type D

the right is the impulse to go to you. here is where I will know love.
the left is the impulse to flee or kill. here is where I will survive.
all my life I have been standing on the center of the treasure map. X marks the spot.

it seems like such a simple act.
uncross your arms.
stand straight with your arms at your sides.
reach them forward and invite the embrace.
swing them alongside you as you run.
uncross your arms.

uncross your arms and you will know what kind of animal you really are.
and you will understand the psychic origami, the big number, that was pulled on you.
you are not small at all; the labyrinth was designed large in order to reduce you.

do you know what color you are?
All those decades you painted yourself beige and natural and blush, only to discover you are blue.
true blue.
stand under the rain a while and let it come to you, slowly, like an epiphany.
hang your arms next to you and realize the dilemma.
you can't survive the love or the murder.
you were broken in order to bend into the box.

all you know to be true, is... and is not.
light can't live in the bottom of a well.

held by love.

it matters.
you were the one that led me to this territory. a year ago, I turned around.
you were the one that led me to this territory. a year later, I'm submerged.

you stand next to me: breathing, striving, crying, reaching for that thing in you and staying in the room.
it matters.
you make way for the downpours and flash floods; when the walls crumble, the rains come.
sometimes, we have to out swim the waves.
sometimes, the undertow takes us.
we always meet up back at the shore. waiting for the other.
it matters.

you see what to celebrate and, you celebrate.
you bring me to the foods that are good for me.
you bring me to the foods that delight me.
you bring me to hands that hold me.
you bring me to hands that heal me.
it matters.

we are dancing to this music, crashing into each other and finding our way,
moving from seamless to toe stepping to seamless
and back
and forth
and back
and forth.
we are dancing to this music.
we are singing to this music.
we are laughing and
we are crying.
but, we are dancing
to this
music.
held by love.
it matters.

day 30. arrival.

at the end of the class, the instructor gave a verbal nod to me and congratulated me for arriving at day 30. I didn't expect it; I cried. As I lay in the final savasana, I wanted to cry. I tried, but I suppose that it was too vulnerable a place to go, having given my 100% today and being there, in full anatomical position, as unguarded as it gets. Instead, I cried; just feeling the sweet, hot tears streaming from my eyes without the diaphragmatic and visceral sobbing.
I feel proud of myself. And, Robert was right there next to me, in support and love as I reached the pinnacle.
I didn't really quite think about what I was doing; I was so much in the process of doing it. I was waking up everyday and just getting my ass to yoga. I was following through with a commitment I had made to myself. I was fueled by the fact that getting up in the morning was becoming less and less difficult; pain was subsiding, things were changing, my body was transforming. I felt better. I looked better. I felt strong and more embodied. My life was shifting. I was more clear. I was more emotional, but things were no longer stuck (even though I thought they were, in the harder days of thawing). I was writing again. I was recovering my creativity.
I have to eat my words now.
For many years, I was a strong and righteous voice against Bikram Yoga. I thought, because I practiced it for a full summer in St. Pete Florida nearly two decades ago, that I had a reasonable enough perspective to assert its shortcomings. In that summer, I enjoyed it. It was hot. Florida is hot. Florida in the summer is hot. Bikram in Florida in the summer is about as hot as it gets. I enjoyed the teachers and their kindnesses. I enjoyed the heat. I enjoyed the reward of the after class ritual of jumping in the gulf of Mexico or the swimming pool. But, I found the practice rigid and disconnected. At that time, there wasn't a set dialogue and the rhyme and reason for the series was much more vague. Frankly, it felt random. I realize now how vital and supportive the dialogue is; it provides a trust and a foundation to reach even further. Without it, the edges felt like random precipices chosen simply for the opportunity to strut the ego; how far can you go? As I continued my body studies, back at the dance conservatory with intensive practices in ballet, modern dance, improvisation, laban, pilates, feldenkrais and further into my professional career, I immersed myself in how the body works and moves. Bikram seemed a type A force of will that pushed the body into a submissive stance, disregarding it's voice and striving towards a competitive goal. It just seemed like a really good workout; it lacked the essence of the poetics of art and spirituality that I craved. I threw it out as I discovered ways to inhabit my bones and muscles through more mover-friendly yogas like Astanga (still a great love of mine), Body Mind Centering and a variety of "intelligent" body classes that gleaned their wisdom from deep studies of experiential anatomy, Ideokinesis and poetic inquiries. This was my jazz. After my first real back injury in a modern class in New York, I landed in workshops and classes taught by the late and great Nancy Topf.  I learned about the connection between my tongue and my psoas, how to release the tension patterns in an intractable injury and, by the end of class, by some miracle, I was dancing as if I were made of feathers and wind. From this pivotal experience, I was committed to the investigation of the art of healing the body, moving and honoring my own innate capacities. My professional studies all stand on this important root system.

Bringing this up to date, to now, here I am at the end of a 30 day challenge with Bikram and I stand in an undeniable position. The most recent intractable injury, a disc herniation and torn hamstring, is in a divine state of recovery. I am not completely back to full mobility, but the spiral that has led me downward for over a year has taken a u-turn and there is no mistaking that I am heading upward. I have tried dancing, Pilates, other yoga, physical therapies, massage, Feldenkrais....and, it is Bikram that is making the difference. Perhaps it is the commitment of everyday attendance, hell or highwater, that I made for myself or the series and form itself or the heat. Perhaps it is my older, wiser self that has come around to a broader and more all encompassing perspective. Either way, it is Bikram that has turned me around and for this, I have to swallow my words and be thankful for its position in my life at this point in time.This is a good and true practice for me right now.  In my self, today, and in Bikram, today, I am finding the art and the poetry and the touch of the gods that I had never before been able to see in this form. Each class is a mediation. Each class a story, a painting, a dance or a poem. Perhaps it is me, the recovered artist, that had to show up and discover that wherever I go, here I am. Any practice, any place is a tabula rasa and when I bring myself to it openly and honestly, the art and prayer emerge.There are many roads that lead us home.

day 29. don't brink your rise.

hardest class yet.
the teacher is new. and nervous. and fumbling over her dialogue. and including every word of the dialogue, but more as a hybrid version of the words; she is inventing a new language.

don't brink.

windremoving pose is massaging your coalum.

bring your chins to your trest.

feel your abdominum.

L as in Inda.

stresh your leggaz.

as examples....

by eagle posture, I am exhausted.
by standing head to knee, I am losing the will to continue.
we are held in postures for very long periods of time and there is nothing to support us. the disorganization disorganizes me. I watch how my own muscles and nervous system can no longer assemble into even the most familiar places. in some ways, it is a fascinating opportunity to see, with my SE mind, the effects of a disorganized field on my very own nervous system's capacity to function. It is a slow unravel.
In other ways, I am witnessing my own emotions surface and bounce, feeling the room quickly disintegrate from union and community into basic stabs at surviving the class. Lots of people are giving up, coming out of postures early, not waiting for others to enter, diving into savasana and becoming heavier and heavier in their energy.
the class is a slow and painful burn.
I do my best to rally and see the practice with some ounce of optimism: what are the opportunities, what am I grateful for? This works for some small doses of pacification but, truly, I have descended into survival mode. I am doing what I can do to make it to the end of class without getting hurt. I am trying to shut out her voice, which is only serving to aggravate things, and listen to my own inner dialogue. But, I don't have the dialogue committed to my hard drive, so I am just doing what I know to do and deciding that this is not going to be a class where I go to the physical edges and can trust that I am supported. It really helps me appreciate all of the other teachers and to see how much I rely on their support; how much I TRUST them. It really helps me to appreciate how the whole room supports each other.
In all that disorganization I have moments of directing myself to the present moment, now,and volitionally deciding that even this is something, a moment, that I am grateful for. In the grand scheme of things, it is really no big deal. In the disorganization, I say to myself, as I would in renegotiating an attachment compensation, "I am organized, I am secure." Sort of like trying to out do the vortex of chaos with the attention towards whatever is left of clarity.
The good news is this: I make it to the end of class. with no injuries.
The entire floor series, because she ran out of time, is void of savasanas so I feel like I have been in some kind of meat grinder, but I am lying on the floor, done and still in one piece.

thaw.

there is no shock in this room.
it is wide and soft and I can swing my arms around and discover all the space I need.
i can walk and lose my feet in the thick plush floor and walls; sing and hear the echoes.
i can move from side to side.
all is heat and fluid.
new.


those pockets have been thawed.
the ice, burned away from the compression and release, retreats and bears the tender things
like, tears
and forgotten feelings.

winter survives the summer.
hold your hand here, at my ribcage, and let my breath rest against the borderland
waiting for spring.
spring.
comes.

it is so tender to let the big sky in.
i am so small.
so, sit with me awhile and let me imagine your smile and what it would feel like to land.
the two of you, carrying such simple flowers, have the power to break the moon in half with your gaze.
it is the way you love.
one drop is enough to shake the waves from the shore and call them back to sea.
one drop more and the planets tremble.
it feels so good to try.

day 28. good.

8am. the teacher that doesn't smile. I say "hello" and she looks away. every time. what's that about?
I start there.
Thankfully, that little opportunity fades quickly. I don't know what her story might be. It's not personal. I let it go.
I'm here to practice. Just me and me in the room.
Except, I've noticed that I do get distracted, from time to time, with other people in the room. I feel their energy. Some days that's a helpful thing. Some days...not so helpful at all. It seems there's a lot of stuff people are carrying around.
Thankfully, those opportunities come and go, arising and falling away. It's just like watching the breath.
It's a good practice today.
I feel present, but tired enough not to have it in me to strive too much. I'm finding edges and I'm breathing. All good. Some of the postures are humbled by the early morning; my muscles are hardly awake for quite a while. All is well. I'm on the right path and I know it. It's clear that just showing up today is the best thing I can do.
And, before I know it, we're in savasana and I am resting deeply.

day 27. turning up the heat.

off to an off start. there was a new person and he was having trouble making it into the studio while the instructor waited for him before beginning the class. A seasoned student (I assume) made it clear with her eye rolling, scowls and "oh come ON"s that this was unacceptable. Off the bat, the vibe was lining us up for an interesting morning.
we began.
The newbie wasn't positioned too far away from me so I was able to feel the fidgets, hear the sighs and catch the drift that this was a bit of a challenging step he had just taken. In the midst of Eagle posture, he went down in a loud crash and a cry of pain. He'd torn something, something popped, something hurt pretty bad.
The instructor made an assessment and suggested he stay in the room while she located ice and continued the dialogue for us through her microphone headset. He was in pretty significant pain and he was not quiet about it. The dynamics were chaotic. The field was quick to fill with the reactions of several people, including miss eye roll in the front, who seemed put out by the interruptions. She got busy trying to enlist allies to support that she, along with the rest of the class, was somehow victimized by this poor guy's selfish decision to have an injury in the middle of her practice. I think most people had some amount of compassion for the situation, but mostly there was an attempt to keep the momentum of the class rolling along.
I found middle ground for myself. I continued to do my practice and allowed him space and allowed the instructor to assume her leadership role. When it was time for him to leave the room, I offered to be one of the people to help him up and help him outside. When the owner of the studio arrived to bring him to urgent care, I helped him into the car. I returned to practice and felt like I wanted to sob. I recognized the great deal of energy that he was setting loose; lots of fear and worry and override. It was pretty intense. I just returned to the room and returned to my practice, but it seemed off for the rest of the class. I was irritated mostly by the woman in the front and her flagrant narcissism. How dare she be put out by someone's serious injury. The nerve!
Yoga is union. Yes.
We practice in the room together and begin and end each posture together to feel the community, to feel the union of the energy in the room. If one person is really going for it, especially if they are standing right next to you, you are inspired more to go for it. If one person is collapsing and having trouble staying in the room, you feel that too and your practice is likely to become more challenging. So, when one person is groaning and writhing in pain; much like a wounded animal, the whole room has to accommodate that. What an interesting opportunity. I watched my own responses and reactions and felt like, perhaps I could've done more or perhaps I did just enough and honored my own boundaries at the same time. I felt an animal instinct, surprisingly, that honed in on the upstaging antics of the aggressor across the room. It was like she smelled blood and was going to be sure to alert the sharks. That was the vibe that I had more difficulty shaking off. It was pure ugliness.
I made it through class and tracked myself through savasana, shook of what isn't mine, reestablished my boundaries and breathed in my gratitude for life.
Sometimes people are so difficult to be around. Today I need a big bubble of protection around me.

day 26. where the mind goes, the body will follow

it was after a day of patience. plans going awry, schedules changing. surprises.
work and rushing. running from here to there. worries and reliefs.
and, I'm tired but, so ready for practice.
it's the last class of the day and walking into the room is like diving into a lake; I am instantly soaked.
this is good.
I like to sweat this intensely and know that down to the marrow, I am warm.
It wasn't an easy class. It took me a while to arrive with my focus. For the first 15 minutes I was still thinking about things and scrutinizing myself in the mirror. I didn't much like the clothes I was wearing; they didn't seem all too flattering. And, my hair looked flat and terrible.
All that judgement faded pretty quickly. I had bigger fish to fry.
I went deep into Utkatasana/Awkward Pose. I really think that once I'm past that pose, the rest of the practice is easier, mentally. Something about it really, really provokes me. And, today...I really pushed the edge and found something new. cool, in all that heat. cool.
Standing head to knee....on the second set, I actually nearly straightened both legs. Yes, things are changing. Here's solid proof.
Trikonasana/Triangle is the other devil. It is tough stuff getting that deeply into a lunge and keeping enough traction on the towel so that I don't pull my hamstrings any more. It's a bit of nemesis right now, but I'm meeting it.
At some point in the standing series I had a strange experience. I was internally fighting a posture...don't remember which one exactly, but I was in resistance. Suddenly, I felt separate from my physical body in a way that made it feel like a vehicle and I just opened the door and got in. I thought "how cool to be moving this way, sweating, and pushing an edge. I don't care much if I get anywhere with this...the ride is so cool. I'm just happy to be here experiencing whatever it is." And then, I was just me doing my thing but with a little different perspective. cool. very, very cool.
Locust. Don't know if my legs are getting any higher but, I'm going to trust that someday, if not today, they will inch themselves upward.
The floor series challenged my back tonight so I started pendulating to the areas of my body that felt easier. I felt marshmallow in my left lower back just as my right lower back felt like someone grabbed it and wrung it into a ball like a dishrag. I put all my focus on the marshmallow and, within a breath, the right side had relaxed. I love SE.
At this point it occurred to me to fill my awareness with textures that would be conducive to enjoying the floor series so,  I thought of gummi bears and gummi worms.
I did windremoving posture as if I were a gummi worm, just bending and folding in any old direction, and I felt lighter.
It worked for the bendy stretchy stuff but was more of a challenge for locust, which requires an effort counter to gravitational forces. Still, I tried.
When camel arrived, I psyched myself up by saying "this is my favorite posture! oh good, I get to do camel. I hope she holds us here for a long time!" and then it was smooth, if not challenging, sailing from there. It felt like no time at all and I was able to really go for the gusto and deepen into it. nice.
it shows me alot about how powerful our thoughts are.
I had fun tonight. I'm so happy and so grateful that I have been doing this.

day 26. part one.

the morning unraveled.
I didn't make it to class & I feel cranky about it. I'll go to the evening class, but I've grown accustomed to starting the day with this practice. I think it's official. I'm addicted.

day 25. the red thread.

today is a deep yawn; something soft and satisfying that shakes off the morning haze.
there is just enough.
enough heat. enough space. enough challenge. enough grace. enough growth. enough of me here.
it isn't 100 miles per hour and a collapse to the floor relief to be done.
it is a steady paced sprint requiring the work of my heart and breath, focus and intention, and I am still taking in the sights.
this gives room for the dedication.

today is father's day; the opportunity for somewhat complicated feelings to surface from the swim.
I don't separate them out and attempt to lay them neatly in a row. I let them hang out, intertwined, tangled and knotted, with an occasional clean thread dangling.
Instead, I am breathing and focusing on the first beads of sweat that are gathering their watered weight and sliding down my face and neck and arms and belly and legs. I'm here. in this room. now.
I remember my gratitude for this. I am here. now. lucky me. so lucky. blessed, really. to be. to be here. now.

My head is full of a story I listened to from the archives of 'This American Life' yesterday. It was a story of the massacre in the small town of Dos Erres in Guatemala in the 1980's. Two young boys were the only survivors of a senseless and brutal assault of the village by the Guatemalan military. The slaughter was one of 600 mass killings that took place during a 36 year long war that left more than 200,000 people dead. The United States Embassy knew about the incident at Dos Erres and other places, but kept the information secret until 1998. It was a tenacious Guatemalan female prosecutor who, after working on the case for 15 years, pursued the eventual murder and human rights violations convictions of three former commanders of the military squad responsible for the deaths. It was she who was responsible for discovering one of the surviving boys, kidnapped by a commander and raised as his own child. The boy is now an adult, married with four children, living in Framingham, Massachusetts. His name is Oscar.
Oscar had no idea of his history and considered the man who raised him as his own kind and loving father. That same father was directly involved with the sadistic murders of Oscar's very own pregnant mother and 8 siblings. The miracle in the story does come. Oscar's true biological father was not in town when the massacre occurred and, he is still alive. The reunion of the father and son is heartwarming, heartbreaking, delicate and complicated.
There is a stunning streak of light in the midst of such a terrible breaking.
I am thinking about this.
Yes. I thought about it all night.
And, I am thinking of it still.
I am thinking of the reality of the darkness that ensnares the souls of men and coaxes them into unspeakable atrocities; acts that threaten to destroy not only the physical bodies, but the spirits of anyone bearing witness, proximity or lineage to those acts.
I am thinking of where that darkness begins and how it grows so vast.

I think about the Shanghai Massacre that tore through my own paternal grandfather's story; how it must have punctured his capacity to trust in anything good or believe in anything like love.
I think about how that untold story walled off rooms in my grandfather's heart; how the buried fright and rage lay brooding in his body.
I think about his sons learning the language of storms; carrying the saturated thunderclouds in their open mouths.
I think about my father and the way he rained, like an uncontrolled habit.
I think about the lineage of trauma, how it travels down the generations like a drop of blood, gathering momentum  and madness.
I think about all the secrets and violations, guilts and guttered shadows that are swallowed like glass and digested into the seams of our softest tissues; how the scars gather around the sharp edges and tense, distort and calcify until we believe we are free from the wounds. And, how terribly wrong we are about that.
I think about how the cells change to accommodate the ruptures, how the nervous system reroutes.
I think about how pathology becomes the new normal and how we are all just fish swimming in the same dirty water, not knowing anything else.
I think about generations upon generations, standing on the same broken matchsticks, lighting cigarettes and drinking gasoline, calling it good enough and fine.
I think about the rules, the beliefs, the traditions, the terrors, the pleasures and the punishments that started there and continue here.
I think about the ancestors standing along a long red thread.
I think about the ancestors and wonder where the thread began to grow taut, where it shredded and tangled, where it went slack and when or if it will snap.

....and, here....I dedicate my practice to my ancestors.
with every effort, every challenge, every edge I approach, I say to my ancestors "may you be surrounded and filled with unconditional love and healing, peace and ease. may you have everything your heart needed to thrive and sing with joy and freedom and love. always, love. may love be your truth and experience. may light guide you and protect you. may all your sufferings and pain cease."

I imagine the thread unwinding and softening.
I see my ancestors dancing, smiling, singing, waving their arms and carrying on in all of their languages, knowing that they are safe and loved.
I see them with open hearts and strong bodies, tasting the foods they love, smelling their favorite aromas, occupying their most sacred and sanctuaried spaces, delighting in the dancing and singing of the music that moves their souls, feeds and nourishes their spirits and brings them to life.
I see my grandfather receiving love.
I see my father receiving love.
I see me receiving love.

Today is father's day and my father is gone.
He is with the ancestors in that place that is that thread that is woven through my veins and nervous system, cells and skin.
With love, I am dedicated to healing those tangles and knots in all the ways that I can.
I am pulling the glass from my skin, watching it bleed and allowing it to heal.
I am here, today, sweating and stretching into parts of myself that are rigid, collapsed, resistant, righteous and full of rage, pain, fear or untapped joy.
I am here today with love.
I am here today with truth.
When we meet the unthinkable darknesses with the courage of love and truth, we bring them into the light.

day 24. this is an excellent moment to be content.

where did all the days go?
I completed 15.
16, 17 and 18 were lost. in their place was a drive, a manifestation of design with wild grasses and translucent powder blues, a sealed deal, dancing in circles and spirals, laughter, late night and reparations of things unseen. good. and, great.
19 and I was back in the swing of it, laying my body down right under the wheels of the yoga truck. forward and reverse. forward and reverse. rough.
I wanted to write, I did. I wanted sleep more so, I did. sleep. yoga. sleep. eat. sleep. yoga. sleep. eat. sleep...
20, 21, 22...
When I reached the 20's , the tears came. In practice, mostly they tumbled out during locust and camel; the big back burners. These asanas know the hiding places in my body; the place where all the pain is stored. It wasn't about anything, it was just tears but, only whimpering tears. I wanted the bigger river, I did.
22 was the hard day. all my skin came off; all my scales and feathers and fur.  it was just me, boiled down to the bones. raw. Every breeze was a windstorm full of sand and I got blown. a few times.
There was no eye in the storm and so, I wound around in circles until I was completely turned upside down and inside out, uttering words that didn't belong to me and defending myself against the shout of shadows. my hands were full of splinters and salt. my heart was a wrung out mess.
even being happy, lying in the grass and staring up through the leaves at the sun was still.... staring at the sun. everything was hot. everything was hot and no one was turning on the fans or opening the door. everything was hot.  that's just how it was.
23 was a tearful, prayerful dedication of love. I just showed up and said, "okay, this is it. I'm here. let's do this."
And every wobble or fall or bent knee was a kiss of kindness. this isn't about things being perfect. it's about gentleness with my rising to meet the fullness of my life. there is no there. i get it. in my life, in my relationships, in my professional life, health, finances, you name it...there are wobbles, falls and bent knees. there are days that the room is too damn hot and it's not even possible to keep standing long enough to feel like I really gave my best shot, but I did. there are days when everything sticks, progress is made, yards are gained; days I feel elegant and fierce and capable of anything. there are days when I wonder why I was born or why or how I'm still alive.
In this room, all of this is real. and, this is it. I am here. I am alive.
The dedication is to acceptance and surrender, to love ferociously with all my heart and to show up and know that I am doing the best I can do. To fight for and do my best for those things, those people, that really matter to me.
And, everything, on the mat and off the mat, changes from this moment after moment prayer.
I am lighter, I am freer, I am happier. And, love comes back again. Love that was never gone but merely darkened by my own sky.
And, today is 24.
I am drenched. I am challenged. I am grateful. I am tired. I am dizzy. I am joyful. I am giving all I have. I am impatient. I am gentle. I am not letting myself off the hook. I am going to the edge. I am patient. I want to cry. I am staying. I am deepening. I am crying. I am serious. I am concentrating. I am analyzing my alignment. I am analyzing my injury. I am analyzing the fact that I am regarding it as an injury. I am letting it go. I am letting go. I am smiling. I am breathing. I am here. I am here. I am here. I am strong. I am where I am. I am wondering if my left leg will ever be straight in this posture. I am noticing it is straighter today. I am listening. I am zoning out. I am here.  I am breathing. I am beautiful. I am grateful. I am here. I am alive. I am here. I am alive. I am thriving.
this is an excellent moment to be content.

day 14 staying alive

...but, I thought it was 15. yoga brain.
I was on auto pilot much of my practice today. I worked all day and had very little food and it was the end of the day by the time I got to my practice. I was distracted and preoccupied. Lots of mental chatter. Nothing really negative or anything, just random thoughts like 'what day is this? is it 14 or 15? I settled on 15 and it wasn't until I got to writing just now that I realized, nope...it's only 14.
I feel fuzzy and fatigued.
Class was a good hot today. I think there were nearly 42 people in class...that was one of my distracted thoughts...counting. but, it was good. I was in the back row, in the middle of the room, so I just did my thing....staying alive, staying alive...ah, ah, ah, ah...staying aliiiiiiiiiiiive.

day 13. intersections.

8am.
yesterday was so intense i didn't find the time to write. day 12 seriously tanked me, then I drove to hot springs to meet my sweetheart and his friends fresh, or not so fresh, off a few days on the Appalachian Trail and we sat in a hot mineral tub for an hour and took naps before indulging in delicious thai food. a good day but, I was spent.
today, day 13, 8am. I can hardly believe I did it.
I questioned if it was a smart thing to go to a class when I was experiencing such fatigue and all over body pain but, I went. It's what I committed to. I gave myself permission to go "as is" and to abandon expectations about what I could or couldn't do, should or shouldn't do.
I'm glad I went.
yes, I was tired. yes, my hamstrings seem to be tighter and more restricted than ever.
but, I went. I am finding openings and spaces in all of the postures. yes, all of them, tight hamstrings and all.
for example, standing head to knee. I am continually working on my standing leg and today I got the nuance of the up leg (thigh) needing to be parallel to the ground. This seriously challenges my lower back issues so I just worked there. slowly, patiently. breathing. forgetting about the "end result" and enjoying, yes, enjoying, the smallest of invitations to lengthen into my back and strengthen into my leg. this is good.
I am finding nuances of traction and alignment in tortoise.
I am feeling the gentleness of my thoughts winning over the frustration of "where I am not" in locust. someday my legs may or may not come up to a place where I can see them in the mirror. I'll keep working at it, finding ways to enjoy where I am.
The whole practice continually continues to be about the inner dialogue and finding a nice quiet room for my mind to take a little rest.

Yesterday, while driving to the studio there was a groundhog trying to cross 19-23. It shook me to the core. I felt sick and sad and scared. It was so innocently going about living it's life and there it was, sandwiched between swerving high speed cars, only half way across the road. It made me want to collapse and fall into despair. It's the third groundhog I've encountered in this way. The first two, right outside my house, I saw several times living their lives before seeing them dead on the side of the road. It broke my heart. This one, yesterday, trying to cross a busy highway, was alive, confused and scared. I went past it and didn't see what happened. I saw cars swing out of their way and I was grateful for that, but I didn't see if it made it across or if it was struck. This left me with a sinking feeling in my body. There are so many animals killed daily on these roads because we, the people, have left them with very little of their own territories. The intersection of our paths tends to go poorly for them. I've seen so much of it lately and it makes me feel helpless.  So yesterday, I dedicated my whole practice to the groundhogs and to all the animals that lose out when they encounter our species: squirrels, rabbits, birds, bear, deer, possum, skunk, etc.
Today, I continued my dedication and was able to bring it into most of my postures. My strength and will go towards their blessing. I am not turning a blind eye. I honor their lives. I am witnessing this. My strength and will go towards their blessing.
....and then, I begin finding the soft rest of savasana in every posture.
Everything is as it is. I stay present and bear witness and honor what is here. My strength, will, softness and compassion are dedicated to the blessing of the animals. May my practice and intention intersect with and bless their lives.

day 11.

I opted for the late class today because I worked in the morning and then ventured on a hike in the woods. I'm glad that I did because there were only about 6 people in the room. In every way, though, it was just me in the room. I actually enjoyed the practice today. I wasn't counting postures and I wasn't keeping track of time like I usually do. There was something almost gentle about the class. I know that 'gentle bikram' is an oxymoron, but the teacher, Janet, had such a quiet and encouraging pace to her dialogue and instruction and her presence just lightened the room. Besides the fact that the room wasn't full of people, there was a spaciousness to the class.
I got to hang out with gratitude. And, I got to spend another whole hour and a half with me.  It just feels so good to enjoy that. So much has changed.
Again, I challenged myself further into the postures.
My left hamstring is still putting up a fight and I am still gently persistent. I wonder, sometimes, about the line with push and patience with it. Stretching into on some days feels like I'm getting somewhere; on other days, it feels like I could be setting myself back. It's probably somewhere in the middle.
My whole left side is still pretty discombobulated and working towards organizing a coherent alignment. Patience. The right side grows steadier and clearer. I can hold it up for the left to witness. Mirror neurons and all.
I grew in most of the postures tonight.
This feels so great. Mostly I notice my progress outside of class. I'm walking differently. I'm thinking differently. I feel more here. more settled. It feels like I have more perspective.
The rest of my life is in the process of shifting and reconfiguring. So much is uncertain or disorienting. There is so much internal change and not a lot of clarity about what next. This practice gives me the practice of tolerating the unknown, the what is and the being in the moment. There is no past. done. There is no future. not yet.
gratitude.
saying it like a mantra.
Gratitude.

oh! and I got a "good" comment while doing locust.....really?

i'm bone tired and going to bed.

day 10. compression and release.

Ron Mehlman, Compression and Expansion, 2000, onyx, glass. Courtesy of the Artist and Kouros Gallery, NY.Photo by E.Berkowit

yesterday was so rough I barely had time, energy or will to write anything. I didn't even publish it until today.
but... I did it.
And, here I am on Day 10.
I actually seriously wanted to get to the studio today. Even though I was draggingmyfeet tired, there was a craving to go. Does this make me dedicated or does it validate that I'm an addict for endorphins? I think it's more likely that I like the experience of waking up without intense pain, having more energy, feeling better and stronger in my body, and having a quieter mind and a more grounded perspective. I am growing a little bit deeper into each posture every day. Some postures I'm sort of back and forth with, but I 'm cool with that. It's two steps forward one step back. I'm enjoying this relationship with myself where I just roll with the punches. It's so very different from my former self taskmasters cracking the whip and shouting all kinds of rude commentaries. This me is so totally chill and behaves more like a compassionate cheerleader reminding me to breathe and smile and be patient. If that sounds a little too pollyanna, I don't quite care. I've walked a very long road (and I have the blisters to prove it) to get to this level of friendliness with me, myself and I. This practice is my daily reminder of how completely good that can be.
The small grievances that I have are just debris that gets flushed out as the channels get cleaner; part of the detoxification process, I guess. It was pretty annoying, for example, to walk into the studio and have to filter out the loud conversation next to me about everything from what those people eat on a regular basis to their disgust with gross jelly beans flavored like cigarettes, tunafish and poop. yes, really. It's all just cocktail party chatter. Chatter. It's talking to talk. I settle with my own internal focus and try to turn my yoga neighbors' discussions into white noise until the class begins. My irritated reaction gets softer and softer.
good.

Today was the first day I stopped trying to count how many postures we have left. I realized it once we were in the lying down series and I didn't know how many postures were left after bow. I think this is progress.

Once we finish the standing series, I always think I've made it. We're nearly done. Then, of course, we get to postures like locust, tortoise (which, with my weak back, has become one of the most difficult postures for me) and camel and I reassess.
After camel, for now, I feel like the rest is a downhill glide.

Interestingly enough, I grumble at the transitions. After doing a posture, then having to lie down in savasana and then sit back up and touch my toes and turn around between each posture, for some reason, really really really feels like a huge effort. I think to myself that I just want to stay put. do whatever posture there is to do and do it. then, do it again. I have a resistance somewhere in me to engage in the constancy of transition.
This
is
interesting
to
me
for
so
many
reasons.

From my SE work and working with Ray Castellino with the pre and perinatal trauma renegotiations, I see that in my life this has been a difficult theme for me. The anticipation of transition and the transition itself provoke (though, less so now) a particular physiological response that is something akin to swallowing a jarful of bees and running a marathon; activating and exhausting. the accelerator and brake all cranked out all at once. not fun.

So, here again, is something this practice is giving to me. All wrapped up in a beautiful bow (sometimes literally) is the physical practice of not only tolerating transition, but the resistant griping of it and the witnessing of how to see the whole practice as a continual and seamless dance, without transition. And, to superimpose this image, this learning onto the template of my own life. If  I truly think of it, every moment, every breath is a transition. Breathing in and breathing out. Filling and emptying.
I think it will be worthwhile to engage this contemplation through the practice.
And, really, the instructor today and yesterday shared that these savasanas, between the postures, are just as important as the other postures. There is a dance of things moving into deep compression and the then deep release. Both edges of the pendulum are vital. This is how the practice changes us. We challenge ourselves to compress into places that scare us, pass our edges, stretch our shapes,  and then we take the time and space for integration, movement and flow to return us to a container that is more open, vast and resilient.
Compression and release. compression and release.

day 9.

almost didn't make it to day 9.  very little sleep and feeling like hell this morning. thought i was getting sick. ascension pains. compression and release. theme of the day.