What have you come to receive? What have you come to give?Seven years after being invited to consider that, as a student in a workshop I was there not only to receive the teachings, but to contribute something to the experience, this precious inquiry continues to inform and inspire me.
It reminds me of what my mom used to say before we went to a party: "remember that you are here to give." Early this morning, with the self-imposed deadline of sending this to you today, I am struggling to write. Feeling blocked by the collective tiredness of a busy month, the pressure to produce, and the loop of "not enough ness," I wrote: What is in my heart now? What can I possibly offer? At this very moment, 5:36 am Monday morning, I don't feel like I've got a whole lot. And you know what? It's ok. In fact, after a super-scheduled month, my energy reserves are low. I can hear now my dear friend Adele saying with a smile and a wink: "So, you are not Superwoman?" No, indeed. I am not Superwoman. And yet, I always have something to give. Today, it's simply my attention. This moment when I am writing and thinking of you reading this. When we are connected through space and time, sharing nothing more, nothing less than our presence. Actually, what is more precious than presence? And in our digitally-distracted, hyper-active, over-stimulated, under-nourished culture, bringing your whole attention to a single moment is no small effort. In fact, it feels like the biggest challenge for me and therefore is the heart of my practice. And right now, with birdsong in the background, my cushion calls, asking me to please pay attention. To honor this sacred time with myself. To offer my devotion and dedication, and in exchange, to receive the sense of being at home that comes when I sit and breathe and move and pray and practice presence. So, I send this out to you with love and gratitude for receiving what we are offering at Mytree and for all that you are giving to support and sustain our blessedly ordinary human community.
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Today marks the one year anniversary of what I call the “getting off the fence” phase of my life. Though a number of personal, and likely planetary, factors aligned to create the conditions for a year in which I experienced firsthand and in so many ways all the phases of the cycle of life, it began exactly one year ago today, when I was literally pinned to a wall, upside down.
Inversions are, of course, a regular part of many asana practices. Not mine. Though I practiced them occasionally, I never felt like I “got” it—both the point and the benefit. And they scared me. Every time I went upside down it was like flipping on the negative self-talk switch and letting all my insecurities run rampant in my mind. So when practicing with my teacher he announced that we’d be doing not only handstands, but handstands with backbends, I wasn’t stoked. In a larger class I’d usually just do it half-assed and then spend the rest of the time rolling around on the floor. But since we were four students, and all of us good friends, there wasn’t anywhere to hide. After a few demonstrations with pointers about how to proceed, I gave it a go. I can’t remember if I got myself up or he assisted me (probably the later), but once I was up he helped me into the pose, guiding my hips towards the wall and my heart away from it. Then he supported me by pressing my thighs against the wall, cueing me to press my chest forward. Once there, the floodgates opened and the familiar chorus of doubt, fear, and shame began: “I can’t do this. I’m going to fall. I’m going to break something. I’m not strong enough. What if he drops me? Why am I doing this? I don’t want to do this! I’m too weak. How am I going to get down? I’m going to fall….” Usually, when practicing on my own, I would get to this last thought and come out of the pose. But this time, I couldn’t. I was being held. I wasn’t falling. When I realized that I was, in fact, quite secure, another voice, quieter yet clearer than the others called out from deep within: TRUST. In this moment, I recognized that I had a choice: trust that I am held or freak out and fall. I chose trust. And thus began a year of nearly daily inversion practice. I started with this posture (I have no idea what it’s called, google wasn’t any help). Getting up and into the pose took a few days, but getting out of it—off the fence—took weeks to figure out and months to master. I just couldn’t figure out how to move my bum away from the wall; it felt stuck. And then I remembered something that another teacher said to me years before as I was contemplating leaving my job; she said that I had been living “on the fence,” in a perpetual state of non-commitment. Plagued by fears, I preferred to remain on my perch with a view of life rather than actually getting down in the dirt and living it. More impactful than the accuracy of her assessment was that, as she was noting my hesitation to dedicate myself to my heart’s calling, she was also dying. Literally faced with the fact of mortality in the form of my beloved teacher, the choice to pursue my passion was clear. But, over time in the years following her death and my career change, I veered back toward the fence. Choosing familiarity over freedom, I found myself again stuck in routines and relationships that hindered the seed I sensed germinating in my soul. Again, the death of a magnificent woman, one who started as my student and became a dear friend, rekindled my resolve. Two months later, there I was on March 1, 2018 with my world turned upside down and faced with what I now understand is the most fundamental of choices: whether to trust. To trust that you can hold yourself. To trust that when you can’t hold yourself, you will be held. To trust also that falling is part of it. In the months of mourning and inverting and getting off the fence, the soundtrack of doubt and fear got a lot of air time. But as I continued to practice, not only handstands but also letting go—I started to hear also my authentic voice. The one that called for trust in the midst of panic. Like my arms which went from feeling wobbly to secure the more I got my feet up, the more I listen to this voice and speak with it, the stronger it becomes. What I’m hearing lately echoes the simple advice of Julie Yip-Williams in her memoir Unwinding the Miracle, which I listened to this past week while grieving the passing of yet another dear friend and former student. The book is a collection of blogs Julie wrote during the five years she lived with, and eventually died from, cancer. In the final chapter she implores her readers to “Live, friends! Just live.” And that’s what getting off the fence means to me: living wholeheartedly. Diving in, facing fears, and taking chances; trying and failing and maybe someday, remaining upside down, bum off the wall, with my feet in the air. Trusting that I can hold myself up with my own two hands and, when my hands tire, that I will be held. And when it's time to fall, trusting that here, too, I will be held. Last Saturday, in our sweet studio that I was certain could fit 8 yoga mats, 17 teachers on 15 mats assembled to move, breathe, chant, drink tea and talk. It was a healing moment on many levels. When I started writing these love notes 6 years ago, I wrote about a conversation that I'd had with my teacher about whether there was enough room for the growing number of yoga teachers in our small community. As a new teacher trying to establish myself here, I had to believe the answer was "yes." As a veteran teacher who was herself training a number of the new teachers, she wasn't so sure.
Since that conversation, a lot has changed for both of us and for our yoga community. But, through shifting alliances and expanded opportunities to practice, the opening of studios and the migration of teachers, the influx of students and emergence of yoga as an industry, what remains is Yoga. Just as our kula is in constant flux, so is Yoga, and has been for more than 5,000 years. The practices adapt to the needs of the practitioners even as the essence endures. And this is what was so inspiring and important to experience in the company of my colleagues and friends: this practice, which we all "do" differently, is expansive enough to welcome us all. It is only our limited perspective--like my conviction that we could fit half as many people as we did--that inhibits our evolution. My wish for each of us is to sense the spaciousness in your mind, heart and life. May you let go of the question of enoughness. Trade it in for a new inquiry: what else/who else can you include? Notice when limiting beliefs take over: whether you're considering how many people you can host in your space, what your next career move could be, or what kind of love you give and receive. And when the light of awareness shines on entrenched ideas, may you remember that like everything and everyone, you are constantly shifting, expanding to encompass reality as it evolves. In other words, there may be room for it all, but you get to choose what (and whom) you invite into your mind, your heart, and your life. May we greet this new month--one in which we celebrate Love--with the intention to invite Love in. Even as we head into the darkest days ( it sort of snowed this morning!), I feel the light within as vibrant and clear. And, after spending last week as a student in Yoga Teacher Training, I am full of inspiration and insights to share both in my own offerings and by supporting our growing tribe sharing their own gifts.
Last week, we celebrated our one-month anniversary! Thank you so very much to YOU for your support: from attending classes and telling your friends to connecting with us on social media and simply asking how it's going. (By the way, it's going super good, as you'll see from our gorgeous offerings). And in this time of flourishing --when it feels like anything is possible and there is so much creative energy bubbling up around and within the space--what comes through is the recognition that this moment of blooming is just that: a moment. Part of a natural cycle of equally precious periods of birth, growth, and decay which are always occurring simultaneously and harmoniously. For example, as I write this, my dear friend Prue is spending her last day here in Ticino before she returns to Australia and, as thrilled as I am that the seed of her intention to grow her family in her homeland is about to sprout, I feel deeply sad to close this chapter of our friendship. Insert your favorite cliche about doors opening and closing or flowers blooming and withering or waves rising and falling. We all experience this. It's when we "go with the flow," to use another cliche, neither attaching nor resisting that, no matter the circumstances--dark and rainy days, the loss of loved ones, and the manifestation of our dreams-- that we access the light within. If you're called to reconnect with your radiance, there are a few spots left for the Yoga + Self Care day retreat next month and tomorrow is the last day for the early registration discount. You can save your spot by contacting me directly. With Gratitude and Grace: the light in me honors the light in you Namaste View the entire Newsletter here. After less than two weeks of opening the space, it felt at the very least unwise and more like terribly indulgent to head to the Bernese Overland over the weekend for a yoga retreat with my teacher, and yet, it was the very thing I needed to restore balance and recharge my energetic and spiritual resources.
In a culture that uses spreadsheets to measure success and values productivity over peace, prioritizing self-care is a radical act. Whether taking three minutes to breathe consciously or three days to study in community, the results aren't quantifiable, but the impact extends far beyond the individual. As Parker Palmer writes: "Self-care is never a selfish act - it is simply good stewardship of the only gift I have, the gift I was put on earth to offer others. Anytime we can listen to true self and give the care it requires, we do it not only for ourselves, but for the many others whose lives we touch." This week as I spend time with my kids during their school holiday, I'll draw on the reserve of patience and presence replenished by spending time conversing with spiritual friends and communing with nature. Each morning, the well gets refilled through the daily ritual of rising an hour before the others to breathe, sit, and move. Most evenings, a bath or a book or an oil massage invokes relaxation and rest. These are just a few of the ways that I take care of me so that I can take care of whatever and whoever needs my attention, which at the moment is building legos with Isla and Mavi. Because ultimately, the revolutionary potential of any self-care practice—including yoga—lies in its ability to empower us to take care of ourselves so we can truly care for each other and our world. It is my sincerest wish that, at Mytree Yoga, you discover a welcoming space where you can come as you are, connect with kindred spirits and dive into practices that support and sustain you in your daily life. Enjoy our offerings this month, spread the word, and take really good care of yourself. View the entire newsletter here. Hey there, it's been awhile! Seven months, to be exact, since I wrote and sent a letter to you. Not much has changed on the exterior, but as I've taken time to explore my inner landscape, the shifts within have been both subtle and seismic. And as ever, my practice is to remain present with it all.
As I write this, 20 years ago today I graduated from high school in Park City, Utah and soon after took my first yoga class from Tiffany Wood. That summer, one evening every week my best friend and I joined the other beginners assembled on the lawn outside our local athletic club as Tiffany guided us through asana, meditation, and my favorite, the nap at the end. During a time in my life when I used marijuana, alcohol, sex, and bulimia to cope with the uncertainty of my future and life in general, Yoga entered as something to keep me occupied and out of trouble, yet over the course of the next two decades emerged as my passion and my purpose. It's always easier to view with hindsight the steps along the way that lead you to your current position and, looking back, I remember hundreds of moments ranging from apotheosis to crisis that, when added together, equal a pretty clear map pointing to here. As with all trips, the journey has been highly personal and also totally universal. The gift of yoga is that, no matter where you start, with the help of a skilled guide, every road leads inward, to the center of your own heart through which you can view the universe. As the visionary poet William Blake writes: To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour To view the macrocosm in the microcosm--to look at the world and see yourself and look at yourself and see the world--this is both the work and the reward of a disciplined yoga practice. Although each of us must follow our own path, we do so in the company of others, or as Ram Dass says: "We're all just walking each other home." I've been beyond fortunate to be accompanied by outstanding teachers: Erin Geesaman Rabke, Peter Francyk, Kelly Griswold, Smadar and Barto Lanza, Jeff Fisher, Elena Brower, Uma Dinsmore-Tuli, Yogarupa Rod Stryker and now, Stephen Thomas. I could fill volumes with the teachings I've learned from each of these generous and gracious guides, and someday I probably will, but for now, I'll share a recent treasure--a variation of the message all my teachers express--gleaned during a training with Stephen. He opened our latest course with a teaching from J. Krishnamurti to engage in the learning process not to gain something, but rather to be in the experience. Echoing the lesson of the Bhagavad Gita that we have the right to act but not to the outcome of our actions, Stephen emphasized Krishnamurti's point that the process, which is happening in the present moment, is where yoga happens. And then, in his easeful and earnest way, he encouraged us to "have the guts to be yourself." It wasn't the first and it won't be the last time I'm reminded to just be me; in fact, I'm pretty sure one of my senior year quotes was Polonius' "To thine own self be true." But still, I lose my way, sometimes hundreds of times a day, sometimes for weeks; there were a few years that I detoured off the path completely. And then, in an instant, the way becomes clear and I realize I am already home. In this way, we all traverse the territory of our lives; may we do so with the courage to be ourselves, the compassion to love one another, and the clarity to see that we are always at home here. Earlier this month, I spent a week on retreat to study with one of my teachers, Elena Brower, and her teacher, Yogarupa Rod Stryker. Both are considered master yoga teachers and it was a privilege and an honor to not only take lessons with them, but to be able to witness them in the context of daily life—albeit at a lovely hotel in the quiet German countryside.
We were 55 participants from all over the world, mostly women, ranging from lifelong yoga practitioners to curious students, seasoned teachers to new instructors, and even a professional scholar. Every morning and afternoon, we gathered for a 2.5 hour session lead by either Elena or Yogarupa. Although my personal practice has shifted significantly in the year since I last saw Elena, her cues and style are familiar to me. Her voice comforts me and the postures she guides us into feel secure and soft in my body. As we slid into and out of trikonasana, triangle pose, the echo of hip-clicking in the room triggered the judgement loop in my brain, but I continued following the sequence to the rhythm of my own breath—generally half a length longer than everyone else. For at least 15 of the nearly 20 years I have been practicing asana, I have been encouraged to honor my own breath rhythm and understood it to mean that the movement aligns with the length of my breath. And it has been a fundamental aspect of my own teaching. It’s probably my most repeated cue in class: “follow your own breath” or “let your own breath guide you.” So when Elena asked us to try to stay together with our movements, I freaked out. In my own head of course. Suddenly, the coziness of her language felt restrictive and my own left hip started to ache. Though my body continued to perform the movements, my inner monologue went into overdrive: “what the hell is she talking about? We are not supposed to be a chorus line! This is not a Zumba class! I am honoring my own breath rhythm, my special and unique rhythm—the way you’re supposed to.” Then, as I started to look around and see that almost everyone was already in sync, I remembered something she said the day before: “scars of the past imprint on our bodies and show up as resistance in a posture.” Switching from judgement to curiosity, I began to notice levels of resistance: physical, mental, emotional. How much of my practice is spent in resistance. How much of my day is spent in resistance. How much judgement my body holds as an ache here, a tension there. How, even as my movements link with breath, the key ingredient—present awareness— was missing, and therefore, so was yoga. Because it has almost nothing to do with shapes and everything to do with the body, mind, and breath being in the same place at the same time, yoga is not so much something that we do. It is who we are when we’re doing something. And as Yogarupa reminded us later, “Our yoga should be increasing our accessibility to feeling the fullness of who we are.” And, just as yoga is so much more than asana, who we are is so much vaster than our individual self. Prioritizing my body and my breath reinforced a cultural, familial, and personal belief in a fundamental separation of self, in sanskrit terms jivatman, from Self, atman. My dear teacher’s request to practice in unison provoked self-preservation mode, sending distress signals in the form of aches, tension, and judgement, all reactions to a threat to the old way of feeling only partially who I am. Thankfully, I have had the support of masterful teachers whose embodiment of living as one’s fullest self serves as an ongoing inspiration for continual personal evolution, and after several days of considering the invitation, I finally stepped outside the boundaries of my familiar and solitary way and into the realm of collective synergy. On the one hand, it’s so simple: breathing at the same rate and moving in the same way with others. On the other hand, it’s a radical act of affirming one’s own divine humanity. Practicing in unison takes the focus out of me and my experience and connects us to the field of awareness that precedes self. It requires that we attend both to our own breath and to the life force as it moves through everyone around us. It dissolves any sense of isolation and elevates perception to encompass an expanded awareness. It puts us in touch with who we want to be so that after we all rest and receive that slice of heaven that is savasana, we can gracefully attend to the rest of the day and, when resistance arises, instead of recoiling back into habitual ways and limiting reactions, we might pause, get curious, and make a choice that honors our fullest sense of Self. "It's all happening." This mantra that runs throughout one of my favorite films, Almost Famous, is a delightful invocation to awareness and an exuberant surrender to presence. It's a light-hearted reminder to pay attention and be with what is. The characters in the film say it often, as a greeting and a goodbye, in the midst of a memorable moment, and when things are falling apart. Again and again, they remind each other that it, life, this, everything is all happening.
Last time we were together, my mom reminded me of a centering practice that our mutual teacher and my beloved friend Erin Geesaman Rabke teaches called "Weather Reporting" in which you simply report exactly what you are experiencing in a bodily way at the moment. Unfiltered and unembellished. It's called Weather Reporting because, just as there is no inherent drama in a thunderstorm--it's water and electricity and light and sound--there is no inherent story behind what we are experiencing. It goes like this: Sitting on my desk chair, my ankles are crossed and the left toe is touching the carpet. I am chewing on my lower lip and feeling heat and a dull ache in my lower back. Outside, an airplane buzzes by. A fly buzzes against the window inside. I taste the chocolate I ate earlier. I hear the wind chimes tinkle and in the corner of my eye, I see my daughter and her friend twirling, looking at their reflections in the windows. Softening my belly, breath comes in and goes out. The keys on the keyboard go clack clack clack cluck. Another airplane flies by, apparently going the other way. What's the point, you might ask? Instead of getting involved in the story that each of these observations might inspire (fear about the pain, annoyance at the sounds, guilt about the chocolate, wistfulness about the girls' play, boredom with the writing, and on and on), this kind of straightforward inspection teaches us to become aware of what is happening independent of our opinions, beliefs, imagination, and evaluations. This is especially helpful to remember when checking in with the news or social media. If I can catch myself for even a minute and just notice what's happening, I can let go of judgement, doubt, vitriol, indignation, and all the other shades of fear that 5 minutes on my phone tends to trigger. For me, it's easier to practice in nature, especially on my paddle board. The invitation is to test it out for yourself somewhere you are at ease. The more you practice, the easier it will be do access when confronted with what triggers you and to remind yourself that "it's all happening." We have a little sign in our kitchen that my mom gave us. It says: "Do one thing every day that scares you." Our recently-literate daughter asked me about it the other day: "Mama I don't like being scared; why would I scare myself on purpose?" She has a valid point. At best, fear is an uncomfortable emotion. Most of us spend a great deal of energy avoiding, overcoming, conquering, quieting, and calming our fears; why would we intentionally pursue opportunities that activate them? My response was to do a simple demonstration involving two pieces of rope that I learned from the group leader of an Outward Bound course I chaperoned when I was seven months pregnant with my current inquisitor (talk about doing something that scares you!). There's a great infographic that circles around every so often that illustrates the point perfectly (I've shared it previously a bunch of times too): We should do things that scare us--and often--because it's where the magic happens. Facing fears is how we see fear for what it is (an emotion), release its grip on us, and recognize that our response is our choice. It's not about getting rid of the fear, but accepting it and making a conscious choice to act, or not. Because, of course, there are times when an inner alarm bell rings or we have a "gut feeling" that it's not a good idea to tandem paraglide with an unlicensed guide, that doing an inversion will do more harm than good today, that your blind date is a creep. Instinct keeps us alive and intuition guides us down the right path. But too often, we fall into the rut of habitually reacting out of fear and miss the growth opportunity that lies just beyond the boundaries of our comfort zone. Following our chat, I resolved to do the thing that always makes my heart beat fast and my palms sweat: ask for help. If you've been following what I'm up to lately, you may have noticed that I'm organizing a Women's Yoga + Meditation Retreat with Prue Klausener. This event is truly a dream come true: the retreat center is idyllic, sharing sacred circles and self-care with women is my genius work, and all of it is happening in collaboration with a true soul sister who shares my passion and brings her own amazing treasure chest of talents. All this is to say that the stakes are high in terms of my personal and professional investment--I really want it to happen! So I checked my ego and opened my heart and wrote some messages to women I have met over the years at workshops and events asking for their help in sharing our retreat with their yoga community and offering to share their work with ours. As I write it now, it doesn't sound like a big deal at all. At the moment I hit "send," it felt like a giant step into scary-town. All my insecurities and anxieties surfaced in my mind like scum on a pond. And then I remembered what I told my girl: remember, what scares you is also what expands you. For the last week, I've been receiving super-supportive responses, and I've been able to share some of their work as well. I deepened friendships, and we even have a few more people interested in joining us. Magic. In the weeks ahead, I'll continue reaching out, although the butterflies in my belly have quieted. Because that's how it works with fear, once you face it and do it anyway, your comfort zone expands. And I'll even do it here: if you would like to offer your support by sharing our retreat with your people, let me know and I'll send you some flyers and a hand-crafted essential oil blend as a thank you. This month, may we each commit to heeding the advice of my kitchen sign (thank you, Mom) and make facing fear a daily practice. Have the hard conversation. Say "no" to your boss. Say "yes" to an invitation. Look people in the eye. Practice arm balances. Talk to a stranger. Stay sober at a party. Speak up in a meeting. Dance wildly. Sing loudly. Eat cake for dinner, hell, eat it for breakfast! Resolve to step outside the confines of comfort and into the unknown, without expectation but with a great big heart full of hope and arms wide open to receive what awaits you on the other side of fear. Exactly three months ago, on the last day of 2016, after spending the most delightful afternoon sipping tea with a dear friend I hadn’t seen in 10 years reminiscing about the good old days and filling each other in on where we are now, I popped into Nordstrom, arriving 10 minutes before they were closing and frantically bought an new pair of jeans, knowing it would be the last piece of clothing I’d buy myself for 365 days.
Inspired by my friend and colleague Michela Montalbetti, who has been documenting her year without clothes shopping (which finishes tomorrow), I considered the idea for several months. I started noticing how often my trips to the grocery store ended with a quick stop in Zara or checking my inbox often devolved into browsing the latest offerings at Anthropologie. In spite of having lots of colorful clothes, I noticed that my “look”, if you can call my uniform of yoga pants + t-shirts a style, is very “fifty shades of grey,” not for it’s sex appeal. Even though I’d done a full Marie Kondo clean out last spring, it seemed that at least once a week I pulled several items out of my closet that didn’t “spark joy.” In fact, few things in my closet spark joy. The rest spark “bleh.” As I started to notice these tendencies, I started to change my habits. But the idea of doing a clothing-diet kept surfacing, along with a thousand reasons why not to do it, most of them about what items I “need.” And then there was this one: “I can’t.” To which the other voice in my head responded: WTF?! I can’t? I can’t not buy clothes for a year? Seriously? I can stand on my head on a paddle board in the middle of lake, but I can’t refrain from purchasing fast fashion? I can naturally birth two children—one on the floor of my bedroom—and I can’t refrain from buying more yoga pants? This is not the person I want to be. I’m still figuring out who that is, but I’m damn sure that I do not want my predilection for cheap grey t-shirts to overrule my ability to draw a line in the sand and stay on the side of my values. Because, if I’m really honest with myself, not only do most of the items in my closet not spark joy, but they aren’t aligned with my principles. While I try to be a contentious consumer when it comes to groceries and I’ll pay extra for organic kale (though that has it’s own host of issues), all bets are off when it comes to what I wear. Of course this carries over into so much of our daily life—it feels nearly impossible to participate in modern life and not be an accomplice to injustice and a cog in the machine. And that creates a sense of dissonance and disconnect, a general unease that is always there, but we live with it because what other choice is there? Well, I’ve found one: push pause. It’s like taking a child’s pose before moving into an arm balance: it offers some time to regroup, reconnect, and ready oneself for the challenge. So I’m hanging out in child’s pose now. Turning my attention away from the shops and inwards to take inventory of my values, and my closet. In my personal quest to experience alignment, it’s a helpful exercise and has been much easier to not shop than I imagined it would be. What’s proving to be more difficult is confronting my aversions and attachments and seeing all the ways that I settle for “bleh” instead of patiently seeking joy. But I know that resistance is a good indication that I’m on the right path out of my comfort zone and into the territory where real growth happens. And the new jeans help too. |