To Manifest

I'm beginning to see a common thread weaving through my life: I don't think I'm good enough. Sure, I know that I have good friends, I'm well-liked, I have people that love me for who I am and nothing more, but when it comes to manifesting the things in life I feel I deserve, I second guess myself. I stop writing because I think it's in vein. I spread my arts and crafts all over the kitchen table, dedicate a few weeks to creating, and then I hit a wall. I buy fancy cookware and cook books, and they collect dust on the stove and on the shelf. I have so many resources at my fingertips, but when it comes to going through with something completely, or putting myself out there in any kind of risky way, I freeze.

I'm taking this year to listen more closely to my intuition. She says to create, to flourish, to do the things I love. But there is a part of me that battles it out with my intuition, it asks the type of questions that hold me down time and time again--or rather, it doesn't ask questions, it simply says: you can't do that. It says, "You can't make money by selling arts and crafts, Jane." "You'll never make enough money simply teaching yoga," "You don't know the first thing about cooking," "No one is going to publish you...No one even knows about you,".

Instead of standing up to these voices, I give pause. Doubt, right now, is my biggest enemy. So instead of learning to listen more to my intuition this year, maybe I need to make the commitment to act on it more often. I fear that others will question me and doubt my actions, but I must remember that their doubts are only a reflection of my own. Perhaps that doubt is some form of parental love--only trying its best to protect me from myself. Perhaps. And if that's the case, I will simply say to myself, I understand that you're scared and you are only trying to protect me, and I appreciate that, but let's open up this channel that is blocked by fear and learn to manifest things that flow in and feed my spirit, instead of just protecting it. 

Soon, I hope to learn to approach these challenges in my life the same way I approach challenges on my mat: just going for it. I remember being a beginner and thinking to myself, "I can't do that!" Now, several years later, I can't remember the last time I had those thoughts in class. It doesn't matter if I can't do it perfectly, I always try. If I fall, I laugh. If I get hurt, I take it easy. If it takes years to do something, that's okay because I'm still doing something I love.

The Wisdom of Full Bloom

I have been taking note lately, and noticing more that there are no blanket statements that can apply to all of life. Wisdom, instead, is knowing when it is appropriate to apply certain lessons, teachings, understandings to a particular situation. There is no one-size-fits-all approach. Our lives are constantly transforming, and so our understanding and the wisdom we apply to our constantly evolving life situations must adapt.

There are two books I am currently bouncing between: “Healing Wise” by Susan Weed, which was lent to me by my sister and “Nothing Special” by Charlotte Joko Beck. “Healing Wise” is a testament to the Wise Woman tradition of healing—or nourishing, rather. It discusses the difference between this tradition and the Heroic tradition, which includes many other forms of alternative healing, and the Scientific tradition, which we understand as modern medicine. The crux of the book—the way that I understand it—is that, in the Wise Woman tradition, we are always whole, and always possess the power to heal ourselves through nourishment—not through constriction or adding or subtracting anything. By simply accepting what life offers to us, in our health and in our sickness and struggles, we learn to honor the wholeness of our being. We do not need to cleanse or purify or take complex medicines—all of our healing can take place through acceptance and looking to the earth for our nourishment in the form of weeds—things that grow wild and freely, much like our natural sickness and struggles.

It’s an interesting thought, and one that I understand mostly through the lens of Buddhism that I am more familiar with. Not surprisingly, “Nothing Special” draws deep parallels to this message in “Healing Wise”. Interestingly enough, the chapter in Beck’s book that draws the closest parallel to the Wise Woman tradition is entitled, “Preparing the Ground”. This chapter explores the “path” of our practice and the challenges that we find along our path:

“In a sense, our path is no path. The object is not to get somewhere. There is no great mystery, really; what we need to do is straightforward. I don’t mean that it is easy; the “path” of practice is not a smooth road. It is littered with sharp rocks that can make us stumble or that can cut right through our shoes. Life itself is hazardous. Encountering the hazards is usually what brings people to Zen centers. The path of life seems to be mostly difficulties, things that give trouble. Yet the longer we practice, the more we begin to understand that those sharp rocks on the road are in fact like precious jewels; they help us to prepare the proper condition for our lives…There are sharp rocks everywhere. What changes from years of practice is coming to know something you didn’t know before: that there are no sharp rocks—the road is covered with diamonds.”

In essence, both “Healing Wise” and this chapter in “Nothing Special” are talking about the same thing—that our sickness, our struggles are the jewels of life that enable us to grow and to flourish. Often times, however, it is not until we are looking back on our path that we recognize the true value of these struggles. While we are stuck in the struggle, we cannot see outside of the awful situation. It takes practice to step outside of the struggle and see diamonds, instead.

And yet, while I read these books and begin to understand their message, I am struck by one more thing: my garden. Last weekend I cut some flowers and brought them inside. I filled the vase with water and arranged the brown-eyed susan’s, the peonies, and lavender in the glass. The peonie was bright pink and in full bloom. Two buds were formed: bright pink balls sticking out from the vine like the antennae of a butterfly. For a few days I watched the blossom that had been in full bloom the day it was picked, peak, and begin to wither. The petals drooped, some fell onto the counter. Then I began to notice that the buds that had been bright pink began to wither along with the other blossom—but they had yet to bloom! How could I save these buds and give them their due? I let what was the full bloom wither for one more day, and then I did what any gardener would do: I cut off the dying part. I cut it off so that the other two buds would have a chance to blossom. And they did. Today they opened up, beginning their accent into full-blown, full-bloomed glory. Bright pink petals unraveling from the center. 

Had I only known the Wise Woman Way, and blindly followed the advise in “Nothing Special”, I would still have a dying flower, pulling the nutrients from the water, keeping the two buds from bring nourished into their full potential. And where’s the beauty in that?

As we walk on our path, struggle can be a gift, a lesson, a diamond. Some struggles, however, no longer serve us, and these struggles need to be cut off from the stem where we are still growing. True wisdom not only holds many truths, it holds truths that seemingly contradict each other. Living with wisdom involves knowing that there are no blanket statements and there are no rules with how we walk on this path.

A Taste of Freedom

This winter seemed to drag on longer than usual. Cooped up in a small 1 bedroom 1 bathroom apartment with my loving boyfriend and 2 cats, brought the both of us to our knees. For the first time in my life, I felt what depression was like—the longing to just lie in bed all day long, not having to face the grim world. I think it was a combination of forces that made me feel this way—the winter, the living situation, the dismal state of our country and the world. Wallowing in a dark cloud of misfortune, I started feeling so unlike myself that I knew I needed a change. I needed to get away. There was some yearning inside of me that I did not know how to appease. How would I get life back to the way it used to be?

One evening, I just made up my mind to do something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time: I signed up for a retreat at the Insight Meditation Society center in Barre, Mass. At the time, I didn’t even know what workshop I was signing up for—it was the one that fit best into my schedule, it was short (Friday night – Sunday noon), and it was accessible (only an hour and a half drive). I booked it and that was that.

Of course, I booked it about a month or two out, and as spring began to make her subtle entrance, I was already feeling better. When the weekend finally rolled around, there was a part of me that knew it would be different, it would be hard work, it would be unfamiliar…I debated not going. But I am very disciplined and I went anyway.

The course I signed up for was called “A Taste of Freedom” and it was a silent retreat. All we did from Friday evening until Sunday at noon (seriously) was sleep, sit in meditation, eat, volunteer job (mind was washing dishes in the kitchen), sit, walking meditation, sit, walk, sit, walk, sit, walk, eat (thank god! Lunch!), sit, walk, sit, walk, sit, tea (=dinner), sit, walk, sit, sleep, Repeat. The first half of the retreat was torture. I kept noticing that my mind would jump ahead of me and start to formulate how I might be able to pass the time more quickly, how maybe I could just skip the next sitting mediation, maybe I will go for a walk instead. Whenever I would sit in meditation, my mind would go foggy and I would drift off into a dream-like state. That is not good meditation.

But after lunch on Saturday I noticed a shift. I had gone out into the garden after the meal and sat on the bench facing a large Buddha statue. There were twigs and flowers and beads sitting in his palms and resting on the alter—gifts that other retreatants had put there. I just sat there in the cool air and asked this statue if it might help me clear my mind. Could it help me with my meditation?

When we went back into the sitting hall and I closed my eyes, there was a sharpness there that certainly hadn’t been there before. My attention was steady, on my breath, and I would notice the split-second when my mind would begin to wander off. I would watch it, notice it, and then I would gently draw it back. There was a physical ease, too, to this sharpness of mind. My body was more comfortable sitting for the 30 minutes, and I could almost feel the focus resting in the front part of my brain, right between my eyes.

When that meditation session ended, and I opened my eyes, I felt refreshed, not tired. I thought to myself, “I could meditate for another half hour right now, and it would be great”. It was the first time in my life that meditation felt wonderful. For the rest of my time at the retreat, I enjoyed myself fully with every moment. I did not let my mind wonder off in ways that would distract me from the task at hand. I would simply sit when it was time to sit, walk when it was time to walk, eat when it was time to eat, and sleep when it was time to sleep. It was easy, and it was blissful.

By the time it was over and it was time to go home, I did not want to leave.

It has been a few weeks now since the retreat. Re-entering the real world with lots of noise and TVs and radios and people chatting and cell phones and computers and talking and taking care of things…it was jolting to say the least. I think it actually took me about 24 hours to remember how to multi-task. But that sharpness of mind, that blissful state that I experienced was so authentic that even though I do not feel it now when I sit in the mornings, I know that I have the potential to feel that way, and just knowing that is blissful in itself.

This was the meditation hall. I was the sixth row back from the alter, third cushion in on the right side. I had to count because we weren't really supposed to make eye contact with people, in respect for the silence (that part, I didn't really understand. But that's okay.)

When It Rains It Pours

You know those days that seem so mundane all morning, all afternoon, and then all of a sudden, it's like a flash flood of events that pour down all over your day? This was last Friday for me.

Almost getting hit by a car will surely wake you up. I was walking out of a fairly uneventful day at the office, crossing the parking lot. I watched this guy in a white hatchback look just one way before pulling out of the row of parked cars to make sure no other cars were coming. He didn't think to look to his left, where I, unarmed with a car of my own--just exposed to the elements, was walking. Though I believe I noticed that he did not see me, I kept walking, which was not so smart on my end of course. And these would have been my last words had anything actually happened: "whoa. Whoa. WHOA Dude!".

He stopped just short of me--because I did a little hop-skip-jump-run to get out of his way. When he slammed the brakes he stopped so that I was looking into his driver's side window down at him. I saw his surprised and remorseful face, making wild hand gestures that somehow meant he was sorry--that he hadn't seen me. I waved him off, "it's okay" I said. I didn't want to have a long chat about it so I just kept walking, hoping I never run into him inside the building ever.

But, as I got into my car I felt the tears well up. My life had just been threatened. I had almost been hit by a car. This is what it feels like for life to so sharply reach out for you and miss. It was scary. Some people might respond to a situation like this one--when their life is so blatantly threatened--by opening the car door and punching that idiotic driver for being so stupid. But not me. I just wanted to be alone and cry.

I wiped the tears from my face, looked in the rear view mirror to make sure I wasn't all puffy eyed, and I made my way to Whole Foods to pick up some groceries. I was walking in to the entryway where all the carts are folded together in long steel lines, but this time the carts were all pushed from their corner and scattered amid the two automatic doors. The culprit: a woman trying to save a bird.

I asked her what she was doing. "There's a little bird stuck in here somewhere, and he keeps trying to get out and slamming up against the window here, and he's panting very hard. I've never heard a bird pant! And I think he might die if I don't get him out of here...And he's in these carts somewhere."

Personally, I didn't want to deal with a dead bird today--the way she made it sound, I thought the bird would already be all mangled and dying and hopeless--like when you find a young bird that's fallen from the nest and it's so sad, but there's really nothing you can do. I so badly wanted to say "poor thing" and walk on into the store, get my groceries and leave. But I couldn't. I helped her disentangle the carts from each other and find that silly bird, that was still very much alive and well. People looked at us like we were crazy--two crazy women in Whole Foods trying to save a bird--actually--I'm sure that happens all the time. After a few minutes I was able to keep the automatic doors open and the bird flew out on its own. We breathed a sigh of relief and the crazy woman and I went our separate ways.

Driving home, I was listening to NPR like usual--some program like All Things Considered or something on the lighter side when 5:30 hit and a voice announced "And now, the news". In a 30-second time slot I heard again about the plane that had crashed, the sad state of the economy, and a suicide bomber that had detonated among women and children. That's when I lost it. I lost it driving, which is a very bad thing to do because when tears are pouring out of your eyes, it's very difficult to watch the cars around you and that little yellow line in the road. But I was close enough to home that I just had to make one more right turn, wailing in my car, my heart plummeting to the floor...beyond the floor, to the center of the planet. I sat in the driveway and just cried and cried and cried. For almost getting hit by a car, for the little bird that I saved with a crazy woman, for the victims of the plane crash, the suicide bombing, all the people struggling with the economy.

I didn't feel much better by the time I wiped my eyes and got out of my car. I waved to my neighbor who was also just getting home from work, wishing I wasn't such a mess so that I could finally introduce myself, and hoping that from her vantage point she couldn't see my mascara smeared all over my face. I made it inside to my little apartment and concluded that I just need to stop watching and listening and reading the news. Not surprisingly, it has made me feel better.

Power of Lovingkindness

I teach every Tuesday night at a gym in Glastonbury. I love this class because it is the only class I teach that is mine every week--and has been for quite a few months now. There are many "regulars" that I have become noticeably more comfortable in class and with me as a teacher. 

Recently, my supervisor at the gym approached me with some feedback she had heard from someone who was a "long-time yoga student" at the gym. She referred to "him" and so that narrowed it down to three people--and then she said he had a more advanced practice, and I knew who she was talking about. The feedback was good--I need to break things down a bit more and offer more modifications for people who might not be able to do the full-blown pose. I like to think that I take criticism well, so I took this in stride and made a concerted effort to slow my classes down just enough to get everyone up to pace.

Though there were many familiar faces in class last night--there were a few new ones as well. One woman, in particular who was new (and, mind you, in desperate need of a clothespin--YTT will know what I'm talking about here...) looked as though she had definitely practiced yoga before--but was by no means a longtime student. Halfway through class, after a meditation on loving-kindness (loving a  loved one, loving an acquaintance, loving an enemy) and warm up, we got to it. I brought the class into extended warrior and from there, placed the hand on the mat and walked them into balancing half moon pose.

The class had been through this pose many times. It's a challenging pose, no doubt, but it is about strength and concentration--not so much on flexibility. This newer woman made a huff coming into the pose, standing up, and looking around. I noticed out of the corner of my eye and simply went throught the speil that, yes, this is a challenging pose, but if you fall out, simply try again and again, building the muscle memory. 

The second time around (on the left leg), I came over to this woman.

"If you like, you're welcome to do triangle pose instead here", I said, demonstrating.

She gave me an astounded look and said, "I just think it's way too early in the class to be doing this!"

"Okay" I was thrown. "Well, if you want to try triangle pose instead, you can do that". And with that I left her to her disbelief and amazement that I would even attempt to bring the class into a challenging pose that they had done many many times before.

For the rest of class, I could literally feel this woman's contempt oozing out of her. I think she even laughed and shook her head when I brought the class into a classical twist--or maybe that was just my imagination. Either way, by the end of class, I was feeling challenged. How dare this woman tell me what I can and cannot do in my class and what she thinks the class is ready for. It is an all-levels class. I am not going to keep everyone on the floor rolling around so that they can be soothed. People need to work in order to feel.

I sat in meditation at the end of class while the rest of the students took savanana. At first, my thoughts hovered around this woman and this situtation--how I so badly want her to say something to me after class so that I can stand up for myself and speak my mind. Oh, that would feel so good. I'm just getting used to standing up for myself, by the way. But then I remembered what this class was about: loving-kindness. So for laughs, I sent all my loving energy to this woman and to this tension between us.

I felt my heart beating with contempt--for the chance of confrontation--I felt it leaping again and again into my throat. But with this loving-kindness, I imagined this woman as a friend, as a family member. I stepped out of my own shoes and saw the situation for what it was--something I had totally blown out of proportion. Maybe she was right, maybe she wasn't--it didn't really matter. Her opinion was her opinion and as a teacher I have to make room for that and be respectful to her needs. My heart melted. The anger melted. And I sat at the front of class absolutely loving this woman for the opportunity she had brought for me to open my heart.

This might be a mushy story--but there is opportunity for this kind of feeling everywhere. The joy that came from this choice to forgive and to love, gave me an unbelievable high for the rest of the night. It's not always this easy to send loving-kindness to those that challenge and frustrate us--often times, the situations are much more complex. But it was this simple situation that gave my heart the greatest exercise of the day: opening.

Teen Yoga

Good deed of the weekend: my good friend, Carrie, subbed my Teen Yoga class on Sunday night. Thank you Carrie!

Good Things

Let's be honest. There's a lot of bad going on right now. I don't even need to list them out because you know what they are--and whenever the topic comes up, I feel like my words are only perpetuating the negativity. So I've decided to move in a different direction--because it is crucial to remain positive. There's still a lot of good things out there, and that's what this is about.

Starting today, this is my aim: to document a good thing every day. It doesn't have to be big by any means, but it must be present and heartfelt. The idea started when I was at the gym yesterday, using the changing room. I notices a pair of socks on the floor, made sure they were not mine, and thought nothing more of it. I dressed, exited and was about to dry my hair when the woman who entered the changing room after me poked her head out and asked--with a smile, "Did you lose and pair of socks?".

"No, I did not. I saw those. They must belong to someone else."

Both of us continued on, but I couldn't help but feel such deep appreciation for this woman--simply asking if I had lost my socks. Maybe because it's been a hard month at home, at work, in life. Maybe because it was just not the best day. I don't know why it touched me the way that it did, but I mulled this woman's kind action around in my mind knowing that these things happen all the time, every day--to me! How blessed I am.

So I went about my day--the normal way. I had to stop at the gas station on the way to the yoga studio, and as I was waiting to leave the parking lot, I noticed that the gas cap on the car in front of me was open. The traffic kept passing us by--there was no opportunity to exit--so I just sat there behind this car, looking at his gas cap, wondering what I should do. I actually got anxious! And I don't get anxious all that often. I knew I should get out and close it for him. But there was another part of me that felt shy--and it's not like it really made a difference if it was open or not...and it was cold...and what if the line of traffic broke just as I got out...how embarrassing. But the traffic line didn't break, and we continued to sit there in our warm cars, separated.

And then I just did it. I got out of the car, walked up and closed his gas cap shut. I could see him try to look at me in the rear view mirror. I made a pathetic gesture at the gas cap as I walked away. I was getting back into my car when I noticed he was rolling down his window."Your gas cap was open," I said.

He smiled. "Oh. Thank you."

I think we were about the same age. I was still anxious as the traffic lightened and he pulled out into the road. I made my way out after him, cautiously slowing over the ice heave in the entryway.