated and eager to carve out a new truth by doing new actions. Handstand builds self-esteem and strength. It gives you a sense of how to move through life's challenges and spooky times. Your horizons broaden, and the possibilities become so exciting! What more could you ask from a pose?"-Ana Forrest

update for friends @ home

2009-10-11T21:29:00.000-05:00

Dearest friends in Austin, California and Elsewhere,
Here are eight minutes of me rambling about life in Guatemala, two months in.
Love, Michelle

libro, libra, libre

2009-10-07T18:50:00.000-05:00

LIBRO
{Spanish for book}
As in letter and spaces
strung together
to slip a story
under your skin.
Voy a escribir un libro.
I am going to write a book.
Pronto.

LIBRA
{Spanish for pound}
As in unit of weight
measurement of mass in the nonmetric system
Not that I own a scale
Or want to step on one.
But, oh, to shed the shackles of chub
to do shoulderstand without staring
at my ginormous gut
this will be bliss.
Discipline and a vision
are all it takes
good thing that's what I gots.
30 by 30
30 libras by may 30, my 30th.

LIBRE
{Spanish for free}
As in liberated
from a story struggling to be sung
for untold eons
liberated from excess baggage
in the abdominal, thigh and chin regions
liberated from anxious contemplation
over regrets and old shoulds
liberated from forever leaning
into the mirage of the future
liberated from suffering
when I embrace the paradise
of aquí,
ahora.

20 things only my best friends knew until now

2009-10-06T18:01:00.001-05:00

1. I love writing lists of all kinds. Especially on the 1955 Royal mechanical typewriter I bought from a sweet, middle-aged couple in north Austin for $25 on craigslist a couple years ago. I left it back in the USA because it weighs about 40 pounds.

2. I brought 99 lbs. of baggage with me to Guatemala when I moved. I sorted through my possessions in phases before leaving, minimizing more each round. Books I thought I'd always want but realized I'd never read again. Un-cute clothes I had kept for years out of sentimentality. I did the same thing with facebook friends in September. Obsessively eliminated connections until I had under 100. Strangely, this makes me feel better about being addicted to facebook.

3. I started practicing yoga when I was in the 7th grade, in February 1993, in my bedroom with blue carpet, using Richard Hittleman's 28 Day Yoga Exercise Plan. I credit this stroke of good luck/karma for my apparent sanity and continued good posture.

4. I began keeping a journal at age 10 and dreamt of being the youngest novelist of all time. I started working on a novel eight years ago. The current version has been in progress since early 2007. Now I just don't want to be the oldest novelist of all time.

5. Imagine by John Lennon is my favorite song and It's a Wonderful Life is my favorite movie. Maybe they are cliche, but I love them all the same. I silently judge people who dislike the Beatles, are obese, or speak Spanish with bad accents. I try not to though. My pet peeve is people who reply to all, when "all" flat out don't need to read their response.

6. When I was a kid, I always felt chubby, even though I wasn't really. As an adult, I have a skewed positive self-image of being fit which tends to be shattered when I see myself in a photograph. Perhaps my mind is stuck in 2004, when I actually was fit. I need to lose at least 30 lbs. I intend to do so before turning 30 in 8 months. It's doable. I am psyching myself up for yogging... it's this new fad where you run around a lot.

7. I have gone on at least 50 ridiculously awful dates. Screw opposites. My friends and lovers should enjoy a majority of the activities I do: yoga, traveling internationally, meditation, hiking, sailing, writing, reading, swimming, smoking pot, indie films, rock music, and cooking. I'm not sure that I want to get married or have kids. Leaning toward no at the moment.

8. Watching water soaking into soil, spinach wilting, cats and dogs basking in the sun, and the sun sinking at dusk make me feel abnormally happy.

9. Montezuma's revenge or some similar gastronomical bug that I caught in Mexico led me to poop in my pants at age 27. Gross. I am hoping that doesn't happen here in Guate.

10. I have a fascination with cult mentality, stemming from dating a fundamentalist Christian years ago who has since been imprisoned for rampant pedophilia. I've read loads of books on topics like Morman fundamentalism, the Jonestown massacre and Charles Manson and have hopefully stored enough intriguing information to effectively rewrite part II of my novella manuscript in the coming weeks, in which the main character is born again.

11. I ran into my hilarious, short, stocky, Jewish ex-college-friend-or-something in a remote village in the foothills of the Himalayas in July 2008. He was the first person that I loved. We drank Australian beer at a Chinese restaurant and talked for four hours. We've had no contact since.

12. I spent ten days in a mental institution at age 24, for a lot of reasons. After battling the first five days and being strapped down and tranquilized at least twice, I gave up and was on my best behavior, which led to my hasty release.

13. I was a girly-girl. Took ballet, tap, jazz and gymnastics. Never played team sports, aside from two pointless "Little Dribblers" basketball camps in the early 90s. Perhaps this is why one of my greatest fears is being put on the spot in a softball or soccer game.

14. I have had more gay boyfriends than straight ones.

15. I abhor Sarah Palin and everything she represents, yet I can't help reading articles about her.

16. In elementary school, I would sit in my bunkbed and read in the dim light because I thought glasses were cool. I have had myopia since age 12. I don't think it's cool anymore.

17. I was in TAG (Talented and Gifted) math class growing up, but could never bring myself to care about pre-cal or trigonometry. I prefer things to be grouped in even numbers or multiples of five.

18. I used to wear high heels and make up. Those days are long gone.

19. Because I overdid it with studying and achieving from K-12, I have a bachelor of "science" in advertising from UT. I probably would have offed myself had I not quit that career when I did.

20. I love teaching, especially yoga and elementary school. While it feels like the ideal career for me, I acknowledge that professional/staff development meetings in the education are far more excruciating than any advertising client meeting I've attended.

This post was inspired by Yoko Ono.

pensamientos de domingo

2009-10-04T18:52:00.000-05:00

(sunday thoughts)

with crisp sighs
i admire the grace of a falling leaf
the satisfaction of black text filling a white page
the ant pacing in circles across my screen
forgotten favorite tracks from under the table and dreaming
my creaky knees and hips

i wander the neighborhood
lucy trails behind me
some days i greet everyone on the street
"¡buenos dias!" / "¡buenas tardes!"
today i hide behind oversized shades
and purse my lips and stare ahead

my horoscope tells me today is a five star day
for meeting someone new and special
but i am in an antisocial phase
so i go to a cafe and read
alone and content
unnoticed by a gaggle of gay guys
at the next table

read tarot at kat's palace on the hill
high thoughts despite utter sobriety
how strange it is to be living this reality
i hadn't fathomed a year ago
it's easy to get negative
absorb chismes like an IV into the bloodstream
the violencia, the poverty, the corruption
i take a step back
and realize that my guatemalan life is generally
blessed, exquisite, easy, ideal

of course i hope for visitors
no one in my family has a passport yet
everyone expresses interest
but who has the time?

yoga schmoga

2009-09-28T14:07:00.002-05:00

One of my new friends in Guatemala, Lynn, embodies what I aspire to become. Her husband is a fellow new teacher here at the American school. They've spent years living in Nepal and Zimbabwe, raising daughters and soaking up diverse cultures. When I met Lynn and found out that she's a yoga teacher, I reflexively asked her the question I hate most as a yoga instructor, "What kind of yoga do you teach?" She leaned in and confided, "You may not have heard of it. It's very obscure. I practice what's called... 'yoga schmoga.'"

I knew from that moment that I wanted to be her protege. Later I found out that she'd worked with a group of mothers of disabled children in Zimbabwe to market their crafts worldwide. (See Batsiranai Craft Project at 10,000 Villages.) For this work, she was one of 50 recipients of a special humanitarian award given by His Holiness the Dalai Lama last April. But when I talked to her about it, she was genuinely modest and underplayed her role in the project, though she still spends 3-4 hours a day working on it remotely from her home here in Guatemala.

She started practicing yoga in San Francisco in the late seventies, alongside renowned Iyengar teachers like Judith Lasater and Manuso Manos. She admitted, "We practiced with huge ego back then." It was all about the form, attaining the perfect posture. I feel so fortunate to have stumbled upon Lynn and her wellspring of information on trends in American yoga over the past three decades. Not to mention a funny and interesting dinner party conversationalist. Perhaps my next book will be titled Yoga Schmoga...

The Rabbit of Easter. He Bring of the Chocolate

2009-09-24T16:18:00.002-05:00

People here are nice. They compliment my Spanish. I suppose my accent is above decent. My vocabulary and grammar, though, seem to have plateaued if not plummeted since my arrival in Guatemala. I'm pretty sure it's not as bad as I feel. I'm fine with casual conversation, and I understand pretty well when others are speaking. But put me in a parent conference or in front of a yoga class and I feel like a shy wallflower.

Anyway, in honor of speaking second languages, I give you an abridged version of my favorite David Sedaris story from Me Talk Pretty One Day. Buy his books. Laugh until you cry.

--------------------
"And what does one do on Easter? Would anyone like to tell us?"

The Italian nanny was attempting to answer the teacher's latest question when the Moroccan student interrupted, shouting, "Excuse me, but what's an Easter?"

It would seem that despite having grown up in a Muslim country, she would have heard it mentioned once or twice, but no. "I mean it," she said. "I have no idea what you people are talking about."

The teacher called on the rest of us to explain.

The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. "It is," said one, "a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus...oh shit." She faltered and her fellow country-man came to her aid.

"He call his self Jesus and then he be die one day on two...morsels of...lumber."

The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.

"He die one day and then he go above of my head to live with your father."

"He weared of himself the long hair and after he die, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples."

"He nice, the Jesus."

"He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today."

Part of the problem had to do with vocabulary. Simple nouns such as cross and resurrection were beyond our grasp, let alone such a complicated refexive phrases as "to give of yourself your only begotten son." Faced with the challenge of explaining the cornerstone of Christianity, we did what any self-respecting group of people might do. We talked about food instead.

"Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb," the Italian nanny explained. "One too may eat of the chocolate."

"And who brings the chocolate?" the teacher asked.

I knew the word, so I raised my hand, saying, "The rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate."

"A rabbit?" The teacher, assuming I'd used the wrong word, positioned her index fingers on top of her head, wriggling them as though they were ears. "You mean one of these? A rabbit rabbit?"

"Well, sure," I said. "He come in the night when one sleep on bed. Which a hand he have a basket and foods."

The teacher sighed and shook her head. As far as she was concerned, I had just explained everything wrong with my country. "No, no," she said. "Here in France the chocolate is brought by a a big bell that flies in from Rome."

I called for a time-out. "But how do the bell know where you live?"

"Well," she said, "how does a rabbit?"

It was a decent point, but at least a rabbit has eyes. That's a start. Rabbits move from place to place, while most bells can only go back and forth -- and they can't even do that on their own power. On top of that, the Easter Bunny has character. He's someone you'd like to meet and shake hands with. A bell has all the personality of a cast-iron skillet. It's like saying that come Christmas, a magic dustpan flies in from the North Pole, led by eight flying cinder blocks. Who wants to stay up all night so they can see a bell? And why fly one in from Rome when they've got more bells than they know what do to with here in Paris? That's the most implausible aspect of the whole story, as there's no way the bells of France would allow a foreign worker to fly in and take their jobs. That Roman bell would be lucky to get work cleaning up after a French bell's dog -- and even then he'd need papers. It just didn't add up.

Nothing we said was of any help to the Moroccan student. A dead man with long hair supposedly living with her father, a leg of lamb served with palm fronds and chocolate; equally confused and disgusted, she shrugged her massive shoulders and turned her attention to the comic book she kept hidden beneath her binder.

I wondered then if, without the language barrier, my classmates and I could have done a better job making sense of Christianity, an idea that sounds pretty far-fetched to begin with.

In communicating any religious belief, the operative word is faith, a concept illustrated by our very presence in that classroom. Why bother struggling with the grammar lessons of a six-year-old if each of us didn't believe that, against all reason, we might eventually improve? If I could hope to one day carry on a fluent conversation, it was a relatively short leap to believing that a rabbit might visit my home in the middle of the night, leaving behind a handful of chocolate kisses and a carton of menthol cigarettes. So why stop there? If I could believe in myself, why not give other improbabilties the benefit of the doubt? I told myself that despite her past behavior, my teacher was a kind and loving person who had only my best interests at heart. I accepted the idea that an omniscient God had cast me in his own image and that he watched over me and guided me from one place to the next. The Virgin Birth, the Ressurrection, and countless miracles -- my heart expanded to encompass all the wonders and possibilities of the universe.

A bell, though -- that's fucked up.

you can play

2009-09-20T12:03:00.005-05:00

On a morning stroll with Lucy, I repress my urge to listen to FAR by Regina Spektor for fear of overplaying it and instead tune in to an August podcast of This American Life, the weekly public radio program. The episode's title is, "The Cruelty of Children," and host Ira Glass in his clipped, northern accent reminds us that its not cruelty toward but OF children. Act one, the always hilarious David Sedaris reading "I Like Guys," a short story on his junior high experiences with closeted homosexuality and his trip to a summer camp full of glistening boys in Greece. (The story is published in his book, Naked.) Act two is a dry tale of children not helping a man stuck at the bottom of a well. I find it boring and cruel and fast-forward to act three.

It's an interview with kindergarten teacher Vivian Paley, who implemented the rule, "You Can't Say You Can't Play" in her class back in the eighties. The best ideas are always the simplest. She explains why she decided on the rule, how the kids reacted with disbelief but soon behaved as if this was always the way things were. People naturally tend to include some and exclude others, even from a very early age. But, niceness can be mandated, and taught, and then it becomes an ingrained habit. I wish I'd read this before my first year of teaching. Though it sounds like a common sense rule that would lead to classroom utopia, I've never heard of a teacher using this rule. I can't wait to try it! Yet another reason I long to return to elementary classroom teaching ASAP.

You Can't Say You Can't Play: book preview

2-minute tour de la casa

2009-09-18T17:58:00.000-05:00

family matters

2009-09-17T12:24:00.002-05:00

God bless Mom and Dad and Paul and Lisa, and all our pets and friends and relatives and everyone in the whole world. Amen.

perfect panama

2009-09-15T16:08:00.008-05:00

We left directly from school Friday. Though Kat was initially put on standby, Michelle M. had to rush to the airport solo because of a late afternoon meeting at school, and my crochet needle was confiscated at security, we made it to the gate in time. We arrived, dazed but pleased to be at Naoko and Jeff's lovely apartment in the heart of Panama City. Early (4:30 a.m.!) Saturday morning, we three piled into a van and headed to San Blas, a three-hour journey that was a joy compared to my hellacious road trip in the Himalayas last summer. The worst part was an incessantly chirping toy that made a metallic, quasi-birdlike sound every 10 seconds. When I confronted them in Spanish, the parents of the child whose toy it was denied that it had batteries. ¡Que lastima! The van dropped us off at the northern edge of Panama, and we took a 30 minute boat ride to the island.

Kuanidup (Kwan-E-doop) es un paraíso (paradise), roughly the size of a football field, and on it are the following: a handful of cabañas for visitors, baños, a dining hall, palm trees, hammocks, and a few huts in which the island's small staff work and cook. The "floors" are soft sand, the roofs thatched. Kuanidup is surrounded by warm Caribbean water, the precise shades of blue-green that crop up automatically in a visualization of a perfect, calm place. We were fed breakfast (egg, toast, and fried bread with jam), walked around the perimeter of the island in awe, and took naps in our neighboring huts as melodic ocean waves and pitter pattering rain lulled us. Snorkeling and hammock reading/siestas filled the rest of our day. The only other visitors on the island were three adults and three young girls, who had been there many times before and knew the unstated rules of quiet hammock time.

After dinner (coconut milk rice, salad and a curried mix of shrimp and vegetables), we commenced with the evening's activity: sitting on the dock, looking at the stars, gabbing about life, love, happiness, etc. Though I've only known these girls a little over a month, we felt like old friends. When the lights went out, we were off to sleep. Aside from a few geckos, small white crabs and cockroaches, no other formidable creatures seemed to inhabit the island. I was sandy, sticky and slightly itchy but slept surprisingly well.

Sunday was more of the same lazy pleasure, plus a short boat excursion to a nearby island. The indigenous Panamanian people are called Kuna, and they are shy, beautiful and talented artisans. I bought a mola (colorful, quilted traditional cloth) with parrots on it for mom (never too early for Xmas shopping) and Kat bought a beaded anklet. About a dozen members of the community gathered around while one of the women wrapped it around her leg. I felt guilty that we didn't buy more, as women and children came out of the woodwork quietly hawking their wares. Our guide showed us the hospital and school and water pipes that bring fresh drinking water to the whole island. He was proud, and well he should be. I heart the Kuna.

After lunch and an afternoon storm, we snorkeled to a smaller, uninhabited island about 1/4 mile away, feeling like castaways, aside from the obnoxious motorized yacht parked between us and Kuanidup, marring our view. Worse yet, from our vantage point, we could see invaders coming onto "our" island -- both from the yacht and from a smaller boat. When we swam back, there were people in "our" hammocks, and they did not know the unspoken rules. Luckily, the yacht people went back to their boat to eat and sleep and the others turned out to be pretty cool, two girls and a guy around our age, from Mexico, Panama and Costa Rica. We dined on crabs that we'd seen walking around earlier right after they'd been caught, which I felt bad about, but not bad enough to boycott their consumption -- at least I knew they were local. Still, I feel too lax in my eating habits. At home, I'm strictly veg, but when out, I eat just about whatever is put in front of me... especially when it tastes good and I am on vacation.

Monday, we were driven back to Panama City, and then embarked on a nonstop, self-propelled tour. We lunched and strolled through Casco Viejo (the colonial section of town where I procured fabulous accessories from street vendors -- a ring made from coconut, a beaded Kuna anklet, a stringy turquoise bracelet, and a floppy brown hat); we witnessed an immense ship passing through the Miraflores locks at the 95 year old Panama Canal; we shopped 'til we nearly dropped at the Albrook Mall, Central America's largest. There, I spent way too much time and money, but I was finding cute stuff on sale at so many stores. I justified it since I have a rather limited wardrobe here in Guatemala due to moving myself in two suitcases. Finally, we headed back to Naoko and Jeff's and all of us had paella and sangria together at a lovely Spanish restaurant.

Today I had a layover in Costa Rica and almost got on a plane to Caracas, Venezuela because the airline printed the wrong gate on my boarding pass. It was hard to be mad as I rushed to the correct plane, what with the lively band and people in oversized puppet costumes dancing in honor of Dia de Independencia, which is today, in every Central American country except Panama.

All in all, a perfect long weekend vacation. And perhaps the best part is not having to face post-vacation "reality" -- because though I do have to work tomorrow, life is so dreamy at present that it feels like one continuous holiday.

embers of septembers

2009-09-11T13:43:00.000-05:00

1991
eleven
dad's 39th birthday
yellow cake in a yellow kitchen
a kodak moment
i was consumed with worry
that my dad was getting so old,
so near death
silly girl

1999
nineteen
off to london, alone
sans luggage
the texan, ever looking up
at the grey blue british skies
unknowingly growing into herself

2001
UT sophomore
clock radio blares news
as alien as a martian invasion
new york on fire, buildings crumbling
a global gasp of fear
our nation cries itself to sleep

2004
landed smack dab back in the heart of texas
spiritually wayward
post-californian apocalype
dejected, confused boredom

2009
my peers are starting to turn thirty
enjoying marriage and family and suburban pleasures
while i wander
(but am not lost)
living the dream in guate

Short, poignant reflections from NYT contributors on the events of Sept. 11, 2001, eight years on.

peace mantra meditation

2009-09-08T17:13:00.009-05:00

Sit with your spine nice and tall. Relax your shoulders, face, legs.
Inhale deeply through the nose.
Sigh through the mouth.
We practice mindful breathing in yoga so that we will breathe more deeply throughout our lives.
Close your eyes.
When you inhale, repeat in silence, mentally, "I am"
When you exhale, say silently, "peace"
Each time: "I am" ... "peace"
After 2 minutes (or more), let go of the mantra.
Turn your awareness inward.
Notice how you feel, physically, mentally and spiritually.
You are peace.
Namaste.

the fight for libertad

2009-09-06T18:10:00.003-05:00

If you assume that there's no hope, you guarantee that there will be no hope. If you assume that there is an instinct for human freedom, there are opportunities to change things, there's a chance you may contribute to making a better world. That's your choice. -Noam Chomsky

Guatemala's Día de Independencía is coming up on September 15. It's a big celebration, like in any country, but must be tinged with bitterness for the majority of Guatemalans, the Mayan people.

I am just beginning to scratch the surface of this nation's history, and it is not a pretty story. I read a book called Bridge of Courage by Jennifer Harbury, a Texan civil rights lawyer who came to Guatemala in the 1980s and became involved in the resistance movement of the indigenous Mayans. These people had already faced five centuries of mistreatment (to put it lightly) at the hands of Spanish colonizers, and in the late 70s and early 80s, they were killed in horrific ways by the hundreds of thousands in a genocide covertly supported by the CIA. Harbury's husband, a Guatemalan resistance comandante, was captured and tortured for over two years before being executed. After hunger strikes and protests, Harbury persuaded a CIA employee to leak... the US government was fully aware of his and 350 others' torture. Meanwhile, most Americans had no idea that Guatemala was anything but a central American banana producer.

Her book is a collection of personal vignettes of compañer@s in the resistence movement. One young man ends his story by explaining the effect of an old man's tall tales: "by the end of the afternoon, I realized that this man had done something really amazing with all his stories. He had pulled me in, opened my eyes, woven me into this incredible web of experiences that all of us in the movement share. All of a sudden I was not alone with my pain and my fear." It did the same for me as a reader. Bridge to Courage is an amazing book, disturbing yet inspiring, sad, poignant and, occasionally funny. (One story is about a mischievous pet squirrel who steals food from the guerillas because they spoiled him with human food as a baby.)

I intend not to get involved in any politics here, because things are still very shaky, despite a "peace accord" signed in 1996. The "war on drugs" and general greed of the rich and disempowerment of the poor has led to rampant corruption and alarming crime and murder rates. If I leave Guatemala, it will be because of safety issues. Nothing has happened to me personally, but it's always a possibility, and in some places a probability. I'm grateful for a nice, comfy home where I can contentedly stay in after dark. I am in awe of the guerilla fighters' courage and drive for freedom and independence, but I'd rather watch it from a safe distance.