Little Gifts

If you think about it, life is just a sequence of little gifts.  All of the time we waste on wanting, wishing and longing for things we don’t have.  Like the moment when you give up, when you lose your faith; at just the right time, in exactly the right place, the thing that you need the most gets put on your path to serve as a reminder:  It’s going to be okay.

If only we could keep that perspective during the sad times, the lonely times, the boring times or the rough patches.  If only it were easier to trust those moments we spend waiting for a little more action; when we become bored, impatient, unsettled, restless and disenchanted.  If only we could see that the interim between the highs and the lows can be as vital, as stunning as that perfect silence between the inhale and the exhale.

It’s not easy to remember that nothing is static.  Nothing stays the same.  Joy is a part of the sorrow.  Loss is a part of the gain.  Romance a part of loneliness and darkness holds hands with your light.

Because when those little gifts do come along, oh, they are so much sweeter for the stillness that preceded them.  A bounce gets put back into your step, a shake in your bootie, a sparkle in the trace of a smile on the corners of your lips.  Sometimes it’s that tiny little push, a gust of wind that puffs up your sails again; just enough momentum to keep your proverbial orb rolling.

In my experience, these gifts usually come in the form of people.  The people that have made me laugh, made me cry, made me think, or made me angry; the ones that challenge us, change us, love us or hate us are those that I remember.  They are the ones that no matter how long or short a spell you get to share the road with them for; you are better off for having walked side by side.

On some days, in subtle ways, we give each other new life again.  So that we may continue to live it, love it, leave it and when we are left, never feel left behind, but instead, continue to surge forward with faith, humility, determination and best of all:  laughter.

And from these little gift-wrapped delights, believe in what comes next.

Where’s Waldo?

Alright, I’m just going to say it:  Where have all the real men gone???  The gentlemen.  The men who wore the jackets and the ties, and the topcaps.  Oh, the topcaps.  Not because they had to for a job, or a wedding, or for a ball, or a funeral.  The men who wore it for the man of it.  Are you telling me that all that is left out there are the carbon copy Hipsters who look like they all jumped out of an American Apparel ad?

I went to a bar the other night, and I counted 10 out of the 12 men in the room wearing dark-rimmed, horny-typed glasses.  10 OUTTA 12!!!!  Since when did everyone begin to need glasses?  Are we watching a 3D movie???

Skinny jeans do not make men sexy.

I started to watch old movies on Netflix.  Born Yesterday with Judy Holliday.  Mad Men.  Sure, they were alcoholics, and womanizers, and they smoked like chimneys, but they knew that a thin, white tee-shirt was actually underwear.  They knew how to get a shave.

When did dating become so casual?  Cary Grant is not casual.  Ryan Gosling is not casual.   James Bond is not casual.

Where are the men who know how to put a jacket on a woman, one slinky, seductive arm at a time? And that to invite a girl out on a date meant that you called her in order to do so.   Listen up, guys: a text message does not qualify.  Where are the men who believe in chivalry, and courtesy, and charm?  And that a date means put-something-nice-on-and-I-will-at-least-pick-you-up-and-walk-you-home.  Did feminism kill all the flowers?  Did the Grand Romantic Gesture get flushed down our estrogen-filled toilets?

And what about the man who offers his seat to a lady on the bus?  Doesn’t anybody do that anymore?  Sure, I’m able-bodied, but I’m carrying two bags of groceries here.  Where are the mannered men?  The dashing, the daring, the debonair?

To all the mothers raising sons out there:  for god’s sake, teach them to ask a girl questions.   And pass along the secret that there is impact in a compliment; that a well-placed hand on an elbow or the small of our backs can send shivers up our spines.

And if there are no gentlemen left, then at least give me a mountain-man.  Or a cowboy.  Or a carpenter.  A man who knows more about electricity and plumbing and power-tools than I do.  Who is strong not because he tries to build a body in front of a mirror in an air-conditioned gym, but because he needs his strength in order to chop things, and stack things and make things….like love and cabinets.  Rough hands, and a gentle heart.  A man who believes in chest hair.

I’m not sure where he is, but I’m keeping an eye out.  However, apparently, I may need dark-rimmed glasses in order to see…..

Hungry Hippos

You know when you have an idea that is so great, that from the moment of its inception you get carried away by fantasy, imagination, intuition and premeditated success?  You start planning all of the details down to the nitty-gritty while it is still just a neuron firing in your brain, buried in the dark recesses of your skull.  This idea takes on a life of its own, like a river flowing through a marshland in Africa.  Sometimes it lingers, pools, and even stagnates and other times it rushes, trickles and cascades in a cadence that only moving water can create.

The river of this idea eventually leads to the “end result” which is as limitless as the ocean, as clear as the tropics: warm, inviting and teeming with life.

Well, let me tell you one thing for free.  This river of life is giving me an education.

You see, what I failed to understand is that to take an idea, that spark of neuron, and actually turn it into a “real life event” is proving to be a little more challenging than my quick-to-daydream brain imagined.  I forgot that a river that flows through the African wetlands is teeming with crocodiles, hippos and deadly mosquitoes.  They are bathing in the brainstorm of my genius.  Monsters!  And they want to eat me.

Unlike the above-mentioned metaphor, I have no doubts that this idea is a good one. I can clearly see the enormous potential of its success.  But what if I can’t navigate these muddy waters?  What if this river is headed straight for the precipice of a violent and rocky waterfall?

Turning a dream into reality is harder than I thought.  And I feel a little lost, a little adrift, and A LOT scared.  I’m having a hard time surrendering to trust right now, knowing that even if I do plummet over the edge or fail miserably, that everything is and will be exactly as it should.  I’m having a hard time being patient with the process…and I’m clinging because I believe in what I’m trying to do.  Also, because I didn’t really stop to consider a Plan B.

In my mom’s house there is a quote, “A mind once stretched by a new idea never regains its original dimensions.”  Dreams are funny that way.  They take root.  They take on a life of their own.  And they become impossible to shake.

But, don’t fret.  I am not ditching the dream.  I am more tenacious than that.  But it seems as though this river seems to be flowing into a dark, underground cave (also known as reality)….and hopefully, when it spits me out into the clear, tropical waters on the other side,  I will be happily synchronized swimming with my new friends: crocodiles, mosquitoes and hippos—oh my!

 

 

 

 

Corpse Pose

Recently, I was lying in Savasana at the end of practice, and without intent or purpose, I got swept away into the meditation of the pose.  Savasana means Corpse Pose and one of the traditional ways of contemplating this pose is to visualize your body, heavy and (dead); rotting away slowly.

First, you visualize your dead body, just lying there.  Motionless.  Your flesh droops and starts to hang off of your bones.  The animals start to pick away at you.   The ones with claws, sharp beaks and canine teeth.  Decomposition continues and the bugs join into the feeding frenzy.  And don’t forget the maggots, and then the worms.  When there is nothing left, all bellies are full except yours, you lie there….just bones, maybe some cartilage, which will soon dry up and shrink.  And then eventually, when years and decades and centuries have passed, and provided you are not a king amongst Egyptians, your bones will become brittle and they too, will start to crumble and decay.

Ashes to ashes.  Dust to dust.

When I started to think about it, I realized that this shape that is my body is so temporal.  Destined to become dust.  My teeny-tiny blip of a lifespan in the Grand Scheme of Things is really quite insignificant.  One day I will die, and this body will disappear and I will be no more.

And to be honest, it kind of bummed me out.  “What is the point?” I thought.  Why bother trying to be good, live well, eat well…and well, care?  If it’s not really gonna matter, can’t I just eat bread, smoke cigarettes and have ice cream every day?  This teeny-tiny me is not going to make a difference.  I’m just a bag of ashes waiting to happen.

Until I let that line of thinking come to a screeching halt.  Its true:  I am just a bag of ashes waiting to happen….we all are.  But that doesn’t mean that I can’t make a difference whilst my atoms are still coagulating in a somewhat cohesive form.

Within the span of one Savasana (yoga’s so cool), I went from dying, rotting, disintegrating and being nothing more than a link in a food chain to a sharp and sudden realization:

Goddammit.  I’m going to matter.

I’m going to matter in this world and on this planet and in this teeny-tiny blip which is my life.  Maybe I won’t matter in a big way.  Lord knows, I’m certainly no Einstein.  But I’m going to live this blip to fullest of its bleep because it’s just..so…short.  I am going to matter in a moment, with a smile or a hug, or gesture of patience.  I am going to pick up a piece of trash today.  Or stop to high-five a child.  And I am going to choose to matter.

But the funny thing is, it’s really hard to say that out loud.  We oftentimes spend so much energy diminishing ourselves.  We are not encouraged to be fabulous, ambitious, successful or simply great.  So many people I know don’t even know how to take a compliment.  We are not taught to sense our weight, our heft…indeed, our impact and importance on this world.

But I want to be HEAVY.  And FULL.  And make a dent in this gift of a life that I’ve been given.  Like a grass-fed bison running head-on into the fender of a Ford Echo.  I want ridiculous love and sickening romance, passion and stillness, ecstatic joy and lessons gleaned from hard knocks and sorrow.  I want a life that is spicy like a habanero.  Spare me the bland and the boring.

And when my bones turn to ashes and I become another link in this miraculous food chain, I want them to sparkle like sandstorms of golden fairy dust.

La Guardia, NYC

Abstruse Absolution

I’ve been learning a thing or two about forgiveness.  In the past, I’ve always thought that forgiveness was simply a matter of releasing someone from fault or wrongdoing.  But there is an inherent flaw in that way of thinking.  Releasing someone from fault or wrongdoing implies that YOU are right.  And when there are certainly two sides to every coin, I’d say that’s a pretty bold assumption.

It’s like telling your parents, out of nowhere, that you forgive them for turning you into such a screwed-up adult.  Whew—pretty big of you.  Not sure how well that statement would be received.   Maybe just a tiny bit condescending?

But what if you took ownership for your part?  What if, in fact, you APOLOGIZED for all of the judgments you’ve slapped on over the years, if you manned-up to your blame, your resentment, your inability to put yourself into their shoes, and the scapegoating that is usually easiest with those closest to us?  And then, with a shred of compassion, stopped to consider that maybe they did the very best of their ability.

And what if, after putting all of that out there…when you’ve owned up to your shit and laid it out on the table in all of its ugliness, and realness, and fallibility and you could see yourself for all that you have been and haven’t been; for your impact, or lack thereof, for your shortcomings and misgivings and oh–the English language is such a tangled mess—and what if, when you saw that stark reality without sugar-coating or shroud and…you forgave YOURSELF?

What if we could stand up for the people that have hurt us the most?  Might we discover the most pure form of compassion possible??  If we could let go of our grudges might we be able to listen with openness and acceptance and unconditional love?

What I’m learning is that it’s easy to stand tall in self-righteousness.  It’s easy to point the finger elsewhere.  But it takes guts to be humble enough to lay our faults on the line, to own up to our 50%.

The payoff, once you get past all that…..I think, is a formula for building relationships filled with acceptance instead of judgment, with understanding instead of blame…and if you can adopt those ways of thinking with others, even with those that you might not even like, then maybe….just maybe, you might be able to look into the mirror and see yourself with those same compassionate eyes.

I have no answers, only questions….but I’m learning.  And it sure ain’t easy.

 

 

Unabashed Authenticity

If there is any one thing one should strive to “be” in life, it is to be real.  Nothing more and nothing less than exactly who you are.  Because the moment you lose your ability to be authentic, is the moment you live your life as a lie.

It’s not always easy, to be real.  We sometimes get wrapped up in our need to please others or to not make someone angry or to just be liked.  But when we exchange our realness for the needy, greedy insecurities of the ego, it is a disservice to all parties involved.

Consider this:  in the dating world, for example.  Boy meets girl.  Girl meets boy.  (Or girl meets girl.  Boy meets boy. )  You meet this prospective partner, who at the get go, seems all shiny and new.  The attention is lovely and for the first time in a long while, you feel wanted and desired.  You don’t want this attention to fade and so you “play the game.”  You project yourself as someone more sexy, more confident, tough, independent, flirty, mysterious, supportive, adventurous, talented, non-committal, enthusiastic, altruistic, witty, etc., etc. than you actually are.  This prospective partner sees a highly-polished mirage of you and gets to know a “you” whom you are not.  Follow?  The real you gets put on a shelf as you struggle to stay in someone’s favor and consequently gets buried under layers and layers of false pretences.  And when you finally reach that stage in your relationship when you start to feel comfortable, when the real you starts to shine through….you know the stage:  the farting, passing out in front of the TV without sex, and unflattering underwear stage, and suddenly your partner is completely disenchanted, because “you” are not whom they thought you to be at all.

Who exactly, does that game serve??  Nobody, in my opinion.  What if we could just be ourselves?  And rest easy, knowing that we are wanted, liked and loved for exactly who we are.

My best friend tells me that I have a habit of email “bombing” people in my life when I feel misunderstood.  An email bomb from me usually consists of a lengthy and well-thought-out account of heartfelt feelings and verbose emotional meanderings.  If you have been reading this blog for any length of time, you might have noticed that I do tend to lean towards more candid communications.  The recipients of my letters are usually past boyfriends, and without generalizing, in general, such blatant displays of effusive emotives usually make my men willy-nilly, nervous-Nellies, in other words:  highly uncomfortable.

Could I change?  Yes, I could.  I could curb the need to connect on a deeper-than-superficial level in order to “play the game”.   I could pretend that my emotions are not important to me, and that I don’t ever struggle with doubt, fear and insecurity.  But I don’t want to change.  Because one day, there will be someone who receives one of my gush grenades and he is going to appreciate that I trusted him enough to share my feelings, privileged to have had a glimpse of my vulnerability, and invested enough to accept all that I am and all that I am not.

So whether you are a freak or a geek, a wallflower or a communicator, an introvert, a lover, a fighter, a dreamer, a goth, a hipster or a hip-hopper, be unabashed in your authenticity.  Live your truth.  All that you are, and all that you are not, be really REAL at that.

Propped Up

I recently took a Power Flow class and I modified the entire thing.  I dropped my knees to the floor in Chaturanga, opened my heart with gentle Baby Cobras, I used blocks in Triangle, and opted for supported Bridge instead of the demanding and powerful Wheel.  Now usually, Power Flow is a class where I push my muscles until they burn.  I rock arm balances, try to float into handstands, and basically work my asana off sweating, breathing and moving through a VERY intense practice.   I sometimes take Power Flow classes when I feel angry.  Sometimes when I feel fat.  I always go in there to work HARD.

But this day, I was tired.  My body was sore from the previous days’ Power Flow, and I had just walked an hour to get to the studio.  I hid in the far back corner of the room and gave myself permission to take it easy.   To not float, fly and contort my body into crazy poses, but instead, to keep a smooth, steady breath throughout the entire 90 minutes.  And it.  Felt.  Amazing.

So the question I propose is this:  why is it so difficult for us to modify?  What is so wrong or shameful about choosing to not go balls-to-the-wall, 150% effort, all of the time?  Isn’t that certainly a recipe for injury and burnout?  How did our egos get so full of pride and so simultaneously insecure that we cannot allow ourselves to reach for a prop now and again to give us support?  I have been practicing for 6 years now, and I have NEVER allowed myself to practice like that.  Let alone, the fact that I had to HIDE in the corner in order to feel comfortable enough to do so.

What if we also decided to modify our lives?  To take out of the equation the things that make it hard to breathe easy:  The stressful job that allows you no time for your family.  The toxic relationship that makes it impossible to know yourself.  The never ending nose-to-the-grindstone-struggle to seek perfection.  And what if, instead of doing it all on our own, we paused for a moment to ask for support???

I moved out when I was barely 18.  I’ve lived across the continent from my family and been on my own since then.  Because there was a lot of divorce in my childhood I’ve masked feelings of abandonment and insecurity with a fierce independence.  If I don’t rely on anyone, then no one can disappoint or hurt me when they don’t come through.   And so I hold my head up high, and I do it all on my own.  I’ve always felt like I had to.  As a kid, I was Little Orphan Annie for Halloween three years in a row….hah!—a therapist would’ve had a heyday with that one!  Needless to say, it is very challenging for me to ask for help.  It’s almost never easy for me to grab that metaphorical block and use it to prop me up…to alleviate some effort so that I can just breathe.

Recently, I was supposed to meet up with a friend in New York.  And after repetitive phone calls with no response, I finally made other plans.  Only later, I discovered, that because he’d had such a stressful week at work, he’d taken a Xanax and passed out for the day, unable to answer his phone.  My mental response: “Maybe it’s time for a career change.”  I mean, isn’t that just too much stress?

We live in a society that shouts out daily, “Go big or go home.”   Most of us have responsibilities, jobs and daily tasks that are not conducive to modifications.  Imagine saying to your boss, “No sir, I will NOT be getting that report in on time because I am modifying today.”  Probably not going to fly.  Understandably, sometimes, that is just life.

But couldn’t we start relying on our communities; our friends, families and loved ones to prop us up from time to time, without feeling weak, or inadequate or guilty?  Could we swallow our pride and ask for help?

I’m working on that one.  Working to ask for support when I need it.  And in the meantime, you might catch me hiding in the corner of a Power Flow class, propped up, modifying and breathing easy.