red dot little duck

Things certainly were different a year ago. A different life. I was practicing everyday and continually being filled with opportunities to study Ashtanga but something was still blocking my view. I craved more. Taking a look at my life was in order. Not a glance or a ho-hum inquiry but a serious look. I was working full time and not fulfilled by it; craving companionship and not being solid enough in myself to cultivate it; getting distracted by my habits, patterns and hiding places. The more I looked, watched and contemplated the more I truly saw that things really had to change in order to shift. So, the decision was made to leave.

Now, here I am in Philly missing the West side.

Missing; mountains, lakes, rivers, stars, sunsets, a fifteen minute drive to absolute seclusion, fresh clean air, long dirt roads, making plans for the weekend with friends who became my family, and my family who became my friends, the Rocket Bakery, the Good Food Store, Mizuna, Buck’s kitchen, late night 80’s dance party, my records, Brown’s Addition, porch couch, Highway 93 from Coeur d’Lane, ID to St. Regis, MT, the Flathead river and of course my home Shala in Spokane, WA.

Time to take a look at that.

It’s actually pretty simple I think. This adventure or journey or what ever you want to call it has been extremely challenging. Mentally and physically demanding. I didn’t know what would happen when I got here but whatever idea I had in my head… it certainly wasn’t that. Nope. Not that. It was harder. Traveling from the space and beauty of the Northwest to India and now the last five months in Philadelphia, PA. I’m watching, assisting, teaching, learning to see. Cultivating sight.

Many of those things I miss will continue to be a part of me. The ones that keep me grounded yet light in my heart are the ones that add to my practice and teaching. But the other ones, the habits and distractions, those are the ones I use practice to release.

I notice the challenge of coming across the country to study with my teacher was compounded by the ache of leaving certain aspects of my life behind. But, this work, this level of study and practice … this is shaping what I want to carry with me and pass into the world. Already it has planted a seed within me so strong that those things I miss are richer, more precious and appreciated for it.

Everyday I learn something from my practice. The practice. A level of patience I wasn’t aware was required or the gift of compassion for myself and the people who fill the room with me. We breathe together, struggle together triumph together and yet we do it as individuals. Personal practice in a tight knit room.

There are days when the postures flow like an underground hot spring and days when there is no water in sight. Days when sheer determination takes us through and days when the emotions take us someplace else completely. And we do it the next day. And the day after that. Dedication. Devotion. Compassion and love designed to bring us into light! The warm loving light of the Self. The truest sense of ourselves that sits just inside… waiting.
So patient. So kind. 

Hari Om. Hari Om. Hari Om.

This…

~VS~ this…

Many thoughts on food today. And yesterday. Quite possibly the last fifteen or so years of my life. Today however was thick with them. You see, the past two weeks have been lived out in the spirit of fasting. More of a partial fast designed to limit my intake, cut out unnecessary items and really hone-in what I put into my body. For the most part the changes were not that difficult as I’ve followed this basic plan before. Don’t eat this or that, more of those and less of them and don’t eat now or later. The most common themes being; avoid all dairy, bread and refined sugar; focus on whole grains, steamed veggies and fruit; no food in the morning and no food at night. Oh and no alcohol, which I hadn’t been doing anyway. Simple enough.

It wasn’t too hard cutting out the dairy. Bread? Could do without but definitely thought about toast from time to time. Cookies? MMMmmmmm… cookies. Ultimately though, the restricted diet was fairly easy to obtain and maintain and I plan on staying with it’s general principles as a regular thing.

The first week I felt great. Energy, lightness, enthusiasm. Strong. However, as my body struggled to adjust to the new regimen and the heat I started to get tired. Dizzy. Lethargic. I hit a wall. My body, completely non-complient. Frustration set in. The inner battle; Do it! Don’t give in, work harder! -vs- Breathe, slow down, take it easy; pretty much a losing one. The body usually wins.

After that, I was ready to dive into a bag of Jelly Bellys and chocolate cake with a bowl of buttered popcorn all curled up to watch “Goonies” in a dark, cool room. Actually I would have eaten anything put in front of me. Aside from a stake that is. But, I noticed something new. I wasn’t really hungry. My belly wasn’t hungry. It was a different feeling. Hollowness, a desire for something else. To be held… comforted?

Thoughts varied from failure to complete my practice and money being tight to missing my family, the mountains and my old apartment. Longing. So, I had to wonder… what is this really about? What does food really mean to me? What do these things I miss and desire mean to me and my life as a whole? What space is it that I’m attempting to fill with food or anything for that matter and how does that relate to this sense of security I long for? Then… what is that exactly? Security? All I know for sure at this point is I can’t get that from a pint of Chocolate Therapy, even though it’s damn tasty ice cream.

Chilling on the purple shala couch, post Tuesday night mysore.

The Heat

I remember being a kid and hiding in the car on a hot day. Was afraid I would get in trouble for doing something wrong. Too scared to get out, huddled on the floorboards of the front seat of our old green pontiac. It was so hot. Miserable and claustrophobic. Feeling trapped as beads of sweat ran down my cheeks; the stagnant aroma of hot upholstery; suffocating, sobbing. Motivated by the overwhelming fear of being reprimanded or disapproved of I sat there. Frozen… so to speak.

It’s interesting to me, these triggers to memories and emotions. The memory of believing I would be reprimanded if I was to get out of that car, face the consequences and then my life would somehow be over. Believing myself to be trapped; hot, miserable and unable to make the decision to open the door. Fairly primal reaction. Hiding. What felt like a smart move towards self-preservation was actually the development of a bad habit. Many layers of development. JUST OPEN THE DOOR!

There have been a few times this summer while adjusting to the east coast heat, when I felt like that little girl. Suffocating, afraid of failure, of blowing it, trapping myself in the green pontiac of my own thought process. Interesting. The rad part? Recognition of inaccurate beliefs and dropping into a place where opening the door isn’t so hard. Actually feels quite good.

Minding the Mysore Room

Thursdays practice? A veritable sauna. Sweat factory. Unbelievably whoa. Amazing for my somewhat stealthily stiff joints though tough to maintain rhythm. Still… It was pretty friggin’ super. No panic, only practice. Felt good, light, ready. Inspired by events earlier that morning…

As part of the apprenticeship I am working on with David at AYSP, two other ladies and I take turns opening the shala and teaching/facilitating the space until David gets there. Thursday was my day. So far, the time spent observing, assisting and teaching, has been… awesome. The amount of activity that goes on in there is mind blowing. Inspiring. Students of all different levels, requiring all different levels of assistance. From the small tweak of a twist to the fundamentals of learning the sequence. Some flying, some dragging (yes, that’s me sometimes), some breathing, some learning to breathe. Each having their own individual experience within themselves while sharing space with twenty other people. And ONE teacher.

He walks in, puts down his keys, takes a second to assess the room and dives straight in. Like a ninja he moves through the room. Talk about animalistic. As if he can see things before they happen. Like a cats keen night vision; useful on a hunt. In this case, for alignment. As many of his students can attest to, his ability to see what is going on with their bodies in regards to alignment and engagement is scary accurate.

The inspiration I get from being in the mysore room is immense. Watching the rhythm of movement, seeing the beauty of the room breathing. Observing and developing an understanding where/how things can shift into alignment with a slight this or a subtle that. Learning to understand a persons practice and how I can best facilitate their evolution in it… whoa. Incredible.

The other morning, while awaiting my SEPTA chariot, I watched two men wheel a statue of Jesus across the breadth of Moyamensing Avenue. That’s weird. I thought to myself. Jesus crossing the street on a hand truck. From one sidewalk to the other, his hands raised to the cloud filled sky with small drops of rain sprinkling lightly over his gold flake skin. I watched the procession as if it should hold some sort of meaning. A sign. It had my ultimate attention as I stood there waiting, pondering.

I could attach an interpretation to it. Just like anything. Question it, tear apart the simplicity of it. Create some complex meaning for a piece of material being moved from one place to another. But, images get moved from “here to there” all the time. Photos, painting, statues. Even the images in our minds shift. Cross territory much wider than Moyamensing Avenue. Ideas of where we are supposed to be or what we are supposed to be doing.

Events in our lives often change these images and ideas. Bring things into question by speeding things up or slowing them down. So we shift and change and adapt. Sometimes that process happens quickly, sometimes it takes a while to embrace. Historically… I tread on the longer side of that process.

The last two weeks have completely flown through my timeline via pain management and antibiotics. The fall thwarting my plans of preparation. Wanting to be in a stronger place to start assisting David at AYSP upon his return. To have solidified a strong rhythm in my practice and reconcile with the intense heat. Tapas. However, that’s not what happened. Instead of finding a steady cruising speed… getting bumped into the slow lane. Limited mobility calling for careful approach to every posture. Modified and guarded attempts at avoiding the massive wound adorning my shin bone.

On one side it’s a blessing that the accident wasn’t worse. It could have been much worse. The fact still remains… it takes time to heal. So I modify, move carefully, deliberately. Having to slow down rather than speed up. Everyday facing the images I create in my mind…

The limits; beliefs leading to self-doubt.
The possibilities; beliefs leading to self-impowerment.

As if I’m carting myself around on a hand truck. All squirmy and resistant. At times, having to strap myself in in order forge on. Attempting to do so with as much empathy as possible because the path is not always on even terrain or a clear one leading from point A to Z with well marked crosswalks.

For one day, I’m in the zone; feein’ the groove. Working with my body and my body responding in a positive, receptive way. Conjuring up images of gunslingers and action films. Badass. Excited about this feeling and the movability in my body, the breath, the flow. The next day I fall down some stairs and thrash up my leg. What would the gunslinger do? The action hero? My Dad would probably wrap it up in some duct tape. Actually gave that a good amount of thought… do we even have duct tape here?

This is how it went.
The cafe at which I am working, has a “trap” door leading to the kitchen in the basement. A common thing in Philly as it seems the entire city is built on stairs. It’s also where our stock is located so there are frequent trips up and down; opening and closing of the door/floor. Time to start getting it done… closing duties. Stocking the front of the house was number one on my list. Coming up with arms full of water bottles and soda cans left no hands for closing up the floor. Coming back around the counter with a plate and a couple other things, forgetting there was no floor there, I walked right into it. Like a scene from a Charlie Chaplin film. Everything I was holding crashing down into the basement. Including my phone. Fuck.

I caught myself with my arms rather than plummeting all the way to the base of the wooden stairs. OMG!? I’m thinking… everything ok? Quickly scanning my arms, hands, the broken dish and smashed phone at the base of the stairs, great. Curious about the slight stinging sensation and small trickle of blood coming out from under the cuff of my jeans… hmmm… must have scraped my shin a little on the way down. I roll up my pant leg and what do I see? Bone. Instant shock. That’s not real.

The chain of thoughts that came next…
OMG, OMG. That’s not real. Shit. That did not just happen. THIS IS SERIOUSLY GOING TO MESS WITH MY PRACTICE!! How am I going to practice with that? I hope it’s not broken. Am I going to the hospital? Do I need to go to the hospital? OMG, this did not just happen. I wish I had ridden a bike today. Could I make it on a bike? I don’t think I can make it walking. Maybe I don’t really need to go to the hospital. Shit. Call Liza (my friend and roommate). Maybe she can come get me. Do I really need to go? Looking down again at the gash exposing the bone. Yup.

After hobbling the rest of the way down the stairs, retrieving and reassembling my phone I call Liza:

Me: Hey Liza, how are you? What are you doing?
Liza: I’m at work.
Me: Are you busy?
Liza: Getting ready to head out here soon… what’s up?
Me: Well, I fell down the stairs at work and cut open my shin and can see the bone and… and…
Liza: Like a rockstar, totally calm and clear… Joanna, I think you should call an ambulance. Hang up the phone, call an ambulance, go to the hospital and keep us updated. It’s going to be ok.
Me: Ok. I will. I’m going to call them right now… I might need a ride later.

Of course they are awesome and have totally been there for me. That’s the plus of being around good people.

The ambulance came. At this point the pain was starting to set in. Attempting to keep my sense of humor in tact I asked the paramedics if it was a legit injury. They assured me it was. Between bursts of laughter and the explosions of tears, most of what happened after that is a bit of a blur. Especially once I was given the morphine. The cycle through absolute panic, anxiety and laughter kept things interesting. This is really the last thing I need to deal with right now. Or ever. All the work done to remove obstacles, clear the path for practice, and they keep coming! Is this what would have happened to the main character? To the gunslinger? Perhaps. It’s not like they dodge every bullet, right? Even they get hit once in a while; need a day or two to recover, heal, lay low. The rad part is I have the ability to write my own ending to this scene. The narrow escape, the mighty save. It could have been so much worse and I’m grateful it wasn’t. It’s going to heal. Not really looking forward to modified practice slowing the momentum for a while or the massive scar over what my mom says were once beautiful legs. Perhaps it will make me a quicker ninja, a faster gunslinger… a more patient yogi.

Sunday pracitce.
Preparing for backbends, a couple extra breaths on the floor. The words are heard every time whether he’s there or not. Don’t wait. One… two… three Urdhva D; up you come come. Standing. That’s right. I got this. Slight sway from side to side. Keepin’ it loose, yo. Hands on my hips, pointers forward, pistols cocked. Pshew-pshew. I got my six shooters on. Slight breeze trickles through the cracked window. The Good the Bad and the Ugly’s theme song makes it’s way into the back of my mind… Go ahead. Breathe in… breathe out drop back.

Saturday Flee Market.
Just around the corner from home; another park I get to ride through on my route to/from daily practice. Some awesome people watching, and listening… lots of dolls and baseballs and guns. Enjoy.

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The yoga has been intense to say the least. Getting deeper as they say. Dedicating much of my energy to morning practice, working to understand the movements in my body, the openings as they come and my reactions to them. This physical body is a constant source for investigation which often leads one directly into the non-physical body. What comes up is not always pleasant or comfortable. Some of you may be familiar. My tendency is to cozy-up with what feels good like the power of the standing postures or getting lost in the comfort and security of a forward fold. Like a daydream.

Then it happens. Something changes.

It’s been over a year since I received a new posture and to be honest… I was getting quite comfortable with the idea of not. Forgetting that there is more out there. More to do. Blinded by my love of the familiar and my desire to stay with what I had come to sanction as my daily routine. No need to move forward. I have LOTS to work on. Forgetting that one day I DO want to complete second series. And do it well. With knowledge, comprehension and solidity.

The new pose – Mayurasana. First off, I didn’t even know what it was let alone how to do it, the breath and movement. Completely caught off guard. Immediately flooded with embarrassment because I didn’t know the sequence. Having to be talked through it. I fumbled, teetered, fell over, giggled, winced. As the attempt progressed the image of a drunken squirrel on a telephone line popped into my head. Awfully uncoordinated; off kilter and out of sorts.

After this dysfunctional first attempt, through numerous drop-backs and extended closing postures my thoughts, though humbled, stayed positive. I have to say, the changing of my coveted routine was exhausting. Exciting too. Exhilarating. Inspiring. It meant things were gearing up for yet a new phase, for the work to really start. A bang on the door, a punch to the interior walls with a swift one-two. Two days later… that one-two punch got some unexpected results.

A rush, a flood of overwhelming… emotion. That’s right. Emotion. Smack-dab in the middle of my practice. Not so much physical pain as an intense physical discomfort manifested as emotional pain. Emotional pain. Released from my hips and pushed into my solar plexus. Or was it from someplace else? My spine? My thoughts, my mind? Was it all my mind? An unreal paralyzing effect limiting the ability to move, think or breathe. What the hell?  Am I pushing too hard? Not hard enough? Did I get too hot? What is off balance here? What do I do? I sat there for what felt like hours. Trying to figure out my next move. Every attempt to get up thwarted by a gasp for breath. Come on, you have a new posture to work on. Get up. Eyes filled with salty drops, I laid down. GET UP! Come on! Part of me looking down on my being like Judge Judy and the other laying there amazed I had enough moisture left in my body to produce tears.

Has this type of thing happened before? Yes. Exactly like this? No. Can I say I could have finished had I tried harder? No. Is it a matter of trying harder? I don’t think so. Will I keep trying? Everyday. Ultimately I submitted to the rising but I didn’t let anyone down. Not myself, not my teacher. It’s uncomfortable being able to see something yet not knowing what it’s going to take to turn it around. How much time it’s going to take to move through it or what else is going to come up. It’s a strange yet not so strange place. Both difficult and good. Ultimately, it’s good. The yoga is working.

One of my close friends has a tattoo on her right forearm that says, “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Something super close to that anyway. A quote by Anais Nin. Pretty true right? In its grossest sense, coming here and everything that lead up to it was a risk. Big steps leading to bigger steps. Changes. Readjustments, calibrations. Some of which has been quite painful.

Formation of doubt.
Were my intentions truly clear? Will I get enough work? Am I strong enough? Dedicated enough? Am I blowing it? Am I blowing it? These spinning wheels ignite the fires of fear – that’s the hard part. As it turns out it also reveals the subtler side of risk; dispelling the mistruths burrowed deep inside my psyche… a chance to burn down the house.

Risky business.
Take a look at the inside; search for the truth among the harshness.

Good thing there is Yoga. It absolutely changed my life. Someday that topic will get it’s own post. In short, the benefits of yoga, specifically the practice of Ashtanga Yoga, are immeasurable and I can say with absolute confidence that it saved my life. It also gave me the courage to look inside. Find a way to see through the doubt. Discover something unforeseen about who I am and what I am capable of. And I can take that confidence to my mat every morning and revel in it through alignment and breath.

With that as a foundation the hard parts of this venture are bearable, the beautiful parts clarified, gratitude revealed. The blossoming phase.

“Light the incense!
 You have to burn to be fragrant
 To sent the whole house
 You have to burn to the ground.”
    ~Rumi

I have been trying for weeks to sort out the thoughts in my mind. At least enough to write a post. Tell you all how things are going, what’s on the forefront of the Philly move.

While the sorting is still sorting itself out, I can say this… so far, I love riding a bicycle through the city. Sort of end up feeling like a bad ass when I get to my destination. Even with a helmet on. Which I am told is sexy. Safe is sexy. Totally going with that.

Pranayama with David Garrigues

As always, the yoga is teaching me many things. Humility, focus, breath. It has its work cut out for it, uh, me. It is exciting to be here and to practice with these dedicated people. A blessing. Only thing missing is my dedicated peeps from the West Coast. Hope you all are looking into plane tickets… I’m just sayin’.

The weather tends to be cloudy. Windy. A little rain. Not bad though. Unless I’m on the bike. Or walking. Need to get some rain gear and a proper messenger bag. Eventually should get a bike of my own. And a tire pump. Yes, a tire pump.

Found a little work here and there. Very optimistic that more is coming my way. My new friend Bridget owns and operates Bella Forte, a bookbinding and letterpress company. So if anyone out there likes the idea of custom built boxes and books… she does amazing work. And it’s shippable. Just wait, we are going to make some awesome stuff together.

All in all there are many beautiful things in this city. Architecture, gelato. So, as the sorting continues to sort itself, I will keep taking myself to practice, making rad friends and finding my breath.

Stay Tuned.