The next chapter

I haven’t unveiled my plans to my current employer yet, however I’ve decided to relocate back to Chicago, IL.

I’ve been greeted with a series of setbacks and challenges since I arrived here in my beloved Las Vegas valley.  The studio, Crawl Space Yoga, never got off the page an into reality.  My love, well, it just didn’t work out.

I got sick.  Pretty badly sick.  More than once.  Spent lost hours in the dreary barns of St. Rose hospital and UMC hospital; neither of which provided the quality of care anyone would ever brag about.

Despite these setbacks, I forged on.  I went through a variety of reasonably decent job positions.  Especially reasonable given the high unemployment rate of this tragically scarred city.   Nonetheless, the point to leaving Chicago was to leave behind the Monday through Friday, 8-to-5 work week which robbed my spirit of its light entirely.  I say that melodramatically but the fact is I have a chronic pain condition in which this office lifestyle literally inflicts physical pain.  Pain along my temples, my jaw, my neck, my shoulders, my back.   I need to move around often and that tends to stave off the swelling pain of stagnation, of being jailed to a desk beneath flourescent lighting with a windy, 40-degree draft abusing my head every 15 minutes.

If you read about Fibromyalgia, you know that sufferers have an extreme sensitivity to cold.  Chicago, please PLEASE be kind to me.  My last winter there I remember blow-drying my fingers and toes just to thaw them.

Back to the “decision”.  I was involved in a head-on collision two weeks ago that totaled my car. The details of the crash are disputable.  Nonethless, there are so many unanswered questions and too many mistakes made to consciously fight another day here.  I give in. I give up.  Vegas, you beat me.  You won.  I go home….for now (as if leaving my couch and bed behind is a promise to myself that I will return in 6-9 months)

I have not given up my dream of opening Crawl Space Yoga one day.  I certainly have not given up my [ersonal yoga practice, or my passion and dedication to its evolution (my constant learning).  I will bring my paints with me as I did on the initial relocation.  Yoga, painting…these things are part of me.

But I have given up my dream of building a home and marrying my love.  I will return to Chicago with a broken heart, this I know.  But it is necessary.  I tried to “get over him” here, but I just keep stumbling over my own feet in worse, more damaging, harmful ways I hide from this blog.

The positives of this choice?  Well, I have the opportunity to quit the Monday through Friday 8-5 routine by riding on the coat tails of a promising friend.  He promises me abundant workloads I can conduct remotely (from anywhere).  And if that is true, then the entire world really is my playground.  God willing.

I’ll get a new car.  I’ll get a new career.  I may even get a new love.  I am very confused.  I admit.  But I am still in here, in this body.  And there is the faintest percentage of myself stimulated by the idea of another, drastic life change.  Could this be the best choice I ever make?

Like my First Kiss

Last Saturday morning, despite the oppressive cage of fears and doubt, I showed up for my new, beginner yoga student ready & willing.  Our lesson ran almost two hours.  I reprimanded myself after the fact (as is my immediate instinct to almost any action I take) for the frequence of start-and-stop’s, start-and-stop’s. I forgive  myself.  She is hearing these Sanskrit terms and alignment instructions for the very first time.   I am imparting them almost as if for the very first time; given my lengthy absence from teaching.

One of the most interesting & challenging facets to instructing beginners is adapting instruction to accomodate my student’s particular needs, limitations and strengths.  It is as if I am unlocking a secret, the revelation that will help this person feel better inside her skin.   As if walking in the dark, or swimming through mud, there really is no way to know for sure what you’ll discover along the journey.

After our lesson, I felt a surge of joy I haven’t felt in months.  It felt like my first kiss. I was energized.  I was optimistic.   I was overcome with gratitude for the practice, for my mentors, for my own body, for my student’s willingness.  It all made sense in that quarter of a day called the afternoon.

The mysterious pain, stiffness, dizziness and tinnitus that plagues me continues its wrath, though I knuckle my way through it with a positive attitude.  It’s tough to push like this.  I’ve even taken on a second private student.  I stacked her lesson after my first on Saturday even though I know that my body is weak and limited, that I have but two days off to myself.  I choose to be of service.  I cling to that surge of energy and support I felt after last Saturday’s inaugrual lesson and I use that as my committment to serving these beginners so that they may be healed.

Yoga Saved Me Once, It’ll Save Me Again.

2011.  What a year.  I was fired in January 2011.  Lucked out by landing a new, full-time job two weeks later.  Only to get laid off in May 2011.  Lucked out by landing an even better, new, full-time job a month after the fact-which I still work at today.  Great group of people.  Good company.  I should be more grateful.

Lord knows I worked my tail off to secure employment.  My livelihood and my residency in Las Vegas depended on it.

2011.  Most of the year spent underneath the  false, nauseating illumination of fluorescent lighting and fiber ceiling tiles.    Yoga factored in to my initial termination last January. I was “caught” stretching for 10-15 minutes each morning in a back conference room and reprimanded for it.  Later, it cost me my job.  Ironic.

Today, I see new yoga studios sprouting up all over Las Vegas in the same commercial lots I’d researched for my own yoga studio in Las Vegas.  I wound up chickening out altogether due to a lack of financial support and a risky economy.    The dream is one of those things, ya know, like the invariable difficulty of heavy traffic , or how toddler tantrums erode your sanity….the dream is always there just nibbling away at my present moment; reminding me what I could be, should be, would be doing…

I became violently ill in late November 2011.  I missed a lot of work between November and December.  Is it any coincidence that I’d also stopped practicing yoga altogether somewhere around late August/early September?  I just quit doing it.  I excused myself because I was always SO exhausted from my job…not just tired; EXHAUSTED.

How one goes from being so close to the fire you get singed by the flame to stone cold freezer-burnt?   My whole body, my mind, my heart suffered in the absence of a yoga practice. And I got sick.  Really, very sick.

Today, I continue to endure chronic pain in my head, jaw, neck, shoulders and middle back.  Day after day, the pain reminds me I’m alive.  I resumed stretching, even resurrected an at-home yoga practice in an effort to curb the pain. It hardly makes a difference.

This year, 2012, I resolved to get back to teaching yoga in Las Vegas despite my limitations.  Despite the chronic pain all over my upper body. Despite the full-time work schedule confining me to a cubicle five days a week.  I am going to get back to yoga.  When my heart broke in January 2008, I enrolled in my instruction program.  Now that my heart is again broken, I return to the place where I felt beautiful.

Yoga has a tendency to do that to people; make them feel beautiful, I mean.  I am one of those women who simply can’t stand the sight or the sensation of her own form.  Putting it to use, however, in expressive and therapeutic ways transformed this disdain into an appreciation for my body.

I imagine I will always feel some degree of conflict between myself and my body especially with all this pain built up inside it.  But there is yoga, and the panel of idols who led me to it, showed me its potential, its roots, its possibility, its safety.

My first student is an acquaintance of mine here from Las Vegas.  We do not know each other well, and I suspect she’s already written me off as a flake for rescheduling our first private, yoga lesson.  But this journey we are taking, she and I, it’s an adventure for the both of us.  I, a novice instructor all over again and she, a hopeful, inexperienced yogi.    This Saturday is our first session together.

 

I will introduce sun salutations (Surya Namaskar), a selection of standing poses, a balance pose, and a handful of floor poses to cool down before Savasana.  I haven’t identified a guided meditation to use yet…as if some divine intervention will somehow bring me the exact message I need to impart upon this student I just wait until the moment strikes to pluck a spiritual morsel out of context for this new student.   I will let you know how it goes!  Welcome me back on the Yoga scene, Las Vegas!

I thought I was a waste of space, so the universe put me to work

I went for a short bike ride this afternoon.  I’m never happier than on my bicycle under a mild-tempered, afternoon sun. 

 About ten or fifteen minutes into my ride, I came up to a side street called Robindale.  Across the street were two elderly ladies waiting to cross to my side. One looked noticeably younger than the other.  She had that stereotypical, Ronald McDonald, flaming, faux, red hair. She also used a walker.  The other lady had creamy, light hair that matched her light beige jogging suit. Both hair do’s were cropped short the way little school boys where their hair.  (*I often wonder if there is some unspoken rule about aging women and their hair?  Is it mandatory to crop my hair above my ears past a certain age?)

While I waited for passing cars to cross the street, I peeked at the ladies through my oversized sunglasses with gaudy, white frames.  As if in slow motion, the red-headed lady began toppling forward and veering toward the right.  Suddenly, she flipped face-forward over her walker, bashing her head on the metal post of a street sign as she spilled down.  

I rushed over to help.   Myself and the other lady hoisted the victim back to her feet.  A well-dressed, Mexican man pulled over immediately in his irridescent pearl cadillac as well as a very pregnant white woman in her gigantic SUV.  Together the three of us fussed over the injured woman. 

The man pulled a couple of towels from his backseat.  The pregnant woman fetched a bottle of water from her truck.  I had a paper towel in my nap sack so I pressed it against the gushing wound on the woman’s forehead.  Blood pooled in the creases of her left eye lid.  I carefully tried to wipe her eyes out and instructed her to take deep breaths.   

With all etiquette out the window, I felt compelled to pet the woman’s shoulder for support. I even patted the man on the back too for a job well done.  The three of us helpers didn’t really say much to each other.   We all went our separate ways once the lady’s wounds stopped flooding.  I never even got  their names. 

I hope that the woman’s wounds heal comfortably.  I also hope the two others who stopped to help reap luck and joy for their good deeds.  There truly are kind people in the world.  Today reminded me so.

From High School English to High School Math

Why does bad high school poetry get published?

I came across an ad in our Las Vegas newspaper for a poetry reading of a Pulitzer-prize nominated she-poet who will remain nameless throughout this article(…so as to retain some good karma for myself).  I looked forward to the event for two days! Scheduled my whole Monday around it! Invited friends [who all declined].  Parked in a risky “staff” parking lot.  Wandered for twenty minutes in the dark around a college campus I’d never seen.

 I admit it felt remarkably exhilarating to find myself beneath those unflattering, orange campus lights; same as my alma mater ten years ago.  I peered into classrooms and down hallways wherever possible.  I blended in so well with the students on the quad that it was even hard for me to believe ten years has gone by since my academic days.

 Finally I found the right room (in the anthropology museum?).  I opened the doors and met a familiar stench of unshowered men.  I’m talking moldy socks, body crust, dandruff…. how that rotten odor’s omnipresence bridged high school and college years. I told myself these kids don’t get to do laundry every day, and that it costs $12.00 in quarters to do a load.  I remember what it was like.  Never was I so lazy to stink up a whole room, but hey, I know where they are coming from.

 The funk was oppressive. I sucked it up (not literally) for the sake of fine art and the pleasant thought of pretending I was 21 again. 

The poet herself was mid-poem.  I hustled to a seat and tried to focus. 

 The first 25 minutes I honestly gave this woman my open mind.  But I just couldn’t accept her.  The work reminded me of the Goth kids I went to high school with whose poems always included the staples: death, blood, bloody, my soul, your soul and my personal favorite “ flesh“.   Ew!  I’d like to go on record and dare any of you to present me with a poem that is both excellent and includes the word flesh.  I do not believe it exists.  As soon as the word Flesh is pumped into a poem, it automatically obliterates it to smithereens.  I’m just saying….

I’m still trying to figure out what a “bi-right” is?  Based on the numerous contexts in which it was used, I gather it to be a rig or industrial construct of some sort?  That said, this woman lacked stage presence altogether.  She stumbled through her own poems and, at one point, announced she “hadn’t read that poem in 12 years”.  Gee, thanks for preparing for your public poetry reading, madam. 

Her appearance was unkempt and disheveled; which is normally forgivable if you are a true academian too enthralled by your craft to care about these things.  The more she talked, her slop began to grossed me out.  She punctuated unnecessary curse words during deliberately awkward and embarrassing breaks of iambic pentameter.  Her poetry lacked wit, newness, innovation, correlation and frankly I found it just plain gross.  And, I don’t give a damn about Laurel trees.

 Sigh. 

I feel guilty for poet-bashing on this crisp winter’s night. 

The evening wasn’t a total loss.  I extracted a pebble of inspiration out of an otherwise flat-lined attempt at creative thought.   Here is my baby poem born from the marriage of disappointment and hope.

My onyx city….a place to pray

Under your gluten eyes

In their graduated hostility

For endings

 The walls hum around you

And around my yoga glow

 So many endings….sappy, happy, nerve….endings

 I try to translate the language of fire….convert its size, shape, flame into English. 

This makes nervous. 

I’m bored. Let’s eat.

 

- – - –

In other news, I visited two potential teaching sites today. They seem promising; in a sense that I might teach there, not in a get-rich way.   I also practiced my “yoga-speak” on a dear friend and fellow instructor.  Concluded that I need to practice teaching bicycle abs and instructing a safe triangle pose.  Teaching yoga is a hard job.  You think you reach the ledge of know but its more like know-has-no-ledge.  Reminds me of  high school geometry: 

Line

Connects two points via the shortest path and continues indefinitely (forever) in both directions

http://www.helpingwithmath.com/by_subject/geometry/geo_terms_definitions.htm

Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. -Shakespeare

Though I have bad days like everyone, the ratio of good days since living in Las Vegas far outweighs the bad.  I’ve had so many happy days!  Here I am.   All by myself.   In my car. Driving to the Las Vegas Athletic Club job interview-it’s an open interview, so anybody can go.  It’s not like I’m special but I feel great.  I feel great.  The sun is shining.  The mountains are showing off as usual. I look pretty in my black blouse and pencil skirt.  I feel pretty.  It’s a great, great day and there’s really no scientific explanation for it.

It’s coming from within.  No external source has told me that I’m anything special. It’s coming from the inside.  I have this light lifting me up.

I’ve started to get back to my own practice for the first time in several months.  How amazing it felt; even if it was only 20 minutes of practice without a savasana (relaxation) or meditation at the end….um….it still counts!  It was ME returning to my core, my passion, my joy.  All good stuff!

My personal practice rekindled an aggressive romance with Ardha Chandrasana (Half-Moon pose) and Utthita Parsvakonasana (Revolved Side Angle Stretch).  I love these poses!  I’ve always been overtly fond of them.  In fact, I might me the giddy school girl squealing in the back of class when an instructor guides the class into either these poses.  They are uncommon at the classes here in Las Vegas. 

I love Ardha Chandrasana because it allows me to BEAM like a star.  I imagine that my lower abdomen is the center of a bicycle wheel, my arms and legs stretch long as if to be spokes from the center of the wheel.  And I shine.  Bright smile.  Open heart.  I shine.  I release the pose into a forward fold (Uttanasana) and express my gratitude to the universe for inviting me to be so bold.

I love Utthita Parsvakonasana because it rings out blockages in my waistline.  I remember struggling in this pose for many years much the way I struggle in Upavistha Konasana (seated wide angle pose) today.   I blamed a layer of [non-existent] fat on my troubles.  It wasn’t until an instructor suggested I lift my crown toward the ceiling, lengthening my spine, did I find the space to actually twist comfortably into the pose.  To trust that behind me there was invisible support preventing me from toppling over.    

I was overzealous with my attack….forging into the full pose without taking the preparatory steps to reach it.    I take my time with it now.  I ease into it like brownie batter.  As my hips spread, and my spine spirals around, I feel a surge of relief coursing through me.  Aaah.

Returning to a personal practice takes courage.  It requires commitment and discipline and may seem scary and isolating.   I cannot force it.  I cannot derive “measurable goals” from it.  I can only listen to my heart and let it lead the way.  The heart appreciates such submission and rewards its subject wildly.

Conviction….realized

Conviction….realized

This morning, my sweet, pregnant and sassy colleague Brianna and I took our usual pit stop at [insert Brand Name Bagel Shop] for our morning coffee and snacks.  The song piping in over the sound system was Paula Abdul’s Promise of a New Day. 

“See!” Brianna sassed, “It’s an omen. You did the right thing and better times are coming”

Brianna was referring to my recent resignation from the office job I’ve held all of five weeks before cashing out.   

It’s true that I need money to pay my bills and support myself.  It’s true that Las Vegas has the highest unemployment rate in the nation. It’s true that jobs are simply not available. Those jobs that are available are the ones nobody wants because the sacrifice and suffering that accompanies them surpasses the paltry paycheck in return. 

I am grateful for the awareness that I cannot be confined to a 4×2 plywood desk for nine hours a day, 5 days a week.  I am grateful that I have been blessed with a  companion willing to cover me on his modest-at-best earnings so long as it takes.  Love at its shiniest, I say.

When I relocated to las Vegas, I was determined to submerge fully into all things Yoga.  That determination dissolved as quickly as my savings account in a devastated economy.  Sheer financial panic prompted me to pursue “a full-time job” with impenetrable obsession. 

For tax purposes I pulled together the numerous receipts for various vaccinations, health cards, alcohol awareness cards, three sets of fingerprints, drug tests, duplicate transcripts, $150 application fees,  even a CPR class  that I was required to take in order to get a job.     In sum, I spent over $1,000.00 just trying to GET A JOB (that I never got)

Point is this….when you disregard your instincts for the sake of ‘reason’ or ‘practicality’ your chances for success (however you define it for you) drop dramatically.

Something clicked inside me over these last few, frustrated weeks imprisoned in my office.   I know what I must do.  I know where I must go.  The momentum is as palpable as fresh cut onion.  As solid as lonsdaleite. 

At last my heart and mind reconcile.

“Cliché of the day – the journey is the fun part; the real part….where life is lived” –Michael Lechner

Promise of a New Day

Eagle’s calling
and he’s calling your name
Tides are turning bringing winds of change
Why do I feel this way
The promise of a new day

Chorus:
The promise
The promise of a new day
as thru time
the earth moves
under my feet
one step closer
to make love complete
what has the final say
the promise of a new day

And so time over time
what will change the world
no one knows
so the only promise
is a day to live, to give
and share with one another
see the wisdom
from mistakes in our past
hear the younger
generation ask
what has the final say
the promise of a new day
-Paula Abdul-

The Parts

As if I could come up with a better title than that? My yoga practice has been compartmentalized to precisely that: parts. I’ve resumed work in a dismal office to make ends meet; thus sacrificing the great American dream to pursue my ambition as a small business owner (yoga studio). Rest assured I am working twice as hard to kickstart my business while simultaneously juggling this full-time job. I am weary of everything in and around me. I cannot be certain this job will sustain me. Each moment that I am hear my spirit whimpers with grief. My heart is absolutely clear on my path, however my bank account begs to differ. As I try to sort out the parts: the important, the essential, the indulgent, the glorious, the shed-able, I find my yoga practice to be little more than a stretch behind my office chair here and there. I’ve tried to practice in my residence however there are obstacles that prevent a deep and meaningful practice from occurring; namely the fact that the carpet is saturated with dog urine. I occasionally become so desperate for yoga that I lay a sheet down over the soiled carpet and attempt a few postures. I’ve tried attending local yoga classes at my gym. There are two teachers whom I trust to take me from my suffering to bliss however I doubt most yoga instructors at this particular location have ever undergone formal teacher training. It’s alarming that so many unsuspecting yoga students entrust their bodies to instructors who “teach” (i.e. act) for their own gratification. As a result, my yoga practice, my understanding and appreciation of my own body, my awareness of spirit, mind and wellness have dwindled to this: parts. As I write this, my body aches every where. My neck is an inch shorter than normal. My shoulders slouch around me like a limp, wool blanket weighing me down. My fingers are brittle. My arms are noodles. My sacrum aches. My belly swells. My legs fold uncomfortably under a cheap desk while my crunched, suffocating toes are confined to old heels I wore in my former life. I hurt. I know how to not hurt. It requires more than parts. It requires a WHOLE…..thing. A whole session. A whole day. A whole year. A whole commitment. A whole person.

All things change…as will these parts….as will this job….as will my attitude.  Holding on to the idea of prosperity.  Let me be a part of Prosperity.

The Year of the Celebrated Loser

Hi.  My name is Angela.  I’m a loser.  Every now and then there’s a window during my day when I feel connected to a greater source that insists I am a normal, worthy, moderately attractive, well-educated, loving, loveable, apt and capable person.   But that window usually closes in the same breath it took to bust it open. 

Luckily, circumstances lend a heavy hand to prevent that window from widening.  Take today, for example….

I saddled up on my bike for a ride in the midday sun.  I love my bike.  Not in a ‘competitive cyclist’ kind of way, or even ‘doing this for exercise’ kind of way. I love my bike in an “I’m playing outside” kind of way.  Purely for joy.  Childlike, unabashed, innocent and pure, tear-to-your-eye joy.  The kind of fruit so juicy you have to eat it in a bath tub naked.

My translucent skin soaked up the plentiful Vitamin D. I held a half-smile for 35 minutes of riding and solitude.  Just me, the sun, and the electrocardiographical zigzag of mountains guarding the valley I now call home.   As I peddle and try to ignore how badly my squeaky, neglected bicycle needs a tune-up that I can’t afford, my thoughts dilly dally between gratitude and excitement, “ I have a new job!  My sister’s baby is perfect!  My whole family is healthy.  I love my sweetheart.  I got a job at last!  I can help us!  New possibilities!  Financial stability!   The stars!  Yoga! How lucky I am!”

Poof.   No you’re not.

With the retreival of a single voice; that of our foreign receptionist, I lost my job.  Lost that possibility.  Lost that financial stability.  Lost that gratitude. Lost the stars.  

Why? 

No explanation offered.  However I’m acutely certain that no one gets cut if they are “too good” at their job.  Though in this case, I hadn’t even begun my job, hadn’t even been given the opportunity to perform. 

I’m left to surmise only that I was absolutely poor in some way; no matter how massive or minute that way.    I sucked at it.  

Folks.  I began training for a job on Monday.  Today, I was asked not to continue.  They didn’t tell me why.  Considering we sat in our seats all three days of training, maybe I’m just really really bad at sitting in a chair? I’ve fondled the swiss cheese in my cranium for answers.  See, without a valid explanation, my imagination is afforded too much room to roam.  

I got cut because I wasn’t good enough.  For a simple job at the bottom of the totem pole….I wasn’t even good enough for it.  

This afternoon my dear friends and loved ones puffed me up with sympathetic excuses, “that’s how restaurants are.” ”restaurants always overhire before they open and then lay people off”, “it wasn’t meant to be”, “there’s a better job waiting for you right around the corner”.

Really?  Really.

I don’t believe that. I don’t believe that “when one door closes another opens.”   Just saying.  I don’t.  When one door closes, it’s closed.  Period.  End of the story.   Funny. My high school English teacher noted that I was a genuine Pessimist (to which I took grave offense at age 17).  How on point he turned out to be.

I do believe every time I say yes to one thing, I am inherently saying no to another.  

Due to ’inclement’ circumstances, I feel appointed to nix the outside world and welcome  my raging loserhood this evening.  Excuse me while I crawl into my balasana (child’s pose) and water my bedroom carpet with celebratory tears.  This too shall pass.   

Signed,

-Natural Born Pessimist. Foolishly aspiring to contribute to the world in a positive way.  In perpetual life training.

Adrift among the cosmos

At long last I resume my blogging.  It’s been so long I’m embarrassed to say I’d even forgotten my password to log in to this thing.   It’s not as if I’ve been overly busy or ‘tied up’ with other obligations. On the contraire, these past five weeks have felt more like the real me went to sleep; leaving only the  randomest (and not so sightly) parts of myself to sustain the appearance of life.

I diverged from my career goals after losing a tank of confidence.  The days I spend idling in the foul mouth of discouragement; its tongue filing my spirit down to the marrow. (I remember suddenly the story of G-d sparing Jonah in the belly of a whale).   

The stormy transition was to be expected.  Change as radical as this is never seamless.  But I am not, nor ever was, the pinnacle of grace and seasoned prudence that probably should’ve been required to continue the committment I made to yoga practice.

 I have tried numerous yoga instructors and numerous studios in search of solace and mentorship to replace that which I lost when I left Chicago.  After ten or more mismatches, I finally found beacons of hope. Diamonds in the rough.

Since mid-June, I was added to the schedule to teach Monday and Friday mornings at A Body in Balance on the NW side of Las Vegas.  To date, not a single student has participated in my class.

Since mid-June, I was added to the schedule to teach Monday and Thursday evenings at Child’s Play on the SW side of Las Vegas.  To date, one student participated in my class.

It is disheartening.   But enough about my personal “sticky”. Let’s get back to the meat.  The real reason I do this.  The passion and the beauty.  The yoga!

Today’s class (which no one showed up to) began in a sitting meditation (Sukhasana) pose.  First some time for breath awareness.  Then some shoulder massage, neck rolls, shoulder shrugs and shoulder rolls.  Side stretches and a little repetition I like to call “knee bows”:  you bow while on your knees.  Duh.

I wanted to do Sun Salutations A,  Yoga Mudra, Warrior I, Pyramid, and Warrior III.  I was so pumped to try this sequence with the arms wrapped behind the back, cupping the elbows.  I like the way the forearms rest just above the kidney loop, in the valley of the thoracic spine. It’s soothing to me.  I wondered if it might soothe students equally? 

Returning to a sun vinyasa to wipe the slate clean,  I wanted to move to low lunges on the knee to open the iliosoas muscles, followed by hamstring stretches to open the backs of the legs in preparation for Hanumasana.  Hanumasana, monkey, is one of my personal favs.  While I’m not particularly comfortable in the pose, I still love it.  I use a block for support beneath the hip bone, and I love to suspend the “leaping monkey” for a few breaths; imagining I too am leaping over my strife with an open heart and a sense of childlike playfulness.

I’d have continued with Down dog, into Pigeon and Marichyasana.  I’d have ended Savasana with legs up the wall, block under sacrum.  I love this energizing, restorative, healing, happy pose. 

 

I suppose I’ll pocket the plan for another class.  It’s just that I really enjoy writing a sequence the day of or the night before I teach.  I spend time on it.  I run through it myself and adjust the sequence where things don’t feel natural.  I really love to weave in affirmation and meditation.  I LOVE teaching yoga classes. 

 
Some of the other, more established instructors at my studio utilized me as a substitute on occasion.  I LOVED these opportunities because students actually showed up!  The pressure was one but I did what I had to do.  I am constantly doubting my abilities, but I get out there and do it anyway.  I know the only way to improve is by doing-ya know, make your mistakes – learn from them and move on. 

 

I’m aimless and I feel as if this post is an appropriate reflection of my aimlessness.   It’s good to record these strange moods on the page.  I wonder often how I will look back on this year of my life.  I wonder if I will write it off as the year I went crazy.  Or the year I made the best decision of my life.

 
I need love.  Every day, through all the funniness, breakdowns, zigzagging, trying and failing, reaching, restraining, lifting, dropping, spending, saving, beating, breaking, building and blinding…I always know the one true fatality of my world.  And it’s that I need love.  

I can’t describe the gestures, or the ways, or the measurement of my need.  Just that it’s probably borderline excessive and it probably needs to come from within where I keep prodding for it out there.

 

Heavy knuckles and eyelids ask me to end here.  Good night.