My First Yoga Retreat.

*** Author’s Note:  I began writing this post on July 1, two days after I came back from Mexico. But then I realized I had to do a few other things and here it sat. Until now. But hey, who doesn’t love a good flashback?

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As we rode towards the center (we thought) of Cancun, SP and I clearly felt confused. This in and of itself was confusing because we are both well travelled and SP is a native Mexican and so a simple bus ride into to town should not leave us nonplussed. As we rolled by an Outback Steakhouse I said, “Shoot me now.” This comment caught the attention of a young gringa in front of us who told us we “just had to go to the Montero Steak House because it was so authentic” with such earnestness I almost felt like she needed a hug (the restaurant appears to be German owned, for what it’s worth).

When we finally stepped off the city bus in the part of Cancun that everyone apparently thought we were trying to find we looked at each other and looked around, and had no idea what the heck was happening. Eventually we got a map and saw – to some degree – what had gone wrong. Simply wanting an easy night out, maybe a margarita, on our last night in Mexico after thirteen amazing days in Xcalak & Tulum, we had asked every wrong person where to go and thus stumbled into a Samuel Beckett-like evening of absurdity.

Walking along a weird avenue that backed up to gigantic mega-hotels with water on either side of us and not a bar or restaurant in sight, our confusion increased. Eventually we reached the part of the “Riviera” where we were told the bars and restaurants were. It was a full frontal assault of awful that nearly had us breaking into a full sprint to escape.

By the time we reached The Fiesta Americana we were just like, “Get us to an air-conditioned hotel bar away from this hideousness.” And so we found one and sat down.

But they had no food.

So we went to another restaurant in the hotel someone recommended. We sat down in a lovely little spot and ordered drinks. And then were told that the only meal option was a buffet.

Are you kidding me?

So off we went to another restaurant in the same hotel. It was Mexican. How bizarre. It was a totally odd place with super high ceilings and even more super loud mariachis. But they had food and a/c.

By the time we left we were ready to spend every last peso on a taxi home just to get out of Cancun and back to our airport hotel. I can’t really say if Cancun itself was so bad, but the Zona Hoteleria was vile, and our sensibilities were not ready for it after two weeks of bliss.

Which brings to light the point of this post: The Bliss. Our yoga retreat and entry into to said retreat were amazing. So amazing in fact, that the weirdest night I have ever had in Mexico (and I have had some doozies) could not even dispel the amazingness.

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I cannot remember my original motivation to do a yoga retreat – I have never done one before – but I do remember making the decision to do this retreat. And the decision brought up interesting (unfamiliar) feelings around my yoga life. If I were to describe my yoga practice I would use words like: disciplined, traditional, focused, quiet, solitary, consistent, serious, quiet. It is not that I am antisocial, although Veer did tell me long ago, I needed to work harder to be a part of the group – the kula. I didn’t know why it mattered at the time, like really and truly, I couldn’t understand why it mattered that I get socially involved with the group of Hong Kong Chinese women I practiced with. Everyday. For three to four hours.

When I say it like that it feels pretty ridiculous to think I needed someone to tell me I had to intentionally and meaningfully engage with a group of people I was in close contact with every single day.

But, I did.

And then years later as I continued to grow my practice and get to know new teachers, I was maintaining my practice in a very similar way. There were some people I got to know by virtue of frequent proximity, and I would go so far as to say I even had a few yoga friends. So to suddenly join a yoga retreat in Mexico with a group of people – who I may or may not really know – would definitely be categorized in the “out-of-character” file.

But I did.

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Before joining (I can hear S.P. right now saying: “Look at you, you joiner!”) the retreat (with my friend in and out of yoga, S.P.) we went to Xcalak to visit my former building managers. These are two of the more amazing people I have met in my life. I met them in the way that you meet the people who run your apartment building, but a little bit more than that. And then when they told me they were totally changing their lives and moving off the grid to a (rad) rural part of the Mayan Riviera they had a going away party, which I attended, and at which they said “Come visit! Really!”

Now people say this kind of thing a lot. And I often wonder if they really mean it, not like it is disingenuous, but more like the likelihood of future visits being, well, not that likely make it easier to say? I took a chance that they meant it. The type of people R & C are are not the type of people who would ever tell someone to come visit if they didn’t mean it. I know that now for sure if I did not before.

This meant we had five gorgeous days in a really special place that I am not really super interested in telling people about because: too special. There were great talks, perfect silences, friendly ducks, grumpy geese, clever chickens, snorkeling, Sargassum, stand up paddle boarding, cold beers, delicious food, and immeasurable generosity.

One week after finishing the school year, I could not have asked for more.

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Next we were off to Tulum for a week-long yoga retreat with a teacher I admire and know well and have grown to really trust. This, I imagine, is why I found my self there, at a yoga retreat.

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The retreat basically kicked off on the Summer Solstice, which is cool. (This also happens to be the date that the Indian government pushed the UN to adopt as International Yoga Day… a notion that if one does any amount of research upon will leave one quite… fraught.) But waking up on the Mayan Riviera for a Summer Solstice sunrise is pretty awesome regardless of any other circumstances…

And so here I was. With some people I knew. And some I did not. Joining.

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The retreat itself was very special, and as with my previous week, I am not super interested in spelling out all the more intimate ways that it was special, because it seems like something that feels more comfortable taking up residence in my own conscience. I am not sure how it would compare to other yoga retreats because I have never done a yoga retreat. I can assure you it was very (VERY) different from living in the ashram… as it should be.

We did yoga. We ate good food. There was a lot of time to relax or contemplate, or tan, or get spa treatments (I mentioned it was not like my ashram, right?)

It was gentle.

And the thing is, I think I need more gentle in my life. I do not default to gentle. I get after it. I work hard. I do lots (and lots and lots) of things. I push myself (and yeah, others too, sorry.) That is all fine, but gentle might be too. It gives you time to do different things.

I made a bunch of new friends. Real friends, who live in my neighborhood and have priorities in line with my own in lots of ways. I joined things. We rode bikes to ruins, we floated down crystal clear canals through ancient mangroves, we had warm white wine and rolled up Velveeta cheese. We laughed a lot. One of our group who attends yoga retreats regularly said that this retreat was totally unlike any she had done before because everyone at this retreat had come because of their connection to this particular teacher. She said it was a completely different feeling of community. Like I said, I cannot compare, but I can certainly agree.

This experience both changed my entire reality at home – in the yoga studio and around my neighborhood – and set the tone for my entire summer. My kula has grown and I am really glad. It is not always easy to develop community in a bustling urban situation, but, here we are. Better for it.

Namaste.

 

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Honey, I’m home…

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I have hardly written a thing all summer. This is odd because, well, I like to write and I have had a lot of really cool shit to write about this summer. I haven’t even been writing in my journal as I usually do. I chalked this up to being around people almost constantly at first, but I think I have just been going through a different sort of processing strategy.

Or something. I don’t really know yet.

I landed in San Francisco on the evening of 6 August 2015 having departed 6 July 2015. Prior to this European sojourn I had only been home a week after two weeks in Mexico, and my head was full as I made the long walk off the plane into the terminal. So many things I had seen and done and contemplated and tasted and dreamed and tried… and still, I was so glad to be back in San Francisco.

So glad.

Going is so much better when you have a place to come back to. What a gift to return to a city you love living in. I am not sure how long I will stay in San Francisco, I am a public school teacher after all and San Francisco is not really all that easy for those outside the super rich realm any more, but for now, it remains home and it feels just right.

I came home on the night of the first major GOP debate, and the last episode of the Daily Show. And there is not a city I would have rather experienced either of those in more than San Francisco. [I have not watched the Daily Show yet – too soon for me, and the debate will be great fodder for my government class this fall… Even Mumford and Sons cpu;don’t help poking a little fun about it on Friday night: “Oh America… really? We love you so much but, really?”]

I came home to my neighborhood and my cats and everything felt just right. And I have lots to say about all the amazing things I have done this summer, but for right now, I am just so glad to be home, sitting in my kitchen in San Francisco.

At home.

Humble Brag of the Day: So Happy.

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Just now, sitting on the side of my bed next to two contented cats, drinking my coffee, looking out at the sun, listening to some stranger’s perfect playlist on Songza, or Spotify or something, with nowhere to be, and probably plenty to do but nothing really urgent, I thought to myself, “I am so happy to be right here, right now.”

Yes.

Those moments when I feel so consciously and completely happy are really cool. I think we all probably have a lot of these types of moments, but I am not sure we all have the time to stop and revel in them. We are all so busy.

I feel lucky to have the time for these moments because they are amazing, nearly tangible, and validating, and delicious, and freeing. I am so happy.

Summer brings these moments more frequently for me because I am on holiday for an extended period of time (cue the overpaid teacher trope here) and I have the luxury of being just me, in my space, with the freedom to do whatever.

It is such a lovely feeling to be happy. Cats know.

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And my horoscope today? Affirming:

Virgo Daily Horoscope

Finding yourself with some time to relax, you may delight in the pleasant sensation of feeling laid-back. With the same focus that you applied to work, you now only allow yourself thoughts of the present, peaceful moment. Filling yourself with deep, cleansing breaths, you release all tension from your body as you exhale. A sigh of contentment may even escape your lips as they curl into an easy smile. Your eyes might wander, scanning your surroundings for beauty to appreciate, perhaps drifting to watch birds flying past an open window. In this moment, you can feel their playful joy as they revel in their freedom. Today, even if for just a few moments, you can enjoy a time of relaxation and feel the same delight.

That’s So Gay! And That’s So Awesome!

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The recent Pride celebrations in San Francisco – and across the nation – were especially festive as they coincided with the US Supreme Court’s landmark decision forbidding states from denying gay people the right to marry. This decision has unsurprisingly upset a lot of people. I have no idea why. I mean, I have an idea because they are always saying it is because it is against their beliefs and the Bible forbids it and therefore it should be forbidden to all people… and some folks throw in some nonsense about how the sanctity of marriage is some sort of cornerstone of our society… I guess I mean I do not understand the “marriage” of these realities, or how people who preach freedom feel that the freedom of others shits on their own. Rainbow sparkly unicorn shit, apparently.

I don’t even want to be bothered to explain how something being against one person’s beliefs cannot be made into law because in the same way they get to hold their beliefs, others get to hold theirs (oh hi First Amendment to the US Constitution), or how the Bible forbids all sorts of shit (like wearing mixed blend fibers and shaving) and encourages all sorts of shit (like infidelity and spousal abuse) and so selective enforcement of Biblical law might make a person a hypocrite (because I really do not care what you believe – only that you do not [and legally cannot] make me believe the same because: America.) I also am not interested in explaining how the “sanctity” of marriage is evolving if it is even still a thing. The divorce rate is actually dropping, only about a third of marriages now end in divorce, but the interesting reality behind this trend includes a whole bunch of inconvenient truths for fans of “traditional” marriage. It turns out that the reasons marriages are lasting longer has to do with increased reproductive rights and work equality for women. Also, as more educated people marry, and marry later, marriages seem to last longer. Another painfully obvious reason divorce rates are dropping is that marriage rates are also dropping. People who live together and then break up (often as traumatic and costly as a divorce) don’t figure into the stats. But there remains a positive correlation between some of the most rabid defendants of “traditional” marriage and divorce, which is a little awkward.

I don’t want to talk about all that because I really do not care about marriage. At all. I also do not care about, say, American football. You might even go so far as to say I do’t really believe in either of them and what they stand for. But why on earth should that preclude other people from being crazy about either institution? Their passion for football or marriage has no impact on my life.

I am far more interested in the freedoms and protections that our Constitution guarantees. And with expression being one of them – along with equality under the law – it seems that the whole gay rights thing should be redundant.

Of course it is not because, well, because people everywhere feel compelled to tell people that they “are doing it wrong” and bent on proving that rather than just living their own lives.

After the marriage equality ruling came down, the world exploded in rainbows (really literally in a lot of cases) and landmarks across the country got rainbowed.

So of course people got angry. Because, rainbows and ponies and glitter.

I think – aside from the obvious reality that I am in favor of any ruling that is going to prevent the government from getting involved in personal matters – like who is marrying who (remember when interracial marriage was illegal? #awkwardtruehistory) – the rainbows struck a personal chord with me because I am a child of the eighties. For real. As I watched the eruption of positivity and joy around Pride this year I realized it all feels like coming home. I was raised – culturally, with no specific familial influence – in a Pride parade. Consider my early cultural imprinting:

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It is all so fabulously gay! And all the men I loved? Well, you be the judge:

Even the straight guys seem pretty gay…

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I have a completely ineffective gaydar because of all this… Seriously – who could tell? And who cares (well, except for the inconvenient truth that those super cute waiters I was crazy for as a tween at the Crest Cafe in Hillcrest were never gonna be waiting for me – outside of some John Waters style of fiction.)

This was also a time when we were trying to work out WTF about HIV/AIDS and lots of our standard popular culture was littered with the pejorative, “Fag!” Strange bedfellows fear creates indeed. When I revisit those films now I always have a double take because it’s always coming from someone dressed like the above, and I am like, “Really.” It was around this time that I once referred to something as “So gay” in a disparaging way in front of my (gay) aunt who perfunctorily said, “Oh really? Gay? Do tell.” That was awkward. But important. And as I think about all the parts of my life that really are “so gay” I realize they are fundamental parts of me, my person, my taste, and my mind. In the most awesome ways.

I guess my point is this: I love the rainbows and the glitter and the gay. And for people who do not, and who are allowed to not, don’t. The difference is now you can’t legally discriminate based on your personal beliefs – which you were never supposed to do anyhow. #LOVEWINS

And if you don’t believe me, ask Jon Stewart.

In search of मन्त्र.

The Sanskrit word mantra consists of the root man- “to think” (also in manas “mind”) and the suffix -tra, designating tools or instruments, hence a literal translation would be “instrument of thought”

It would seem that the search for mantra begins early in life. Or, at least it did for me. The ubiquitous words to live by, maxims offered in children’s books, sayings… words of wisdom were always right there at the ready, waiting for me to try them out. I let the roll around my mouth, coming tumbling out in various ways and contexts. I thought about them and considered their gravitas. I endeavored to create my own.

People are people no matter how wierd they are. (Spelling, words, and attached art – not pictured – are mine, circa 1976)

I don’t remember when I started collecting quotations, song lyrics, expressions, lines from movies… and the collection has comprised all sorts of representations; collages, repetitive script, artwork, photos, memorization. I definitely was looking for instruments of thought.

It makes sense at a young age to rely on the words of others. People who have more experience in life, or art, or the world, or something, can serve as guides, or teachers. The words can provide validation or support whether or not you even know the person. And it’s nice to feel like someone has been there before – someone really *gets it*. I think that was my first motivation in the search for mantra.

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In the absence of a master, trying to make up my own lesson – Astronautalis, Oceanwalk

Eventually, my search for mantra had a different purpose. Rather than validation it was more a search for kindred spirits: one’s tribe. Again, this is not for a lack of a tribe of my own, but more of an effort to somehow identify the reach and significance of the tribe. Here came the words of the masters; great poets, singers, novelists….

  • All who wander are not lost!
  • Carpe diem!
  • And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make!
  • Do not go gentle into that good night!
  • Rage rage against the dying of the light!
  • Oh! The places you will go!
  • The greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return!
  • Emancipate yourself from mental slavery!
  • Live! Laugh! Love!
  • Dance like no one is watching!
  • Shoot for the moon, you might land in the stars!

ओं मणिपद्मे हूं

This led into my efforts to really study mantra – in the traditional sense. I began to think much more seriously about the power of words and the power of manifestation – like how words can so often become reality, for better or for worse, and how words can provide a path to deeper more effective thinking, concentration, or better yet, a truly quiet mind. Considering that mantra is also defined as “a word or sound repeated to aid concentration in meditation” this too makes sense in my continuing coexistence with, and search for, mantra.

Om mani padme hum has been a staple for me. This mantra has far too much depth to be covered here, but as the lotus mantra, and the lotus is that which can emerge with beauty and grace from the mud may indicate a bit of its direction. I love studying the yoga sutras and the mantras of the Bhagavad Gita because the relevance of these ancient texts underscores so much of the interconnectedness of life that my age has been beginning to show me.

And as I continued to embrace mantra I started to see how everyone else I saw around me was too – sometimes consciously, other times less so; looking for the perfect tattoo, identifying the perfect quotation for the college essay, or with which to begin each chapter of the new novel, or to get through the next overwhelmingly sad/challenging/devastating/heartbreaking circumstance that will surely come up.

Mantra is also believed to be a spell or weapon of supernatural power…

I think maybe the reminder of mantra can also be protective and maybe that is what drives a lot of people to search for mantra. It certainly drove me last year to a point where I felt compelled to put mantra on my body – out of my mind, my mouth, and on to my skin. This was new for me, and definitely reactive. At a time in my life when I was feeling overwhelmed by all that was happening around me, and needing a reminder that not only could, but that I would, stay the course.

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In hindsight, I am not sure I would have actually gone through with this commitment to mantra had I not been reeling emotionally on so many levels… which is not to say I regret the decision, I do not. But I have found myself feeling shy about it in a way I never anticipated, which makes me wonder.

I chose to get two mantras tattooed on my back in the last year. One, the lotus mantra was less surprising, and somehow, people seem not to ask about it because: I do yoga. I guess that excuses the cultural co-optation. I also chose to represent the mantra in a form that is not generally scripted because I wanted to include a traditional ॐ. I suppose this could be construed as an error – but it is just intentionally archaic. Somehow, that feels apropos for me.

The second piece of mantra I chose to put on my body was a refrain from a song that I listened to on repeat for nearly three months after the sudden loss of three friends near the end of last year. Because the words are in English, people are much more likely to ask about them. And it feels really silly to explain that I have put a song lyric on my grown up body. This is a shyness I am not familiar with. But that bit of mantra – like everything – is so much more than the tattoo. I am not sure if I will add to the tattoo, or change it, or grow into it, but I am so glad for the reminder that in spite of terribly sad times, I do maintain my belief in the good things coming… that nothing is irreparable, or lost forever.

Mantra brings comfort, and is powerful. We have seen this always, prayers, chants, superstitions, cheers, spells. I think even for people who would say they don’t believe in mantra, they would find, upon closer examination, that they actually do. From positive self talk and affirmations, to songs of empowerment and resistance, to calls to action, mantra is there.

And we could do far worse than to seek out interments of thought.

I am no master, I know nothing…
I am a servant and I know something…
I am a witness….

So, this happened. Again.

I am Civic Center Bart waiting for a train around 10:30 am on a Wednesday. The platform is relatively empty… this is not a busy time of day. I am not dressed in any unusual way – I am wearing jeans, a long sweater and flats. I have a scarf around my neck because my hair is pulled back and it is breezy. It is San Francisco, after all. I am wearing sunglasses. I am not wearing my earphones, which I almost always keep in – even though they are mostly off. I am looking at my phone because I am in the midst of a relatively alarming/entertaining group text with two colleagues about the substitute teacher that is apparently unable to do the one thing he had to do for me: pass out some papers.

At this point the train is four minutes out and I hear someone say, “What time is it?” I am stuck by this question because it comes out loud, and sudden, as if I have already been engaged in conversation with this person, and as an aside they have interjected, ‘By the way what time is it?’ There is no segue from this speaker, just, ‘Hey. Tell. Me. What. Time. It. Is.’ By the time I realize he is talking to me I look up then quickly back at my phone and report that it is 10:45.

I look back to my phone and continue to check up on the situation I am missing at school for having reported for my civic duty.

“You’re really cute.” The Man With No Watch Says.

“Thank you.”

“So, you got a husband?”

“I am not going to answer that question.”

“Why? You single?”

“I am not going to answer it because it is a totally inappropriate thing to ask me.”

“Well, do you?”

“It is none of your business and it is not okay for you to be asking me.”

“What? I ask lots of ladies and they don’t think it is inappropriate.”

“Well, maybe you should keep talking to them. I am telling you it is inappropriate and you have no business asking me in the first place, let alone over and over again. It is non of your business, and completely irrelevant to you.”

“What? You having a bad day?”

“No, not really. I am just sick of constantly being hassled by offensive interactions like this.”

“Oh, no I am hassling you? You think I am harassing you?”

“Yes. Actually I do. And I am sick of it.”

“Whatever man. You hella uptight. Does this train go to Fremont?”

I point to the sign that says ‘SAN FRANCISCO/MILLBRAE’.

“Ah, yeah. I see”

And the train comes. I get on the train. I wonder for a moment if Fremont was a ruse and my inquisitor will get on this train with me. It would not be the first time. He does not. I see several seats and decide I will stand because I only have two stops to go. A man standing across from me asks, “How are you today?” And I think to myself, I sure miss the reality in which a question like that really was just a question like that.

I nod.

He lets it go.

When I get off the train and come out to the neighborhood I return to everyday, I see the regular assortment of folks who are always there, regardless of the hour or the weather. Some greet me in a way that indicates neighborhood familiarity. Some are busy doing whatever it is that they do with their days.

None of them ask me if I have a husband.

But it will happen again, likely before I even get to my building.

I wish it would stop. I wish that there was not something inside of me that somehow is programmed to eek out a bit of guilt that I am being snobby or a ‘bitch’ when I don’t want to engage with the strangers who somehow feel they have a right to comment on me, my body, my clothes, my personhood.

I wish it would stop.

Then I am home.

And it stops; at least for the moments I am at home.

Some observations on yoga as lifestyle.

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I just came out of a really nice yoga class, and I feel really good. Yoga has been doing that for me more and more, leaving me feeling differently from how I felt when I went in, but also very distincl from the feeling I used to get after a really satisfying gym workout, or run, or competitive athletic endeavor. It is interesting to pay attention to how I respond to different activities in my life, and as of late I have been really trying to look at how yoga makes me feel. This has been inspired by a number of things not the least of which is my physical well-being. I have not been able to put my finger on to what it is that is different about the yoga feeling, but I have been thinking about it a lot and I have a feeling it may have something to do with this idea of a “yoga lifestyle.”

I find the phrase “yoga lifestyle” hilarious. However, I think it bears consideration that yoga is a lifestyle.

  • If your yoga lifestyle means wearing $100 Lululemon and drinking wine – that is a lifestyle, and it has its own kind of balance.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is putting your freaking amazeballs body in a tiny (probably very expensive) bikini and taking some photos of yourself in impressive asana, that too has its own sort of balance, and is a lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is pretending you have a sanskrit (or you thought it was sanskrit) name and chanting and teaching yoga to other people who feel good in this environment, then that too is a yoga lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is aggressively athletic: lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is rigorously ascetic or disciplined: lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is loud: lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is quiet: lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is expensive and opulent: lifestyle.
  • If your yoga lifestyle is homemade and in the park: lifestyle.

Hippe, hottie, gay, straight, earthy, commercial… it is all a lifestyle. So, I find it really strange when yoga people find it necessary to judge all these other lifestyles. And the judgement comes in so many guises, I honestly think that some people think they are not judging, or that they are fooling people into thinking they are not judging (no.) I have been thinking about this a lot lately as so many entities are taking it upon themselves to educate us about what a yoga lifestyle is. (I suppose that is some sort of lifestyle too.) And it is weird because I do not see this intra-community judgment between sports and gym traditions, or Zumba and spinning or something. This is yoga people telling all sorts of other yoga people how they are “doing it right” or not.

What really got me on to this was trying to picture my first yoga teacher participating in this kind of ‘education.’ I had to laugh trying to picture Veer telling people how what they were doing was not yoga, or had the wrong intentions, or was spreading the wrong message.

As if.

Now, to be fair, I began yoga in a unique way, I came to it later in life (I was 37) while living overseas, and I began with a group of teachers who could not have been more authentic: they were native Indians who actually speak and read sanskrit, and had been practicing yoga as a daily element of their lives since birth for no other reason than it is a fundamental part of their lives. That is a lifestyle. These men – they were all men – were extremely orthodox. They were not burning sage, or telling me about my moon cycle and my divine feminine, or being self deprecating and silly, or having live music, or wearing fancy clothes; and they would have never criticized another tradition or practice (read: lifestyle) because that is not their focus. They came to class. The opened with mantra. They instructed and guided the class. They ended the class. Certainly they explained the benefits of poses and explained how women should not practice certain asana and pranayama at certain times, and no one should practice certain asana and pranayama at certain times. They were unforgiving and diligent in their dedication to the practice, and if you wanted to be under their wing, to your practice as well.

This was the yoga imprint I came up with. As a result I happen to have a very orthodox practice. I have strong alignment. I know the sutras. I know the history. I understand how to listen to my body. I also enjoyed the traditional and disciplined nature of my early teachers. They sent me to India and I found myself in an ashram that would never make the cut for my current studio. Simply put, it is too Indian. This too, is a lifestyle.

The thing is, I still like the #whitepeopledoingyoga thing that is going on here in the US. I do not find my yoga background and the myriad interpretations of yogic lifestyle mutually exclusive. Different, yes. But I think the combination lets me get more out of my practice.

These days as I continue to grow my own practice I find myself observing a lot more. This is a big step for me to be able to relax and look outward rather than be fraught with concern about whether or not someone (who I have a 99% probability of not even knowing based on my reluctance to make my yoga lifestyle overly social) thinks I am “doing it right” or “good enough”. When the teacher says “Okay Level 2 and Level 3…” and the ego kicks in desiring to be Level 2 or Level 3, I am better at knowing what is Level Me. (This whole levels thing? So #whitepeopledoingyoga.)

As someone who has always considered herself somewhat of an athlete (save for that 18 month period in which I took a seriously over-zealous approach to the Freshman 15), and also someone who simply does not know how to not be self-conscious about her body, I have found yoga to be a salvation. I love the physicality of it, and I am stronger now than I have been probably at any other time in my life in spite of a less functional body. I love the way I feel when I go into the studio and that I no longer have that feeling like yoga is on my to do list for the day – but that it is a part of my day. I love that I can do some crazy hard asanas and I am earning to accept that I may never be able to do some others. I love that I can surprise my students by beating them in a handstand contest. I love that I am learning  – after eight years of effort – to actually meditate. I love that I have a life that allows me to do yoga whenever I want. I love wearing yoga pants… all the time. I love looking at amazing and beautiful people doing insane asana in beautiful places. I love that #whitpeopledoingyoga in San Francisco underestimate my yoga knowledge all the time because they just finished a 200 hour teacher training. I love that yoga is so dynamic that I can see the changes in my body, my classmates, the demographics and styles of the classes.

And the things I do not like about yoga it turns out are the same things I don’t like in the world: inauthenticity and falseness, insecurity, inaccuracy, gimmickry, arrogance… But the best thing about yoga is I can look at those things now and not like them and let them go. It is like my own little serenity prayer: yoga grant me the mindfulness to accept the things I cannot change, the focus to change the things I can, and the balance to know it is probably all my perception anyhow.

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