Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

I realized I have been a ghost in my own life for a couple years. Looking at that reality is incredibly challenging, and a bit horrifying, even as I've had time to reflect and examine myself. I feel as if I spent day after day looking into a hazy mirror thinking the mirror itself was foggy, only to finally realize that I was the transparent one.

Have you looked back on moments or situations (or years) and realized you weren't THERE? Physically, maybe even mentally and emotionally, you might have existed. But your whole essence wasn't fully present. A part of you didn't feel, didn't engage. I expect anyone who has gone through periods of depression understands what I mean. We seem to function alright in the midst of that hazy state. We might get things done. We have conversations, we experience emotions. But we're shells amidst many of our hours and minutes spent.

That's what I mean. I was a shell. I felt excitement, I felt anxiety, I smiled and laughed with people, I wrote and taught and sang, but I felt so exhausted and empty that many of my actions echoed in a cavern. I've heard some people describe the soul “leaving” the body when it no longer feels safe, but I'm not certain I engage that belief (despite all my talk of empty shells). Rather, I forget how to communicate and be present to my soul. Like any intimate relationship, I suppose. We can live in the same house with someone and yet never engage. Inhabit the same space but never connect. Our internal space is no different. The shell isn't necessary empty, but the internal is ignored as my attention flits outside my skin. A soul sister of mine summed it up beautifully: "I'm learning how to be alone."

The "aloneness" is not necessarily a lonely home.

My parents used to talk about cherishing relationships as “tending to each other's gardens.” In very real ways how we tend to ourselves can change how tangible we are. Self-care, sure. But in order to tend anything, to care for anything, I need to BE in that space. Be aware of it, be a conscious participant. If my attention is scattered and I have no energy left to be with people I love, to do the things that matter to me, what am I?

A shell.

I feel alive after just a few days. Last Monday a friend asked me what I planned to do on my break; how was I playing and enjoying myself? I sat for a moment, processing my to-do lists, my tightening schedule filled with teas, lunches, and “hangouts” with various friends. I thought of the road trip formulating in my mind (represented by squiggly lines on a mental map), of the drawings and paintings I wanted to start.

I plan to feel, to experience fully, to enjoy the people I want to enjoy and explore a world I really exist in. If I touch the window of this coffee shop, I'll feel the cool surface, hard and perfectly smooth. I'll look into a lover's eyes and see a moment shared and secret while the air hangs thick between our bodies like a heavy mist pushed by our breath. I'll drive along the wriggling coastal line of California and notice when the edge of the world catches my gaze, begging me to stop and draw its effortless (and effort-full) form.

Fresh starts are opportunities to exist in the world that begs for our attention. Mountains become important because they're mountains. Social justice calls for action because we're human beings, too. A kiss goodbye in the early glimpses of morning is a strong voice declaring love in silent seconds.

Even gardens can grow in absence; inevitably they will become much wilder in that time, waiting for someone to push away the dead twigs and leaves to find the forgotten bulbs below the ground.

Snapshots of Mountains

Yesterday we finally finished packing our belongings, haphazardly nestling the rest of the house into a car and a Uhaul truck. I sent my boxes and canvases to temporary storage a couple days prior, not knowing where exactly I would end up.

Yesterday I drove away. Away from the condo, the house I called “home” for five years. Even when I lived in different towns and apartments I kept the phone number to the condo listed as “home.”

Walking away from the condo was strangely easy. I ate, slept, studied, practiced yoga, painted, had sex, took showers, cried, and wrote songs under that roof... I even snuck in a drunken movie night with a friend. But memories aren't always trapped in walls; I took mine with me the second I shifted into drive and rolled out of the parking lot.

Before the condo, I lived in an old, rundown mobile home surrounded by red dirt, pine trees and meadows. Most of the childhood I remember unfolded in that house. Sheets of plywood stretched underneath sections of the carpet because the original floor had begun falling apart. In my mid-teens we used pieces of a metal bunk bed frame to create a ramp to the kitchen door; the original porch had sagged, leaned, and crumbled too much to be used safely. In winter, the wood stove often roared with a fire in its belly through the entire night. Central heating? Please. The firewood my parents and I lugged into the house made nice Trojan Horses for little wolf spiders. At least, the spiders that didn't manage to make their way into the house in other ways.

Was that mobile home a “home?” Perhaps. I don't clearly remember my feelings about moving into the condo; that move represented a very specific transition in my life and my family's life. But I've struggled to find a place I “fit” into for some time. I've struggled to find solidity and clarity in my own skin. The harder I fought against myself, the less the spaces around me felt like home. So I don't wonder I can walk away from the condo without a second thought.

What does a home look like, anyway? I think I find home in people more than I do physical spaces.

Yesterday we drove for hours, cruising the long, slender Highway 5. I noticed the distinct transition between Northern California and Southern California: the Chevron station asked if I wanted to use my “Vons” rewards, rather than my “Safeway” rewards. At 7pm I approached the bottom of the Grapevine, a familiar pair of outstretched arms. I had tucked my left leg under my right while my bare right foot lightly rested on the brake. I navigated between slow semi's with flashing hazard lights and overeager sedans zipping ahead but my eyes kept drifting to the swelling mountains. The line of rolling hills stretched out wide to either side before splitting to create the passage I would soon drive through. Rippling mounds caught the fading sunlight and shaped deep, stark shadows. I wish I could have caught a passing snapshot, but I don't think that could have done the moment justice.

Sometimes having the snapshot is important. Very important. The physical evidence functions as a reminder of long forgotten days. But when I close my eyes I can feel the curve of that landscape as if I were running my fingers along its golden flesh. The memory will probably fade in time just like the smiles and faces of old friends or the touch of old lovers. But that moment will become its own reminder, a little spark imprinted on my mind and soul. Next time I drive through the Grapevine I might remember when earth's sloping face stole my attention. Next time I see sunset and shadows dancing together I might remember. No guarantee, but I might.

We don't always need a physical “thing” to make our lives matter more. The condo was a temporary bookmark where moments unfolded but that doesn't make the moments less special. My not having a photograph of those mountains doesn't diminish the experience I had, either. I so easily clutch onto small pieces in time. Seconds. The past seconds still matter but I don't think they OUTweigh the breath I'm taking now or the fingers I'll clasp in days to come. The same lips will taste different next week. The same experiences can still be fresh.

Old homes can be new and new homes could remind me of old, loved spaces... of shabby houses or clean boxes. These spaces matter less than the lives we create within them.  

Cider, Bank Statements, and Relationships

A bottle of my favorite Fox Barrel pear cider is sitting on the coffee table next to my propped and crossed feet. Ginger and Blackcurrant, crisp and delicious. The olive green label reminds me of the T-shirt a friend wore yesterday. The shirt (and friend) remind me of what I did, who I saw, where I went, what I felt and thought yesterday. An eventful day, to say the least.

So I'm having trouble concentrating this evening... As I write this I feel exhausted at a deep, deep soul level.

Moving will do that to you.

Not just moving. The whole transition, the change, the transformation, the purging, the letting go, the releasing. Oddly, sorting my possessions has become a therapeutic metaphor for all the other emotional shit. This afternoon the heap of my belongings dwindled while the “throw away” or “donate” piles swelled. While I'm not very sentimental about my stuff I unconsciously attach much of my identity to it. This is a part of my life's footprint. What will I be remembered for, what legacy am I leaving behind, how do my belongings describe who “I” am? And how many old bank statements do I have? Holy shit, so many. 

Believe me, I'm aware of how narcissistic this all sounds.

My point is this: as I process the end of certain relationships and find closure with old paradigms, letting go of the material things gets easier. As my focus shifts to what I want to create, what kind of mental and emotional space I need to dip into my life with a soup ladle, the old stuff naturally drops off. Not to say I'm forgetting or stuffing that old stuff. Far from it. But obsessively focusing on a broken machine can constrict or bloat it until it's the only thing I see.

So this is a balance between the letting go and the creating. What a revolutionary concept.

Sometimes those processes (destroying the old, creating the new) happen simultaneously. Or they overlap. Maybe a relationship ends first so healing can begin before the next one. Maybe we discover an opportunity but in order to reach for it we realize that something else has to give.

I'm uncovering how I want and need to be in relationship with others. Intimate, romantic, friendly, casual, in passing, all of it. What does it mean to be in an equal relationship? When do we hold each other at arms length, when do we put on the masks, when are the masks necessary, when do we say no, when do we say “fuck off,” when do we say “I love you,” and do we really really truly mean it?

In that whole clusterfuck of thoughts, I have to acknowledge just how many objects, thoughts, people, and hopefully habits, I'm letting go of. What a bittersweet process... Each of us has a perspective, a set of feelings, a set of opinions, and a set of justifications that follow our actions. There's nothing inherently wrong with this. All those aspects of ourselves weave, tangle, break, mend, grow, cross, and sometimes separate permanently. Even when the “right thing” seems so illusive, I'm so grateful for what I have and cherish. Like Fox Barrel cider. Not exactly cherish worthy, but still damn tasty.

Swells of Sadness and Love

Lately my impending move (from this house, this town, this community, this life) feels like a bone-crushing weight.

I'm reminded of all the lessons and questions I offer students in my yoga classes. We can numb and hide through lack of action, surely. But we can also avoid ourselves in mental or physical busyness. We can “push” through to keep from feeling. Sure, we get stuff done. We act. But what am I ignoring?

The humor isn't lost on me. During the yin yoga training I led recently, I asked the participants to notice what sensations and emotions they feel when the body is still and quiet. We can be so scared of what we experience and allowing all that sensation to wash over us is intense. There's no getting around that.

One lesson I learned very early is: when we offer questions or insight, we probably need those wisdoms ourselves. Sometimes the circumstances are already in effect. Other times, the question I ask my students shows up in my life not two weeks later.

I resist admitting I feel scared or sad to others. Usually I don't fight sadness within myself, but I haven't wanted to succumb to this grief. Friends have asked me, “So, are you excited about the move?” No, I'm not really excited. Then I feel awkward because they're excitement for me suddenly deflates. Or they continue with the common follow up question: then why not just stay here?

I taught my final yin yoga class at the studio—one of the Sunday night classes. Often as a gift to send with them I sing or chant while everyone is relaxing in savasana. This time, my song represented a final goodbye. I felt the air pricking my skin and a soft pressing on my chest. I knew I wasn't the only emotional one, but one person packing up let her tears fall more freely. We embraced and held each other for a long time, and she murmured in my ear: “It's the end of an era.”

A couple nights later while clasping hands with an intimate soul lover I tearfully expressed the grief I felt. I haven't wanted to feel this, I haven't allowed myself to. To feel this sadness means letting go of an old life. Not completely, these years are still a part of who I am. But leaving the yoga studio, leaving the house I've inhabited, leaving the town I've existed in (it has never really been a home to me)... Initially I just wanted to escape from this place. But in the last few months the same soul whose fingers were now tangled in mine reminded me that the things, the goals, and the people that are important to us, they matter. How we spend our time matters. Being vulnerable to ourselves and the people who matter changes who we are, inspires us to run toward something beautiful.

If I choose to run, I want to run towards something, not away.

During that night I repeatedly wiped my cheeks to make room for the next wave of tears. The loving soul in front of me sat quietly, tracing the lines of my fingers and palm. I truly wish and hope that all of you find safe spaces to be with the upheaval inside of you and release it. Yes, it requires trust and vulnerability, but when that space can be held for you, or you hold that space for someone else, that is sacredness in all its glory.

I'm sure in time, as plans form and intentions and goals are recreated and discovered, excitement will begin to set in. But in many of these moments, terror and grief blossom deeply in my throat and behind my eyes. As days draw closer to some form of final end, this is my reality. After choking on a rush of sobs, I whispered, “I don't know how to honor that.” But that is how I can honor it. I ask my students, “What does it feel like to be in your body right now?”

It feels painful, and sad, and beautiful. I feel loved, I really do. Even with this gravity, there is still love here.  

Moving through Fear

I've practiced, learned, and taught at a yoga studio in Northern California for the last two and a half years. That space was a sort of home but I'm moving forward now. Moving moving, crossing a wide expanse of land moving. There have been bigger, more expansive moves in history but this is a big one for me. Through this process I've cycled through thinking, deciding, declaring, transitioning, planning, freaking out, procrastinating, packing, and more freaking out.

Lately, as my time at this home draws closer to an end, I'm engaging more in the freaking out part.

Not the sweating, trembling, panic-attacky freaking out. But the quiet fear that shows up in the mass of half packed boxes and untouched plastic garbage bags on my floor. The sleeping-in-til-noon, the piles of laundry and my turquoise sheets that desperately need cleaning. The mental to-do list in my head that hasn't made its way to paper because then this mess would be real. The written or the spoken words, they matter. They're more real than a fleeting thought.

I stuff and tuck this quiet fear underneath my stomach, ignoring its squirming until the pressure is too much to handle. This is how I internalize fear. If you watch me you'd notice I don't openly show my nervousness; I quiet, I still, and my energy sucks inward like a tortoise. I do nothing.

Fear causes a pause, a seizing up, a halt, a change of gears or direction. Last week I sorted through stacks and worn boxes of old drawings and writing and I began finding clues and insights into a childhood I don't remember very well. Finding some of these surprising, wonderful, and sometimes painful gems means something deeper than nostalgia and sentiment. I'm not sentimental about many of my belongings or much of my past. Instead, the symbolism of this process struck me right in the chest. This move symbolizes transcending years of hurts I don't remember the origins of.

I don't believe in being born again. I don't believe in recapturing a child-like state of innocence, and I don't believe in ultimate bliss, contentment, or the jelly-like blob of unity and love some people preach about. I will never throw out my journals regardless of what they hold. They're still relevant, the words still matter. That life still matters. If I move through fear, it won't be because I've forgotten about it or ignored it. I'll move through it because something mattered more than standing still. Transcending the current moment means honoring the past and reaching out in front of myself simultaneously.

I could easily not act at all and stay where I am. But after a pause, fear demands action, doesn't it? The running. The jumping. The falling. We run towards something or we run away, changing direction. Fear must react against something.

What purpose does me staying in one stagnant place serve? Nothing. It's time to grow, it's time to learn, expand and be bigger. That expansion is always larger than any fear of the unknown. Sigh it out, allow this to escape from the body. 

Poems, books, phrases, stories, and memories often show up for me in these moments of panic or revelation. When they do, notice them. I grew up reading Dune by Frank Herbert, and one line from that book will always settle with me: “I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

If I don't push the limits, will I ever be able to remember that I'm still breathing? 

Words Matter

Not just the thoughts. I mean hell, you do not want to be in my brain 24 hours a day. Weird shit flits in and out of there faster than a hawk snatching a bunny in a big, green field. But the words. The words matter.

I live by interlacing experience with reflection. Words express--they keep pushing us back into the world we inhabit. They provide a gateway out of an internal world of reflection and back into the external world of experience. (There are other gateways and methods, too. Any art form or communication form works.) Words are links, if imperfect and incomplete links, from one soul to another. Time capsule, love letter, sacred imprint. Feel free to pick your own analogy.

This blog is the offspring of a previous project I worked on for the yoga studio I worked at and taught at for the last two years. (Curious about the old blog? You can still view it here.) Every month I wrote an article/journal entry born from my own experiences and breakthroughs on and off my yoga mat. I find stories to be a powerful medium of connecting with others. Inspiring and triggering so much reaction, emotion and action, our differences and similarities weave a deeper soul story. My story, while unique to me, is not unique to me. My story could be yours, too. If not, we have something to learn from each other anyway.

This introduction serves as a reminder: why the important stuff is important, why we/I should spend time on that stuff and keep trying on stuff even when that stuff doesn't work out how I think it should. This is a story. And you, whoever you are, you are a part of that story. Let this be told in colors we accidentally acquire and in lines we drew when our eyes were closed.

I look forward to sharing in the journey with you!

<3