The Man with The Duffels

There’s a man who lives in Seward Park. I’ve seen him for years. He’s very quiet. He walks very slowly and he always carries two duffel bags. He wears a dark parka all year long that looks navy but is shiny with grime and age so it's hard to tell the actual color. I often see him walking the south end of Lake Washington. I've seen him as far as Leschi but mostly I see him around Seward Park and inside the park. I often run the inner trails with my friend Kate and her dog Tucker and we've crossed this mans path multiple times.

This morning as I was walking around the Seward Park outer loop, I saw him walking in front of me. He was about 100 yards ahead and I could tell it was him from his distinctive gate and the two duffels. I’ve always assumed that this man lives in the inner sanctum of the park. There are arterials all around the loop that feed into the park. It's easy to get lost among the arterial paths. The inner sanctum is a wonderful, peaceful sanctuary from the chaos of the city. The old growth forest is magical and lush with centuries-old Douglas Firs, nurse logs and ferns. I never go on the inner trails on my own because I worry about getting lost. I also fear the mystery of the vast, beautiful, unknown park.

This morning, the man with duffels turned off to go up one of the trails. I was still about 50 yards behind and as I approached the trailhead I could no longer see him, but I heard screaming inside of the forest. It was angry, aggressive. The voice was swearing. I stopped. I took out my earbuds so I could hear more clearly.  It was early, not even 7am and there was no one else around. I walked to the other side of the path, away from the lake so I could hear better. I heard the voice again, "Fuck you!" and then something unintelligible. There was only one voice. No one was responding to the angry outbursts.  I felt stuck, unwilling to go into the park to investigate and no one around to help me discern the origin or meaning of the yelling.

Finally, I yelled into the tree line of the inner sanctum, "Are you okay in there?" I waited. I heard nothing. I waited a few more minutes and a woman on bike came by. "Did you hear yelling?" I asked. "Yes" she said,  "I think he was yelling for his dog. There's a lot of bunnies in there and it's easy to lose your dog to the chase."

I knew there was no dog. I had seen the man turn in and I was pretty sure it was this quiet man's voice I'd heard. But I didn't say anything to the woman. I just nodded and she continued riding. After the woman rode on I waited a few minutes more and when I heard nothing else from the woods, I continued on my own loop. I kept my earbuds out so I could hear if there were any more voices.

What was this man's story? Maybe he was a person with demons who found solace in the woods. Did I interrupt his private experience by yelling into the trees. Maybe the woods is his home, his sanctuary and I witnessed a private moment that was supposed to be his alone.

We never really know a person's story, their emotional experiences, their inner demons. I wonder what kind of home the man with the duffels has made inside the park. Has he found a way to create a place where he can be who he truly is, sometimes quiet, and sometimes angry and loud.

As I walked on, I thought about my decision to not follow those yells this morning, to stay on my safe, paved path on the outskirts of the forest. I'm a city kid. I grew up on the South Side of Chicago. My mom warned us about which train stations were safe. I knew what bus stop I should get off to avoid danger.  When my little sister was held up at gun point while sitting in a car a block from our house, I waited with my parents and sisters for the all-night locksmith to come change our locks. Sometimes when I'm walking and I'm alone on the path and I feel unsafe for some reason, I know it's my city dweller voice resurfacing. When I'm walking around the park and there's no one around or I get a weird vibe off of someone I pass, I think to myself, "I can always run into the water. I'm a great swimmer. Most people wouldn't follow me into the water. That will be my escape."

But I don't feel that way in the forest. For me going into the woods is not an escape. I'm scared of it. It's dark and closed. There are secret hiding places for the boogie man all over the forest. But maybe for the man with the duffels, the forest is a safe place. The darkness, the canopy cover, the mystery and the hiding places are his comfort. I'll never know what made the man with the duffels angry or if his yelling was even out of anger. I hope I didn't interrupt something that made him feel less safe in his home. I feel a little bit like I invaded his privacy, his safety zone.

When I think of the man with the duffels, I feel a sense of reverence for him, for his life in the forest. I love the beauty of the woods, the smells, the sounds of the birds, the variant greens, but he is a part of the forest. When I heard him yelling, I knew somehow that he had entered his home. In his yelling, he was letting something out that he doesn't when he's outside of the woods. We all need a place where we can feel safe and at peace. I often find that place near the water, on the periphery of the trees. I hope the man with the duffels finds his peace in the forest.

The Elephant in the Room

This afternoon I spoke to my mother in Arizona who asked, "Have you read the latest on Bikram?" And then I checked my email and there was a message from my partner titled, "You'll probably want to read this." Bikram is in the news. Again.

Since I started practicing Bikram Yoga, it's been controversial. In 1994, when there was not even an "official" Bikram studio in the city of Seattle, the controversy was about the heat. "I don't get it." "What's the point of the heat?" "That's not really Yoga." Eventually, as anyone who practices Yoga in 2015 knows, heat is now everywhere. I can only think of a handful of studios in our whole city (and there are hundreds of studios) that don't add heat. So, that's not really an issue any more.

Then there was the controversy of Bikram franchising Yoga. I've spent years telling my students that The SweatBox is an independent business, that we don't pay any money to Bikram himself, that we teach the purest form of Bikram Yoga but we don't pay for this right. We are free agents. Some people may not have known this. Now you do.

Of late, the controversy is the sexual assault allegations against Bikram Choudhury, the founder of Bikram Yoga. As a feminist and a proud owner of a business in which we strive to cultivate an empowered group of employees --mostly women and a couple of really awesome men--  I cringe at the thought of being associated with anything that reeks of abuse of power, sexism, assault, disrespect. I am a feminist. I am raising my daughter to be a feminist. I believe that Yoga is a path to self-discovery and that being a Yoga teacher is a role one must practice with the utmost care, respect, and love.

The allegations against Bikram are deeply troubling and they sadden me to my core. I remember when unfortunately similar allegations surfaced about John Friend several years ago. Seattle Yoga Arts, a studio that offered Anusara Yoga, founded by John Friend, is one of the oldest, most well-respected, highly regarded studios in our city. I felt heavy hearted for that community as the newspapers spewed about Friend's sex scandal exploits. I practiced at this studio recently and loved it. The energy, the space, the grace with which the class was delivered. It is a sacred space indeed, one that has not been broken by the actions of any one person.

Reading and rereading the news reports about Bikram's alleged actions gives me an ache in my belly. My heart breaks for every woman, and I've known many, who has been exploited, abused, disrespected, violated.  I become a raging lunatic when I imagine my daughter, my partner, my sisters exposed to the kind of treatment Bikram is being accused of.

I write this very personal blog to be clear about where I stand. For twenty years, Bikram Yoga has been a path to physical, mental and spiritual health for me. I have not personally been exposed to negative behaviors or actions from Bikram the man, but I stand behind the women who have been violated in their relationships with him. As a business owner, Yoga teacher, and human being, I do, have always, and will continue to cultivate and nurture a space where women and men are safe, respected, and free from actions that violate their sense of health, safety and wellness.

Home Base

At Lucia's preschool, the kids start every sunny day outside in the playground. They run their little pants off. Unless you are a sandbox kid, pretty much all of the games involve running in some form. Last week when I was working at school, I was selected as the "base." Over the course of the 45 minutes of outside time, I stood stone-still while adorable 40-inch tall bodies slammed into my legs, threw their arms around my knees, buried their faces in my thighs and screamed "BAAAAASE" to the gaggle of kids tumbling after them.

The kid on base holds great power. As long as she in physical contact with the base, she is untouchable. The chasers hover at arm's length jumping, lunging, pointing and sticking out their tongues as the leg-hugger shimmies around the base, until at an inexplicably random moment, she bolts, running away again, hotly pursued by the chasers for a few dramatic moments before ultimately slamming once again into base.

Base-- safety, freedom, power, comfort, control. We all need a base. In my ideal, fully-evolved world where I am enlightened, emotionally mature and competent, my base is internal (home base) and I can access it on demand. In this fantasy, I push a little magic button that lives somewhere in my torso when I want to feel secure, comfortable, safe.

In reality, this doesn't happen as often as I would like. I frequently find myself going outside myself to find a base. I go to one of my sisters to get affirmation about my embarrassing crush-induced behaviors. I ask a friend to tell me that my latest obsession with long sweaters is not too middle-aged. Touching base is equivalent to someone saying, "You are okay." I go to an external base when I forget that I can (and should) get that same message from myself.

The other day, in a panic of general insecurity about all aspects of my life, I ran headlong (metaphorically) to a friend for comfort. I needed to touch BASE. I was desperate to for her to tell me that I was okay. And though she tried to comfort me with words, the "you are okay" feeling wasn't coming. I actually started feeling worse. Touching base with this friend who I consider grounded, calm, smart, loving, honest, genuine was making me feel less secure, less okay.

Theoretically, there is nothing wrong with needing to touch an outside base, unless you step outside so much that you forget about your home base. For me, I often jump to an outside base before even checking in to see what my home base says. When advice from my sisters or my friends feels wrong or uncomfortably discordant, I find myself looking inward anyway. And now I am screwed because, by going to this external base, I have introduced a new voice to the mix and that voice is wreaking havoc with my home base.

It's like the kids who ran to my legs as a base of safety. They could only stay for so long before they were compelled to go out on their own again. They had to run on their own, to feel their own power. That's the key I guess. Touching base with people in your life who you love, respect, relate to, is great. The balance is in remembering your own legs, your own strength, your own home base.