...if you want to achieve balance in your joints
and keep away from hip and knee pain.
Sit with feet open at least hips width distance.
When it's necessary for me to sit in a chair,
I often find myself sitting this way Instinctively.
I have my whole life, despite my parents'
useless admonishments to sit like a lady.
It's the way I feel most stable, most connected to my sit bones,
and find a clearer line for full breath along my spine.
These days I notice it also helps me to feel more attentive and present.
Dr. Barbara Bergin has an excellent explanation of this
on her website, which is how I first learned of S.L.A.M.
She has found S.L.A.M. to help many women in mid-life,
when hip and knee pain often begins to present
due in part to the habitual crossing of legs
and the resulting tension in the ilitotibial band and greater trochanter.
This unbalanced but socially constructed way of sitting helps explain
the unsteadiness and pain many feel in sitting and rising from a chair.
But if your heels, knees, and hips are in line,
your ascent and descent will not find you torquing joints.
Put this into practice, dear women and men..
It's easy, as long as you're not in a pencil skirt.
We'll allow our knees to track wisely
on the yoga mat this week.
I was reading a writer, Parul Sehgal, writing about a writer, Jenny Offill,
who addresses the messiness of living in our present situation of climate collapse.
Looking beneath how we care for ourselves, our close circles,
and ultimately the world at large - humans, animals, the planet.
There exists a deep connectedness within these things.
Firstly, a layered connectedness among them
and, in my way of seeing, a particular connectedness
between the energetic work we do within ourselves,
the energetic lines we cast towards those we love,
which, consciously or unconsciously, ultimately extend beyond to the collective.
It would be a mistake to imagine that any intention manifests in isolation.
Offill has her novel's protagonist listen to an environmental podcast where a caller asks:
"What do you mean interconnected?"
There is a pause and then the ecologist speaks.
"There is a species of moth in Madagascar that drinks the tears of sleeping birds."
Take that in.
We are connected in ways we've yet to fully understand.
Just as the work you do on yoga mat has consequences beyond your body.
Take care, dear yogi. Be purposeful.
And move lightly through the world with awareness
and always, always, with the motivation of love.
Start with yourself on the mat this week.
Don't just do something; sit there.
I heard this advice from Pico Iyer in his reading of his book
"The Art of Stillness: Adventures in Going Nowhere."
Esteemed for his brilliant travel writing, Iyer reveals
the vast new territory he has discovered in sitting still.
As I drive back and forth across Nashville most every day,
I've been following the bright wonder in his voice
as he encourages me to find stillness. Sitting on I-440
proves an unwished for boon in this regard, I must admit.
I don't see myself heading to a monastery anytime soon, but
I've discovered many ways I can take this practice into my common urban life.
You're watching a show with your person and he hits pause to leave the room for a moment.
Rather than eyes darting to a newspaper to occupy the five minutes, simply sit.
You're standing in a queue that doesn't seem to be moving.
Find your feet, your breath, and exude some still peace out into the situation around you.
You're feeling a little cross over a sudden slight from a companion.
Rather than enumerating the injustices and just how you might best articulate them
(sadly, one of my well honed strengths), sit still for a minute,
feel where you're holding those emotions in your physical body,
give them some space, quiet curiosity, and breath.
My tenacious resolve has never failed to paradoxically resolve itself in this way.
It's not all sudden sunshine, but gosh, the gripping falls away.
I'm sure you discover your own opportunities for stillness in a common day.
Take them. You'll be rewarded with a greater, happier spaciousness.
I'm certain of it.
We'll try a bit of stillness at the end of yoga practice this week.
It's precisely what all that physical asana was designed for!
Our nervous system is a brilliant creation that adapts to our needs moment by moment.
Ancient yogis learned how to coax the nervous system into ease with breath.
We know that deepening the exhale brings us into the parasympathetic nervous system,
also known as "rest and digest" where all our systems can function most easily.
In our present environment of constant stimulation, and accompanying low hum of anxiety,
we are too often thrust into the sympathetic nervous system of "fight or flight."
This weekend I had a beautiful opportunity to call upon my exhale.
I was asked to give a prayer for peace in a bar mitzvah at a conservative synagogue.
It's one of the rare honors offered to a non-Jew in such a sacred ceremony.
I was mistakenly ushered up to the bimah a good twenty minutes early.
Sitting up close to the ark, watching the sacred handling of the Torah,
listening to the readings from the scrolls, I almost forgot I was about to be called upon.
Not quite though, I felt waves of nerves at each pause in the ceremony.
I put both my feet on the ground and sent every inhale and exhale into my feet.
Continuously. The entire time. Until, it was time to stand up and speak.
Praying for peace in our present historical moment,
in a holy place with Hebrew recitations and davening all around me
was a powerful experience I won't forget.
Let justice and righteousness flow like a mighty stream.
Let God's peace fill the earth as the waters fill the sea.
Make this true in your own body
by using your breath to guide your intention.
Especially on your yoga mat this week.
Last spring, a lovely woman walked into the
yoga room to try the practice for the first time.
She was uncertain, a little nervous, but tremendously brave.
She kept it up, even when she wasn't sure she was doing it "right."
She kept it up, even when her body was a little resistant.
She kept it up, and became more curious about what her body had to say.
Not too long ago, after class as everyone was packing up,
she said to me: "Hey, you want to hear something amazing?
- long pause-
For the first time in my entire life. . . . I touched my toes.
Just now. Tonight."
Her face was shining.
"I want to call my fifth grade gym teacher:
'Mr. Tomkins! I did it! I finally touched my toes!' "
Now, I think that's probably the least of what
her practice is doing and undoing for her.
But, man, those little moments, when you realize
what a malleable creature you are.
On the outside, and on the inside.
It can feel as though anything is possible.
Gosh, I love those moments.
Come find your own
on your mat this week.
illustration by Takeo Takei
Here we are stepping into a new decade.
Try this poem on for size.
Light and space are what I'm seeking in the new year.
Maybe you are too.
The ordinary miracles begin. Somewhere
a signal arrives: "Now," and the rays
come down. A tomorrow has come. Open
your hands, lift them: morning rings
all the doorbells; porches are cells for prayer.
Religion has touched your throat. Not the same now,
you could close your eyes and go on full of light.
And it is already begun, the chord
that will shiver glass, the song full of time
bending above us. Outside, a sign:
a bird intervenes; the wings tell the air,
"Be warm." No one is out there, but a giant
has passed through town, widening streets, touching
the ground, shouldering away the stars.
We'll touch the ground together
on the yoga mat this week.
“To be rooted is perhaps the most important
and least recognized need of the human soul.”
As we approach the holidays, it can feel as though things are spinning.
Lots of outgoing energy: planning, making, shopping, fitting it all in.
If you find yourself a bit unmoored, simply pause.
No fancy yoga asana or particular pranayama required.
Feel your feet on the earth. Notice your hands. Find your breath.
Recognize where you are, and what is truly essential in that moment.
Sometimes it really is that simple.
If you can go stand beneath a tree, absolutely do.
Draw upon the support of the roots and the earth beneath you.
Or if you've an evergreen indoors at present,
gaze upon its beauty and forge a heart connection.
Strength. Steadiness. Resilience.
One could receive much wisdom from a tree this season.
Come to the yoga mat this week.
I've had my dear boy home the first week of December.
Sunday night we were searching for a Christmas service of some sort
and happened upon a glorious oratorio downtown.
Over a hundred voices and an orchestra gave us Saint-Saens' Christmas Oratorio, op.12.
The sweet clarity of the tenor soloist literally straightened my spine.
Sitting upright, expectant and overwhelmed by the music,
fully attuned to the beauty around me, connected to and grateful for the heart next to me,
I felt as though I was physically taking in beauty to feed my soul.
At that moment, I knew the world would be a better place
if more of us joined together to sit among artists of all persuasions
simply allowing their good work in the world to wash over us.
Something unbelievably powerful occurs when
vocalists, musicians, artists, actors, or dancers
offer what they love through their bodies and hearts.
Take advantage of the open doors, festivities, and services
that abound during this month of December.
Go sit among your fellows, strangers or friends,
and drink in the wonder of this season when we're all encouraged
to lift our voices, to greet a stranger,
to sit entranced by the talents that surround us.
Offer your own body and heart
into your yoga practice this week.
We took a day long hike recently, scrambling over rocks,
gazing at colorful leaf litter. It was pretty glorious.
By the sixth hour, I admit I was kicking up my heels just a little less.
We made it safely back to the car at day's end by moonlight.
The last bit, trying to stay true to the trail before we lost all light,
I happened upon a sturdy, beautiful wooden gangplank along a curve in the path.
It didn't seem to serve any pragmatic purpose.
We were well away from rushing water; the ground was even.
I felt a stab of gratitude at this sudden kindness of the trued and tight boards.
Here you go, dear. This way. We've got you.
To find yourself supported when you don't expect it.
To feel a part of a great whole where people are looking out for each other.
This is no small thing, but can easily be taken for granted.
Try to notice such moments or situations in your world this week.
Even better, try to provide such a moment for someone else.
Sometimes it's just what one needs in order to continue
the valiant work of making it through the world.
We'll try to find this
in our bodies on the mat this week.
It's finally here, dears. The bestest season of the year.
I'm practicing letting things fall away in my own life.
Maybe you will too.
A responsibility that it may be time to let go of,
an expectation that might be better abandoned,
a judgment you might loosen your grip on,
fill in the blank here.
It can be a little scary, but I'm finding solace
from a century ago in Rilke's Fall.
The leaves are falling, falling as from far
where distant withering gardens grace the skies.
They're falling with a gesture that denies.
And in the nights the heavy earth
falls into solitude from star to star.
We all are falling. This hand falls, as it extends.
And look at the other one. It's in them all.
And yet there's Someone, holding all this falling
with endless gentleness in both his hands.
We'll do some falling and turning
on the mat this week.
my favorite 1940's phone, which the mister brought home from a street market in Germany
In my efforts to reduce EMF exposure at my house,
we've re-instituted an old school phone line.
An admittedly nostalgic person, you can't imagine my happiness.
But you might try by reading this poem.
If you're old enough to remember real phones, you'll drop right in.
And if you're not, well..... do try, won't you?
Telephone Years by Deborah Garrison
There are gestures that have been lost.
One was picking up a desk phone
Using a couple of fingers
To snag it under the little shelf where the receiver
Rested when it was not in use;
You’d carry the phone with you if you needed to pace,
Perhaps with a studied restlessness that felt good:
You were removing a solid object from its position
And that had meaning. You gestured with it in hand,
Or held it against your hip. Something both possessive and devil-may-care in it.
The disruption of a ring, the caller unknown,
Was one of the day’s small dramas. We lived for them.
There were hours unaccounted for, pages turned.
Ticking of the heart between rings . . .
A feminine variant was to wear the curling receiver cord
Sashed across your waist, over the elbow, up the arm
So the curls were stretched long, the receiver
Tight-tucked in the neck hollow and pinned to its job-
To speak and to hear, companion of both mouth and ear.
Maybe standing while talking, at a window.
A light pleasure in the binding, an intimacy
With the subject or the person listening
That he couldn’t see.
And the pauses when neither of you spoke
Were alive, space-filling, somehow physical.
You could hear rooms.
Conversations were rooted in them.
They didn’t move around.
You knew there was life in another house-doors slammed,
Supper bells, doorbells, messages scratched on pads, handwriting that told,
People who left rooms and never came back.
People who might surprise you, come from so far there was no phoning them.
I don’t mean that life was better then,
But our conversations were theatre.
You didn’t know when.
We'll make some gestures that are ancient
-yoga poses that linger still-
on the mat this week.
listening to the world around me one morning in Maine, in a supine savasana
“Well, when you really listen, when you really keep your mind
open and listening to another person — and by the way,
I highly recommend that if a person wants to increase
their ability to understand another person, that they start out
listening to nature because you’re totally uninvested
in the outcome of nature. You can just take it all in,
all the expressions. And isn’t it wonderful that,
when a bird sings, that we do hear it as music?
The bird doesn’t sing for our benefit.
So there's a lot of joy in that listening and when
we become better listeners to nature, we also become
better listeners to each other, so that when another person
is speaking with you, you don’t have to search for
what you want them to say. You can dare to risk
what they really are trying to say. And ask them too,
“Is this really what you’re saying?” And feel your own
emotional response as they talk about risky subjects. . .”
-Gordon Hempton taking with Krista Tippett
about vulnerability and silence
We'll practice listening in silence a bit this week.
Yoga asana was designed to prepare us
to exist in a meditative state.
We'll see what just a few purposeful minutes
of silence might reveal.
And see if we can't foster a listening nature
on the mat this week.
My life has been full of a lot of coal dust lately.
This is what happens when a century old plaster ceiling
falls eleven feet onto the wooden floor below,
in a house that was heated by burning coal
at the turn of the last century.
Hence, my darkened husband pictured above
in what used to be a white t-shirt..
So, the last week has been spent cleaning
Walls, baseboards, furniture, objects,
every slat of blinds, every hardwood plank of floor.
In an effort to, ahem, enrich this work,
I've been playing at ambidexterity.
Using my non-dominant hand every chance I get.
It's not easy, and I am far less skillful.
I suggest you try it when you can.
We have so much asymmetry in our bodies.
Habitual postures and actions are a big part of that.
Mix it up when you're able.
Try using your non-dominant hand for less precise tasks.
It's kooky stuff. And in the search for balance, quite good for you.
You'll be a bit more attentive to the task at hand
and ultimately, its consequences in your body.
See you on the mat,
clean and shiny,
“It is through your body
that you realize you are a spark of divinity.”
– BKS Iyengar
Take some inspiration from my friend, Scout.
He's discovered the joy of prasarita padottanasana.
Spark of divinity, indeed.
Finding the expression of your life force
surging from your very core into all your extremities
is empowering and works to enliven you from the inside out.
Conversely, simply creating such shapes with your body
may work to empower you from the outside in
by positively affecting your hormonal balance, lessening anxiety,
and boosting your confidence.
Come find your spark
on the mat this week.
I found myself finally visiting the new Tennessee State Museum Sunday afternoon,
surrounded by silver haired ladies in floral dresses and men in suits. It felt like
a real southern summer Sunday outing. Most of us were there to hear the
Nashville Opera's offering of Samuel Barber's Knoxville: Summer of 1915
based on James Agee's prose poem, hence the Sunday finery. It was glorious.
Afterwards, we ambled around the Tennessee Quilts exhibit.
I noticed a couple things.
Firstly, I will henceforth always dress like a grownup when visiting a museum;
it truly heightens the experience. I may not wear faux flowers in my hair, but I'm
so glad that beautiful seventy year old did. Secondly, people used to spend a lot
of time doing quiet, repetitive things that may have taken months or years to reach fruition.
Lastly, communing with art on a daily basis, specifically lying beneath or upon
hand-wrought textiles is a powerful thing.
I have a few, old, tattered handmade quilts rescued from charity shops that
I've lived with my entire adult life. I've inherited perfect quilts from my German
mother-in-law that I've been hitherto afraid to crumple. But, you know, the antique quilts
on display that had stains or imperfections were the sweetest ones.
When something looks loved and used, it seems to hold and offer more meaning.
Kind of like me, I suddenly realize when I look in the mirror these days.
Your yoga mat can offer the same sweetness of a quilt.
A place to find solace, a place to hold you while you quiet.
Bring yours to practice.
"We weren't doing nothing - we were standing still."
When I read this remembrance from
a Merce Cunningham dancer, Marrian Preger-Simon,
about the choreographed art of standing still,
it evoked the the very alert, auspicious feeling
of breathing into an elongated tadasana.
Once upon a time, standing on the coast of Sicily,
gazing into the Mediterranean, upright in tadasana,
I felt free, very alive, and completely present in my asana.
I can conjure this feeling at will,
by stacking my spine, opening my chest,
and lengthening my neck
when I stand in mountain pose.
Okay, it's not exactly the same
standing upon a Nashville floor indoors
without the Mediterranean breezes on jagged rocks,
but kinda close.....
Let's try it
on the mat this week.
"One afternoon, I draped myself on my couch and felt an influx of mental silence
that was both disturbing and hallucinatorily pleasurable. [...]
I wanted to experience myself as soft and loose and purposeless,
three qualities that, in my adulthood, have always seemed economically risky."
This, from a book review of new titles which make the case for people to put down their phones.
The reviewer tried a suggested digital cleanse and was flummoxed by the process.
Her final sentence hit me hard.
There are moments when I, too, long to feel soft, loose, and purposeless.
But just about everything in me pulls the other way.
(though it must be said my husband had no trouble
finding pictures of me lying prone and purposeless.... hmmm.)
Our cultural constructs call us to fortifying tasks, ambition, self improvement.
It's a pretty risky business to allow soft purposelessness momentary reign.
Want to get a little subversive?
I dare you, yogi.
We'll find a lingering savasana
on the mat this week.
"The more we put our attention on sensation,
the more we get out of our thinking mind."
A yoga practice is all about noticing,
sharpening our awareness as we move in and out of shapes.
Sometimes we cautiously move towards sensation;
sometimes we wisely move a bit away.
Regardless, we keep keen attention upon the sensation
in order to intuit which direction will best serve us.
A lovely consequence of this purposeful awareness
is relief from a busy thinking mind.
I know more than one yogi who cites this
as her prime reason for regular practice.
I recently read about adults turning to music lessons late in life.
Practicing an instrument for the first time at forty or fifty can be humbling.
One executive said it was the only time her body was so occupied
she could stop her monkey mind from ruling her consciousness.
It brings a whole new meaning to mind-body awareness.
A piano. A cello. A yoga mat. All three work for me in this way.
Come calm your own mind
on the yoga mat this week.
This may be the first time a Home Depot purchase
elicited a cry of delight.
The mister bought us a pitchfork.
It’s cheery tangerine. It’s solid metal.
And it looks like something Neptune might have in hand.
This pitchfork may inspire us to TURN our compost.
Apparently, the step we’ve been missing.
This we learned at a free metro composting class.
Along with the disturbing fact that
a plastic bag takes 200 to 1000 years to decompose.
How’s that for a number to
stop you in your tracks at the checkout cash register?
They also will gift you a splendid backyard composter.
You can sign up here.
Composting is so empowering!
And I just learned you can actually visit Metro's recycling center
to watch what happens to all those things you faithfully recycle.
You can sign up here.
In yoga we learn to conserve our energy,
holding it wisely in abeyance,
expending it with purpose.
Ancient yogic science has proven
it’s a brilliant way to make your body last.
The same principle applies on the macro scale, doesn’t it?
May we all be wise stewards on the inside, on the outside,
and especially on this earth we all share.
Bring your whole self to the yoga circle.
found in my East Nashville neighborhood last week
I recently found myself lugging yoga mats down 7th Avenue at 5:30 am,
my only company being bundled construction workers in tool belts walking past.
I was headed to the roof of a fancy hotel
to teach a sunrise yoga class to a company of New Yorkers.
Once ensconced, I only had to step over the laid out mats and through an impressive glass wall,
to find myself standing over my city, with more than one building crane in view.
Just feet away from my high perch, I glimpsed work boots perched twenty floors up.
With the dizzying effect of swinging cranes over head,
I could almost touch them. It was intense and a little surreal.
I've since learned that Nashville is the South's most dangerous city for construction workers.
Eleven workers have fallen to their deaths, while NOT wearing safety harnesses.
A Nashville native, I've done my share of grousing over the new development
and the accompanying traffic that can make life miserable.
Who are all these people?!
At the moment, I'm struck by consequences I've never considered.
It's helping me move towards compassion instead of my usual instant frustration.
"May you be safe" mister worker dude who's flashing me the stop sign,
making me wait for a concrete mixer when I really need to make the light.
We all might do a little better to calm, to slow down, to look out for each other.
To take the proverbial nap, kitty cat.
Come to the yoga mat
where life is easy
(and we can practice what to do when it's not).
candles of devotion in an errant cathedral I stumbled upon in Rome in 2011
by Carl Dennis
If on your grandmother's birthday you burn a candle
To honor her memory, you might think of burning an extra
To honor the memory of someone who never met her,
A man who may have come to the town she lived in
Looking for work and never found it.
Picture him taking a stroll one morning,
After a month of grief with the want ads,
To refresh himself in the park before moving on.
Suppose he notices on the gravel path the shards
Of a green glass bottle that your grandmother,
Then still a girl, will be destined to step on
When she wanders barefoot away from her school picnic
If he doesn't stoop down and scoop the mess up
With the want-ad section and carry it to a trash can.
For you to burn a candle for him
You needn't suppose the cut would be a deep one,
Just deep enough to keep her at home
The night of the hay ride when she meets Helen,
Who is soon to become her dearest friend,
Whose brother George, thirty years later,
Helps your grandfather with a loan so his shoe store
Doesn't go under in the Great Depression
And his son, your father, is able to stay in school
Where his love of learning is fanned into flames,
A love he labors, later, to kindle in you.
How grateful you are for your father's efforts
Is shown by the candles you've burned for him.
But today, for a change, why not a candle
For the man whose name is unknown to you?
Take a moment to wonder whether he died at home
With friends and family or alone on the road,
On the look-out for no one to sit at his bedside
And hold his hand, the very hand
It's time for you to imagine holding.
Using time travel and ritual acts of devotion
to cultivate compassion
appeals to me.
If encountering a busy mind
in moments of attempted meditation,
perhaps this might prove a worthy endeavor.
Come to practice together
on the mat.
"You probably cannot and should not let go
of your personal ethics and your political beliefs,
but perhaps you can hold these ideologies
in suspension for the time being.
Allow your mind to enter into a space of not-knowing,
of not having solutions, of not casting blame.
Before you go to sleep this evening,
enter into a space of equanimity
in which you regard all people in the same light."
-David Dillard Wright from "A Mindful Evening"
Okay, this is a pretty big ask.
And I'm not pretending that I can easily do so myself.
But this seems like a rather relevant notion at present.
So, maybe just consider it?
Come find a little peace together
before the returns start rolling in.
I scored this little treasure at my favorite booksale last week.
The chapter on proper funereal etiquette in 1890 reeled me in,
but this advice to well-bred ladies, read in the age of Kavanaugh, stopped me cold.
"A Low Voice"
I think one can always tell a lady by her voice and laugh
-neither of which which will ever be loud or coarse,
but soft, low, and nicely modulated. Shakespeare's unfailing taste
tells us that "A low voice is an excellent thing in a woman."
And we believe that the habit of never raising the voice
would tend much to the comfort and happiness of many a home:
as a proof of good breeding, it is unfailing.
Now, I was raised a girl in the southland,
so admittedly this does not sound like crazy talk to my ear.
But I was convicted by this op-ed by Rebecca Traister in the NYT yesterday:
Many of the women shouting now are women who have not previously yelled publicly before,
any of them white middle-class women newly awakened to political fury and protest.
Part of the process of becoming mad must be recognizing that they are not the first to be furious,
and that there is much to learn from the stories and histories of the livid women
- many of them not white or middle class - who have never had reason not to be mad.
If you are angry today, or if you have been angry for a while,
and you're wondering whether you're allowed to be as angry as you feel,
let me say: Yes. Yes, you are allowed. You are, in fact, compelled.
If you've been feeling a new rage at the flaws of this country,
and if your anger is making you want to change your life in order to change the world,
then I have something incredibly important to say: Don't forget how this feels.
Tell a friend, write it down, explain it to your children now, so they will remember.
And don't let anyone persuade you it wasn't right, or it was weird,
or it was some quirky stage in your life when you went all political
- remember that, honey, that year you went crazy? No. No.
Don't let it ever become that. Because people will try.
I am wrestling with what to do with the fury I feel
after watching all nine hours of the Kavanaugh hearing.
I recognize that entitled bros trigger me like nobody's business,
and that everyone has pain and deserves to be heard.
I have always loved the way my feminine body can inhabit a very small amount of space.
I also love the way I can open it and take up a lot of space, physically and energetically.
I'm finding that my yoga practice helps me process some of this current emotion,
along with shared conversation over the moment we find ourselves in.
To be awake, thoughtful, compassionate, while acknowledging fury isn't easy,
but what is all this yoga for if it can't help us live more authentically off the mat?
After yoga class yesterday, a yogi I love told me her intention for the week was anger.
A pastor I deeply respect told me that we are marked for love and now is the time to rage.
Permission granted. I think fierce, red hot, furious love is actually good medicine.
Come to the mat
and process whatever you're holding.
Plank is a powerful posture
and a difficult one, I admit.
If we can build it with integrity,
it creates a wise foundation from which we can build many asanas.
Everything from a sound down dog to kooky arm balances.
There are many variations, a couple that we'll try this week.
Usually plank is done with a neutral spine
activating spinal stabilizers and postural muscles
such as multifidus and transverse abdominus.
We can also take flexion into a plank with a slightly rounded back,
firing up global mobilizers like rectus abdominis and quadriceps.
We'll sweetly (I promise) explore both this week.
You'll feel strong, stable, and awesome.
Take inspiration from Nancy & Sarah
who can stack it like nobody's business!
See you on the mat!
We took a little road trip to Memphis this weekend.
Not what I would call a sparkling city, but the zoo was brilliant.
I was struck by this gorilla's calm demeanor and stellar posture.
I don't know many 32 year old, 500 pound dudes who can sit like this.
His name, Mwelu, translates as "a touch of brightness and light" in Burundi.
I've since learned that he and I share a similar spinal structure,
give or take one or two thoracic and lumbar vertebrae in number.
He has less curves in his spine, thanks to not standing on two legs all the time;
his discs almost never wear out.
You could learn a lot from a western lowland gorilla.
They are quiet, peaceful, and non-aggressive creatures.
When they have to deal with intruders,
they'll charge but tend to fake out at the last minute,
so nobody gets hurt but they make their point.
Smart. I like a big guy . . . without a big ego.
There is a gorilla pose in your future.
This shifting weather, a tiny morning flurry one moment, a sunshiny afternoon the next,
mirrors the distractions of the holiday season as we move towards winter.
Take care to ground yourself when you can, with your breath or a moment of stillness.
I have held on to this poetic encouragement to move like all things green, in one direction.
This weekend, I would lose my way while entering one room to retrieve stamps
only to find a decoration strewn on the floor meant to find the tree
to arrive empty handed back at the table, blank envelopes gaping at me "Seriously?"
"One direction, dear one," I compassionately remind myself. "One direction."
I look upon the spindly plant in the library, its two stems straining towards the window.
It's a daily reminder (of my less than green thumb, yes)
but mostly to remember to reach towards the light,
intuitively in a simple, true, single minded direction.
Hope to see you in the yoga circle.
Autumn finds me lying beneath trees even more than usual.
Lately, I've been thinking of this poem by Mary Oliver.
On Meditating, Sort Of
Meditation, so I've heard, is best accomplished
if you entertain a certain strict posture.
Frankly, I prefer just to lounge under a tree.
So why should I think I could ever be successful?
Some days I fall asleep, or land in that
even better place - half-asleep- where the world,
spring, summer, autumn, winter-
flies through my mind in its
hardy ascent and its uncompromising descent.
So I just lie like that, while distance and time
reveal their true attitudes: they never
heard of me, and never will, or ever need to.
Of course I wake up finally
thinking, how wonderful to be who I am,
made out of earth and water,
my own thoughts, my own fingerprints-
all that glorious, temporary stuff.
Bring your glorious, temporary self
to the yoga mat.
[extra credit if you spied me in forest savasana]
An intelligent yoga practice encompasses
both internal and external alignment.
Internally, the practice is used to measure yourself
using the fits of your body
to participate in the health of your organs and glands.
Each posture is used to give measurable results.
This is about cleaning and reorganizing your internal world
so that it becomes a joy to live in the body.
I love this pragmatic perspective on a yoga practice.
This is why we do what we do.
Postures on the mat, visited again and again,
work to give us a measure.
A measure of how things are fitting together,
on the outside and on the inside.
We practice to create order in our bodies,
on the outside and on the inside.
When you recognize this,
your work becomes a very internal practice.
You don't care what the postures look like in the body next to you.
That's not your body, not your information, of no value to you at all.
You get incredibly interested in what you find in your postures.
How they affect your breath, your mind, your emotions.
Where else do you get an hour to simply observe yourself becoming?
There's nothing like adventuring in the wide world to give one a fresh perspective.
First, realizing how tiny you are
while safely held by ancient trees in a Canadian forest.
Second, hearing just about every language surrounding you on a city street,
but recognizing just how much we are all the same.
I miss home.
Kicking around Canada's oldest Chinatown.
These narrow alleys led to opium dens in the late 19th century.
Today, they lead to vegan gelato.
(raspberry swirl for me, thank you)
We're heading next to a remote coast
on Vancouver Island for some stillness.
Remember, no yoga classes this week.
It's a great time to try something new!
Perhaps explore a different yoga class somewhere you've never been
(you're well equipped to step on the mat anywhere, promise),
or try some new modality (a forest meditation , swimming, badminton, a bike ride).
In any event, take care of your sweet self
'til next week when I see you again.
Much northern love,
Some of my favorite shapes to take in yoga
are the ones where I feel like a starfish.
Open. Radiating outwards. Limbs askew.
Who knew that in esoteric yogic anatomy studies it's a thing:
enlivening asana with navel radiation.
The idea is that from our very beginnings, in utero,
we received all our nourishment through our navels
radiating out into all our forming systems and limbs.
Once born, we still breathed and moved in this way at first.
Natural abdominal breathing that helped us
extend our energy out into unfurling limbs.
In yoga, we have the opportunity to recapture this freedom.
If you watch an accomplished yoga practitioner,
even in a still posture, you can sense her energy moving,
radiating out into her limbs with intention.
If we can soften the belly, connect with breath there, and then send it out,
we're on our way to using navel radiation to empower our asana.
It's not only physically powerful. It opens you up emotionally.
We'll practice this phenomenon this week.
It will feel awesome and sweet.
And you'll leave the mat feeling long and free.
Design your emotional posture
and let your practice take care of your cells.
As yogis, we know the power of intention
whether in where we send the breath,
or how we move in and out of asanas.
Even off the mat, out in the real world,
you can design your emotional posture
(lest it design you)
-cowed and defeated,
open and receptive,
strong and steady.
All this feeds your cells, energetically
and we now know, physiologically as well.
Come take care of your cells.
[yes, this is our own yogi, Anna Cramer,
caught in yogic waterfall bliss]
Other than the sea, the most amazing thing
I saw at the beach was this heron.
Her majestic stride with
such beautifully articulated feet stunned me.
I couldn't stop watching.
It put me in mind of Martha Graham
writing about the sacredness of the bodily form.
The beauty of the heel as it is used to carry one forward into life.
Of course, the heron doesn't lead with her heel,
but peels her talons from the sand,
suspends for a moment,
and plants them again to earth.
We're going to find our feet this week in practice.
I've just obtained some happy props precisely for this purpose.
So, there's very little in yard work
that gives a feeling of utter recklessness.
The chance to mow down monkey grass with abandon
at the first of spring before the new shoots push up is one.
One that my dear husband was denied
as we waited far too long to attend.
"Hey mister, don't you think we should give the front yard a quick mow
and hit the monkey grass before it starts sprouting?"
I offered a couple weeks ago.
"Mmmmm..." I heard from behind the computer screen
where he was mired in dissecting some endless code.
Fast forward to last Monday, when mowing the grass seemed a necessity,
but the monkey grass was half new and hopeful, half old tatters.
Ta da! Enter the shears, a keen eye, and a meditative opportunity.
There's something contemplative and sweet about going so slowly,
looking at what to nurture and keep, what to snip and toss away.
Spring presents a chance for such culling.
Spring cleaning inside and out, yogis.
Creating a little more space for what we want in our lives.
Were you to do dishes in my kitchen sink
(and please, feel free, anytime)
this week, you would find this at eye level.
I love when fortune cookie slips or tea bag tags
whisper to me "here. this one is for you. really."
Rather than grasping for the perfect hook
to reach people in a yoga class,
to persuade my son he'd love nothing more than to hang out with me,
to quantify my peculiarly personal stamp of success in any form,
I think I'll just try this.
Feels like a sweet exhale, doesn't it?
Let's practice together
and see what comes.
"Travel makes one modest.
You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world."
The vast and simple beauty of Maine
leaves this yogi humble and grateful
for newly discovered landscapes
within and without.
A little garudasana (eagle pose)
in honor of our nation's capital.
Here in D.C., I've found myself elbow to elbow
with people of every culture, ethnicity, sexual identity, social class, and race.
While peeping through the fence at the White House yesterday,
I watched a proud Pakistani-American father
place his young, bespectacled son just so for a snapshot.
I suddenly remembered
my only Obama encounter,
standing in Nashville's Public Square in the fall of 2006
hearing then Senator Obama exhort us to embrace
the growing diversity of our own city,
reminding us that to do so would only make us stronger and richer.
And I realized that
it is the coexistence
of all these disparate souls around me
that makes the United States a country like no other.
(insert patriotic fiddle here)
"Reading is the work of the alert mind, is demanding,
and under ideal conditions produces finally a sort of ecstasy,"
Might I suggest the ideal conditions of
a midsummer's afternoon
and quite barefoot?
Then you can find your way to your mat.
In our yoga circle here in Nashville,
I look around the room and find many faiths represented.
The sweet thing
is that each and every soul is nurtured
peculiarly and individually
through a practice we share together.
grasshopper in down dog
The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.
~ John Muir
I spent the weekend in Asheville
getting lost in forests and leaves
and sleeping under the moon.
There's something about time in the wilderness
that helps you see more clearly.
Lose yourself outside this autumn,
even if it's only for an hour somewhere.
Your soul will be the better for it.
forest hand-standing husband