Tag: yoga

does this yoga make my butt look big?

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I’m in a practicum for yoga teacher certification. I believe in the ethical precepts of yoga, read sacred texts, perform yogic breathing, meditate, meet regularly with fellow yogis for inspiration, and practice yoga on a daily basis. I attend challenging yoga classes that make me stretch, twist, jump, and sweat. I’m feeling stronger and more physically capable than I have in a long time, and I’d like to think that my practice has helped me to be a more emotionally stable person. So why the hell do I give a damn that my ass is getting fat? But it is.

My jeans are stretched to capacity, and when I catch the occasional glimpse of my backside in my yoga pants, I see a reflection of a bulging derriere. As much as I want to be all yogic and practice non-attachment, I find my backside expansion to be disconcerting. I want the elusive “yoga butt”! Is that too much to ask for? Ahem.

Before anyone alerts the yoga police, let me clarify. Like many women in this body obsessed culture, I have had body image issues since adolescence. I’ve never been super skinny, and even when I was eating a mostly raw, vegetarian, low fat diet and exercising like a mad woman, I was wearing a size 12 pants. Sometimes 14.Who am I kidding? I’ve pushed the 16/18 boundary several times, too.  And I’ve worked hard at being ok with that- working diligently to love my body and to practice the yogic principle of Ahimsa (non-harming, fearlessness, compassion). Inner voice: this is why they call it “practice”.

My body is strong and healthy, and I am grateful for all that my body can do. But to be honest, I can’t seem to shake the nagging part of me that wants to fit in- not just my pants, but with the crowd of athletic yogis who look so lithe and “healthy” in their Lululemon yoga gear and who adorn the covers of shiny yoga magazines. These yogis are stunning to look at. And….so am I. And so are the masses of “curvy” people who are finally stepping forth to claim a place on the mat or in the front of the room.

These lovely yogis are proving that yoga can be done regardless of size. It’s not just bold; it’s what my friend has proclaimed to be a yoga love revolution. And it’s a powerful and equally beautiful thing to behold. My ass is bigger- yes. And maybe, just maybe, that’s not just because I adore sharing sugary baked goods with my yoga book club friends, but also because my heart has expanded beyond the confines of my rib cage. Perhaps my ass is making room for what my torso can’t hold.

the city Lorax and my search for God

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 Where is the door to God?
In the sound of a barking dog,
In the ring of a hammer,
In a drop of rain,
In the face of
Everyone
I see.

-Hafiz

There’s a man in Seattle who shows up to work sites where buildings are being torn down. He fascinates me. This man, who I affectionately refer to as “the city Lorax”, has grey hair with dreadlocks down to his knees and a long beard. Every day he wears a dark blue and green puffy ski jacket with baggy khaki pants and ragged tennis shoes. City Lorax talks to himself, occasionally moving in a rapidly rhythmic way, and he mostly goes between pacing the sidewalk and standing still in apparent awe at the demolition before him. City Lorax utilizes what looks like a cell phone to record the activity, which was upsetting to me at first, because it didn’t fit with my story of him. I’ve reconciled this fact, chalking it up to advancement in Lorax technology. What City Lorax does with the video footage is unknown to me, just like most everything about him.

 My own story of City Lorax has been that he stands witness to destruction when others barely take time for a second glance.  I’ve often wondered how disappointing it would be to know the truth, especially when the mystery seems so lovely. Which makes me think about those times when I fail to allow myself to believe something out of a distrust of that which isn’t “known” by me; if I can’t see, taste, feel, hear, or touch it, can it truly exist?

 The City Lorax exists to me because I have witnessed his presence. I know that he most often appears where there is a demolition site and that he stands vigil for hours on end without so much as a drop of water to quench his thirst. What I don’t know is who he may be related to, where he sleeps at night (if he sleeps at all), what language he may speak or understand, and what it is he is truly doing near the dust and noise laden blocks of rubble. But there he is, and it always makes my heart sing just a little to see him there. It feels good to hold just a little curiosity along with what I know.

 In my attempts to live life according to Patanjali’s eight limbs of yoga, I recognize those places where I grasp and fear and judge.  The more I learn about myself and my connection to the world, the more I want to have a sense of “the Divine”. And yet growing up in a home with no religious affiliation, I have no concept of what it’s like to commit myself to any one belief. My mind moves from having a sense of curiosity to thinking that I need proof. It’s another space where it’s most likely better for me to hold a sense of wonder and to leave space for the unknown.

 Yoga philosophy tells me that the Divine is in everything and that even I am a manifestation of the Divine (and so is the City Lorax);   if this is so, then I suppose everything is my proof that the Divine exists. Which isn’t good enough for my senses, but it’s mostly good enough for my spirit. When I see blossoms in early spring, witness newborn babies, hear children laughing, and dig my hands in fresh soil, I feel connected to something larger than me. When I witness something or someone who doesn’t fit the “norm”, I am reminded of the possibility that the Divine exist. And when my larger than life imagination creates a story for someone that others see as mentally ill and homeless, it makes me happy.

 To me, yoga is a spiritual practice that I can relate to without committing to a religion and it is a practice that I can feel comfortable being playful with. I can be funny and quirky and negligent without being judged.  I can just show up in my life, attempt to observe some specific ways of being in the world (enter here the Yamas and Niyamas), and I can use my breath and my body as ways of honoring my practice. Or, if/when all else fails, I can just be where I’m at. A human experience working toward a divine interaction.

living on the brink of disaster

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We live on the brink of disaster because
we do not know how to let life alone.
We do not respect the living and fruitful contradictions
and paradoxes of which true life is full.
-Thomas Merton

The buildings in front of my workplace are being torn town. Equipment reminiscent of giant metal dinosaurs has been working at tearing through walls and gnawing at what remains. The building entrails of dead wood, brick and metal are swiftly getting chewed up and spat out by the awesome jaws of one of the triumphant looking machines. I keep waiting for the burp.  

I guess what I’m getting at is that this witnessing of destruction is bringing me in touch with my own mortality. Existence is temporary, and as much as I celebrate and take it for granted, one day I, too, will succumb to being torn apart from this life.  But hopefully not by one of those steel beasts.  

Something about the pile of rubble from the buildings reminds me of the ash and wire that was left behind after my burning of the bras party. And from the smoldering of something that was once considered so necessary, my friend Jane dug through the ashes to create something lovely- a nest made from the underwire that had been stubborn and tough enough to withstand the burn. I still have that nest on the mantle as a reminder of transformation. Right next to the lovely little Ganesha statue that my yogi friend mailed to me. Perfect.

For those unfamiliar with the Hindu God Ganesha (aka “Ganapati”), he is known as “Remover of Obstacles”.  He’s pretty great. And instead of providing a poor excuse for a Wikipedia entry, I’ll just leave this lesson at that. Other than the fact that Ganesh is recognized best as the God with the elephant head. Which I can completely relate to as a Gemini. Sometimes I’m described as having various animal parts. So I feel an affinity and kinship with this deity. And just the thought of a dancing man-God with an elephant head makes me giddy.

Once again the paradox of destruction and renewal comes into my life….and I’m equipped to take on any obstacle that gets in my vital way. Or at least to feel a bit better about the times when I have no control.

what I learned about yoga through toilet paper

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Three things I learned in the Advanced Exploration yoga class I attended last night: Asteya has as much to do with opening up to abundance as it does with “non-stealing”; jumping back quietly from forward fold to chaturanga dandasana requires as much of a forward as a backward movement; and, it is very, very, very important to check that the toilet paper landed in the bowl before pulling up one’s yoga pants.

That’s right. I began class with a toilet paper “tail”. I would have been quite unaware of this fact if it weren’t for the kind yogi next to me who, with a stifled smile, let me know of my unintended appendage. Seriously. I wish I was making this up. But the painful reality is that I’ve been so busy rushing through my days that I don’t even take the time to make sure the t.p. is flushed before I’m washing my hands and rushing back into the world.

What’s funny to me about the toilet paper incident (aside from the obvious) is that my rushing lately is all related to my desire to have more spaciousness in my life. I’m spending so much time busily working toward the hope of doing the things I love that I far too rarely allow myself the opportunity to slow it down and appreciate the moment for what it is. Even a bathroom break requires attention. And even a toilet paper tail is an opportunity for personal growth (pun intended).

I need yoga camp

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Right now, my bedside table holds a dozen or so books. I’ve started most of them, but the two that are most dog-eared are the ones I’m currently reading for book groups; The Bhagavad Gita According to Gandhi and Yoga Bitch by Suzanne Morrison.  How perfect for me right now. I’m fighting between wanting to be a spiritually grounded and dedicated yogi and the reality of being an irreverent and feisty yogi wannabe who is critical of the whole yoga as a means to becoming a better person craze (ok- maybe it’s not a “craze”, but lately yoga talk seems to smack of “self help”). I guess I should go back to yoga camp.

“Yoga Camp” is what a few of my fellow yoga teachers-in-training affectionately call our 2-week experience at a yoga teacher training intensive this past fall. Well, at least a few of us who stayed in the dorm room. We were the yogis who couldn’t afford the bit of extra money to stay in a private or smaller shared room close to the space where we practiced every morning and studied in the afternoon. And I like to think we dorm “orphans” all had a more truly “campy” experience because of it, complete with a ritual of chanting Pūrnam at the end of each day from our Annie-esque beds. I loved it. And I believed wholeheartedly that I was changed forever because of it. I was going to leave yoga camp a true yogi who was prepared to radiate yogi love to all who desired the yoga glow! And then….I returned home and to reality.

My reality is that I live in a tiny condo with a partner who is a blunt New Englander with a strong distaste for all things “woo woo” (and I was filled to the brim with what she would consider “woo”) and a 17 or so year old dog who is sweeter than pie but who has Cushing’s Disease, which leaves her prone to peeing. Anywhere. My yoga bliss dissolved faster than an Emergen-C packet, and within days I was back to my edgy self, silent screaming for any possible moment to sneak off to yoga class or, alternatively, to curl up in a messy ball with a book about yoga. I was driving to yoga class at warp speed after work and raging at anyone who was in my way. My yoga glow had turned into a hot yoga mess.

Enter my Yogi Sangha Sisterhood and the idea of a yoga book club. As luck would have it (or would this be the Universe?), I found out near the end of yoga camp that I lived just a short distance from two of my dorm room sisters. Even more precious was finding out that we all have free time on Fridays and we all have a love for sugar, tea, and all things irreverent. Yoga book club was born. A two to three-hour period on Fridays when we gather to talk about yoga, life, food, partners, hopes and dreams and, most importantly, set space for unconditional love. It’s better than any yoga class, and I am a better person for having my yoga camp dorm orphan sisters.

 Maybe living between a sacred yoga text and an irreverent book of laugh out loud yoga stories is perfect. It’s Aparigraha– non-grasping. Or, as Donna Farhi describes it, “the state that comes spontaneously as the mind begins to experience the effortless Being of the Self; viewing the world in a more generous perspective”. And I’m nothing if not generous. So, here I am; the imperfectly irreverent yogi wannabe yoga camp orphan who now and then breaks into a case of the giggles in the middle of yoga class or hides in the bathroom to finish one more chapter of a deliciously cheeky yoga memoir. No need to grasp. Because, as we learned at yoga camp, “I am perfect and whole exactly as I am”.