You can walk if you want to!

Since my last post about training for a half-marathon, I have revised the idea a bit. Kate, my running partner, told me that she had a goal to run 200 miles this summer. And, being the competitive, team-player that I am, I jumped on that bus! So, here we are, separately, and sometimes together, trying to accomplish this 200 mile goal. It averages to somewhere between 15-20 miles a week which, so far, has been okay. Most days it's only 3-5 miles with one 6 or 7-miler a week. Those, for me, are the killers. I die on the long runs. I sometimes die on the short runs.

Currently, Kate is on an extended vacation with her family for a month so I am left to run the death marches solo. For the past two weeks I've managed to do a long run on my own. The first week, I used Kate's technique of pretending I was in the Hunger Games while I ran through Seward Park. That worked great! The second week, I managed to clock 6.8 miles because my partner Nancy and my daughter Lucia came with me. They rode bikes while I ran. Periodically, we'd all stop and jump in the lake. They'd get back on their bikes and I'd run to our next dunking destination. That was fun!

In support of our challenge, another friend sent an article about the importance of walking to support faster running. The article suggests that, "walking reduces the impact forces on the muscles, joints, and tendons, and reduces breathing rate and heart rate, so runners are able to cover more distance with better form and alignment, and a reduced risk of fatigue." What!? I can walk when I run and it holds therapeutic and performance value? This, for me, was groundbreaking. I have always felt like a loser when I have to walk during a run. Not anymore.

On Monday night after a long day of work and a pretty significant bike commute, I forced myself to do a 4 mile run. It was dusk so it wasn't so hot, and I anticipated that I would have an easy run. But it wasn't easy. I was dehydrated. I was tired. It was a grind from the moment I walked out my front door. As I ran down my street towards the hill on the Chief Sealth Trail about a mile into my run, I remembered the article. "I can walk up this hill!" I did. I managed that run okay. It wasn't easy and I had to walk two more times, but I did it. My plan for that night was to meet two of my favorite friends for a beer at the end of the run. I managed to sprint the last quarter mile to my destination. I think the walking helped.

It's true. I'm not a doctor.

When I was in fourth grade my sisters and I were talking about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I knew right away. My super cool aunt who lived with us during medical school was (and is) a pediatrician at the Mayo Clinic. She also loved board games, had really great hair and was married to my super-crafty, musical uncle, who I adored. "I want to be a pediatrician," I said. My mom overheard us talking and said, "Laura, if you want to be a doctor when you grow up, you're going to need to get much better grades." Of course she was right. Doctors have a rigorous school path to manage and they need to be smart and capable. But as a fourth grader in my fifth year of a really crappy Chicago Public School education, I hadn't ever been exposed to any kind of academic rigor. I had no idea if I was smart or not.

I don't blame my mother for the fact that I'm not a doctor. I am sure she barely remembers that comment and she was likely just trying to steer me in the right direction for my future. But I think about that defining moment ALL THE TIME. What if I had never made that decision to not follow the doctor dream in fourth grade? What if I hadn't absorbed that message? Maybe I would have taken a wholly different path. And maybe I would still have ended up being a yoga teacher (a job that I wouldn't change for anything, by the way.)

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a yoga student about running. She told me that she'd never been a runner but had recently been inspired to run a half-marathon. "That's way out of my league," I told her "My max is six miles. I could never do a half-marathon."

Two weeks later the same student came in with a copy of her training sheet for me. "I was so shocked to hear you say you could never do a half-marathon," the student said, handing me the 10-weeks to 13.1 miles training sheet. "You of all people who tell us all the time what we can do." And she's right. I tell students every day to be open to new things their bodies can do, that just this simple act in Yoga will open up other paths too. It can be big or small-- touching your forehead in standing head-to-knee pose or just breathing calmly in Savasana. It can be telling your boss how you really feel or just asking for a new cubby at work.

It's so insidious-- the self-doubt that surrounds us, lives within us. It's a constant effort to stay open to new ideas about ourselves. I went home last night and ran 3 miles, the shortest run on the training sheet, and today I woke up and ran 3 miles again. Tomorrow, according to the sheet, I get a break. This weekend I have to run 5 miles I think. I don't know if I'll actually run an official race in ten weeks, but I'm going to do the training. It's true. I'm not a doctor but maybe I'll run a half-marathon.

What am I doing?

I've noticed my daughter Lucia recently being a complete scatter brain. When my partner Nancy or I ask her to make her bed or set the table or let out the chickens, she starts her chore and, en route or mid-way she says, "Wait. What was I doing?" Jeez, what's wrong with her? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and of course parents teach their kids thousands of not-so-great habits every day just by unconcious modeling.

Lucia's newfound vocalization of, "what am I doing?" is maybe the result of a higher responsibility of chores now that she's nine or perhaps, like most adults in the world, her brain is getting too full of crap. For kids, playing is the perfect place to let go. Run outside, play tether ball, dress up like a matador and play baby bull. Like many parents, I am anti-screen-- no video games, minimal special movie time, no iPad babysitting. All that stuff just clutters the brain. There's plenty of time for that in adulthood.

Adults need play time too. Of course there's the old standby-- cocktails and letting our hair down. This can be a decent antidote to the overly-full brain, but it's not really doing anything except pausing the mental chatter with chemicals, and sometimes it doesn't even do that. Don't get me wrong. It can be incredibly enjoyable and relaxing, but it's time-limited and it's not sustainable as an every day practice.

When I first stared practicing yoga twenty years ago, I got addicted to the physicality of it. As a lifelong athlete, I had found something that got my blood going in a way that felt familiar and fantastic. In those pre-teaching years, I was a social worker working with incarcerated youth and families involved in the criminal justice system. I carried an overload of emotional baggage of my own, my clients, and the Department of Youth Services. Without ever naming it, my practice in those years, was my one true place to put that stuff aside. My yoga practice grew because I always wanted to get back into the room, knowing that when I walked out, I would be clear headed for a few hours, maybe even a few days.

In the years since I have been a teacher, I have spent thousands of hours helping other students get themselves into the asanas. I have spent an equal number of hours guiding students into a mental state that is different from their digitized every day. Like me, most people find oga because they are drawn to the specific physical practice. Moving beyond the physical, into the mental, is truly a challenge. Exploring this challenge is, in part, why I started this blog. Sometimes when I am standing in front of the class, imagining all of the thoughts swimming around people's heads, I think, "What can I tell them? How can I help them?" Different words, different postures, different combinations of words and movements-- there's no one thing that quiets everyone's mind.

What I do know is that, like Lucia, I ask myself at least fives times a day, "What am I doing?". And it's never when I'm practicing yoga.

Sometimes you have to play without a sub....

On Sunday at my daughter's soccer game, half the team was absent, leaving them with no subs. The girls, all energetic little nine-year-olds, ran their butts off, and all of us on the sidelines could see from their faces and their progressively slower approach to the ball, that they were really exhausted. At one point my daughter's friend Oona came running over to the sidelines and barked to the coach (her dad), "I need a SUB!!!!" As kindly as he could, Coach Dad replied, "There are no subs..."

Poor Oona, her brow furrowed, pig-tails flopping, she ran back out onto the field and did her best. At half-time, all the girls hobbled off the field collapsing onto their respective adults for water, comfort and praise. As the girls entered the second half, three out of five were limping and not one was smiling.

But they played. And played. And played. At one point Oona got hurt and had to leave the field and our team was down to just four tired little players. Oona's mom rubbed her injured shin as she sipped her water. About five minutes later, Oona hop-trotted up to her dad and asked to be put back in. The little crowd went wild. "Yay Oona!!!"

The next day when I was practicing yoga, I felt tired. I'd had a weekend away with some of my mommy friends and we did not treat our bodies kindly. Monday morning I was not at my best doing yoga. As Frankie guided us through the postures, I found myself thinking about five heroic nine-year-olds--Oona and Lucia and Imogen and Etta and A'Yanna. I smiled to think of them all playing without any breaks, whining a bit, but playing their hearts out. In those moments when I wanted to throw in the towel-- triangle pose, toe stand, camel pose-- I thought of the girls panting, struggling, bone-tired. I finished class, feeling righteous that I'd pushed myself through those moments where I thought I couldn't. It's so true. Sometimes you just have to keep playing, even when there are no subs.

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.

You work really really hard. And then you rest.

Last week, Sarah, one of our beloved students finally had her baby. Sarah practiced through her whole pregnancy until two days before she went into labor. She had a fast labor that ended with a healthy baby boy. Sarah is an incredibly focused, dedicated student. She works hard and she doesn't take herself too seriously. It was a delight to teach her every week while her belly grew and her practiced evolved with her changing body.

The week before Sarah went into labor (by this point she was already days overdue), we talked about a preparatory conversation she had with her midwife. In getting Sarah ready, her midwife said, "Sarah, you do Bikram right? Giving birth is a lot like Bikram-- you work really really hard and then you rest."

Yes! That's so true. You work really really hard. And then you rest. I remember being in labor. It was a slog, 42 hours, 6 different midwives, nipple stimulation, stair walking, yoga poses. When I heard Sarah retelling her midwife's advice, it all came flooding back to me. Yes, you work hard and then you rest. In the final phase of my labor, right before I was ready to push Lucia out, I literally fell asleep between contractions. I was working so hard and I needed to rest. My body knew what to do.

In yoga, our teachers guide us into postures, encouraging us to work hard, and reminding us to rest when we need to rest. In childbirth, we do this as a means to an end, to get to the baby. In yoga, we are practicing the "work hard-rest rhythm" to rebirth ourselves, so at the end of our practice, while there is no new baby waiting, we get to welcome our new selves, rebirthed in our own way, happily worked out and fully rested.

Consciously place your mind.

Last week I was reading Cyndi Lee's newsletter in which she talked about basic mindfulness meditation and the instructions to "consciously place your mind." As most of my students know by now, Savasana is my favorite posture to teach. There is so much there. To be able to consciously relax offers us a respite for all that ails us.

When I read those words, "consciously place your mind", I was so excited. What perfect words to share with my class! A lot of yoga practice is about putting your body into different physical positions, some people would even say contorting the body. We spend years learning to balance, bend, stretch, open, and twist. Savasana doesn't require that same coordination, but it involves a similar intention. Just as we position our bodies, so too can we position our minds, consciously place them in a state of relaxation.

I've learned in my own practice and observed over the last twelve years as a teacher, that Savasana is the pose that takes the most work to get into and it is the easiest pose to fall out of. My personal balance in Savasana is tenuous: I can lose my focus if I am not fully engaged. Everyone has something that helps them reach a place of conscious relaxation, and for many, that thing changes daily. Focusing on the rhythm of your breath, keeping your eyes fixed on one spot, following the movement of breath in and out of your nose. For me, recognizing the similarity between my physical practice and my mental practice in Savasana has helped profoundly. I work so hard to coordinate all of my limbs in Garurasana, twisting, pulling, bending. I am very consciously positioning my arms and legs and hips and shoulders. Now, when Savasana comes, I tell myself, "consciously place your mind Laura." And just as I tell my body where to go, I am helping my mind to find its place.