43 and Feeling Groovy

Yesterday I turned 43. I had a good day. I felt really loved and pretty calm, and genuinely happy. This is saying a lot coming from a woman who has a history laden with birthday anguish leading to bizarre behaviors ranging from crying in the bathroom from disappointment over a gift of leggings in my teens to hiding in a closet from anxiety over opening gifts (in my twenties). Yesterday, for maybe the first time in my LIFE, I received gifts with ease and without judgment. I'm not sure why. I have some ideas---I'm older. I'm a mother. I've mellowed out?

I practiced yoga yesterday, my last day of being 42. And it was good. The heat was raging and I was fresh off of a plane from New Orleans, so badly needed the detox. The class served me well. I embraced it because I really needed it. But today was a different kind of good. A great good. A good like I rarely get. Every once in a while, there is a mental connection for me that makes me feel like I'm Pema Chodron meets Michael Phelps. Basically, I love and accept myself and I kick my own ass. I talk about it sometimes when I teach. It's a voice that encourages you to work harder, give more, go deeper. The unique part of it is that the voice is welcome. There's a physical desire to respond to the voice, and while the body works harder, the postures feel almost easy. Getting there is challenging, often elusive, and for many of us, unpredictable.

When I have a practice like that, I can barely remember what it feels like to not want to practice (which of course happens all the time). It's like the beginning of a love affair. It's perfect and electric and easy. So why is this the exception rather than the norm? I doubt I could experience what I had today every time I practice, but I think I could have it more. I've been so dreading my advancing age. 43. That's pretty solidly middle-age. Wahhhh. But, maybe the older, wiser, mellower middle age is where I need to be. Drama free birthdays? Hallelujah yoga classes? Heck yeah. I'll take it.

Thanks for the latte!

This morning I found myself at a drive-through espresso shack in Naches, Washington (a tiny little town-lette outside of Yakima). The barista, a twenty-something dressed as a she-devil for Halloween, prepared crappy lattes but delivered delightfully engaged conversation. There was something about her. She was so open, so interested, so genuine. I left the drive-through shack feeling full of joy, a happy humming coursing through my body from this little jewel of unexpected connection in Naches, Washington. It's an energy that comes when two people, even complete strangers, are both open to connecting.

Had I been the age of the barista, I likely would have taken away only the fact that my latte sucked. But now that I am comfortably into my middle age, I have the ability to recognize and appreciate this kind of random connection more readily. Historically, this has not been my forte. Good friends who eventually made their way through the deflector shield I wore through my twenties and much of my thirties often told me that I presented as "aloof, judgmental, intimidating, unavailable."

Survey says, I'm no longer the Nellie Olson of my youth. My openness evolved over time, and with age, from a combination of experiences-- childbirth, motherhood, heart break, death of my father, falling in love, therapy. All of these experiences created in me a vulnerability I couldn't fight, and ultimately an openness that was easier to bear. The ongoing experience though, that keeps me open, is yoga. Yoga is a conversation between the body and the mind, the physical and the mental. In postures that are physically demanding, requiring great balance or focus, we have to draw from the physical and the mental. When one strength falters, we draw from the other, eventually finding balance. In Savasana, where we attempt to quiet our minds, we do the same thing, quieting the body to remind the mind to be still, stilling the mind to calm the body. Connection.

The ability to connect internally enables us to feel grounded, whole, stable in ourselves. It creates an internal knowing of oneself and consequently a comfort in our own skin. For me, this internal knowing has created the ability to be open to other people. And every once in a while, like this morning, there's a surprise. A fleeting connection that, for a moment in time, makes strangers feel a little bit more like friends.

30 Days of getting to know you.

Right now at The SweatBox, the 30-Day challenge is one-third of the way through. Students are walking around in states ranging from insane, slightly manic nutbags to semi-catatonic zombies. All who undertake the 30-Day Challenge experience ups and downs, peaks and valleys, periods of insatiable hunger and days of feeling the possibilities of existing on breath alone.

At the end of practice, whether we are practicing once or thirty days in a row, we experience the feeling of being depleted, stripped down, cut open, exposed, fried, tenderized. Shortly after these feelings, we may also experience great surges of energy, clarity, wholeness. But, there is a moment when class is just over, after the final breathing when everything is still for a few moments. Our bodies are no longer moving- contracting, extending, contorting, balancing. We get the chance to be still.

In this stillness, final Savasana, we have the opportunity to be deeply vulnerable. In our practice we are moving, sweating, listening to the teacher, but here in final Savasana, when the lights are dimmed and the teacher leaves the room, we are, for a moment or two, ourselves. I always tell students, get into Savasana right away. Don't let the door open to distraction. Just go right to it because the moment of being authentically, exactly who we are supposed to be won't last. Those after practice moments are precious, and fleeting.

For the students doing the 30-Day Challenge, the most significant gift they are giving themselves is the daily experience of these fleeting final Savasana moments. You will hear many teachers say, "if you want to turn your life around, practice every day." And for these 30-Day Challengers, this is exactly what happens. After years of listening to other voices, other ideas, other beliefs, they have the daily opportunity to get in touch with themselves. My favorite months of the year as a yoga teacher and student are March and October, the months where I get to watch the challengers dive deeper and deeper into knowing their true selves. Thanks you guys.

Who's the Winner?

Yesterday, with virtually three training sessions under my belt-- two lake swims and one summer jog, I did my second triathlon. A sprint triathlon, it's called-- half a mile swim, twelve miles bike, and a quick 5K run. I loved doing the same triathlon last year but, with limited time (or interest) and one more bucket list item scratched off, I decided that I could skip this year's event.

Here's the thing-- in my primary exercise, yoga, I am generally successful at being non-competitive. But, despite the fact that, as a yoga teacher and student, I spend my work life teaching people (and myself) to let go of competition, perfection, performance, I am a deeply competitive person. Being a twin is surely relevant, but I can't really say why, and to be honest, I don't want to open the psychological Pandora's box of my twin status. For whatever reason, I'm competitive.

So, when my friend Kate who I did a triathlon with last summer told me that she was doing it again, my hackles went up. If you know dogs at all, you know that's a sign of being on high alert. Goddammit, if Kate was doing it, I was going to do it! Kate is a person who I perceive to be non-competitive. She's open, giving, neutral. So why was I competing? Was I competing with her? With myself? I'm still not sure but I hope I get some clarity through the writing of this blog post.

Yesterday morning at six o'clock am, four of us convened at Kate's house to load our bikes and drive down to the lake for our race. The temperature was 54. It was pouring. And my hands were half-way numb. Kate's dark figure, already soaked from getting the bikes out of the garage, emerged and I jokingly blamed her for getting me into this horribly cold, wet situation. Kate, quick-wit that she is laughingly replied, "Maybe this will temper your competitive edge Culberg!"

Our bikes safely racked on top of the car, we all piled into Kate's car and warmed ourselves as much as we could on the drive down to the lake. It stopped raining by the time we arrived to the race site and, like lost girl-scouts finally finding the path out of the dark forest, we were all optimistic about the weather and our impending adventure. As the sun came up on Lake Washington and we prepped our little spaces with our bikes and helmets, running shoes, and water bottles, I looked around at Kate and my other friends. We were coaching each other out of our nervousness, advising one another about goggle usage, sharing snacks. There were at least a thousand other women in the park around us doing the same thing. Only a handful were clearly uber-athletes, "elite" athletes they call them. They were sizing up the competition, in it to win it.

But not us. And not me. I honestly didn't feel it. No hackles, just cold, wet fur. We walked down to the lake in our separate groups to start our swim. I got my cap on, made the final adjustments to my goggles, did two sets of Pranayama breathing to calm myself down, and dove. And, as I swam, it wasn't the winning that motivated me, it was that we were all doing this together, all one thousand of us, elite and novice, old and young. And I loved it. Same thing with the bike and the run. The allure of this thing was simply in doing it, not in winning it.

Maybe I have figured it out. Being a twin, you are always part of something bigger than yourself. Even in the womb. Katherine (my twin) and I used to say, "we're wombmates." Even when we are each alone, our fundamental frame of reference is being with someone else. Being part of something bigger than oneself. So, while I admit that I'm still competitive, it's not the whole story.

Maybe I'll figure it out at next year's triathlon. I sure hope the weather's better.

Why are you going to the bakery for broccoli?

The other day on the phone, my twin sister Katherine asked me, like only a twin sister can, "Laura, why do you keep going to the bakery for broccoli?" The issue Katherine was addressing in that conversation is related to ancient childhood history, but hearing those words made me feel suddenly like I could deal, not just with that specific issue, but with every problem in my life, by just figuring out what the bakery actually sold.

This question has been on my mind for days. It's one of those Peter Sellers, "Being There" comments that can mean everything and nothing simultaneously. It means not expecting my six-year-old to actually unload the dishwasher when I really need it. It means not expecting my neighbor to give me an honest answer about what he really thinks about my hedges. It means being reasonable and thoughtful about what to expect from a partner, a parent, a friend.

It's kind of depressing, but liberating at the same time-- the more we know someone, the better able we are to temper expectations of that person. For example, I have a friend who inadvertently (or subconsciously) makes little jabs at projects I am involved with. Really subtle, maybe funny, but they're jabs. I could say, "Screw her, I'm done with this friendship" or I could say, "She's got issues, man, they're not mine" and make a mental note to not involve her with projects I love.

It seems like the bakery/broccoli question is everywhere I turn. Except yoga. I realized it today in practice as I drifted in and out of the question... "What is the bakery/broccoli part of my practice?" I turned it over seventeen different ways, but no matter the angle, it just didn't fit. What a relief! The yoga room, my sanctuary from the everyday, is the one place where I don't assume anything, so I never have to adjust my expectations. Now I just have to sort out the rest of my life.

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?