Cougar of the month

Last week, my daughter, who is three-weeks into kindergarten, won "Cougar of the Month" at her school. Cougars are her school mascot. Lucia was bestowed the honor, her teacher said, "because 99.999 percent of the time, Lucia is doing what she is supposed to be doing in kindergarten." Was I proud? Extremely!!! The teacher also said other things like, "Lucia is friendly to everyone, she helps without being asked...." But, nestled within my radiant pride, I also carried a smidge of concern that Lucia might be a super-conformer. Is she a kindergarten automaton? Or, is she just good at following directions? I've been thinking a lot about this.

Here's what I figured out. Lucia loves school. She asked on Saturday why she had to have such a long vacation from school. "I wish Sunday was Monday," she whined. Like me, Lucia relaxes in structure. If I know the plan, I'm open to anything. If it is wide and vast and unformulated, I'm not my best self. Maybe this is why I stuck with competitive swimming for fourteen years and yoga for almost twenty. It's comfortable, familiar. Lucia in school. Me in my yoga practice. Sameness, structure, expectations. These things create and hold a form that allows each of us to relax into the experience and find newness, excitement, and ultimately joy.

I've experienced the gamut of physical sensations and emotional hills and valleys in my yoga practice, but I've never been bored. Really. Every practice I experience differently. For example, last night, I was worried about practicing because my class the day before had been really difficult. So last night, I set my intention to focus on that practice and try not to bring the previous practice baggage with me. I stood somewhere new in the room, really close to the teacher (Kristen). Her fabulous turquoise outfit was surely a distraction, but I managed to focus and work hard in spite of it. I followed every single thing she said. I always try to do this, but, like everyone, sometimes I get distracted. Last night was different. Word by word, step by step, I let myself be carried through the 90 minutes. I learned so much! Like Lucia and kindergarten, I could hardly wait to do it again.

Karaoke Heals the Soul

Tonight at dinner, after her twelfth day of kindergarten (but who's counting?), Lucia proudly told me that she knows the definition of "desperate." "Desperate", she said, "is when you really really really want something." Desperate isn't necessarily a negative thing. Sometimes it is exciting, thrilling, intoxicating. That's how I feel about singing Karaoke. Once I decide to do it, I'm desperate to sing my heart out.

About a month ago I found myself in a Karaoke Bar in the International District with my partner Nancy, my 27-year-old brother David and five of his law school buddies. I'm basically old enough to be their mother and have thankfully almost outgrown the self-conscious phase of young adulthood. I went through a phase in my early twenties where I did a lot of Karaoke. At that time I was crazy about any song that involved Dolly Parton. I loved to sing "Islands in the Stream", her fabulously uplifting duet with Kenny "The Gambler" Rogers.

The Karaoke Bar on this night was immediately my favorite place in the whole world. Everyone was so different (age, size, race, style) yet they were all the same. Karaoke does that. In Karaoke land, I've often gravitated to Stevie Nicks (fashion aside). Put a mike in my hand and I sound exactly like her. Almost. Kind of. Well, not really. Anyway, I wanted to sing "Stop Draggin My Heart Around" which as you should all know, is a duet between Tom Petty and Stevie Nicks. My sister Katherine and I almost won a Grammy singing that song at a divey bar in Chicago. I asked all of my brother's friends and my Nancy who boldly accompanied me on this mission to do the duet with me. They all declined. Repeatedly. So I asked the Karaoke host if he'd sing it with me. I mean, come on, the night was early so there wasn't a huge backlog of performers. I could be a great warm up act, a novice like me with the host.... He said no.

I watched a few acts. These crazy people were singing their hearts out and they were good. They were great. I loved each one of them profoundly. I was growing increasingly desperate, agitated. As I scanned the bar for someone who might sing with me, a humongous, crew-cutted man wearing a t-shirt that could fit a baby elephant got up and sang so beautifully I thought it was a joke. He was a regular. "Smoosh" was his name. Completely star struck and embarrassingly uninhibited in my desperation, I watched Smoosh exit the stage on which he barely fit. He lumbered to the back of the dark bar where he was surrounded by his friends (fans?) and sat down like a king holding court. Before losing my nerve, I marched back to him in my Value Village sundress and said, "Smoosh, will you be Tom Petty in 'Stop Draggin' My Heart Around'?" He said yes!!! What a gentleman. What a benevolent, kind man to say yes to this holly hobby looking Karaoke beginner. I was ecstatic.

I returned to my shy table of  attorneys and waited. Desperate. Finally, they called us, "Laura and Smoosh." Two mikes, one screen. His words in blue, mine in pink, our harmonies in yellow. Boom boom boom!!! We were on. My voice cracked in the beginning. I knew the only way to do this was to really be a rock star. Me and Smoosh. Stevie and Tom. One and the same. I actually have no idea how we really sounded or what was happening in the audience, but in my amped up, wanna be a rock star mind, we took down the house. I wanted to hug Smoosh. Kiss Smoosh. He was my partner in this Karaoke ecstasy. I didn't actually make physical contact with Smoosh, but I did make an internal note to self to go back the next Tuesday and sing with him again.

When I left the bar that night, I was joyous in a way that I rarely am. These people! Smoosh, the man in the pristine white suit and Frank Sinatra hat they all called "Uncle Bob", the librarian looking guy in the beret who belted out Nina Simone like a champ. They were fantastic. I felt connected to them. I felt hopeful, alive, part of something bigger (even if it was being a Karaoke singer in a bar in the I.D.). The next day I sent an email to five of my good friends. The subject line, "Karaoke Heals the Soul" and I invited them to come sing the next Tuesday. The response wasn't great. I didn't go sing that next Tuesday nor have I made time to go since then. But, as I write this, the moments on stage I had--giving it all up, channelling Steve Nicks, singing my heart out with Smoosh, being the same in all of the difference-- are clear as if I just finished my encore. Karaoke does heal the soul. And I'm desperate for more.

Break it down....

Ninety-five percent of the time I practice yoga I am deeply resistant at the beginning of class. I feel the weight of my life on my shoulders. I see the long dark hallway of physical exertion and mental focus stretching out in front of me, and I have the strong desire to run from the room. My beginning of class mantra is, "only 90 minutes." I remind myself that that's a blip in time when I consider that I was in labor with my daughter for 42 hours.

Pranayama feels interminable. How am I going to DO this? I feel a little bit more calm for a split second when the instructor say, "last two breaths." Then comes the half-moon series. Arms up. Straight spine. No. No. No. No. NO! I don't want to do this. And it is three parts. Half moon then backward bending then forward bending. And then, come ON, a second set?!

At some point during the half-moon series, I lose some of my resistance. I stop so actively fighting with myself. I still struggle, but it is different. I'm in relationship with the struggle. My body and mind seem to be in it together. Somehow, the fact that they are keeping one another company makes it easier. Like jogging with a friend. The physical and mental are a team, each carrying part of the heavy load.

By the end of the awkward series, I am just about committed to this craziness. I still have to push away my tendency to calculate how many more minutes I'll be in the room, how many more postures there are, but I'm not so actively in resistance. Something has shifted. Eagle pose comes next. I'm madly in love with eagle. It's so efficient. We're doing so much in just one posture and it's sufficiently hard and doable.

By the time the balancing on one leg series comes, I can't really remember why I balked at the idea of practicing. It's not that it's not hard. It is. Really hard. It's that suddenly I am lighter. I am no longer the lone Sherpa of resistance. Posture by posture, I have slowly discarded weight from the over-stuffed backpack I started with.

Once I hit the floor series for my first Savasana, I have actually let go. Any residual heaviness sinks into the floor below me and I feel lighter right away. Like everyone, I have ups and downs during the floor series but the mental heft is almost undetectable. Like a piece of hard clay that's eventually malleable after lots of kneading, I'm finally soft. I'm there, in the room, in my practice. And so it goes practice after practice. I start heavy, encumbered, resistant, questioning my ability and strength. Then I slowly break it all down. I leave lighter, carrying less, looking forward, ready for the next thing.

Hazel and Sienna

This summer I taught a group of kids yoga at a day camp. The class was comprised of nine girls between the ages of 3-5. All girls that age are cute, but there were two that I've thought about repeatedly in the last month since the camp finished. Hazel and Sienna, both 3-years-old. Hazel was one of the littlest at the camp. She watched the bigger girls, observed them, found entries into activities when she could, but was consistently calm, quiet and contained.  I wondered at times if she was actually verbal. Sienna, on the other hand, was hyper and very kinesthetic. Sienna was a major plushy. She loved her stuffed animals and had a running monologue of who her animals were and where they should sit during yoga. At any given moment, Sienna carried between 3 and 7 stuffed kittens, bears, dogs. They overflowed from her short little arms, making yoga postures difficult to perform. Sienna moved constantly in all directions. Her face seemed to be in an ongoing state of manic smiling.

Over the course of the week-long camp I practiced Savasana with the girls at least once per class. I played Deva Premal, dimmed the lights, and read them meditations while they practiced Savasana. I had the girls close their eyes and, once they were still, put a beany baby on each of their bellies so they could feel it rise and fall with their breath. You can imagine how a stuffed toy on Sienna's belly must have tempted the poor little energizer bunny. Sienna needed extra help to find her stillness. I learned to put my hands on her head or her arm or leg, a little weight to help her stay contained. She still wiggled, her eyes shutting for just split seconds, but she was able to find moments of being still. Hazel, on the other hand, was shockingly capable. As soon as the lights dimmed, Hazel was down. Her body still, eyes closed, brow relaxed. She didn't even open her eyes when I put the beany baby on her belly. Savasana was seemingly easy for her.

I hear it all the time in reference to my own child--- kids are born with a personality. They have their own special characteristics that, no matter how we try to chisel them into a certain form, they come out their own way. Being with Hazel and Sienna over the summer, two children with such starkly different natures, reinforced this idea for me. Of course they have different homes, are exposed to different foods, play with different kids, but it was obvious to me watching them that they each came into this world with a way of being.

This idea has helped me in my own role as yoga student and teacher. I think I am somewhere between Hazel and Sienna. Most people are. For me, Savasana is sometimes really really difficult. Other times, not. I remember when I first started practicing yoga in my twenties, Savasana felt as foreign as playing the bagpipes, (I was definitely closer to Sienna's wiggly state in those days). As I've practiced more, I've inched my way closer to Hazel's nature.

So how was I born? I am pretty sure I came out closer to Sienna-style. Over the years, with practice, I've changed. It's possible. A student said to me the other day, "I hate it when the teacher tells me to calm my mind." She hates it because it's hard right now. It will get easier as she practices more. It's not her nature, so she has to work harder than someone like Hazel.

Everyone has to work hard at achieving stillness in Savasana. Even Hazel. And some people have to work even harder. These people, the more active, energetic ones, might excel in an Evelyn Wood speed reading class. It all balances out in the end. We work harder at the things that don't come easy and we get a little break when we do the things we were born to do. Even Steven. No right. No wrong. No better, no worse. We all have to work hard at something.

Clear Channel

I posted my first yogamakesyouyou blog on February 14, 2010. It's been almost seven months since I committed to writing once a week about whatever is on my mind. I've done above average some weeks, performed sub-par others. My posting patterns reflect what is happening in my life. If I am busy, engaged, stimulated, I post less. If I have more alone time, I tend to post more frequently.

My new girlfriend Nancy has nicknamed me 'Clear Channel.' It comes from another source. My psychic told me about a year ago that I am a clear channel and I should be writing about Yoga. So I started writing, sometimes about Yoga and sometimes not, and then I started this blog. Nancy co-opted 'Clear Channel.' She frequently asks after I teach a yoga class if there were any clear channel moments. And here's the thing-- if there are, I don't remember them. The same thing often happens when I write a blog post. I can't remember twenty minutes after posting what I've written about. It's a strange kind of mid-consciousness. I am clearly conscious because I am writing and spelling and forming paragraphs, and I am really in it when I am writing, but once I'm done, it's gone from my consciousness. I press PUBLISH POST and it is out of my mind. Sometimes, months later I go back and read something and it's like someone else has written it.

When I go a few weeks without writing a post, I feel like I am neglecting some part of me. It's like winter vacations with my family. I eat crap, forget that I know how to exercise, read or participate in adult conversation. Like many people, I engage in childish family dynamics. I often wonder in those moments how I so easily abandon all of the things that make me feel good. This blog originated on one such family visit. I found that writing the blog and then posting it was incredibly grounding. It reminded me that, even when I'm mired in the dysfunction of my family of origin, I am a free-thinking, autonomous individual with a life of my own and feelings of my own. Writing the blog gave me something to give to my family. I liked who I was and found it easier to be that person instead of the weird teenager who usually shows up.

And now in my everyday life, I find that posting my blog is a way of clearing out my emotional drain. Every week or so, I feel the need to get my shit together, regroup, figure out what I need, what I want, where I'm headed. I am often resistant to the process of writing or I am dubious about my ability to locate my emotions. Without fail though, it works. I write, I read, I reread, I post and I am clear. The drain is open and ready to catch the residue that shows up in my life. In and out. Clear Channel.

Integration

Integration is on my mind. Especially this summer, I observe myself moving between radically different life experiences from day to day; I find myself feeling choppy, transitioning roughly from milieu to milieu. Mom one day, yoga teacher the next, romantic the next, triathlon trainee the next. I've found it hard to create a seamless transition from place to place.

Coming home last week from a two-day camping trip, Lucia (5 years old) went from monster meltdown to perfect princess to monster again in a period of 86 minutes. In response to her, while doing laundry, dishes, emails, dinner prep, I went through the same range of emotions. I thought summer was supposed to be relaxing, regenerating, but I am finding that it is just the opposite. I long for the expected, the known, the rigor that is school and work and exercise, a structure that is abandoned during the summer.

I need to find a way to feel integrated in my life. I wear too many hats (and scarves, and boots, and skirts.....) There is no way that there will ever be actual cross-over with all of the pieces of my life, but it must be possible to feel less like a glued-together humpty-dumpty.

Lately I've been talking a lot about integration when I teach yoga. Savasana is where our bodies and minds integrate the information that emerges through our practice. Sometimes I tell students that the breath is the natural bridge between the body and the mind. Focus on your breath and you'll find the connection, the joining, the integration. Amazingly, giving up the effort to make something happen is where it all happens in Savasana. The hard part is just being still and trusting that the integration will happen. Today while teaching, I had a clear channel moment. Maybe I am trying too hard to find the bridge, to tighten up the seams between the seemingly disparate parts of my life. I thought, "Maybe what is making me feel dis-integrated is not the multifarious nature of my life, but my focus on it."

There is no part of my life that I am willing to give up. I can't imagine a life without my daughter, my work, my health, romance, dinner parties. These pieces don't need to be integrated. These pieces are who I am. The only ingredient I need to extract from the mix is the attention I give to how many or how different the parts of my life are. If I am quiet and let all the parts co-exist, let them be what they are, I think I'll find that there is room for all of it.

Land Line

I just got my first smart phone. The smart phone has changed my life. In the week I've had it, I've grown to love it profoundly.  It was a pretty big effort to not take my phone when I went running with some friends last weekend. Four of us are training for the Danskin Triathlon in August. After every run, swim or bike training we drink a beer and plan our next training session. One of the foursome, Kate, after hearing me brag about the capabilities of my new smart phone, told us she was thinking about going back to her land line to simplify her life. Now that I have crossed over to smart phone land, I cannot imagine what Kate is talking about. Simplify? What? Why?

Before saying goodbye, we took a few minutes to plan our next month's training schedule. Sara had her Blackberry, I grabbed my smart phone from my car, Amy with a brain like a steel trap needed nothing, and Kate pulled out her wall calendar from her bike bag. "Land line", Kate giggled as she held up her calendar. Land Line- concrete, simple, obvious. Smart phone- complex, multifaceted, electronic, advanced.

One of the things I talk about in yoga is simplifying. This is the point of Savasana. Being quiet and still so there is room for buried things, hidden things, latent things to make their way in or out or through, physically, mentally, and emotionally. As long as we are moving, chattering, processing, there is no space for that stuff to move.

I find myself in a constant state of contact with my smart phone. It tells me when I have a meeting. It tells me when someone is thinking about me. It tells me what song is playing in a restaurant and what the weather and time is. Last night while I was at work my phone died. It lost its juice and I had no charger. Only a week into this smart phone relationship and I was panicked. I was going to a friend's house for dinner and I couldn't call to let her know I was on my way. I couldn't text my sisters or add to my to do list. I got in my car and started driving. Even when I plugged my phone into the car charger, it still wouldn't work, so I rolled down my windows, opened the sun roof and was quiet. Usually I would take the fastest route, but it felt so good to be untethered that I uncharacteristically took a sharp left and made my way down to the lake. I drove along the water the whole way there. No phone. No music. No nothing. For those fifteen minutes I was back to a Land Line. And it felt pretty damn good.