What IS it about Yoga?

In March, I will celebrate my sixth anniversary as a yogi. In yoga years, I’m still very much an infant. That’s okay with me, and I believe it to be very true. How is it possible that I have been practicing Bikram yoga for so long, doing the same exact sequence of postures for hundreds of classes and still feel like such a novice?

Last night in class, the teacher said that “Hatha” is the body’s yoga and “Raja” is the mind’s yoga. So, we are working on two things: quieting and focusing the mind and perfecting the body’s expression of each posture through stillness and determination. No easy feat! Another teacher, one of my favorites, says that in Bikram yoga, “Millimeters matter.” I suppose this is true in all areas of life, if you think about it. What he means by this is that your progress is made in wee little baby steps...a fraction of an inch deeper into a posture....holding a pose for just a few seconds longer....staying calm in the face of heat, sweat, distraction for a heartbeat longer. As you gain millimeters, you also gain confidence, willpower, self-reliance. You begin to understand that you are at the very center of things....and that having a quiet, centered mind and a calm body are essential to your work.

It’s amazing to me just how helpful my yoga practice has been in my life. The things I’ve worked through in that hot sweaty room on my 2.5x6’ mat leave me humbled and grateful. And who knew? Who knew I had SO much to work on? Who knew that a yoga practice would reach into so many dark corners, bringing light and hope, illuminating the work to be done, providing encouragement to stick with it and see it through?

I have to wonder: is yoga my religion? It does make me a better person, inside and out. It keeps me honest. It humbles me. Perhaps it’s true that LOVE is my religion, and yoga is both the vehicle and the path of love, to love. I need it. I crave it. Yoga quiets me in a way that nothing else has or can. For me, the combination of a serious body work out and a focusing of the mind through meditation...plus the breathing (THAT’s a practice on its own!)...and of course the heat/sweating...is necessary to break through all the crap that accumulates through daily life. It takes the full 90 minutes to bring me back into alignment, to reset the internal clock.

So...what am I working on as I approach the six year mark in my practice? Letting go. This has been my focus all along, and it’s a good one. The “objects” change as I go along. Right now, I am letting go of the illusion that I need to wipe the sweat off my face with a hand towel during class, and that I need to drink water while practicing. It’s amazing the lies we tell ourselves, the craziness we cling to. One of the wonderful things about my yoga practice is the opportunity to confront these illusions and winnow away at them. Once you begin to recognize a habit as just that, you are able (maybe) to question its reality, to wonder whether it truly serves you. For years, I’ve clung to my towel and my water bottle to get me through class. Now, I am ready to listen to what the instructor has probably been saying all along: water won’t help, wiping your sweat will bring more sweat. That’s another thing about doing the same practice over and over....when you FINALLY have ears to hear whatever lesson is “next” for you, there it is. Your yoga practice is like a labyrinth, taking you past the same guideposts and markers over and over again as you travel the path, offering you the opportunity to learn this or that when you are ready. The repetition is necessary. So...I’m down to a maximum of 4 sips of water each class. And I’m learning that I don’t even need it, that I’m still clinging to it a little. I am learning to trust. The towel is still there, and I use it when I can’t see through the sweat dripping in my eyes or to wipe my hands before a posture so I can get a firmer grip. But I don’t rely on it between every posture, I don’t cling to it as “necessary” to my practice.

You might be thinking, “Who even cares? It’s just water....it’s just a towel. What could it possibly matter?” You are correct....it’s just water. It’s just a towel. These are objects. It’s the CLINGING that I’m working through. I am learning to let go and be still. I am learning that the only thing I need in that 105 degree room is my breath....in and out....steady as I go. It’s crazy-simple, but oh so complicated inside one’s mind, yes? Yes.

I’m not always as faithful as I’d like to be in my yoga practice. The hardest part is getting myself into the car. Once I’m on the way, the most challenging aspect is already behind me. It doesn’t matter what happens in the practice room....whether I do a particular posture well or terribly....whether I am happy, sad, angry, frustrated. I’m always glad I made it to my mat. There is always a gift waiting to be discovered. It’s a beautiful, hard-won, difficult, wonderful relationship....with myself. Namaste.

Thoughts on Loss and Living...

Just before Thanksgiving, my world was shaken by death and illness. A beloved grandmother, 87 years old, passed quietly....a beautiful life coming to a close as is natural and expected. Kay Cullenberg was the mother of 13 and grandmother of 33, every one of whom truly believed he or she was the favorite.

A customer and friend (they are ALL friends...), just 47 years old, passed quietly in her sleep, surprising and stunning those who loved and cared for her. Lynn Watson Potter posted a daily note on her Facebook page, sharing with us what she was grateful for....oftentimes naming something as simple as her warm bed.

A mother (my own) struggled in the grip of powerful pain, took to her bed, tearful and afraid. Valerie Conaway suffered quietly, unable to eat, losing 20 pounds, yet unwilling to seek medical attention because she is without health insurance.

A long-distance writing pal, the active mother of three, gave up both breasts, surrendering them to breast cancer in exchange for her life. Betsy Voreacos struggled with feelings of guilt over opting for the more drastic and invasive double mastectomy when a lumpectomy may have been enough to stop the cancer’s spread.

All of these endings and challenges others are experiencing, understandably, have caused me to take stock. How have I lived? HAVE I lived, truly? And...if I haven’t lived, what the heck am I waiting for?

Christmas is now barking at our heels and I’m wondering if I will, once again, fall into step with most of the modern world and spend money I don’t have to purchase presents the recipients may or may not need or desire. Is there a way to express my love and appreciation for family and friends other than this? Am I brave enough to let go and try something new?

Lynn died without life insurance. My own mother has no health insurance!! My friend lost her breasts.

I want to be kinder, gentler....with my children, my husband, my dogs and my friends.

I want to know how others are suffering and how I can help.

I want my children and family to remember me after I go as a person who cared and dared.

In the short-term, I may anger my children...who have grown accustomed to having everything they could ever want, wrapped up and shiny under the tree. In a larger sense, though, I would be leading by example. Maybe someday my son and my stepkids will say, “She taught me to look beyond myself” or “She understood what was most important in life.”

Isn’t it true that we are each writing our own obituary every day of our lives? Doing what feels right and good in the deepest part of your soul may leave you out on a limb. There are always risks....always consequences...with the important decisions we make as we move through life. This holiday season, and hopefully well beyond it, I am challenging myself to do what my soul requires, leading with my heart.

My friend Lynn taught me to be grateful for the little things.

My son’s Grammie taught me to shower each person I love with real attention.

My mother, in her quiet suffering, is teaching me to pay closer attention to the silences of others...to check in and ask what’s wrong, what’s needed, how I can help.

My pal Betsy is teaching me to put myself first when it really matters, guilt be damned.

I feel so full and so blessed to be awake enough, present enough, to receive their gifts. I want to help. I want to give back and pay forward. I want to live fully every single day. After all....we just don’t know how or when each of our stories will come to a close. Today, I just might lead with my heart and turn the corner onto a road less traveled, hoping it will, indeed, make all the difference.

On Finding One's Place in the World

“Perhaps loving something is the only starting place there is for making your life your own.” -- Alice Koller

Just a few short weeks ago, Lee Farrington opened the doors of Figa. With her restaurant’s opening, Lee has invited us inside her intimate creative world. As I sat enjoying one of her delicious, Brazilian-inspired meals on a blustery Friday evening last week, I felt wrapped in love. There is a sense of community here, with tables snuggled in close proximity and a kitchen open to diners’ curiosity. I watched Lee bustle joyfully at the cook stove with her talented

assistant chef, Justin, and marveled at what she’d given birth to here at the foot of Munjoy Hill. She had brought a dream to reality. She is sharing the delicate flower she has nurtured from a tiny seed deep inside herself. Her joy is palpable. She has and will continue to succeed.

A few months ago, Rickie Bogle bought a sailboat on a shoe string. She was in Florida at the time, helping out her family in the aftermath of a tragic accident which left her 20-year-old brother paralyzed for life. Maybe it was Cruz who inspired Rickie to reach for her dream despite the absurdity of life being turned upside down in a heartbeat. Somehow, Rickie made it happen. She named her boat “Isla” and after pouring hours of sweat and love into making her sea-worthy, Rickie sailed Isla from Florida to Portland. I delighted in sharing Rickie’s journey through her blog posts as she braved her way through storms and beauty up the east coast. She is a passionate young woman, guided by her spirit. She dares to risk and to reach....every single day. In the face of pain, of not knowing where or how, Rickie is making a passionate life.

Four years ago, I was deeply disillusioned in my work life. Two degrees and many professional incarnations had left me feeling empty, frustrated, defeated. Again and again, I turned to the Universe and asked “What is my purpose here? What gift might I bring to better the world in some small, personal way?” I followed my joy....sometimes blindly, often times fearfully. I was moving toward my passion: a dog-centered creative life. I quit a well-paying, “safe” professional job where I was well-respected without having any real idea where, exactly, I would land. I jumped off the cliff trusting that the rest would come. I had to close a door completely in order to move in a new direction. Four months later, Dances With Dogs came into being.

Lee Farrington loves to cook. Rickie Bogle loves to sail. Julie Bernier loves puppies. These are simple statements, simple truths about three women who dared to move toward what they loved, not knowing the outcome...but trusting that through conspiring with the Creative Force and being willing to surrender (again and again and again) along the way, something magical, wonderful and truly their own would surface.

The journey for each of us has been deep and personal....painful and exciting. Suspending fear, ignoring negative crap clogging up the path....we simply HAD to do this work. For me, there was always a sense that I was not alone as I carved out this new life for myself. I felt this other divine energy carrying me along. At times, I even felt that I wasn’t in the driver’s seat...and I was oddly okay with that. I had a faith and a belief that all would be well and that I was involved in a co-creative process with the Universe. I had, after all, offered up that desperate prayer (many, many times) asking for the way to be revealed. A stitch at a time, I began to mend my heart and my life. And here I am, four years later, piloting a wonderfully-successful, ever-evolving puppy nursery school which is completely heart-centered and entirely a reflection of who and what I am. It is my gift to my community.

"Where there is great love there are always miracles.” -- Willa Cather

Lewis Carroll said, “Today isn’t any other day, you know.” So today I ask you, friend: what is YOUR passion? What is your gift to bring? What do you hunger for and deeply desire? Action is eloquence. Time does not stand still. I promise you...if you reach for what you love, you will not be disappointed. You will find a well-spring of energy to do the work. Mind you, the work is not easy and the way is not clear. You will be okay. Hour by hour, you will make a life. Step by step, you will find your way. Conspire with the Gods and the Universe! Give birth to the beauty inside you....and by all means, share yourself with us. We will delight in your success and your joy as you reveal your original face to the world. Namaste!

Understanding Depression

The winds were crisp and the sun lent a splendid sparkle to foliage at its peak on Saturday afternoon as a twenty-year-old woman swung her leg up over the railing of the Casco Bay Bridge. We can only imagine what she was thinking as she balanced one foot and then the other, and stood up to look out upon a steel blue bay full of white caps and wave-tossed lobster boats. Did she notice the cruise ship docked in Portland Harbor for the day before she jumped? Yes, that’s right: she jumped.

Chances are good that this woman....someone’s daughter, neighbor, lover, friend....wasn’t aware of the beauty of the day or of her surroundings. As I drove across the bridge yesterday, I couldn’t help but wonder how the previous day had unfolded for her. Did she rise from bed Saturday morning knowing “today is the day”? Maybe she stayed under the quilt in her darkened room, too forlorn to make plans for her day. I don’t know her story, but perhaps the details don’t matter. What matters is this: she jumped.

How many of us have been there....clinging to the edge, lost and alone, unable to see the light in the distance? It happens all the time....every day. We miss the signs, we ignore the symptoms and then one day, we find ourselves with the wind in our hair looking toward the water 30 feet below, thinking that jumping is our only option. I’m speaking symbolically here, but we all have reached that point at one time or another, haven’t we? Perhaps the thought was brief and fleeting and we called ourselves back from the edge. We may have had someone close by who understood, who allowed us to share the pain. We can understand, though, how the world becomes too much, how our hearts can’t bear to ache one moment longer, how the thought of dying provides comfort....relief from the pain. There’s a name for this. It’s an illness called depression. And it can be lethal if left untreated.

As a former therapist as well as a person who lives with this illness, my heart goes out to the jumper. We live in a society that is afraid of this illness. Fear breeds misunderstanding and misunderstanding can be deadly. The person living with depression is afraid she’s losing her mind as she slips deeper into the black hole. Her usual ways of coping aren’t cutting it any longer. Well-meaning friends try to reason with her, but her brain isn’t functioning well (due to the illness). I have been there. Thankfully, I have a husband standing by who knows all about this illness and is ready to act if/when I am unable to take care of myself.

Are you surprised, dear reader, to know that I suffer from this illness? Of course you are....because it is well-treated and under control, thankfully. There were many, many years when my illness went untreated as I bought into the common mentality that I should be able to “get over it” on my own, that tomorrow would be a brighter day, and so on. Now I know better, and I regret those dark, lost years when I resisted treatment as something for the weak. These days, I understand that depression is an illness of brain chemistry. We all know people with Diabetes. These folks have messed up systems, through no fault of their own, that don’t produce insulin normally. I don’t know about you, but I would never suggest to a diabetic that he “get over it” or that his illness was all in his head or that tomorrow he’d feel better. None of these sentiments ring true for untreated depression either. Sometimes....often....the brain needs help producing and regulating the required chemicals for the victim of depression to function normally. A broken leg won’t heal itself, diabetes won’t disappear through the force of will....and depression needs medical attention.

Here’s an analogy which continues with the diabetic’s dilemma. Let’s say the person with diabetes fails to measure his blood sugar levels and doesn’t take the necessary insulin. At some point, he becomes unable to take care of himself. He may go into a diabetic coma. He may die. The same is true of depression. Left untreated, a person suffering with depression becomes unable to make healthy decisions, thoughts may turn to suicide....and these thoughts begin to make sense.

Saturday’s jumper didn’t die. She was injured and she will recover. Her jump from the Casco Bay Bridge is now part of her history, part of the story she will live with....the story of her battle with an illness that nearly won. I hope that she is in good hands now and that she will receive a proper diagnosis and treatment. I hope that she has good people around her who aren't afraid, who understand and will keep her safe. Mostly, I wish that our society understood depression for the illness that it is. If you have a friend or family member who is showing signs and symptoms, won’t you please reach out to them? Tell them what you are seeing, help them to get help. Your mother, your sister, your husband, your child....their life may depend on it.

Transitions...

As Maine transitions from summer into fall, I find myself quieting down and settling in. One of the luxuries, for me, of living in a four-season corner of the U.S. is this sense of moving (spiritually, mentally, even physically) in time with the shifts in the weather. Putting the garden to bed, bringing out the crock pot and stowing the air conditioners relaxes me. I am in the flow and find comfort in slipping a fleece jacket over my shoulders and pulling on a pair of long pants when the days grow cool. Slipping between cool sheets in the fall after enjoying a warm bath brings such a sense of peace and calm.

Each season has its blessings.... Spring carries a gentle sense of hope after a long, cold winter. Summer blooms hot and wild in me...and perhaps in you, too. Fall is a warm blanket tucking us in. And winter...well, winter is a challenge, requiring us to dig deep into our resources to find whatever it is (heat, food, sex, love) that will get us through to the other side. And then we repeat the cycle, feeling like it’s the very first time all over again. I don’t mind the rain, the snow, the mud, the dry spells. As a Mainer, I choose to embrace and welcome it all. Having a sense of acceptance makes the extremes more....acceptable, I guess.

It can feel good to put one thing to rest and pick up the dangling threads of something else, yet I seem to be struggling to welcome my own transition from one stage of life to another. My son turned 21 yesterday. That means I’m 23 plus 21. That equals age 44 for me....and that means I’m officially Middle Aged. In celebration of my son’s coming of age, I dragged out my huge tote of photographs, reviewing his progress from infant to toddler to child to teen to young man. I couldn’t help but note my own progress...from high school and college cheerleader to (very) young wife and mother to divorced twenty-something to remarried thirty-something and so on...until the present. I wish I could say I embraced it all with joy in my heart, but the truth is that I was oddly embarassed....mostly by terribly WRONG fashion choices. Ahhh, life. The bad perms, goofy glasses, and seriously questionable clothing buys. I was mildly horrified and quickly repacked the box and returned it to the basement shelf.

My body is aging, softening, showing signs of wear and tear. Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I don’t quite recognize that face as my own. Similarly, looking at old photos yesterday, I felt like a stranger to THAT face as well. I suppose all we really have is the present moment, in all its glory...or pain...or whatever it is that life is serving up in the Now. I have a lot of work to do...to love myself just as I am, to stop being a past or future thinker and just be here, now. The rest is just a waste of precious time, I know....yet I still need to remind myself constantly. Moving into the fall of my life is scary, but if I take it one day at a time, savoring the moments as sacred, I’ll be okay.