Como se llama?

One of the most frequent comments I hear about Bikram Yoga is,
"it's f%$#*ing hard!" That's the point-- to work so hard physically that you get yourself to a different place mentally. For those of us who are nervous, crazy nutbags, practicing Bikram Yoga is just basic mental health maintenance.

Most people who do Bikram Yoga are, if not competitive, a little intense. I see it every day when I teach-- people sigh in frustration when they lose their balance, students sit up, lie down, sit down again, trying to fight their dizziness. The combination of wanting to work hard and wanting to be "good" can leave students feeling confused about how to find peace in their practice.

Bikram Yoga is like learning a new language. I remember when I started learning Spanish. My first mastery of a conversation piece made me so happy. "Como se llama?" became my most favorite group of sounds. I worked at perfecting my accent for those three words. I eventually learned more, but never felt really confident. There were always things I couldn't say. Elbow, for example. Garage? How do you say that? So I played it safe, rotating my small arsenal of words and phrases. This worked for me. My Spanish was for entertainment purposes, I didn't really need it.

Then, when I was twenty, I went to Spain to live for a year. The beginning was awful. I was so glaringly not a Spanish speaker and I was screwed because I didn't have a choice to speak Spanish or not. Smoking cigarettes helped me feel a little bit more native, but even with that prop, I couldn't go round just asking everyone what their name was. The conversation would always progress and I had to say something.

After about three months, I was able to have regular conversations. I was still nervous, awkward, not able to conjure every Spanish phrase I needed, but I was really working at it, trying all the time. I had no choice, and eventually it just became my way-- cigarrette in hand, I'd talk to anyone, say anything. When I left Spain after 12 months, I was fluent. While Spanish would never be my first language, I felt like I belonged, like I was in my second home. I even talked myself out of being arrested by the policia after passing out in the post office. They thought I was drunk, and I was able to explain in great Spanish detail that I was wasn't drunk, but had in fact just returned from Greece and had a bottle of Ouzo in my pocket that I was planning to bring to a friend (in my fall from fainting, the bottle had broken in my pocket). For several years after my return from Spain, I felt really confident about my Spanish. Then I stopped practicing. Now, I'm somewhere between "como se llama" and fluent.

Bikram Yoga practice follows a similar trajectory. At first, it's so huge, there are so many pieces, that we are overwhelmed. We keep it safe, cling to the postures we're good at, that are easy for us. Then, as we learn a little bit more, we push a bit harder, take some risks. Eventually, we really lean in, going for it, trying new things, even if it means we do something wrong, fall out, need a break. Fluency is about being fully in it, moving beyond "como se llama" even if we never learn "garage." Bikram yoga is f%$#*ing hard. It's like learning a language. Keep practicing. It will get easier and eventually, you'll find your peace and feel right at home, exactly where you belong.

Do you always eat too many red vines? I do.

I've been here before... What makes a practice? What behaviors of mine have become a practice? How many times do I do something in a row for it to qualify as a practice? If I do something twice is it a practice? Ten times?

Since April, my hummingbird feeder has been empty. This hummingbird feeder is prominently placed at the front of my house in front of a window that spans the entirety of my living room. I have walked from my driveway right in front of the hummingbird feeder multiple times a day for the last five months. And every time I walked by that damn feeder, I said to myself, "Gotta fill that feeder." I can't say how many times I sat on my living room couch looking at the view, thinking, "God, I really need to fill that feeder." Sweet little hummingbirds, remembering the former bounty of the feeder, would hover, pausing to see if the feeder had been filled, and then leave quickly seeing that the damn feeder was still empty.

I have several regular habits that, at this point are definitely ingrained enough to be considered "practices." Since I was a kid, I've been a regular picker. It's not something I'm proud of, but it's true. I know I'm not alone in my compulsion to leave no scab unturned. It's routine now. Get a cut, let it scab, pick. You know you're in trouble when your six-year-old tries to physically restrain you from drawing blood on an almost-healed owie.

Another of my no-longer-secret, deeply entrenched habits is leaving the dirty coffee filter in overnight. It's not a huge deal, but imagine how great it would be to not have to clean the coffee filter in the morning. That'd be awesome.

This next practice, leaving my sock drawer slightly open ALL THE TIME, is a mystery. It would be so easy to close it, but, time and time again, I just walk by, like a sassy teenager, "screw you sock drawer, stay open."

There are others, like putting the salad spinner away crooked consistently, not dusting my base molding ever, eating red vines til my tummy hurts. These habits have become practices. I have created pathways in my brain that say, "Laura, you always do it this way", so I continue to do it that way, even if it is bad for me. Or just stupid.

Last week, I finally took the hummingbird feeder down. I don't know where the impulse came from, I just did it. I said to myself, "Laura, you keep walking by this empty hummingbird feeder. Either take it down and throw it out, or take it down and fill it up." And I did. I climbed onto the ledge of my brick planter box and grabbed the hummingbird feeder. While I boiled new hummingbird juice on the stove, I scrubbed the feeder clean. This was an exciting moment--I was breaking out of an old, dysfunctional practice. But when the time came to open the bottom of the feeder to pour in the juice, it was stuck. I tried everything. I soaked the entire feeder in hot water, ran the whole thing through the dishwasher, pried it with a knife, but I couldn't get it open.

So, yes, another lesson learned. I waited and waited and waited to change my pattern with the hummingbird feeder, and when I finally changed my ways, the damn thing was stuck. Two days later, after lots more scrubbing and soaking, I was able to open the feeder, pour in the nectar and rehang it for the birds. Change is always possible, but the longer you wait, the harder it is. You know what's coming.... What's your practice?

Wow, that necklace!

The other day in class, I had a new student. Nice enough, friendly enough, but not a great listener. Most teachers can easily identify these folks-- the "I've done yoga lots of times before" students. There's nothing you can do to convince these students that they should listen a little bit before entering the 105 degree room for 90 minutes. You try to give them the schpeel, but know as they do jazz-hand, quick nod, averted gaze shuffle, that they're not really hearing you. The rest of the 20 students in class this day were my regulars-- hard-working, earnest students. Simply stated, they had great energy.

I used to snicker a little bit when people talked about 'energy.' Once my friend Jamie's psychic (who is also my psychic), said that the stone in Jamie's necklace was an energy hub, a channel or something like that. Jamie's necklace was actually a faux stone made of plastic that she got at Goodwill. But who's to say the psychic didn't really feel the energy, even it was a plastic stone right?

The truth is, I actually am a believer in energy, especially as a yoga teacher. There's a completely symbiotic relationship that happens between the teacher and the students. When it's on, it's incredible. When it's off, it's a little bit like being in a stalling car chugging up a steep San Francisco hill.

At the end of a good practice, I barely remember what happened at the end of a class. Suddenly, the class is in final Savasana, I am talking them through a relaxation exercise, my eyes are closed and my fingers are buzzing. Other times, I feel like I've just run a marathon with no training. I'm depleted, exhausted, parched and frustrated.

There are of course ranges, where sometimes a class is populated with a handful of wiggle worms and/or a core group of extreme focusers. Sometimes I start teaching and I'm tongue-tied, but the energy of the class brings me back and I can get to the place I love to get when I teach, the good teacher place.

The day the know-it-all new student came to class, I started the class and could tell I was off. I was a little off anyway, but more so because I was worried about the new kid. She managed to stay all of 4 minutes and then left (an absolute no-no for those of you not ensconced in the Bikram Yoga culture). I was bummed. You never want a student to leave because that means they haven't pushed themselves and that means they've missed out on the best part. But after she left, WHOA, the crowd went wild. Not literally. The crazy-focused regulars barely batted a collective third eye. And, they proceeded to kick their own asses for the next 86 minutes. It was an awesome finger tingling class for all of us.

Sometimes I wonder where it starts. Is it with me, the teacher, or is it with the 10 or 20 or 35 students in the room? When I'm on and they're on, it's magical. When I'm on and they're off, it's good. When they're on and I'm off, I seem to get better, but when we're both off, heaven help us. It's a disaster. We all feel the disconnect. Even if we can't articulate what made class kind of a dud, we know something was missing.

The radical shift of energy when the know-it-all left the class that day makes me question more thoroughly how energy works, and how we are a part of it. I'm sure this post will require a second part because right now I have no idea, but who knows, maybe a plastic stone being an energy conduit doesn't warrant a snicker.

Five minutes of profound love....

I have a student, a sharp-dressing, sassy forty-something woman who's recently discovered Bikram Yoga. A few months ago she said to me, "Every class, I can't say when it will be, but every time I practice, I experience five minutes of profound self-love." Five minutes is a long time. It is one-eighteenth of an entire Bikram class, the length of time it takes to get a mammogram, the number of minutes most people spend eating breakfast. If you think of one side of the first set of Half-Moon Pose and multiply that by five, you realize how long five minutes really is.

There's something about the mirrors in Bikram Yoga that invites self-scrutiny, especially in the beginning of one's Bikram Yoga journey. Looking in the mirror un-self-consciously is something we lose when we're like eight years old. Lucia, who's six, has a mirror at the foot of her bed. It's remarkable how often she looks in that mirror. Several times while getting dressed for school, but even at bedtime when were smooshed into her little twin bed getting ready for stories, she props herself up on her elbows to see how her freshly washed hair is settling or to adjust her new PJ's. I have to restrain myself from saying, "Jeez, Lucia, again?!" She's unaware that such attention to oneself is regarded as vain once we reach a certain age. She's innocently full of joy at her reflection.

At some point we lose that innocence. And, sadly, for many people, that pure joy is replaced with criticism-- "Your belly should be flatter" "Your ass should be smaller." "Your legs should be longer." We all have our own lists. So, when my friend said that she feels five minutes of profound love for herself every time she practices, I felt ecstatic, especially because she's relatively new to the practice.

Seeing oneself without judgment (self-love) is the a big part of yoga, and with Bikram Yoga, the mirrors help push through some of that judgment. We see ourselves, day in and day out, working our asses off, and eventually we have to let go of the scrutiny, and when we do, that moment (or 5 or 10 or 15 minutes) of non-judgment sneaks in to fill the space. It makes sense that my friend called it "profound self-love." Five minutes of something so different, so unexpected is profound. It's amazing. And here's the good news--- five minutes is just the beginning.

Neutral Ground

The other day in Meghan's class, she repeatedly said between postures in the standing series, "Come back to neutral." That was a hard class for me. I struggled from the first set of Pranayama. Although we were deep breathing, I felt like my breath stopped at the top of my throat. I had to sit out one set of triangle and staggered through tree pose. The moments between postures were moments of great relief, and the idea of neutral calmed me through the anxiety that almost always accompanies a physically challenging class.

Each time Meghan said, "Come back to neutral," I thought about New Orleans. In New Orleans, the median strips throughout the city are called "neutral ground." Legend is that this term comes from early New Orleans history when the French and Spanish could only do business between sections of the city by standing on the "neutral ground."

"Neutral ground"-- a place where fighting will not occur, a space that belongs to no particular side, a place of peace. The word "yoga" comes from the Sanskrit root yuj, which means to unite or join or connect. I teach that yoga practice is an opportunity to find the union between the body and the mind, a peaceful place, a connected place.

When I was in New Orleans, I had the unique experience of eating BBQ on neutral ground in the seventh ward (See April 25th post "I like the struggle"). I'm a Nervous Nellie, prone to worry, especially in new situations and environments. Knowing that the place where we sat and ate was called "neutral ground" and knowing the history of this term, made me feel at ease, safe.

When my body and mind were at odds in Meghan's class last week, I needed to be reminded to find a place where they could connect. I pushed myself into the second set of Standing Bow even though I was seeing stars, so that by then end of the posture I was on the verge of full-blown panic. But then it was over and Meghan said, "Come back to neutral" and I was reminded-- "neutral ground," a place where fighting will not occur, a space that belongs to no particular side, a place of peace. And so it went through the class, posture by posture, hearing the words, remembering the connection, finding my peace.

Comfortably Uncomfortable

Tonight I had the profoundly elevating experience of dancing The Electric Slide with 60 fifth graders (and a smattering of younger kids and brave adults) at my kindergarten daughter's sock hop. Lucia, exhausted and already up well past her 6-year-old bed time, was tweaked out from the excitement of her first big social and begged me to dance one last time before leaving. How could I say no? And so there I was, flanked by preteens doing their thang, struggling to keep a rhythm and a pace to a dance I haven't done in twenty-five years.

My daughter's school is wildly diverse--socially, culturally, ethnically-- and the mosh pit of puberty I stepped into for this last dance was riddled with awkwardness, disorganization, grimacing and confusion. But it was also electrically inspiring. They were all doing their best. I remember those times, thirteen-year-old times, uncomfortably uncomfortable, pretty much all the time. But here these kids were, doing the Electric Slide, carrying each other through the discomfort. I loved it.

When I teach yoga, I often instruct people to find a place of being "comfortably uncomfortable." In other words, I tell them, "Go somewhere different, somewhere deeper, somewhere unfamiliar." Not to the point where you might injure yourself or have a panic attack, but somewhere where you are a little bit uncomfortable--"comfortably uncomfortable."

Lucia has started to tell me that I embarrass her when I break into song while we are walking to our car from school. Tonight when I stepped into the gym and started to do the twist, she tugged at my arm, desperate for me to stop. Poor thing. Mothers are embarrassing. There's just no way around it.

Lucia's embarrassment is not unfamiliar to me. When I was a teenager, I wasn't one of those kids who joined forces to do a group dance. I was the shy one who stood with the other shy ones. When did it happen that I lost that feeling of discomfort? I think part of it is my self-defined parental responsibility. I must do the things I was afraid or embarrassed to do in childhood and adolescence. It is my charge as a parent to show my child that being uncomfortable isn't really that bad.

I'm sure though, that what's helped me the most in getting through discomfort comes from being a student of yoga. How many days a week do I feel like a disaster? Rarely able to get my leg up to the perfect height in Balancing Stick Pose, falling out of Toe Stand for the 700,847th time. I'm constantly reminded that I'm not perfect, that I'll likely never be.

So, like those brave brave 13-year-old dancers, collectively leaning into each other to carry them through The Electric Slide, I do the same thing with my fellow yoga students. We fall in and out of postures, embarrassed, frustrated, awkward, but doing our best, together. Comfortably uncomfortable.

Dandelions

My mother told me that her friend Claire used to say, "If dandelions were on a hill in Switzerland, they wouldn't bother you." Maybe that's true. Maybe in Switzerland they'd be beautiful, but through my eyes, in Seattle, they are a visual plague. My backyard is 8000 square feet, a massive field of green dotted with yellow DANDELIONS. Thanks to my prolific crop, and my inability to manage the weeds going to seed, my neighbors also have a dandelion issue to control. And they do....my immediate neighbors to the north and south both have immaculate yards, dandelion-free yards. Steve, my neighbor to the north, uses Round Up to control his infestation. George, my neighbor to the south uses a detailed technique involving a dandelion plucking tool, vinegar, and squirts of WD-40.

I can't count the number of times Steve has tried to convince me to use Round Up. "I can't." I tell him over and over. "I have chickens. I have a child. I have carrots." So far this year, he's spared me the offering of Round Up, but has mentioned the services of his teenage son and his buddies to "clean up the place." A few years ago, George, my south-side neighbor, gave me his dandelion plucker. It's antique, a beautiful old rusted relic. The way it works is by placing the plucker at the center of the dandelion, clamping the weed and then, holding the tool down with your foot, pulling out the plant. It might be operator error, but I think the root comes out about 40 percent of the time I use the plucker. But George swears by it, and his grass is yellow-free, so I persevere with the plucker. George's next step in maintaining his impeccable yard is vinegar. He sprays vinegar on any dandelions that do manage to grow. They die and he weeds them out. The final part of George's yard protocol is WD-40. When a dandelion starts to show (and George can tell), he squirts a little squirt of WD-40 on it and it stops its growth.

I love these guys. They are both about twenty years my senior and take good care of me. Steve regularly brings my garbage and recycle in and out and George and his wife JoJo ply Lucia with treats (she calls them her Seattle grandparents). They both have pristine, well-kept homes. They are both engaged community members. They both smile all the time. But there's something about George's energy. He's just calm. While he doesn't have a southern accent, you almost feel as if he does when he sings over the fence,"Hey there Laura, those chickens sure are cute."

I thought about George and Steve and the dandelions yesterday when I was practicing, and then again later in the day while teaching. During hard classes, whether I'm the student or the teacher, I have to remember that yoga, like life, is a process. My life issues--- fear of commitment, for example--- rear up and I have to deal. AGAIN. Or in yoga--- the persistent extreme light-headedness that plagues me in toe stand might go away, but then it comes back again. Just like the damn dandelions.

There are ways to deal with the issues, the poses, the weeds. There's Steve's way, to bitch-slap the dandelions with Round Up. One shot. "Boom. You're down dandelion." And there's George's way, a kinder, more compassionate way. "Pluck, spray, squirt." Little by little, step by step. Life is a process. Yoga is a process. Good, bad, hard, easy. I still desperately want to get rid of my dandelions, and maybe someday I will. Little by little, step by step.