Rogue Elephant

One of the things I most love about my walks in the woods across from my house, besides the abundance of the non-human, is the funny little traces other people leave behind. I rarely see people while I'm out, though I do see coyotes, rabbits, deer, squirrels, ravens, hawks, crows, banana slugs, newts, countless little brown birds. It's strange to me how much I appreciate it when I can tell that others have been on my same path, using it in their way, getting their fill, like me, of being outside. I read their signs, the cleared scotch broom, the downed-trees moved off the trail, and wonder about them, who they are, grateful.

But it's particularly wonderful when clever lovely people create little altars like the Ganesh that appeared a few years ago.

The first time I saw it, I was utterly delighted that someone had seen this as they passed this tangled oak root, had remembered to bring the marble for the eye, the Ganesh candle and the coins. Someone had stood there and thought about it and then come back and created this for others to see. At one point that same someone cleared the leaves directly in the front, and laid little stones to demark a path, a little run-way to the elephant's head.

I pass Ganesh several times a week, always greet it (Jai Jai!), replace the candle when it tumbles, appreciate how truly elephant-y that root is, its curling trunk, and thank the Someone who brought it to life for the rest of us.

Retiring the porno pants

Once, years ago, in the beginning of our yoga time, Joe and I had a crazy, crazy sub. That, in itself, was far from remarkable, since in those early early days, we were taking yoga at a gym which, with some exceptions (love you, Lori), seemed to be a refuge for what I think of as kooky super-70s yoga, the leotard and long braids kind, very Lilias. No disrespect, but not my cup of tea.

Anyway, the one time of this super-crazy sub, we were dismayed to find that, in addition to her really loopy vibe, she also had an extremely unfortunately-placed hole in the crotch of her yoga tights. I do not mean a certain worn-ness of the seam. I am talking about an actual gap, a void, a quarter-sized revelation. Distressing. Because no matter your penchants, something like that has its own gravity. Throughout the hour-long class, no matter what poses she was demonstrating, she never seemed to be aware of the extra air, but just carried on. Perhaps she did know and just played it off as well as possible, but we strongly felt that she was just so out there, that she didn't even care about flashing that bit of cootch, like life was just one extended everybody-naked-in-the-hot-tub.

Dear god, have I become her?

Sadly, there is a point in the life of every beloved pair of yoga pants when they just break down. The repeated wearings and repeated washings break those babies down after a while: they lose their hug, their ass-seams get thin. Joe was good enough to tell me this about some LuluLemon pants a couple of years ago. I was mortified but grateful that he happened to mention it before I left the house (although I spent a good hour or so feeling a little queasy about the huge yoga workshop I'd been to the weekend before in those very pants, yes, like 250 people were there). I still have those pants, but don't wear them for yoga -- maybe just sometimes around the house, yard-work, no company.

The problem is that you can't always tell about a pair of pants when you pull them from the drawer or dryer. It takes a prasarita to tell whether they've rounded the bend, and when you're in a hurry, packing yoga stuff as you rush out the door for work, not always time to check the integrity of the pant-booty. Trix and I have pinkie-sworn to tell each other, but honestly, then there's the question of how and when -- certainly not while assisting each other, maybe on the ride home when debriefing the class (ha ha ha)? It's delicate.

Just to be on the safe side, I am retiring the blue Hard Tail pants I wore last night. They have been my favorites for a long time, but I am uncomfortably aware of their age and of my nether-regions lately when I wear them. I bid them adieu, and for safety, throw them in the rag pile to be cut up into squares that will dust the house or clean bikes. Anything to ensure that I not wear them out again.

I wish yoga pants lasted longer, particularly given their price, but they are transitory just like all other material things. Memories are a different matter, like the one I still carry of that sub and her so-sad tights. So I'm retiring the porno pants and making favorites of other pairs, until they too hit that point of no return. I'd rather be remembered for other things, thanks. ;>

Still working it, now with laryngitis

The power and effectiveness of your words increase in direct proportion to the silence that you observe.

- Baba Muktananda

I am still working on the practice of silence, maunam, super-challenging for me generally, but made a teense easier for the next couple of days by the fact that I have developed laryngitis. This is an extremely well-timed case since tomorrow I am attending a dreaded work-retreat, something which I have been responsible for planning all while I'd rather be pretty much anywhere else but there tomorrow. Really. Those things are like utter torture for me, worse than the dreaded staff picnic. Horrible.

I am enjoying thinking about how much I genuinely, Snoopy-dance LOVE yoga retreats, compared to how much I genuinely loathe and despise work retreats. On the one hand, spending time with delightful people on the same path, playing all day long, laughing, having fun, generally eating really well. On the other, a day spent with people I feel like I only associate with, really, if I'm being honest, for the paycheck, in a required camaraderie which I don't feel, braced all day for the attack that will come, it's only a matter of time.

Though convenient, it's not a nervous laryngitis, since I've been battling full-blown illness since Wednesday of last week. The throat just totally degenerated over the course of yesterday until I find myself here, with achy ears and a voice that is just about gone. If I could, I would go straight back to bed and sleep this out, but I'm instead going to do what I always do: keep going.

One of the main reasons I've been dreading this particular retreat is that the facilitator shared the feedback with me the other day that some of my colleagues complain that I don't talk enough at work about my husband's cancer. Let me repeat that: I am being faulted for not talking about my husband's cancer at work. At work. Really. As a stand-alone, that statement represents in one fell swoop everything that is most fucked-up, dysfunctional and boundary-less about the place where I work. Really.

But when I spend a little more time with it, what I get from that complaint is that my silence AT WORK about what was a nightmarish, terrifying and deeply personal experience is interpreted as withholding, as not participating, as not being sufficiently collegial. And in that case, I suppose I am guilty as charged.

So, hmmm, thinking a lot, trying to push aside the dread and go into tomorrow with no expectation, good or bad, thinking about the quality of silence. Not so concerned with how my silence is perceived, as much as where it comes from and why.

Baby Barn Owl, Dead

Taking a detour this morning from the yoga blabla, to indulge another of my passions: animals. In particular, my fascination with dead animals, who offer me the privilege of closely examining them, appreciating their form and beauty deeply. Those who've been to my house know I collect animal skulls, most of which present themselves as I hike in the hills around my house. My husband, though, like the loving loyal cat he is, also brings me occasional gifts, like the time he carried home a vulture (5-foot wingspan) on his bike or the bobcat he stowed under a tree so no one else would take it. Um, as if.

This morning's walk took Jasper and me through the neighborhood, past the house on the corner that I covet for the sole reason that two tall palms stand in the front yard. We've seen barn owls fly to and from nests in the tops of these tall, tall trees; the ground is often littered with their very interesting poops. Seeing an owl is always a thrill.

Sadly this morning we found a little owlet on the sidewalk near the base of one of these trees. I had a thrilling instant of thinking I could take him to WildCare, so those capable lovely angel-people could fix him up and set him free. But he was, alas, irreparably broken, fuzzy little body cold. After very brief deliberation, I re-purposed one of the plastic bags my dog-walking pockets are stuffed with, and carried Baby Barn Owl home. Where I laid him down on the patio table, took photos of him, and generally took in his lovely attributes, the tiny feathers on his face, his great big eyes, his reptile feet, finally laying him to rest with great honors and much love in a clay pot.

Some people might think this is morbid or weird, but when I look, all I see is owly perfection, another beautiful example of how remarkable is the world around us. And actually, when I think about it, this really isn't a detour from my usual yoga blabla, it's the same refrain: delight in what surrounds us, delight in the physical form, delight.

Rest in peace, owlet.

Refresh Your Resolution!

Finally, after weeks and weeks of waiting, I received my copy of Gurumayi Chidvilasananda's "Sadhana of the Heart" by yesterday's mail. This is the text, I'm told, that will strengthen my commitment to my intention this year, this is the text I need if I really want to immerse myself in the discipline of yoga.

So far, so good. In fact, I can barely put it down. Now I get why the couple of people I asked to borrow "Sadhana" from, just couldn't part with their copy. This is one to read and re-read, underline and annotate, carry around.

One quarter into 2010 now, it is such a pleasure to read Gurumayi's words, to have them draw me back to my written goals for the year, to support my own deep desire to stay on this track.

With each new beginning comes a natural desire for change. We respond by setting a new direction. And so we make a resolution, a shining promise to ourselves. However, it cannot stop there. Every resolution, large or small, requires effort. It can be realized only if this effort is sustained. It needs your attention on an ongoing basis. Every resolution has to be carried out with resolution. When this is not the case, you make resolution after resolution, resolution after resolution, resolution after resolution -- you have an ocean of resolutions crashing on the shores of daily life, littering your mind with broken promises.

You see, a shining resolution that is not honored will not disappear. It stays in your awareness. Like driftwood in the waves or a blinding flash of light on the water, it's always moving around trying to catch your attention. You know it's there. You become aware of your inability to act on it. You see your laziness, lack of strength, and negligence.

By contemplating and setting the intentions I did, I gave them life and so now it is my task to sustain the effort required to realize them. It's been easy, actually, so far to check some items on my list off, not because they were easy but because they corresponded deeply to changes I really wanted to make. Some, though, are taking a lot of concerted attention, a day-by-day commitment. But if not now, then when? That is entirely up to me, and so the work on the intentions for the year continues.

Each one of us is in the driver's seat, as much as it's easy to forget, to get caught up in the notion that we're doing what we're doing because we "have to." It's all a choice, so make it a happy, conscious one to the best of your ability all the time. Without intending it, that's where my long list of 2010 goals has brought me, to this realization that by giving myself entirely to their fulfillment, I take a comfortable seat as the driver of my own destiny. From this vantage point, my intentions are clear and I know I'll get there.

Resolution refreshed! Next stop: fulfillment!