on love

Love is a funny thing.

Hilarious.

When you're happy in love -- whether it's with a person, yourself, your life or all of the above -- you feel lighter.

Hold up. I'm going to switch narrative voices. I'm going to quit assuming I know what you feel like when you're in love with anything. From here on out, this is how I feel.

Lighter. That's how I feel. I feel like I could float. When I have someone to care for whom I love, a friend, a significant other, even a pet, I am determined to do anything for them. I want to give that person the world. Often times, in the process, I forget about giving to myself.

I don't lack confidence. I know my strengths and I'm very well aware of my weaknesses. So, when I find someone who may be lacking this confidence for whatever reason, I want nothing more than to show them that everything is okay. I will lay myself down in the middle of traffic just to show those I love that even that isn't so bad.

In the past, this has eventually led to a very miserable version of myself. I pull out all the bits of myself that I love, I lay them out on the table, and like clay, I form them into what I think this other person might want or need. Then I just hand it over with a big grin hoping that they'll love it and it will make everything better.

I think, ultimately, I do this so this person I love can be happy. I figure that I can regrow what I gave away and give it to the next person I meet who will be in need. This is an exhausting way to live. I am continuously depleting and regrowing myself. It's quite a lot to take on.

The rush I can get when I'm caring for someone in this way is better than any high. It's better than any great meal or any beachy vacation. But the low, after I've given all of myself away, is the worst thing ever. It is a dark feeling of panic and, worse yet, failure. It's like acing every test in college and then, on graduation day, the dean tells you, "You did great here. But it just wasn't good enough. I'm sorry, but we can't give you a diploma."

This is where I have to recognize the importance of setting energetic boundaries and being honest with myself about the intentions I set.

Am I doing this loving thing for my friend because I want something back? Am I doing it because I want to fix him/her? Am I compromising who I am to try to make someone happy (when, at the end of the day, that is not, was not, and never will be an area I can actually impact in any long-lasting way)? We are all in charge of our own happiness. Read that sentence again. Really. Go back. Re-read it. Okay? Does that resonate? The minute you start walking down the dark road of, "If I can have this, and this, and him and her and that, then I'll be happy," you've already signed yourself up for first class tickets to Hell Town. You are, even if you consider yourself an independent, strong-willed individual, limiting yourself in one of the greatest ways.

But if you're doing something for someone because it makes you feel happy to be loving, sweet and giving, then get into it. If there's that little voice that says, "If I do enough of this, then I get some of that back eventually. They'll get happy and they'll be better and then everything will be okay," just stop. Stop right there.

The risk in giving in this basic and very conditional way is a recipe for disaster for two reasons. One, the work you do may not have an impact and may not be wholly appreciated, and that will leave you feeling weak and depleted. Two, if you do make an impact, there is a good chance that this person will think that this is your role in their life. This person, when you're hurting and low (because that happens to everyone), will retreat. They will think you're done giving and go back into their little hole and they may even resent you for it. Additionally, because they are so unhappy, they won't know how to handle your sadness.

Vicious cycle, no?

Love, pure love, is the act of simply letting them be. Sending them good energy and helping where you can, but don't exhaust your mental and physical resources. Be sure you're keeping a healthy reservoir of love for yourself. Create a safe space for that person to be who they are, no matter who that may be, and love them, no matter what. When you feel that pull to go too far and give too much away, check yourself before you wreck yourself.

i'm a yoga teacher.

You heard me. When people ask me what I do, I can now tell them, “I work for a large corporation by day as a marketing copywriter. When I’m not there, I teach yoga and work the desk at a yoga center.”

What? Is that real? No. Yes? Yes!

I went out after a class last night with one of my favorite yoga teachers and we sat and talked shop, sharing experiences while she gave me tips and suggestions. It wasn’t until she dropped me off at my house that I realized that, instead of that being an evening shared between a yoga teacher and a yoga practitioner, it was a hang between two yoga teachers. One, albeit with far more experience than the other, but still, I'm a teacher. She's a teacher. I’m going to type it one more time because it’s so fun: I’m a yoga teacher. 

On the last Friday of 2011, I taught my first class. It was a donation-based, yin-vinyasa class at the Yoga Center of Minneapolis. As a yoga study student, I may sign up for these classes to practice teaching. Clients are well-aware what they are getting into if they take this class. This removes a lot of the pressure to be the best yoga teacher evAR. Seven people came to this class: friends, peers and strangers. When class ended, I walked to my car thinking, “This is it. I found it. This is what I am meant to do. I have never felt more connected to something in my entire life.”

On the first Friday of 2012, I taught another class. This time, 18 people showed up. That’s seven away from the max capacity of the room in which I was teaching. It was the most overwhelming out pour of support and love from my students combined with my earnest desire to create a safe and loving space for each individual. 

Then, last week, on an impulse, as it were, I reached out to a handful of teachers and asked to be on the substitute teacher list at the yoga center. Later that day, I was scheduled to cover a hatha class. I did this four more times – subbing vinyasa and hatha classes populated by 2-5 students possessing a vast range of experience. 

Each 60 to 75 minutes of teaching is a time suck. When I leave the studio, I feel like only five minutes has transpired, while, at the same time, it seems like days have passed. I have two basic sequences I’ve written that I place next to my mat. As I guide my students through their practice, I check in from time to time with the sheets of paper. More often than not, however, I end up just letting things happen. (Nine months ago, if you would have told me this was something I was going to do before I turned 28 years old, I would have fallen to the floor laughing).

For those of you who know me, I’m a planner. I often wonder how I lived before I owned my iPhone. Each minute of every day is planned out. When I have an hour or two to myself, it’s rare, welcomed and also a bit jarring (I’m working on it, I promise). When I’m teaching yoga, however, I don’t plan. I might pick a quote or a focus for the class, physically or spiritually, but for the most part, it’s a unique, organic experience. It’s neither scary nor daunting. It just is. 

At the end of each class, when I say thank you and Namaste to my students, a small lump forms in my throat. I want to tell them everything about myself. I want to tell them how far I’ve come. I want to hug all of them as they leave, thanking them for being in my life for this short time. They have no idea what they’ve done for me just by moving their bodies and taking time for themselves. When I can watch someone moving and breathing just for the sake of doing it – just for themselves – it is the most beautiful form of self love I have ever seen. Witnessing this is like watching a humming bird drinking from a brightly-colored flower. Mystifying and beautiful.  

Tonight, I am teaching another donation-based class. It will be the last of its kind for me as I graduate from yoga study in 10 days. I’m sure I will teach more donation based classes, but it won’t be as a teacher in training, it will be as a certified yoga instructor. 

I love that I have no idea what any of this means, or what the future holds. For the first time in my life, I am okay with not having a plan, while being mindful in my day-to-day life, watching for opportunities and making choices with clear intentions. This is so much better than thinking I have it all figured out, only to find out I have no idea. Just having no idea and being okay with it is the bee’s knees. 

What an exhilarating life I live. I wouldn’t trade this lifetime for a thing.  

circles and waves

Four months.

Four months. So much has changed since my last post. There’s something we should know about each other before I start updating you. When I’m working through things, I write a ton. When things are going so well I could puke, I write, too. When I’m content, I write little. I’ve been teetering between pleased as can be and content for the last four months. I’ve also been so busy that I haven’t had time to write. I want each of these posts to be a rather meaningful portrayal of my experience growing through yoga. And I sure as heck don’t want this to turn into another Dear Diary Blog. Those are just the worst.

That being said, I’ve been day-dreaming a lot about shapes lately. I’ve found, throughout this process of growing my yoga practice, that life is a circle within a wave. (I’m not on drugs. Bear with me.) Here, let me show you:

As you can see, we’re born on the left there. We start at the bottom of our potential. In yogic texts, it is believed that we are our purest form when we are babies. We are totally present, not affected by the world’s distractions. I might seem like I’m going a different, more contradicting route, but it all connects at the end. Promise.

So, we’re born. Bottom of our potential. Nowhere to go but up, but we’re pure. Clean slate. Focused on the present. Not distracted. Great place to be. As we grow, we ride the waves, which come in a series of ups and downs. These are different for everyone. An up for me might be when I finally got a job; an up for you might be when you quit your job. Some ups might be higher than others too. It’s all quite relative and perspective-based, as you can imagine. The lower portions of the waves are our low points in life, or big struggles: the death of a loved one, the loss of a job, depression, break-ups and divorce.  When we’re low, we also much closer to a pure state because all we can see is what’s happening RIGHT now. Grief is consuming.

Everything on the wave from the top to the bottom is the journey to and from these points. This is the part we ignore, typically. Many of us see life as a series of high points and low points without taking note of how we got to each location in our journey. We should try to get better at that.

Then there’s the circle.

My favorite part.

If you’ll notice, the dotted line in my [beautifully crafted] diagram not only creates the top half of a circle that the bottom portion of the wave completes, but it bears the word, “Potential.” Even when we are at our highest points, we can think of higher places we’d rather be. “Okay, so I got the job. Now I just have to save a bunch of money and then I can do A, B, and C.” When we’re low, we don’t look back at the last high point or even toward the next one, we stand in the bottom of that wave and look straight up at what “perfect” might be, and we say, “THAT. I want that.” And we reach. The longer we stand there and reach up, the longer we stay in that low point. Sometimes we’re in our low point and we don’t even know it. Change does not occur until we shift our gaze and look at where we are, gather the facts and start walking, in any direction. Just walk.

Eventually, as we continue to stay present, things get “better.” We start walking the incline. When we get to the next high point, we turn around and we look at the low out of which we crawled and the high from before that. Usually the feeling associated is pride. Also fear. When you’re on top there’s nowhere to go but down. So we try to ride this wave as long as we can. Inevitably, there will be another decline. If we’re smart, we’ll use the tools we learned from the last lull to lift us out of the next.

Now, I’m going to assume that you aren’t a terrible selfish person who doesn’t care about the happiness of the others around you. This is where the circle comes into play. Where ever you happen to be standing on your wave, you can see the circle – you can imagine it. You know there’s a reason this is happening, you have no idea what it is, right now, but you know it’s there. People tell you there’s a reason. It’s up to you to watch patiently and allow the reason to reveal itself. When it does, don’t ignore it, no matter how frustrating that lesson might be. Put it in your tool belt and keep marching forward.

Once that reason is revealed to you, you are able to see why all of those things happened to you, and life, as they say, comes full circle. It’s up to you to widen that circle and share that experience with others. You never know who may benefit from your stories, your ideas and your lessons. We are all connected, as I’ve said before, and we should be kind to one another by helping each other along.

The scary part about all of this is realizing that we are going to experience a lot of ups and downs in our lives. For some reason, we think there is a recipe to happiness and that someday we’ll just be okay if only A, B and C occurred. Some of us are so fond of this concept that we can trick ourselves into being happy if we have these things. I don’t envy those people. I need my downs, they make my ups that much higher.

Resigning to the fact that life is a journey of ups and downs removes the ups and downs altogether.

Jigga-what?!

Yeah.

Slower this time.

If you are somehow able to be present throughout the ups and downs, they won’t be seen as up or down. They will just be. And that’s it. If you’re okay with being whatever you are right now, then there are no highs or lows. No happiness or sadness, just presence, peace and contentment.

That, however, is ridiculously hard to do. I barely understand it myself. So just go with the wave thing. Watch your life as you live it. It’ll pass you by so quickly and seem so sad and empty if you don't.

love everybody

There are people I don't like. I know some of these people. I don't know others. Some of them are just kinds of people. I might not be a fan of these individuals because of things they do or things they've done. They may have done these things to me or to my loved ones. There are other people, groups of them, I don't like because of the things they believe in or the way they act toward the world.

This is judgement. We've all said, "Far be it for me to judge, but..." There's always a but. The sentence rarely ends before the but. So, in actuality, we're judging. And that's not very cool.

We think about these people a lot. We talk about them often. There are several reasons why. It makes us feel better to talk about people who we feel are beneath us. If we can set ourselves apart from that person or that group of people, we feel better about ourselves. It's comforting to feel unique in what is such a vast, overpopulated society. Life seems to make more sense if we feel like an individual.

In the yogic belief system, this is an illusion. This is the ego taking over. This is that little proud voice inside of us that tells us that we're better, bigger, faster, smarter and destined for a better future than others. This isn't reality. We are, in a subtle, but very real way, all connected. Everything you do affects something or someone, or both. Every action and thought has an effect. Every time you think of that friend or ex or enemy who did you wrong, every iota of energy that you give to that person, place or thing has an impact. Not just on the world around you, but also (and mostly) yourself.

I'm going to go out on a limb here. It is possible to love everybody. It really is. Even that person who ran over your pet. Broke your heart. Stole your car. Gave you an STD. Cheated on you. Lied to you. Killed your brother. Mass murdered an entire group of people on September 11, 2001. Many of you might stop reading here. And that's okay. Come back when you're ready. No judgement.

At the start of many yoga classes, the teacher will ask the students to sit in a comfortable seated position with eyes closed. After a few deep breaths and mental excursions into being in the moment, the teacher will encourage the class to pick something to which they will dedicate their practice. This can be a person, an idea, a goal, anything. In most cases, this will be someone or something that the practitioner feels needs attention. I often dedicate my practice to a friend or loved one who is struggling with something. Other times I offer it up to the not-so-simple idea of eternal contentment.

It is thought that when one becomes a more proficient yogi, that your practice should be dedicated to something or someone you have ill will toward. In essence, I would be dedicating my practice to some jerk I don't like because of whatever he or she did. Mind you, one should not be dedicating this practice to the destruction of anything good in this person's life. That would not be very yogic. At all. Instead, the student is asked to send them all of that love and warmth he or she would send to loved ones.

Does your stomach drop at the thought of doing that? Maybe a little bit? I mean, if I'm not supposed to waste energy on negative thoughts toward these people and things, can't I just not send them anything? Can't I just leave it alone? Give them nothing?

Nope. You gotta love 'em.

This will be my first attempt at offering a yoga meditation exercise in this blog. If you're feeling open, read this and give it a go. In fact, if you're feeling closed, you should definitely try this, because it will probably remove a lot of blocks. That's how it works for me.

Find a comfortable position. Seated or lying down. Close your eyes and take several deep breaths. Listen to the way your breath sounds. Feel the rise and fall of all sides of your body as the air fills you and leaves you. Once you feel relaxed and ready, think of someone or something you don't like. Whatever pops in first will do. Don't be too grand, just let it pop in. Your finances, a mean person, a bad friend, a lousy driver, an annoying co-worker. Whatever. Now, think of all the things you don't like about this person, idea, place or thing. Let them in. How has your breathing changed? Has your heart rate increased? Is your brow furrowed? Do you want to shake your head, get up from where you are and busy yourself? Just watch these things. Feel them. Observe. Now, take these things and put them in a mental box. Wrap this box and put it on your lap. Grab it and hold it in your arms. Now, love it. Love it because it needs love. Love it because love is so much easier than hate. To quote a book/movie I adore, "Send them light and love. And drop it." What do you feel like now? Asses your physical body. Your breathing. Your heart rate. Don't judge it. Just observe.

When you're ready, slowly blink open your eyes and take a deep breath.

How do you feel? I always feel better. I hope you do too.

i am not that.

Raise your hand if you have a hard time focusing on what is actually going on at the present moment? I'm not talking about how the current situation makes you feel, or how it could make you feel better, or even how it could be worse. I'm refering to what it is, right now. In its most basic definition.

Example: Let's say it's time for you to go somewhere. Let's also pretend you have a car (you can apply this to any other method of transportation, if you'd like). You get in your car, hopefully you fasten your seatbelt, and you start your car. You put it into gear and you drive. You might turn a few times, stop a few times, change lanes, and the like, but all you're actually doing while you're in your car is driving it. That's all.

Now, who talks to themselves in the car? Who sings along to the radio? Who makes phone calls or sends text messages or updates their Facebook? Safety issues aside, most of us, at least when we're alone in the car (or anywhere), we think. We think about stuff that isn't happening at the present moment. We think about the traffic and how it's good or it's bad and how that makes us feel. We think about where we're going and if we're excited to be there or not. We think about what we were doing before we left wherever we were before we got into the car. We think about tomorrow, yesterday, last year, six months from now. We play out conversations we've had with people, or that we'd love to have with people. We fantasize. We grieve.

Aren't we amazing beings? Our only real task at hand, while in the car, is to drive. To be a driver. Not to feel one way or another about it, but just to do it. Look at all the other things we manage to pack into that task? The rest of the stuff you have going on may seem productive because it a) helps you get things done you otherwise wouldn't have time for, b) it's a time to clear your head (more thoughts on the irony of this in a moment) and c) it -- this one is my favorite -- passes the time.

Why do we always look for something to do to pass the time? To clear our heads? We always have to be doing things, it seems. When is the last time you sat down, closed your eyes and -- stop -- that's it. Just did that? Didn't think or worry or plan or reminisce?

I am a thinker. I dig into life and I pick it apart. I try to think of every possible scenario. I want to know what it all means. For many of my friends, this a big reason they call and ask me for advice -- because there's a good chance I've over-considered whatever they're about to ask me. For many others, it's what makes me seem a little bonkers. Just a little.

Since I've started all this yoga stuff, I've started working on clearing my mind. Just for a few moments every so often throughout each day. I stop what I'm doing, I close my eyes and, to whatever is buzzing around in my curly-haired head, I say, "I am not that." And then I ask myself what I am actually doing. Right then. Right there.

I am driving to work. I am waiting for class to start. I am watering my plants. I am laying in my bed. I am reading a manuscript. I am making a sandwich.

And then I give every fiber of who I am, in that moment, to enjoy whatever that is.

Suddenly, what I'm doing becomes amazing. Holy crap. I'm driving a car. Something that was actually, as far as the span of time is considered, invented pretty recently. How lucky I am to be able to do this. I mean, I own a car. That's a luxury. Think of all the people who were a part of creating this one car. I may never meet them, but we're connected through this 1996 Mazda Protege. Look at all of these other people on the road. I might know some of them, I might meet some of them. We're all packed in like sardines trying to get somewhere and we're all acting like we're worlds apart. Think of the road. How many people made this possible? I'm connected to them too, simply because I'm using it. And so on...

Then, suddenly, you're at your destination. And instead of spending that whole drive thinking about or doing things that, well -- let's be honest -- don't really matter in the long run, you just said a little thank you to all the people who made it possible to do that little thing you do every day, and probably take for granted.

Try it some time. I am not that.

reminder: yoga is saving my life

Today was a day. I think I may have spent two-thirds of it crying. Reasons aren't important. I was hurt. Sad. Feeling lost. Scared. Lonely. You know, normal reasons for crying.

Interestingly enough, my class partner and I had to present on Santosha in yoga study this evening. Santosha means contentment. It goes further than just being pleased with things. It's about finding joy in everything. Every little, tiny thing. Finding joy in rush hour, in the DMV, in heart ache, in death, in divorce, in finding out someone lied to you, in being screamed at by a stranger, or worse yet, someone you love. It's about finding joy in e v e r y t h i n g. I have a tattoo that says, "Just be." Santosha means just that. You can call it coincidence, but I find it pretty amazing that I was given that topic, especially during this time of my life. It is single-handedly the hardest thing for me to do. And I've yet to meet anyone who has mastered it.

Based on the way my day had gone, I was certain I wouldn't make it through this presentation without crying. When I got to class, I could barely control my breathing. Everyone could tell I'd been crying. I got a few sad looks and a couple wordless back pats. Everyone knew. How was I going to do this without making myself look like a fool?

Before we presented on Santosha, a classmate presented on the two yoga poses she was given. After that, our teacher asked the class to chime in and direct her into the pose. Somewhere along the way I took over. Step by step, I put my teacher into extended side angle with verbal cues. I stopped halfway through and I said, "Someone else should do this, too?"

"No!" the class said collectively. "Keep going!"

And I did.

And I did really well. The whole class clapped and my teacher beamed at me. I'd never talked someone through a pose without also doing the pose myself. I found myself using words and ideas that I'd heard during classes. I might not be good at a lot of different things right now, but I'm good at this. And it feels really good. In nearly every class, I surprise myself.

Soon enough, it was time to present on Santosha. I was sure I wouldn't make it through this without crying in front of my class. My partner and I asked the class to sit in a circle and I read a meditation to them. A meditation about smiling. Then we spoke about our personal experiences with Santosha. The class was so engaged. There were no awkward pauses. Everyone wanted to discuss this. My partner and I had successfully stimulated the class and it felt so good to be talking with this group of people about the concept of contentment.

Then it was time to learn Sanskrit. The language of yoga. I picked up on it really quickly. I'm going to go buy note cards tomorrow and I can't wait to make flashcards for myself. 

Six hours ago you could have handed me a million dollars and told me that I could do anything in the world I wanted, without consequences and I still wouldn't have been able to stop crying.

And by reminding myself that I'm allowed to cry and feel like crud about things, I'm also allowed to smile in that moment. I have that choice. And now, I can't stop smiling.

But Master? When will we get there?

Like any good midwesterner, I've got a lake home in my family tree. It's a simple house in northwestern Minnesota with plumbing, heat, and a rarely used air conditioner. It's the one house that still exists in my family that I have visited since I was a baby. Everyone else has moved from the homes they had in my childhood. Every time I visit my cabin, it seems like it takes eight hours to get there instead of four. Whenever I go, I fish, I shoot the BB gun at cans, I swim, I eat good food, I sleep like a baby and I giggle with the purest form of happiness. It's the closest thing I have ever had to "going home."

 

When I was a kid, my brothers, cousins and I would ride up to the cabin with my grandparents in their van. We'd get antsy as soon as we got to this road that was very hilly and we'd start asking our grandpa, "Are we there yet?" And each trip, he would tell us the same story:

 

A donkey and his master went on a journey, they went over the hill, under the hill and around the hill, and the donkey stopped and he said, "Master? When will we get there?" And the master said, "Patience, patience." So they went on. They went over the hill, under the hill and around the hill, and the donkey stopped and he said, "Master? When will we get there?" And the master said, "Patience, patience." So they went on. They went over the hill, under the hill and around the hill, and the donkey stopped and he said, "Master? When will we get there?" And the master said, "Patience, patience." So they went on.

 

The story continues in a loop, without ending, and eventually one of us would yell, "GRANDPA!! WHEN WILL THEY GET THERE?!?!?" And he would chuckle and say, "Patience, patience." We did this every trip up to the cabin, because we loved hearing Grandpa tell the story. We would try to see how long we could listen to it before shouting. We loved the way his voice was the same each time he told the story. Same inflection, same volume, same chuckle. It was almost as fun as being at the cabin.

 

Now, when I bring friends to the cabin, I tell the story when we get to the road with all the hills. Some day, I'll tell my children and grandchildren this story. And I still, to this day, ask my grandpa to tell me the story. It hasn't changed.

 

The story itself has a pretty powerful and yogic message. The donkey is spending all this time waiting and anticipating the destination, while the master is riding along, enjoying the journey over the hill, under the hill and around the hill. Granted, I'd have a patience problem too if someone was riding my back the whole way, and it might be a little easier to take it easy if I was just riding along in a beautiful, hilly landscape. But sometimes you're the master and sometimes you're the donkey. That's life. In either situation, it's important to recognize that you're on a journey and be present in each moment (even the ones where you're sitting in rush hour or waiting in line or, heck, even using the bathroom). Life is full of destinations and departures, but if we all focus on where we wish we were - past or present - and how we just want to get there, we're going to miss out on over half of our lives. The opportunity for growth is in the journey. If you just spent the whole time being anxious to arrive at wherever you're headed, once you get there, it won't be nearly as rewarding as it would have been if you had taken in the whole ride.

 

This is, for me, like rocket science. I'm a list maker, I'm a detail oriented person, I like to plan my life down to the minute. But right now, during this particular experience of loss, financial and emotional struggle, and extreme change - I find myself excelling at taking in the journey. It feels safer this way. To take in this moment as it is and be thankful for it. If I start trying to figure out where I'll be and what I'll be doing in six months, I start to panic because so many things have to come into play before those goals can be reached. It's ridiculously overwhelming. So I acknowledge those goals, grateful that I have them, and let them hang out.

 

This idea can be experienced physically in yoga as well. For me, when I'm practicing yoga, as soon as I hear an instructor tell me which pose to move into, I race into it. I want to show my brain and my body I can do it, and then I sit in the pose for as long as I'm told and then race to the next one. In the last week, I've slowed that way down. I've used my breath to link one asana to the next, slowly, feeling my hips shift, my shoulders engage, my glutes tighten, my ankles wiggle. It has created one of the most intense experiences for my body and mind. I find that I'm able to stay in poses longer, my breath is deepened. When class is over, I feel like I'm buzzing. 

 

So, take a couple minutes this week, when you're in your car, waiting in line at the grocery store, sitting through a really boring part of your work day and be present in your journey. Move a little slower than you usually would and try to remember what that feels like. It'll save your life. I promise.