Category: the yoga of life

my bicycle santosha

wendi4 Comments


I have owned exactly 3 brand new bicycles in my life. The first was a bright yellow bike with orange and yellow fringe on the handlebars and a banana seat with a smiling sunshine face on it. I was twelve years old, and my bike was a glorious Christmas surprise. My brother and I both received bikes that year, which was perfect given the fact that it was a year for record breaking warmth and we were able to ride up and down our gravel street without jackets on (unusual for Eastern Washington winters). David was the recipient of a red and black sporty BMX bike and I was graced with my sunshine daydream. I was beside myself. That yellow bicycle represented a beautiful mix of freedom and joy and I rode it everywhere. I rode on roads both concrete and gravel and I rode on endless trails by the river. I rode that yellow bike until it was the bicycle version of the velveteen rabbit.

Thinking back, I realize that part of the magic of my childhood was my trust that I had everything I needed on my own person. I rarely went without, despite growing up in a working class family, and I seldom thought twice about slamming out the screen door on my way toward adventure. And that usually entailed me jumping on my bike without so much as a bottle of water or a jacket in case of adverse weather conditions.

After outgrowing and riding my yellow bike beyond recognition, I rode many hand-me-down bicycles that had previously belonged to my brother or sister. Bikes were the way I got around, and I never worried about needing my own bike lane, traffic, or how far I had to go to get to my destination. I just pedaled away, oblivious that helmets even existed.

Once I hit the magic age of 16 and got my driver’s license, however, I ditched my bike for a turquoise blue AMC Pacer. We lived in a semi-rural area, and I had aspirations of seeing the world in my bubble car. I had to get places faster than a bike could take me. So all previously used bicycles sat buried in the garage behind old tarps and cardboard boxes filled with other tossed away items awaiting fate at a garage sale. I was way too independent for a bike.

My second brand new bike was a chartreuse green Huffy mountain bike that my parents bought for me when I was fresh out of high school and on my way to Healy, Alaska for seasonal work. I strapped that bike onto the back of the sporty Ford Mustang I purchased (with help, of course) after my Pacer literally went up in smoke along the highway on my way to work. My friend and I made our way with our mountain bikes out of Washington State through Canada and the Yukon Territory to the wilds of Alaska. I rode that Huffy proudly, despite the snickers that came my way from the other seasonal workers riding fancier mountain bikes. I rode my sturdy green bike past huge RV’s, trailers, and the occasional moose on my weekly rides to the post office and took it with me into Denali National Park to explore bear country on two wheels. I had the last laugh when my bike was one of the few to avoid breaking down on the dirt and gravel terrain of the park. I never even experienced a flat tire. I kept that bike for years, riding from the sailboat we lived on near Gasworks Park in Seattle to work and school and everywhere in-between. I finally left my green workhorse of a bike sitting out at the marina as an offering to anyone who might want a good, sturdy bike. I have many fond memories of that bike.

My third and most recent new bike is the one I purchased just before my fortieth birthday last year.  I wanted a bike for several reasons, but the most important was that I wanted to cultivate the same sense of freedom and ease that I had when I balanced on two wheels through adolescence. That, and I realized that my ass had been getting fat. Let’s be honest. Chemo and all of the starchy goodness I ate as a result of the chemo-related nausea did a number on my backside. I needed exercise, and I almost always prefer to do that in nature. So, I did my research and went to the store several times to test ride several bikes within my budget. I settled on a sweet little hybrid cruiser bike with a bright blue frame and a memory foam seat.

My bike is adorable and sturdy at the same time, and I love riding it. I adore experiencing the city again from a different perspective. Instead of being sheltered inside a vehicle with heat and music, I’m in the elements and participating in my surroundings. My music is nature- and, oh, how I love that sound.

Riding a bike on a regular basis again has affirmed that I still feel a sense of autonomy when I spread my wings and power my own mode of transportation. I feel expansive and at ease (when I’m not fearing for my life alongside rush hour traffic). The difference, though, is that I have a harder time getting on my bike without worrying about having enough- I pack a first aid kit, tire repair patches, extra clothing, sunscreen, water, snacks, sunglasses, and my purse. I rarely just get on without a second thought. And this makes me sad. Even in my commitment as a yogi who trusts that what I need is right here in this body, I experience a racing heart when I think about going more than a mile without my water bottle and some emergency cash. Last year I actually left the house forgetting about a helmet for the first mile of my ride. As soon as I realized this, I felt pure terror of impending doom. I rode home at a slow and steady pace, looking every which way for possible causes of head trauma.

I do not want bicycling to be scary or to feel like a chore so, in honor of Bike to Work Month, I am going to work on cultivating bicycle Santosha- contentment with biking in the simplicity that it is. I will work on packing lightly and enjoying the ride rather than using my bike as just a means of getting some exercise and saving fossil fuels (which I totally believe in, by the way). I vow to smile more at strangers and to every now and then play with taking my hands off the handlebars to feel the wind on my wings. I will breathe in the fresh air around me and notice the beauty of the city where I live, and I will honor every brave and beautiful soul who perches their body on two wheels to get around, even when they curse at me for being slow. Because for me, it’s not a race-it’s a journey.

the yoga of tea

wendi7 Comments

Listen,
if you can stand to.
Union with the Friend means not being who you’ve been,
Being instead silence: A Place: A view
Where language is inside seeing.
-Rumi

I don’t sit still very well. Never have.  I’m always scheming about what else I could or should be doing. Even in meditation or asana practice, I’m often battling a case of the “could/shoulds” and cursing myself for not having a cleaner, less cluttered house or thinking about what I could be eating or should be doing for some radical cause or things I could be creating out of my insane amounts of craft supplies. Just sitting isn’t going to change the world or get things done. Or is it?

The funny thing is, the older I get, the more I find that I need periods of sitting in order to get things accomplished- even when I feel as though I’m going to crawl out of my skin. I need time to acclimate to all of the changes that are happening in my life and to force my mind to settle just a little. And even in the chatter that happens when I sit still, a miracle occurs and the could/shoulds come into a clearer perspective and become more of a case of the “maybe laters” or “I can’t remember why that was so important in the first place”.

Since yoga camp (aka: yoga teacher training), two amazing changes have happened in my life that have helped me to find a greater clarity about my need to sit still; Friday morning yoga book club (which should  really more aptly be called “yogis sitting around talking about life and bringing up yoga philosophy over baked goods, green juice, and intermittent cursing”, but that’s just not as easy to fit in my calendar) and periodic marathon afternoon tea dates (lasting upwards of 5-6 hours at a stretch) with some new friends that my partner met in her job as a cheese steward at the local grocery store.

If anyone would have told me a year ago that I would be dedicating large chunks of my time sitting over green juice or hot tea with friends, I would have rolled my eyes and explained that I have very little time for such things.  Now, I can only say that I can’t imagine not making the time to commit to cultivating friendships, dreaming, talking about philosophy, and hearing stories about someone’s life while sipping tea out of dainty little tea cups in an antique filled dining room. These times have helped to remind me that sitting still can often settle my spirit in ways running around and multitasking never do. And, more importantly, I actually get to spend time just being with other human beings- being seen, heard, validated, inspired, and honored.

I spend so much of my time trying to fit an insane amount of things into my life in order to connect more, learn more, create more, or to get more done in less amount of time. I don’t know if there’s a theory in quantum physics to explain it, but I can tell you that in my own experience, it doesn’t work. No amount of tweeting or facebooking or emailing or even talking on the phone can compare to the deep connection that happens when I share time with people face to face (though video chat comes in as a close second). And the less I do at any given moment (meaning the more I slow down and notice what I’m doing), the more time I feel I have. Running at a rapid pace does not make the clock slow down. It just makes me tired.

My new(ish) friend June has been one of my greatest teachers for this very reason. We spend entire afternoons into the evening sitting still in uncomfortable antique chairs while she spins the metaphorical yarn of her life. Rarely do I speak more than a sentence or two, and I have heard many of her stories multiple times. Yet every time she repeats a story, the spark in her eyes shines as if she is offering it up for the first time with worldly wisdom that I will take into my own life (and she is). June believes in the importance of tea, complete with a charming tea set, and connections in a way I’ve never experienced before, and it always feels as though I’ve entered another time where women connect over the dining room table to share oral traditions. It’s lovely. And despite my occasional tendency to get antsy or to fall into my could/should ways, I am honored to call her friend.

I think this must be the yoga of friendship; committing time to cultivate loving relationships over hot tea (or green juice). Looking in the eyes of another person and validating their existence as integral to your very own. Recognizing the divine experience of being human together and practicing patience, compassion, humor, and vulnerability through real connections.

breath: a love story for my dad

wendi6 Comments

I used to think my dad was a superhero. No matter that he’s always been a stocky looking guy with a big gut, tattoos, and a full beard covering his face or that much of my life, he could be found outside with a cigarette in one hand and a tool in the other.  In my mind, he could make anything happen.  A former Navy man and mechanic by trade, my dad’s hands have been worn from work and for my entire childhood, and into my young adult life, he had a layer of black grease under his nails that no amount of Lava soap seemed capable of touching. Despite his hard exterior, though, I knew as a kid that my dad could do or create anything. He cooked, cleaned, worked on cars, wasn’t afraid of electrical work or plumbing, and created magic out of a blank landscape. He’s also always been incredibly talented at telling often inappropriate jokes and has one-liners that would make Howard Stern recoil. His laugh never fails to make my heart sing, even when I’m cringing from the topic.

My dad built much of the house that I grew up in with his own hands, and if I said I wanted something extravagant like, say, a princess canopy bed or a larger than life Barbie doll house, my dad was the man to drop that information on. He would pull together materials from his “shop” or, at times, the local dump, and he could whip something up that made my head spin with excitement. Of course, my mom was the one who put the finishing touches on most everything, but it was dad who I ran to first. And it was my dad who I had moon eyes for. I still do.

Now, at 74 years old, my dad is connected to oxygen and can’t walk very far without having to stop to catch his breath and rest his legs. His voice is still booming at times, but he no longer works as hard to demand attention or give what he believes to be sage advice on life (anything ranging from how to plant vegetables properly to how much one should reasonably pay for an oil change). In the past several years, diabetes and heart disease have caught up with dad (or “Papa Bear” as I affectionately call him), and after being hospitalized with pneumonia this winter and subsequently being diagnosed with asbestoses, he ended up on oxygen for what looks like the long haul. What was once my dad’s metaphorical superhero cape has now been replaced with a long stretch of tubing that goes from his nose to a large apparatus called an oxygen concentrator. This machine sits in the middle of my parent’s house and makes a whiney sound as it pumps enough oxygen to fill my dad’s lungs. I love that this contraption exists and yet it sits as a reminder that my dad’s lungs are failing him.

When I was visiting my family this past weekend, I watched as my dad worked hard to focus on his breath. There were moments when I found myself paying extra attention to my own breath as I listened to the pumping sounds from the machine, and I thought about just how much I’ve always taken breath for granted; my own breath and the breath of the people I love. I thought about the fact that every one of my inhales is connected to the exhales of the people who surround me, and that I, too, contribute to what the people around me take in. There is no denying this- we are all connected through the very act of breathing, whether we want to be or not. The people we love, the people we detest, the people we don’t even think about are all contributing to our living through this simple act of inhaling and exhaling.

One of my favorite aspects of a community yoga practice is listening to the lovely oceanic sound of everyone breathing together.  When I feel tired or distracted, I just tune in to the melodic rhythm of Ujjayi breathing in the room, and it helps me to gain strength and focus (mostly). This didn’t exactly help me when sitting with my dad, because his own breath is barely perceptible when compared to the audible whisper of yogic breathing practice. But it did help me to think about my breath being a source of strength for him and, as corny and mushy as it sounds, I tried to envision my breath as being positive and healing.

Simply put, we need breath in order to live. I don’t think about that when I practice pranayama, but the fact is that these exercises in controlling the breath are on some level preparing the body and the mind to face the ultimate reality of death. I get that these practices are also about controlling prana and working on increasing oxygen flow in the body, but in my own mind, there’s something about breath practice that always makes me think about my mortality.  I value the calm I feel when I can hold my breath and focus on the quiet stillness of my mind.  I inhale and receive and I exhale and let go. I relax into my breath and I notice the lovely effect this has on my body.

In the real world, however, I find myself tightening with resentment when I can’t breathe freely. I hold my breath on the street when I see someone puffing a cigarette and I breathe shallowly through my mouth when a homeless person sits or stands next to me on the bus. What’s the difference? Each is an opportunity to practice controlling the breath. Just putting on yoga pants does not make holding my breath easier or more important.

So, because of my Papa Bear and his newly acquired attire, I am thinking about breath in a different way. Thinking about how much I love the act of breathing and the fact that breath is a thread of connection between people. It is my breath that feeds your breath that feeds the world’s breath. And that is as sacred and beautiful as it gets.

dropping “f” bombs in yoga class

wendiLeave a comment

I dropped the “f” bomb in yoga class just a few days ago. As the teacher, no less (student teacher, true, but still the person in the class who was leading that section and who was supposed to be all yogic and calm and in charge).

The scene of the crime: I had just confidently led the Surya Namaskara B and was moving into a warrior flow series when my lefts and rights got all mixed up. The faces in the room were looking at me with what can only be described as expectant confusion, so I moved to the side back of the room in hopes of regaining a sense of direction. Quickly, I realized I was awkwardly teetering on the edge of some poor man’s mat, and I had somehow wedged myself in the corner where nobody but that unfortunate man could see me properly. I scurried over his mat and into the center of the back of the room, forcing everyone to turn around, when I realized I had lost it, and the naughty, naughty word came sailing out of my mouth as smooth as my own name. I was mortified. As if I needed another reminder of my imperfections, my potty mouth decided to wreak havoc on the poor students who registered for an intro series class.  Ok- admittedly, it wasn’t my mouth as much as it was me; I wreaked the havoc.

For all I know, people who had never taken a yoga class before now have some vision of me as some version of a long haul trucker in yoga pants. When they see me sitting serenely in the front of the class, they’ll likely have an unsettled feeling that I could lose it at any moment. And the really frightening thing is, I just might. I don’t know how much control I really have over this irresistible urge to break into a frenzy at any given moment. I’m like a bottle of Kombucha that’s just been on the Tilt-a-Whirl and is ready to explode in tangy elation. It’s downright petrifying.

Deep breath. I know this isn’t the entire truth. I realize that I have control over what comes out of my mouth. What upsets me most, actually, is not the fact that I cursed like a sailor in yoga class (as displeasing as that actuality is), but rather that I continue to play the story out as though it is the only one I have. As if I am actually this out of control beast ala Where the Wild Things Are instead of a complex and imperfectly perfect human being on this life journey (which is why I’ve always had an affinity for this particular children’s book).

I know intellectually that the very kind and intelligent people in this intro series class do not fear me or my cursing tendencies. I also know that these lovely individuals are most likely not replaying this scene over and over again in their minds and that they do not judge me or think that this way that I acted in class is the only way I act in the world. But this bumbling and awkward way that I acted in class is the way I often see myself. It’s the narrow view I’ve had of myself for much of my life, and it’s terrifying when I can see the mirror reflecting off of those faces onto myself.

The yogic philosophy that has been on my mind lately, and that relates so perfectly to this struggle, is the yama (observances and codes for living according to Patangali’s eight limbs of yoga) Aparigraha. Literally translated, Aparigraha means “not grasping”. In my own mind, Aparigraha stands for (among other things) the work that it takes to abandon control over images, ideas, labels, hopes, dreams, and expectations. It’s about taking that deep breath and realizing that this moment is just this moment, and I am just who I am in this moment. In other words- I can let go of the idea that I will always be awkward (though it kind of makes me sad to think of ever losing my potential for dorkiness for good). I don’t have to hold tightly to the expectation that this is who I am. So as an individual or, in this case, as a yoga teacher-in-training, I can every now and then curse or laugh or do something wildly inappropriate, and I can honor each as merely experiences and/or expressions of my humanness.

a yogi’s pilgrimage

wendi3 Comments

 

 As I make my slow pilgrimage through the world, a certain sense of beautiful mystery seems to gather and grow.
–A.C. Benson

I watched a documentary last night that was filmed by people all around the world capturing moments of their life on a single day: July 24, 2010. Everything from kissing to eating to working to dancing to preparing food to celebrating to grieving to being. Moments that aren’t particularly spiritual or profound, but that together formed what I experienced as a spiritually tantalizing film and another reminder of the thin line between the sacred and the mundane.

Watching this movie got me thinking again about the idea of pilgrimage- not as a colossal sacred journey that requires travelling across the world in search of God, but as a daily experience of living intentionally. As a dear yogi friend reminded me at the yoga studio the other day, the sacred can be found in silence. No need to go anywhere but within. And then she sent Kabir’s poem A Great Pilgrimage to me:

 I felt in need of a great pilgrimage

so I sat still for three

days.

 and God came

to me.

I read those words, and I had a moment of great relief. There is nothing I need to do to find the Divine, and perhaps “doing” gets in the way sometimes. Or, maybe, working too hard gets in the way (especially when I’m on the yoga mat). Either way, it seems to me that the most important lesson is to live life and to take time to notice everything from the people I love to the experiences of self (body, mind, and spirit) to those small and seemingly insignificant times.

I’ve been trying to look at my life lately as a metaphorical pathway, and the people that I’ve met and continue to meet along the way as potential life guides. Even the people in my life who have been incredibly challenging or frustrating have at times been my greatest teachers- sometimes because of the way they acted (or didn’t), and sometimes because of what I learned from my own response. And, obviously, I have been shaped by my experiences (good, bad, and everything in between) and the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done or have had done to me. This doesn’t make me special, but it makes me uniquely me.

I think of my most recent pilgrimage beginning nearly three years ago when I first received the call telling me that I was diagnosed with cancer. An ordinary day that was instantly and drastically changed by a few words. Suddenly, I was snapped into seeing my own body and my future in a radically different light. Those words made me pack my figurative bags and set out on a pilgrimage of sorts without looking back at the burning building that was my life.

Several years later, I’m still searching. And maybe even more intensely now that I’ve distanced myself from labels and expectations. Every pilgrim needs time to rest, and my own rest involved trashy magazines, long weekends of watching predictable movies on the couch with my sweetheart, and comfort food. All of these acts (as well as the others I refuse to name) helped to prepare me for the space that I’m in now; living my yoga and seeking a connection with something bigger than myself. It’s the idea of throwing a pebble in a pond and watching the ripples reach shore, throwing the ecosphere into just a little bit of a different space than it was before that rock was lifted from the beach. Every instant holds the possibility of transformation.

What I’m struck by lately is that everyone in this world has complexity- not one person is absent a unique story. Occasionally this idea overwhelms me, but then there are the times when I have an appreciation for the connections that can be created when people open up to share just a little of their story. This week alone, I experienced and was witness to deep personal connections both in a training at my yoga studio and again in a volunteer training at my work; occasions for people to share a bit about what brought them forth to engage in work that requires compassionately offering support to people who need it. And both reminders that though my story is unique, I am not even close to unique in my need for connection or my complex history of personal loss.

The scars on my body serve to remind me of a blend of my humanness, my mortality, strength, courage, faults, mystery, beauty, and normalness; my everything and my nothing all at the same time. I am not these scars. Just like nobody is. But my scars represent a part of my journey- my path- and they are a map, of sorts, to a place that my journey began. My experience of having cancer helped me to enter into what I consider a pilgrimage; a journey into the unknown and, hopefully, into the sacred. I am a yogi wayfarer. And I never want to quit shedding my skin to make the journey  lighter.