Democracy*

I would not describe myself as a "patriot."  I don't fly an American flag or have political bumper stickers that extol the values of American democracy.  Frankly, I often cringe at those things - probably from a dislike of over-simplifying complex ideas into cute 5 letter phrases like "freedom is not a gift."

But, I was reading the New York Times today,** and there was an article about how Egyptians voted yesterday in a referendum to either accept or reject eight constitutional amendments, which are designed to lay the framework for parliamentary and presidential elections in a few months.  And in the article, the reporter interviews a man who was often turned away at the polls under Mubarak's regime and told "You already voted, go home." or "We know what is best for Egypt."  Yesterday, after he finished voting, he said "I feel like I am flying.  It is something coming from deep within my soul."

Despite my patriotic cynicism, I felt a shift within me.  And maybe even a kind of excited kinship with this man.  Ever since the stirrings of the uprising in Egypt occurred, I have had a thought growing inside me that I haven't been able to articulate until now: the promise of democracy is exciting.  It's as exciting as watching Butler defeat Pitt or watching someone place a jenga block on top of a shaky tower without crumbling.***  It's unclear what the next step will bring and it often feels like even the smallest misstep could cause the whole thing to crumble, but that's also what makes it so exciting.

I am tempted to say that it doesn't matter what the outcome of the referendum is in Egypt, it's the democratic process that counts. But that's not really true.  The outcome will directly affect the procedure for how the new government is elected.  Which is actually pretty important.  Especially when you consider how fragile this new democracy is.  So fragile, like Voldemort's name, I hesitate to even use the word for fear it will slip away (or attack me with a death curse).

But, even so, they have embarked on a journey that is both precarious and full of hope.  And very very exciting.


*SIDE NOTE:  While an American flag, an Egyptian flag, or some other kind of relevant symbol of "democracy" probably would have been a better choice than a picture of a cake with the flag of Texas on it, what can I say? I am a woman of contradictions....

**  SIDE NOTE #2:  Yes, I do realize that I have turned into one of those people who now begins sentences with phrases like "So, while I was in line at the local organic farmer's market..."  or "Before purchasing wood based incense from my shaman the other day...."  Now I have added "While reading the New York Times..." to the list.

*** SIDE NOTE #3:  Why the numerous references to "jenga" in the past couple of blog entries, you ask?  No clue.  I don't even like jenga.  It just seems like a handy analogy.

BABY STEPS

I recently saw a video of my cousin's new baby.  In the video, the baby looks at the camera, smiles, waves her hands, puts her hands in her mouth, makes gurgly noises, waves her feet, and makes more gurgly noises.  I could not get enough of this video.  When she blinked her eyes, I smiled.  Each sound was like music.  Every movement, a celebration.

I also recently captured a video of a 27 year old friend of mine when I accidentally hit "record" on my phone.  In it, she sits in a chair, moves her hand to her face, makes a sighing noise and then I don't know, because it was so boring that I deleted it.

We coo over babies.  Every movement and sound they produce is beautiful. We celebrate each accomplishment: first time they sit up, first time they stand, first word, first steps.  But as we grow up, the celebrations become less frequent and often loftier: college graduation, competing in an ironman, winning a game of jenga.  The small accomplishments don't hold our attention the way they once did.  And so we also forget to honor ourselves for our own humble achievements.

In Ashtanga class, we practice the same positions each day.  And since you cannot move beyond what you cannot do, Ashtanga is designed to slow you down so that your body can adapt.  So, after 30 years of life, I find myself returning to baby steps.  Much like crawling before walking, I must work on binding before bending or breathing deeper to sink deeper into a pose.  And like a baby, I often find myself practicing the same simple movements over and over again; allowing my body to become acustomed to moving in this new way.

Last week I finally put the palms of my hands together behind my back in parshvottanasana, after repeating this same posture for months.  Tiny accomplishment though it was, like a baby, I could not help but be overjoyed.

QUERENCIA

During a bullfight, there is an area in the ring known as the querencia.  It is a spot in the arena that the bull considers its safe haven.  Often, during the fight, a bull will try to return to this area and the matador will do all he can to prevent this from happening.  A bull who is able to return to his querencia appears to draw a renewed sense of strength from this place and often regains control of the fight.  Once a bull succeeds in finding his querencia, he is considered especially dangerous to a matador.

Bullfighting is pretty disturbing.  I know it's a super traditional practice, but like foot-binding or live mummification, I don't really get it.  So, I betray my species and root for the bull.  I want him to win.  And watching him reach his querencia is like watching Paul Walker use "NOS" to win a race or watching Neo realize he's the one.  As the bull regains his power, you can see him rediscover who he is.  Watch the massive muscles and bones work together to make him a ferocious, powerful creature again.  I want him to get there every time.

We all have matadors preventing us from reaching our querencia.  Toxic individuals in our lives that don't want us to realize how powerful we really are; don't want us to discover our immense value as individuals.  So, when you feel that your spirit is drained and your strength is used up, remember that, like Bears fans in Lambeau Field, there are always people on your side, quietly cheering for you - standing with fists clenched, willing you toward your querencia.  Whether it's your yoga mat, your desk, or your kitchen.  Get there. So that you can again remember what a powerful creature you truly are.

Photography provided by Michael Owsianny  www.owsiannyphotography.com

A FRESH START

Roque Dalton was a famous Salvadoran poet, exiled from his country for his political beliefs and socialist writing. Like many Latin American leftists of his day, Dalton spent time in Cuba, but continued to try and return to El Salvador; to his roots and to his people.

He wrote many beautiful poems, my favorite talks about how we are all connected.  The powerful ideas in this poem were the reason Dalton was both loved and hated.  His writing gave his paisanos hope for a just and peaceful El Salvador and made those in power afraid of losing it.

My writing does not aim to challenge a political system, rouse my fellow Americans into action, or inspire a revolution.  But it is writing that I hope makes you laugh or makes you think.  Writing that looks at the daily experiences that occur in life.  This blog will center around my experiences as a new yoga practitioner in a new city, but hopefully will also be about life, love, little things, landscape and bread...

the poetry of everyone.

Like You by Roque Dalton.

Like you I

love love, life, the sweet smell

of things, the sky blue

landscape of January days.

And my blood boils up

and I laugh through eyes

that have known the buds of tears.

I believe the world is beautiful

and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone.

And that my veins don't end in me

but in the unanimous blood

of those who struggle for life,

love,

little things,

landscape and bread,

the poetry of everyone.

Photography provided by Michael Owsianny www.owsiannyphotography.com

BALANCE - tying it all together

I started this blog with the goal of attempting to bring a bit of balance to my life and to do so by examining my experiences through the purusarthas - or the four aims of life: duty, wealth, pleasure and liberation. My hope was that these reflections would resonate with others and that they would find some comfort in reading them. Now, at the end of this year-long journey, as I comb through old half-finished blog posts, it seems fitting to share them with you, and to try and tie them all together.

KAMA & ARTHA - Secrets (February 2010): One day at my old job, I was on the hunt for some coffee when by chance I discovered a beautiful place across the street from my building. It was the lobby of the Palmer House, with its impossibly high ceiling, Grecian frescoes, and tall sofa-style chairs. The furniture was arranged in groups of four, creating an easy atmosphere for small groups to chat or drink. But I loved it because I could sit there and disappear. Many a lunch hour was spent huddled in front of my computer, creating blog posts or reading a good book, while watching tourists mil about the lobby. I began to refer to it as "my secret hiding place." It became my escape; the place where I did my best and deepest thinking. I told no one about it and because of that, it remained special. I think it's important to have a place like this, a hidden space where you can indulge that part of yourself that is inaccessible to others.

DHARMA - Saying yes (July 2010): When my friend Katie told me she wanted us to take a trip to Iceland, I thought she was crazy. But in the spirit of keeping my mind open, I said I would think about it. Not that I was actually going to say yes, I just figured this bought me some time to come up with good reasons to say no. Then I googled "Iceland," saw pictures, and realized that something about this place was magical. Like Harry Potter magical. So I said yes. Without over analyzing or thinking about it too much. This "yes" led Katie to pose more scary questions, such as, "let's go on an overnight hike with an Icelandic hiking group," and "let's climb a glacier," and then, "let's follow these people to their campsite." And for some reason, I kept saying yes.

Katie was right about Iceland. I've never seen a landscape that beautiful or dramatic before. And I would never have seen those wonderful things if I had not just jumped in. There was a moment while I was standing on top of a glacier, looking down on the world when I realized how liberating it is to let go of doubt and just say yes.

MOKSHA - Exits (November 2010): I hate goodbyes. Hate. them. If I could get away with it, I would just use the "french exit," and slip quietly out the back door without anyone noticing. However, I have been told that this is not "thoughtful" or "socially acceptable." So I muddle through goodbyes.

Exits have been on my mind lately as we approach the end of a year and prepare for the beginning of a new one. For as much as I abhor saying goodbye, I love the idea of starting over. I love making plans to rearrange life to look differently, love wiping the slate clean and beginning anew, determined to get it right this time. Love making lists of healthy habits that are life affirming, and vowing to leave behind the parts of myself that are not.

And so, as we approach the end of a year of blogging, I pose the question that applies as equally in yoga as it does in life, and has been the ultimate question in my quest for balance this year: What is more important: rigidity or flexibility?

In yoga, there are poses that require certain parts of your body to remain fixed and rigid, but other parts must remain soft and flexible in order to achieve the asana. It seems so much easier to distinguish between the two in yoga than in life. But really, it is no different. You know which areas in your life demand a certain level of rigidity - the places where you tend to excess; the unhealthy non-life affirming excess that tips you over and destroys any semblance of balance. But yet, too much rigidity also defeats balance, where in becoming too fixated on doing or not doing something, you insulate yourself from trying in the first place, and remain unable to move forward.

Neither is more important than the other: both rigidity and flexibility are needed to create balance. So how do you know which one you need? I think it requires belief that you will figure it out despite the not knowing. This year-long journey has not led to balance itself, but instead to the tools that allow me to work toward balance. I love being surrounded by people, but I have discovered that creating a special place where I can go to find peace is also necessary. Saying yes to new adventures sustains me and allows me to explore new areas of myself, but saying no to those things I recognize as destructive and self-defeating is equally as important.

So, thank you to those who have helped me throw my life out of balance this year and thank you to those who have helped me try and restore it. And mostly, thank you to those of you who have been following this blog. Your comments and encouragement have been the best part of this experience.

So, my wish for us all in the new year is to strive and struggle for sustainable balance, remembering always to breathe, laugh and be kind. Cheers!

(most special thanks to Alisha, Courtney, and Mia for their rigidity and flexibility and to Meghan for giving me space to breathe)

MOKSHA - Mysore

I have finally begun a Mysore style yoga practice. Ummm.... what does that mean? Great question...

Mysore is a teaching style of Ashtanga yoga, named for the place in India where it originated. In a Mysore class, beginning to advanced level students practice side by side at their own pace. Each individual receives one-on-one instruction from teachers who walk around and make adjustments as the students progress through a set sequence of postures, starting with the Primary Series, which is a series of about 75 asanas done in a flowing Vinyasa style. The entire series takes about an hour and a half to two hours to complete. It begins with sun salutations and moves on to standing poses, seated poses, inversions and backbends before relaxation.

This style of teaching is very different than the traditional guided classes that most of us are used to where an instructor calls out the positions and slowly leads you through asanas. A Mysore class, in contrast, looks chaotic and confused. Some people are standing, some are seated, some are moving through a vinyasa, while others hold a pose. The self-lead practice style allows each peron to set her own pace and to take time to work on difficult asanas.

In a Mysore class, each student can only go as far as her body will allow. When a posture proves too challenging, the student will finish that day's practice. The idea is that repetition will allow one to eventually access the posture and move on, which is why a Mysore teacher ususally requires students to attend at least 4 classes a week.

When I found out I was moving to DC, I decided that I needed to have a healthy way to deal with the change. And having just come off training for a half-marathon, I also longed for something that would challenge me. A close friend has been practicing Mysore for years and I have watched it transform her in wonderful ways. Selfishly, I longed for something that would work a similar magic in my life. So, I googled "Mysore and Washington, DC" and came up with two studios that offer Mysore-style Ashtanga.

Many people think yoga is yoga is yoga. But there are vast differences between styles of practice. Mysore is not that common and also requires a heafty morning commitment. Which meant that in order to actually start a practice, I needed to live within a close walk of one of these two studios. Which also meant that I would have an hour-long commute to work each day. I struggled with this at first, but eventually realized that chosing to live close to a yoga studio is no stranger than choosing to live in a place due to its approximation to an office where you are required to go each day: you choose what's important to you. It's more important for me to be able to practice this type of yoga than to live a stone's throw from work.

Most mornings, I wake up at 5am, have a large cup of coffee and head to the studio. By the time I get in, there are already a few people deep into their practice. I grab my mat, say a quick thanks for the ability to be there, and begin. I work my way through the series of asanas, gradually warming up my body and muscles, so that I can feel myself able to reach further in certain positions, can sense that my body is adapting to these asanas. Then I get to Marichyasana A. This is where I must end my practice each day, since I cannot yet fully get into this position. Click here.

I stop myself from continuing on and repeat this same position over and over. Each day in class, the instructors come around when they see that I am close, offer me encouraging words, prep me for the asana and often physically move my arms into the position so that I can grasp my fingers behind my back and feel what it's like to get "the bind." There are days where I get it and we celebrate; there are other days where I don't and we sit and talk about how the body can be fickle. Then I stop and rest and repeat the same mantra that I have been saying since I started practicing: "Praise your body for doing a wonderful job, your mind for letting it happen."

As I leave the studio each day, I am amazed at how alive I feel; how fully I occupy the space within my own body; how peaceful everything seems. Yoga makes me feel strong and connected to what's around me - even if it only lasts the few steps it takes to get back to my apartment.

DHARMA - Tough Days

You know what they look like. They start like any other day, but quickly morph into something heavy; cumbersome. You feel like every step is a fight to keep moving forward. Maybe it's a meaningful day; a sad anniversary, or maybe it's just Tuesday. No matter what, it's a hard day.

I had a tough day last week. It started out with me dreading the plans I had made; knowing that I had to go and ended with me just wishing I could curl up in my bed and forget the world. It was a day about fighting: me fighting the feeling of a tough day, someone fighting with me, two ninjas fighting behind a closed door....

A wise cousin told me before I left for D.C. that "every new beginning is hard." Oh, man, is this true. But the companion to change is discovery. And I have already learned so much about myself from the hard stuff. I can tell you for certain that I value my friendships, a comfy couch and decent cookware. I have also discovered that I have no use for cruelty that stems from insecurity or for half of my purses.

And I have managed to stop and actually appreciate some new stuff. Stuff that has taken my breath away or stopped me in my tracks: the sun rising over the Potomac, a deer running next to me in Rock Creek Park, a single, continuous 200 foot escalator at my metro stop. The stuff that fills us with joy or contributes to a realistic fear of getting injured.

Tomorrow is a new day. It is not a sad anniversary or a hard moment. It is a day of new beginnings where I get to start over and be me again for 24 hours. How lucky I am.

(Thanks to my favorite woman soldier for the "it's just Tuesday" reference.)