Imagine

Last week my friend Darrell treated me to a session with Catherine Shainberg, a world leader in the use of imagery for transformation. Darrell and his wife live on Bainbridge Island, so my day started by walking down to the ferry on a gorgeous, sunny Seattle Thursday. There's something transformational in the very act of making that crossing-- letting go of my business and personal obligations in Seattle and crossing Puget Sound to a different land.

Darrell picked me up from the ferry in his truck and drove me out to his house in the woods. After entering on a windy dirt road past a fully in-bloom mature Magnolia, we arrived at his beautiful home hugged by ancient Cedar trees. Catherine and Darrell's wife Joyce were waiting when I arrived. After a quick hello, Catherine led me into the small office where she was doing her private sessions for the day. I hadn't prepared a question before going to visit, nor did I have any idea really what to expect.

I've always been headstrong. My way or the highway. It's gotten me into lots of trouble, created loads of conflict and discomfort for me with family, friends, colleagues, partners. The older I get, the more I see what a waste of time this is. Life is too short, time is precious. So while I didn't have an exact question in mind for my session with Catherine, I was, and am, very interested in learning ways to move on from my lifelong bullheadedness.

After a few minutes of background questions, Catherine told me, in her lilting French accent, "You are very stubborn." Yes. Very. "Do you know how I know?" she pressed, "That line on your forehead. It tells me you are holding on. You are stubborn."  The night before at our dining room table, my daughter Lucia was sketching picture of me and actually made a comment about that line on my forehead. Two references in less than twelve hours. That's a pretty noticeable line.

Catherine invited me to close my eyes and proceeded to guide me back, through beautiful imagery and breath, to a time where this "stubbornness" might have originated. The process was hard work, emotional, and I felt tears streaming down my cheeks first intermittently, then continuously, until we were done. When I opened my eyes, I could see through the window,  a little brown squirrel perched on the porch chair behind Catherine, peering over her shoulder through the glass, looking right at me. I wondered if that little squirrel had been witnessing my process the whole time-- anguished face, dabbing my tears with kleenex-- or if he'd just shown up to welcome me back to reality.

Catherine then told me that I have a  lot of work to do, a lot of practice to let go of my brow-wrinkling stubbornness. I asked if I could actually get rid of the deep groove in my forehead, and she smiled, "Yes, you can. You just have to keep working."

"It's all there" Catherine explained, "All of the beautiful parts of you are all there. Your work is to let go of what's blocking it." I don't fully understand it, but I basically get it. I have a line in my forehead that reminds me, every time I look in the mirror, to let go of my stubbornness. I don't have to recreate or rebuild or fix some part of myself. I have to look within, imagine, the release of my rigidity, and what's already there will be set free.

Kinda crazy

Last week when I was practicing I set my mat up in a place that I regretted as soon as class started. I couldn't really see myself and I felt like I was strangely in no-mans-land-- not front, not back, not right, not left, not even middle ..... As soon as Pranayama started, I began to feel agitated. "I'll move my mat during party time." I thought to myself. But then, during the Half-Moon Series, I convinced myself that it would be a good practice to just manage my existing spot; to let go of the perfect practice mat placement for this class.

I felt pleased with my decision. Letting go is the single most important reason that I practice Yoga. When I am in the room, I am truly in a different space from the rest of my life. On this particular day when I was practicing, there was student to my left having a LOT of anxiety. I could tell that she was struggling and working really hard to stay in class. On the other side of me was a student who was weeping. It happens to lots of people-- the emotional release from an extremely physical practice. Both of these students inspired me to stay on course-- to accept my less-than-ideal placement on my mat, and to focus my energy on my practice and nothing else.

After class I had to immediately get on the phone to deal with some bullshit about Girl Scout Camp logistics for my daughter. I was talking on the phone in my fast-paced clip, inquiring about Session Two, Group B or some stupid detail, taking notes, asking questions about transportation. When I hung up, a student from the class was sitting on the bench beside the desk staring at me. "Are you always like that?" she asked.

"Like what?" I quipped back.

"Kinda crazy. You're so calm in the room, I would never guess you were like that."

"That's why I practice!" I practically yelled back, "in the Yoga room is the only time I'm not kinda crazy."

I can't wait to get in there.

Work hard and be gentle

On Sunday night I contemplated going to Gary's 6:00am class. "Contemplated" means I gave myself an out. If I didn't sleep enough, I would just go to Penni's 9:30am class instead. At 3:36am Monday morning I woke up. I was up for about a half-hour and decided that I'd read for a while, shut off my alarm clock and skip 6:00am so I could sleep longer. At 4:45am I was still no closer to sleep so I decided that I would go to 6:00am yoga after all.

Class was pretty small, only about eight of us. I love the early morning class and it felt great to practice. During Pavanamuktasana, Gary told us to pull harder, harder, harder. Then, during Savasana he said, "Y'know, you can work really hard and still be gentle. Work hard and be gentle with yourself." It was the perfect thing to say at that moment and I've been thinking about it ever since.

I've struggled with perfectionism for my entire life. I hesitate to try new things because I don't want look like a loser. I try to control all aspects of my life so I will be prepared (translation: perfect) in any given situation. It's not a good thing. My challenge in my life right now is to work hard at letting go of some of that control and be okay being (occasionally) in the unknown.

It's really hard work, this letting go business. I find myself being impatient, wanting to be better at it than I am. I'm working on letting go of certain friendships, shedding expectations in existing relationships, being more open-minded and less controlling in all of my interactions. It's kind of an all-day, everyday job and I often struggle. So when Gary said, "Work hard and be gentle with yourself", I felt comforted. Yes! I can keep working on all of these things, but when I stumble, I can be a bit less barbaric with my self-punishment.

Class was great. I worked hard. I was gentle with myself. During final Savasana, I fell asleep. I woke up 25 minutes later when Gary was cleaning the mirrors.
I have fallen asleep in final Savasana only a handful of times in my life. I'm the person who never falls asleep on the plane. I have napped maybe ten times in my adult life. And, being the studio owner, I am rarely relaxed enough to completely check out, so falling dead asleep was a delightful surprise.

I might have fallen asleep because I was exhausted from waking up at 3:36am. Maybe I was lulled into slumber by Gary's familiar voice. I believe both of these things helped. But I think ultimately it was something more, something bigger. I felt a genuine surge of relief when Gary introduced the "gentle" into "working hard." The hard work of life felt a little bit easier. I felt a little bit lighter. Regardless of the reason(s) for it, I loved my unexpected nap. I hope it happens again real soon.

Let's do nothing

This morning I heard the same story on KUOW for the third time in three days. The odds of this made me think that there must be a reason behind it. Why was I hearing the repeated weeping of the surviving mother of an Iraqi war casualty three times in three days? Maybe I was hearing it because my 6-year-old is pushing every button in my body and I feel unmotherly feelings of less than love for her! Maybe there was a message for me in this woman's tragedy being aired on public radio?

I'm always surprised by what I hear. So often the radio or a conversation at a party can be white noise for me, with just snippets becoming audible. This happens for me constantly in yoga. Last night I practiced in a state of exhaustion, which is often the most relaxing kind of class for me. I love it. Mostly Kristen's voice was background music, but periodically I heard, "Let it go" or "Let your muscles relax." Different instructions that began with "Let." It was the perfect combination for me in my fatigued state. I didn't have to do anything, I just had to let myself be some way.

It was kind of epiphanic for me. Instead of telling myself to relax or release the tension in my neck or my toes, I just had to let myself do nothing to get to this natural state. We all have this capacity. It's like a baby sleeping. Their shoulders and hips and knees seem almost double-jointed in their relaxed state. It's because they aren't doing anything with their bodies. They are void of all the repeated movements, traumas, stressors that we adults have quietly absorbed in our years of development.

So, when Kristen told us last night to "Let our jaws be slack" or "Let our brows soften", I heard it anew. "Don't do anything" I told myself. Do the opposite and see what happens. So far so good.

Free falling

The other day during Savasana, I told the class as I always do to "let go." About 30 seconds into Savasana as I sipped my tea and scanned the room, I saw clenched fists, jaw bones pulsing, eyelashes fluttering, toes curled. Seeing the collective struggle, I tried to push them a little bit, "Holding on is easy people. Letting go is hard." Some slight changes were evident. Slight. Bodies shifted, big breaths were breathed, brows intermittently softened, but the struggle continued. Tight muscles, scattered focus.

This idea of "letting go" has been a prevailing theme in my life forever. Why is letting go so difficult? And why is holding on, the act of gritting through change, physically, mentally and emotionally, an easier place to be? Because staying tethered to things and ideas that are known, while not necessarily more comfortable, is so much safer. "I hate my job." Instead of quitting (stepping into the abyss that is the unknown) we keep the crappy, energy-sucking, life-draining, dead-end job. "I'm unhappy in my relationship." We plug away, staying in the mediocrity instead of listening to the heart.

The idea of stepping into the unknown is scary. Things might get worse before they get better. They might not ever get better. But we don't know if we hang out on the edge of the diving board day after day, week after week, year after year. If we never step off the edge and tread the waters of fear, we can never know what letting go feels like.

The times in I my life when I have been the most frightened, the most confused, the most devastated, have been the times in my life when I have had let go-- letting go of a marriage, a career, a city. At the time these decisions felt like I had no choice. I know now that I needed to some part of me deep down knew I had to make those choices. Not letting go, not moving on, for me was impossible. Each time I have been faced with big change, I have held on tight, pushed against it with Olympic heavy-weight force, before finally taking the leap.

The first time I consciously let go in a big way, I existed in a state of free-fall that I can still remember as the most horrifying experience of my life. Now each time I do it (which is not a lot), it gets easier. Taking a relationship risk I never would have made ten years ago or making a business decision that feels right but makes no sense on paper. There are moments in these times when I feel like I am ruining my life or throwing so much to chance that I am literally petrified, paralyzed like in a scary dream. And then, I am out of the free fall. The fear is gone and I am on solid ground, hardly able to remember that the fear existed.

Whether you are lying in Savasana wishing the person to your left would stop nose-whistling or sitting in your idling car at 2am pondering the meaning of your life, the act of letting go is the same. It is trusting that letting go will take you somewhere different. Letting go makes room for new feelings, ideas, sensations, pushing aside what would usually fill that mental, emotional and physical space. Angst, anticipation, analysis, anger. For most of us, these experiences are familiar, comfortable. Instead of staying there, try something different. Soften your jaw, relax your toes, let your fingertips curl. You'll be scared, uneasy, for a few seconds, maybe a minute, maybe a week or a month. But then you're there--in the land of the unknown. And that's just the beginning.