The Bikram yoga teacher walks into the yoga room, putting on his head mic, and happily—too happily?—says: Are we ready to get hot?
The student stands, brings her toes and ankles together, and thinks: Yes, I’m ready! Let’s do this.
Minutes into class the Bikram teacher says: Just keep breathing.
Already soaked with sweat, the student thinks: Easier said than done, dude.
The Bikram teacher says: Lock your knee!
The student watches her quivering quads in the mirror and thinks: I am!
When propelling the class into a standing backbend,the Bikram teacher says: Your back will hurt like hell. Don’t be scared.
The student thinks: Uh, that’s counterintuitive.
The Bikram teacher says: Lock your knee!
The student again notes those quivering quads and thinks: I am, dammit! . . . (read more on elephant journal.)
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
ARRESTING INTEREST
So the student is writing. She's reworking an essay that covers the college years. The essay mentions a boy. And she wonders whatever happened to him.
So she goes to Google. She types his name.
And what does she find?
Is he on Facebook? Is he married? Does he have babies? A career?
Or a mugshot perhaps? Does he have one of those?
Why, yes! Yes he does! He has a mugshot:
The website says that though the person pictured was arrested they haven't necessarily been convicted of the alleged crime. Well, I read the charges. Somebody got themselves nailed for tagging.
Oh, there's a more than good chance he did it. That bad boy thing was part of his appeal ten or so years ago. I seem to recall him showing me a photo of a boxcar in Washington where he'd tagged my name over Christmas break. Aw. That was before he had, you know, mad skills enough to get himself caught.
Classy.
So she goes to Google. She types his name.
And what does she find?
Is he on Facebook? Is he married? Does he have babies? A career?
Or a mugshot perhaps? Does he have one of those?
Why, yes! Yes he does! He has a mugshot:
The website says that though the person pictured was arrested they haven't necessarily been convicted of the alleged crime. Well, I read the charges. Somebody got themselves nailed for tagging.
Oh, there's a more than good chance he did it. That bad boy thing was part of his appeal ten or so years ago. I seem to recall him showing me a photo of a boxcar in Washington where he'd tagged my name over Christmas break. Aw. That was before he had, you know, mad skills enough to get himself caught.
Classy.
Monday, January 23, 2012
elephant journal: THIS WEEK'S POST
Hi ho! Fun news here. So, as I've been going on about for the last few months, every now and again I've had the privilege of contributing some to elephant journal.
Wait? What? Oh, you still don't' know what elephant journal is?
Gosh. Sorry. Should have explained that before.
ej is a site of enlightenment. (And they're letting me contribute? Come to think of it, that enlightenment thing might be questionable.) But really, they write that their mission is " . . . to [bring] together those working (and playing) to create enlightened society"—those interested in mindful living, if you will.
And yoga's on their list of enlightening things. And yoga's my thing! So I've contributed a few pieces to their large collection of yoga articles. It's gone well enough that they've granted me columnist status, which essentially means that I've committed to post once weekly under my own name and get more involved in their online community.
Here's what's especially great about this: I can never seem to shut up about yoga. And that means I write about it quite a bit too. (I felt rather bad for my advisor last semester; she got packet after packet that included piece after piece on yoga.) And now I've got somewhere to put all that yoga writing. It can begin its exodus from my hard drive to The World. My computer feels thinner already.
See here for my first piece under my own name. (And, if you like it and like me as well, do share it, please. Getting traffic to individual posts is sort of a thing and I could use your help.)
Ah! And as an electrifying bonus, the talented Ashley Thalman will be the source of all the photography in my elephant journal posts. So when you hit up the link you'll be treated to the kind of visual stimulation only she can deliver.
Wait? What? Oh, you still don't' know what elephant journal is?
Gosh. Sorry. Should have explained that before.
ej is a site of enlightenment. (And they're letting me contribute? Come to think of it, that enlightenment thing might be questionable.) But really, they write that their mission is " . . . to [bring] together those working (and playing) to create enlightened society"—those interested in mindful living, if you will.
And yoga's on their list of enlightening things. And yoga's my thing! So I've contributed a few pieces to their large collection of yoga articles. It's gone well enough that they've granted me columnist status, which essentially means that I've committed to post once weekly under my own name and get more involved in their online community.
Here's what's especially great about this: I can never seem to shut up about yoga. And that means I write about it quite a bit too. (I felt rather bad for my advisor last semester; she got packet after packet that included piece after piece on yoga.) And now I've got somewhere to put all that yoga writing. It can begin its exodus from my hard drive to The World. My computer feels thinner already.
See here for my first piece under my own name. (And, if you like it and like me as well, do share it, please. Getting traffic to individual posts is sort of a thing and I could use your help.)
•••
Ah! And as an electrifying bonus, the talented Ashley Thalman will be the source of all the photography in my elephant journal posts. So when you hit up the link you'll be treated to the kind of visual stimulation only she can deliver.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
CREATIVE [NON]FICTION?
20 Things That May or May Not be True:
• An earthworm can still live if cut in half.
• The speed of light is 186,000 miles per second.
• "Beetlejews" was the original name suggested for the largest star yet identified.
• Venus is the only planet to rotate clockwise.
• A female giraffe is called a sow.
• On average, men get .4 more upper respiratory infections annually than women do.
• Snickers is the most popular candy bar in the United States.
• Dalmatians are born without spots.
• The first American novel was printed in Boston, Massachusetts.
• Dog owners are 13% more likely to donate to charity than non-dog owners.
• Cat owners are are 18% more likely to subscribe to a newspaper than dog owners.
• The moon is 27% of the size of Earth.
• On average, the anthills south of the equator are .1 centimeters shorter than those in the north.
• "Madam I am Adam" is a palindrome.
• A flock of larks is called an exhilaration.
• A flock of crows is called a murder.
• Women who kiss their partners every morning live three years longer than those who don't.
• Rhode Island, the smallest state, has a larger population than Alaska, the largest state.
• A blue whale can fit four Volkswagen Beetles in its mouth at once.
• Belonephobia is a fear of needles.Fact: at least 8 of the above are total lies.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
RESIDENTITY NOTES
• If someone is good at something, tell them. Don't assume that they know it. They don't. And even if they do—which, seriously, they don't—tell 'em anyhow to reinforce what they believe.
• Understand that you're not the only person in the room who is intimidated. In fact, it's reasonable to suspect that everyone in the room is intimidated, and it's even reasonable to suspect that you're the one intimidating them. Your hair. Your shoes. Your smart mouth. Your silence. Your eyebrows. It's always something. People are always intimidated. Don't feel inferior. It's too common. Be confident instead; you'll be a trailblazer.
• Don't presume that everyone thinks and sees like you do. You truly are the only person who can see through your eyes. Let yourself be surprised when you discover that your thoughts are original, but let the surprise wash away quickly. This is how it is—your view is unique.
• Ask questions. You've got a better chance at getting answers if you ask for 'em.
• Don't overlook the importance of clarification. Seeking to understand is the mark of a bright mind. Go ahead and let your mind be bright. Clarification leads to understanding. It might waylay a discussion momentarily, but the discussion's gonna be that much richer when you actually know what's going on. Value your own contribution enough to get the clarification you need.
• Understand that you're not the only person in the room who is intimidated. In fact, it's reasonable to suspect that everyone in the room is intimidated, and it's even reasonable to suspect that you're the one intimidating them. Your hair. Your shoes. Your smart mouth. Your silence. Your eyebrows. It's always something. People are always intimidated. Don't feel inferior. It's too common. Be confident instead; you'll be a trailblazer.
• Don't presume that everyone thinks and sees like you do. You truly are the only person who can see through your eyes. Let yourself be surprised when you discover that your thoughts are original, but let the surprise wash away quickly. This is how it is—your view is unique.
• Ask questions. You've got a better chance at getting answers if you ask for 'em.
• Don't overlook the importance of clarification. Seeking to understand is the mark of a bright mind. Go ahead and let your mind be bright. Clarification leads to understanding. It might waylay a discussion momentarily, but the discussion's gonna be that much richer when you actually know what's going on. Value your own contribution enough to get the clarification you need.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
RESIDENTITY
• I have been asleep for the last four hours. It was a free evening today, and since I'm such a party animal I elected to spend the free time sleeping like an old lady.
• Met with my new faculty advisor for the semester today. She gifted me a beautiful blue mug. Because she's one of the more giving people you'll ever have the pleasure to know. She said she likes to give her students mugs because when she writes she keeps a cup of tea nearby. I do sometimes too, but as soon as she said that I thought of my clumsy self knocking the tea over onto my keyboard.
• When I am at school I eat apples. Like 3 a day. I squirrel them away in my backpack when leaving the dining hall. Portable. Crispy. Healthy. Do not require refrigeration.
• I am not scared of my hotel anymore. A Friendly Inn, it's called. It's comfortable. And, wait for it, I would actually stay here again for the convenient walking distance from campus and yoga.
• I love key lime anything. And always.
• When I'm here at school for my residencies I get bummed as each day goes by. I get bummed that my real life is coming closer. Not because I hate my real life, but because I like my residency head so much more. The conversations are better. The good news—I miss my husband and my dog such that I can look forward to going home.
• After last residency in June I told Mark that he has to come to my graduation. That sounds weird, right? That I had to tell him he needed to come, like he wasn't planning to in the first place? After my first residency I told him that he wouldn't need to. Without his trying to weasel out of it. I just mentioned that it wouldn't be necessary because there's not too much pomp and circumstance at the end of it all. But after last June I changed my mind. He has to come. I want him to com here and see where I've been, meet who I've met, and know what my school environment looks like. Initially one reason that I told him he didn't need to come with me was that before I teach my graduate seminar and do my reading I really don't want to undergo the stress of flying with him. (I know how selfish and melodramatic that sounds, but I know I'll already be nervous for my graduating requirements and I'm bright enough not to want to compound any significant emotions.) But because I want him to come here, I'm going to deal with it.
• In talking with my mentor today we stumbled across the concept that solitude is a trope in my life. I'd say an unintentional one. This hadn't really occurred to me before. I know I like solitude, but I didn't realize that I chase it so thoroughly. My job is pretty isolating; I'm alone for most of the day when I'm traveling to and from my doctor destinations. And I have elected to pursue writing. A very isolating activity. I like to be alone. I don't think it has to do with my being raised in a busy house or anything like that. I am just happy with my own company. In my quiet hotel room right now I can hear people walking and talking on Cambridge Street, and I don't wish to be out there.
• Met with my new faculty advisor for the semester today. She gifted me a beautiful blue mug. Because she's one of the more giving people you'll ever have the pleasure to know. She said she likes to give her students mugs because when she writes she keeps a cup of tea nearby. I do sometimes too, but as soon as she said that I thought of my clumsy self knocking the tea over onto my keyboard.
• When I am at school I eat apples. Like 3 a day. I squirrel them away in my backpack when leaving the dining hall. Portable. Crispy. Healthy. Do not require refrigeration.
• I am not scared of my hotel anymore. A Friendly Inn, it's called. It's comfortable. And, wait for it, I would actually stay here again for the convenient walking distance from campus and yoga.
• I love key lime anything. And always.
• When I'm here at school for my residencies I get bummed as each day goes by. I get bummed that my real life is coming closer. Not because I hate my real life, but because I like my residency head so much more. The conversations are better. The good news—I miss my husband and my dog such that I can look forward to going home.
• After last residency in June I told Mark that he has to come to my graduation. That sounds weird, right? That I had to tell him he needed to come, like he wasn't planning to in the first place? After my first residency I told him that he wouldn't need to. Without his trying to weasel out of it. I just mentioned that it wouldn't be necessary because there's not too much pomp and circumstance at the end of it all. But after last June I changed my mind. He has to come. I want him to com here and see where I've been, meet who I've met, and know what my school environment looks like. Initially one reason that I told him he didn't need to come with me was that before I teach my graduate seminar and do my reading I really don't want to undergo the stress of flying with him. (I know how selfish and melodramatic that sounds, but I know I'll already be nervous for my graduating requirements and I'm bright enough not to want to compound any significant emotions.) But because I want him to come here, I'm going to deal with it.
• In talking with my mentor today we stumbled across the concept that solitude is a trope in my life. I'd say an unintentional one. This hadn't really occurred to me before. I know I like solitude, but I didn't realize that I chase it so thoroughly. My job is pretty isolating; I'm alone for most of the day when I'm traveling to and from my doctor destinations. And I have elected to pursue writing. A very isolating activity. I like to be alone. I don't think it has to do with my being raised in a busy house or anything like that. I am just happy with my own company. In my quiet hotel room right now I can hear people walking and talking on Cambridge Street, and I don't wish to be out there.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
YOGA STILLS . . . OF ME!
2011 came to a close with me on the wrong side of a camera lens. Not my favorite place. But the end result was a perfect way to conclude the year. It's uncommon for me to like—let alone be delighted with—photos of The Self. But these? These images from my yoga shoot with Ashey Thalman? I love them. I love them because the shoot was about something I love to do, and Ashley's photos are masterful.
It might seem narcissistic and showy, this photo shoot, but it's been on my to-do list for a while. Because yoga is a significant part of my life. It's what I do. It's what I've done for years. And I wanted mementos showcasing the fruits of what I do with my time. No, yoga isn't about the aesthetics; but aesthetics are a inevitable byproduct.
My exercise is also my hobby, and my hobby is beautiful. Beautifully intriguing.
But I didn't only want to display the beautiful; if I only wanted glamor I wouldn't have done the shoot. What's great about using me as the subject for these pictures is that my body, though satisfactory to be sure, isn't perfect—and neither are those of the other yogis I practice with. Real yogis. We like to say that it's a practice not a perfect. What you see in these images is the real me. And I'm actually astonished that what Ashley created can make me enamored with this real me.
So why this photographer specifically? Ashley isn't the only photographer I know. It's not like I chose her by default. My friend Ashley Thalman is a great photographer, and what I like most about her photography is her ability to snare nuance, and that's a big part of my practice—just as it is in my life. Ash sees things other photographers don't—the slope of a back, the grip of a hand—and while still showcasing the big picture she manages to capture those subtleties.
Ashley does detail like no one else. It's exactly what I wanted.
The shoot itself was fun. Ashley was eager. Her enthusiasm was palpable. And necessary. I needed her to want to do this; it wasn't the easiest thing I've ever made myself do. When I said that I was nervous she replied, It's okay. Be nervous. And keep in mind that you might not like these (she knows me), but you'll like them in 10 years. Lucky me, I like them now. (How can you not like photos where a smoke machine's involved?) Ash was also accommodating. She cranked the heat to foster my pliability. Has your photographer sweat for you lately?
My sister Mal came and assisted, and without her it wouldn't have worked. I appreciate that these images are the product of teamwork, and that my sissy was a member of the team.
Lighting played a major role in this project, and I have a new respect for the complexities of light and the difference a teeny shift can make. Whenever I get to experience Ashley at work I learn things and leave crazy impressed with her knowledge. Light isn't just light, people. It's a tool. A tool that's no piece of cake to use.
Right now I'm crushed beneath gratitude. I'm grateful that I finally buckled down and did this shoot. I'm grateful that I know a photographer who could capture what I was looking for. Grateful that this photog is my friend. Grateful that my sister was there. Grateful that my sister isn't just a flashlight holder but has artistic skills of her own. Grateful for my practice. And I am grateful for yoga. It's changed me. Because I let it.
(Aside from the one of Mal fixing my clothes, I took these images from Ashley's blog. They're just a sampling of this great stuff. You can see the rest in the Instaproof gallery if you're so inclined. Dazzling as they are, the images are worth your time. I may have to post some of my faves soon.)
It might seem narcissistic and showy, this photo shoot, but it's been on my to-do list for a while. Because yoga is a significant part of my life. It's what I do. It's what I've done for years. And I wanted mementos showcasing the fruits of what I do with my time. No, yoga isn't about the aesthetics; but aesthetics are a inevitable byproduct.
My exercise is also my hobby, and my hobby is beautiful. Beautifully intriguing.
But I didn't only want to display the beautiful; if I only wanted glamor I wouldn't have done the shoot. What's great about using me as the subject for these pictures is that my body, though satisfactory to be sure, isn't perfect—and neither are those of the other yogis I practice with. Real yogis. We like to say that it's a practice not a perfect. What you see in these images is the real me. And I'm actually astonished that what Ashley created can make me enamored with this real me.
So why this photographer specifically? Ashley isn't the only photographer I know. It's not like I chose her by default. My friend Ashley Thalman is a great photographer, and what I like most about her photography is her ability to snare nuance, and that's a big part of my practice—just as it is in my life. Ash sees things other photographers don't—the slope of a back, the grip of a hand—and while still showcasing the big picture she manages to capture those subtleties.
Ashley does detail like no one else. It's exactly what I wanted.
The shoot itself was fun. Ashley was eager. Her enthusiasm was palpable. And necessary. I needed her to want to do this; it wasn't the easiest thing I've ever made myself do. When I said that I was nervous she replied, It's okay. Be nervous. And keep in mind that you might not like these (she knows me), but you'll like them in 10 years. Lucky me, I like them now. (How can you not like photos where a smoke machine's involved?) Ash was also accommodating. She cranked the heat to foster my pliability. Has your photographer sweat for you lately?
My sister Mal came and assisted, and without her it wouldn't have worked. I appreciate that these images are the product of teamwork, and that my sissy was a member of the team.
Lighting played a major role in this project, and I have a new respect for the complexities of light and the difference a teeny shift can make. Whenever I get to experience Ashley at work I learn things and leave crazy impressed with her knowledge. Light isn't just light, people. It's a tool. A tool that's no piece of cake to use.
Right now I'm crushed beneath gratitude. I'm grateful that I finally buckled down and did this shoot. I'm grateful that I know a photographer who could capture what I was looking for. Grateful that this photog is my friend. Grateful that my sister was there. Grateful that my sister isn't just a flashlight holder but has artistic skills of her own. Grateful for my practice. And I am grateful for yoga. It's changed me. Because I let it.
(Aside from the one of Mal fixing my clothes, I took these images from Ashley's blog. They're just a sampling of this great stuff. You can see the rest in the Instaproof gallery if you're so inclined. Dazzling as they are, the images are worth your time. I may have to post some of my faves soon.)
Namaste.
Monday, December 19, 2011
DID YOU KNOW?
Did you know that peppermint ice cream is my favorite holiday treat?
Did you know that I've never had funnel cake, a Whopper, or a Big Mac? Mark say's it's un-American.
Did you know that passive voice makes me grind my teeth? I hate it. And I can name the people I know who use it most often. Sticks out in my mind. And diminishes my perception of their intelligence.
Did you know that I wake up every morning to carnage on the walls? I've got a huge print of Picasso's Guernica hanging in our bedroom, and Mark says it freaks him out sometimes. But I never get sick of it, so it's staying.
Did you know I floss while I drive? (Don't worry, I use the little pick thingers so that I can use the other hand for driving and talking on the phone and eating and fixing my makeup and posting on Facebook, etc.)
Did you know that cumin is my favorite spice?
Did you know that I'm happily married?
Did you know that though I don't cook, I'm actually pretty okay at it?
Did you know that I love Food Network shows? (Can you tell that one is on right now for all the food references here?) I watch them on The Online. Okay, I should be clear, when I say "watch" I actually mean listen. Diners, Drive-ins and Dives is on in another browser tab. I can hear Guy, but I can't see him.
Did you know that I called the winner of Next Iron Chef during the first episode this season? I just knew Zakarian would win. (But I really wanted Faulkner to win. I think she's more creative.)
Did you know that I truly live without regrets? I'm very pleased with the choices I've made. I like to think about that sometimes—that I'm satisfied with the life I've crafted for myself. Yeah, things aren't perfect, but I don't go through my days dwelling on the woulda coulda shouldas. I'd make my same choices all over again; can't think of anything I wish I'd done differently.
Did you know that I think crème brûlée and flan are the most disgusting desserts I've ever encountered? (I say "that I've ever encountered" because I'm quite sure there's worse desserts out there, but I've not yet met them.)
Did you know that I'm oppressively proud of being a non-oppressive vegetarian?
Did you know that I can put Newman's Own Light Balsamic Dressing on pretty much anything? Fave. Times a lot.
Did you know that I think the Santa Claus myth is absurd and should I spawn spawn I'll tell them where their gifts actually came from? (Mark's not sold on that, so it's sorta negotiable. But banning Disney Princesses? Totally not negotiable. Totally. High five, Makin.)
Did you know that I'm hooked on online grocery shopping? Picture it, you pull up to the store, push a button, and they bring the goods out to your car. (And they won't let you tip them. So there's just enough guilt involved to make it a complete experience.)
Did you know that when I saw a Rothko in person I started to cry? I rounded a corner in the Whitney museum, encountered the Rothko and couldn't help tearing up. (Ridiculous, right? Poor Rabidrunner, she's been around me on more than one occasion when I've teared up at the sight of something. Happy tears for Rothko. Sad tears for taxidermy.)
Did you know that feta cheese is my favorite pizza topping?
Did you know the my company shuts down for the last week of the year every year? It's common in the drug industry. Makes me love my work.
Did you know that I've never had funnel cake, a Whopper, or a Big Mac? Mark say's it's un-American.
Did you know that passive voice makes me grind my teeth? I hate it. And I can name the people I know who use it most often. Sticks out in my mind. And diminishes my perception of their intelligence.
Did you know that I wake up every morning to carnage on the walls? I've got a huge print of Picasso's Guernica hanging in our bedroom, and Mark says it freaks him out sometimes. But I never get sick of it, so it's staying.
Did you know I floss while I drive? (Don't worry, I use the little pick thingers so that I can use the other hand for driving and talking on the phone and eating and fixing my makeup and posting on Facebook, etc.)
Did you know that cumin is my favorite spice?
Did you know that I'm happily married?
Did you know that though I don't cook, I'm actually pretty okay at it?
Did you know that I love Food Network shows? (Can you tell that one is on right now for all the food references here?) I watch them on The Online. Okay, I should be clear, when I say "watch" I actually mean listen. Diners, Drive-ins and Dives is on in another browser tab. I can hear Guy, but I can't see him.
Did you know that I called the winner of Next Iron Chef during the first episode this season? I just knew Zakarian would win. (But I really wanted Faulkner to win. I think she's more creative.)
Did you know that I truly live without regrets? I'm very pleased with the choices I've made. I like to think about that sometimes—that I'm satisfied with the life I've crafted for myself. Yeah, things aren't perfect, but I don't go through my days dwelling on the woulda coulda shouldas. I'd make my same choices all over again; can't think of anything I wish I'd done differently.
Did you know that I think crème brûlée and flan are the most disgusting desserts I've ever encountered? (I say "that I've ever encountered" because I'm quite sure there's worse desserts out there, but I've not yet met them.)
Did you know that I'm oppressively proud of being a non-oppressive vegetarian?
Did you know that I can put Newman's Own Light Balsamic Dressing on pretty much anything? Fave. Times a lot.
Did you know that I think the Santa Claus myth is absurd and should I spawn spawn I'll tell them where their gifts actually came from? (Mark's not sold on that, so it's sorta negotiable. But banning Disney Princesses? Totally not negotiable. Totally. High five, Makin.)
Did you know that I'm hooked on online grocery shopping? Picture it, you pull up to the store, push a button, and they bring the goods out to your car. (And they won't let you tip them. So there's just enough guilt involved to make it a complete experience.)
Did you know that when I saw a Rothko in person I started to cry? I rounded a corner in the Whitney museum, encountered the Rothko and couldn't help tearing up. (Ridiculous, right? Poor Rabidrunner, she's been around me on more than one occasion when I've teared up at the sight of something. Happy tears for Rothko. Sad tears for taxidermy.)
Did you know that feta cheese is my favorite pizza topping?
Did you know the my company shuts down for the last week of the year every year? It's common in the drug industry. Makes me love my work.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
NAMASTAY: THE DIVINE AT MY THROAT
I have a necklace with a pendant that reads Namaste. It took me a fair amount of searching to find just what I wanted, and now that I’ve got it I wear that bit of jewelry all the time. It’s a subtle charm and most people don’t notice it—sometimes I don’t notice it—but now and again someone will catch sight of the glint and ask me what the word means.
It took me a few times to get it right. Right for me, that is. Academically, I know what the word “means”—its definition, etymology, and common usage. But until I had to explain it to coworkers and the odd grocery clerk, I hadn’t harnessed just what struck me hard enough to plunk down dough on the tiny silver decoration and dig it out of my yoga bag most mornings before heading out the door to work.
It usually goes like this: somebody leans in toward me, squinting at my neck. (A bustier woman might get the wrong idea about naughtiness afoot, but my nearly negative chest cushion makes that a nonissue.) Nah-mast? they ask.
Nah-mah-STAY, I correct them.
What’s it mean?
The first couple times that I responded to the question my answer included the part about it being a closing salutation in yoga classes. But I’ve come to leave that bit out. ‘Cause, as it turns out, it’s not actually the yoga connection that prompts me to wear the charm
After honing my response, now I reply simply, In the West we take it to mean that the divine in me honors the divine in you.
Now and again that answer’s met with a scrunched-up look that says, Huh? So what?
I go on, It’s a sort of reminder you could say, reminding me that even on my worst days I’ve got a little light in me—even if I can’t quite tell that it’s there. And that light, no matter how small or dim on any given day, has the doggedness to locate and partner up with the light in others, elevating us both.
About then I start to get a little nod of understanding.
But one gentleman followed up, Then maybe you shoulda’ put it on a bracelet so you could see it yourself and not confuse everyone around you.
Valid point, I suppose.
But then there’s less of a chance that people would ask me about the word and I wouldn’t have the frequent opportunity to talk about honoring the divine in others.
So namaste, good sir.
It took me a few times to get it right. Right for me, that is. Academically, I know what the word “means”—its definition, etymology, and common usage. But until I had to explain it to coworkers and the odd grocery clerk, I hadn’t harnessed just what struck me hard enough to plunk down dough on the tiny silver decoration and dig it out of my yoga bag most mornings before heading out the door to work.
It usually goes like this: somebody leans in toward me, squinting at my neck. (A bustier woman might get the wrong idea about naughtiness afoot, but my nearly negative chest cushion makes that a nonissue.) Nah-mast? they ask.
Nah-mah-STAY, I correct them.
What’s it mean?
The first couple times that I responded to the question my answer included the part about it being a closing salutation in yoga classes. But I’ve come to leave that bit out. ‘Cause, as it turns out, it’s not actually the yoga connection that prompts me to wear the charm
After honing my response, now I reply simply, In the West we take it to mean that the divine in me honors the divine in you.
Now and again that answer’s met with a scrunched-up look that says, Huh? So what?
I go on, It’s a sort of reminder you could say, reminding me that even on my worst days I’ve got a little light in me—even if I can’t quite tell that it’s there. And that light, no matter how small or dim on any given day, has the doggedness to locate and partner up with the light in others, elevating us both.
About then I start to get a little nod of understanding.
But one gentleman followed up, Then maybe you shoulda’ put it on a bracelet so you could see it yourself and not confuse everyone around you.
Valid point, I suppose.
But then there’s less of a chance that people would ask me about the word and I wouldn’t have the frequent opportunity to talk about honoring the divine in others.
So namaste, good sir.
Friday, December 9, 2011
40% OFF LOGOPHILIA
Yo. I learn about great Logophilia sales only when they're in full swing, so I just now learned about the 40% off promotion that Imagekind's doing. So if you're still Christmas shopping and want unique stuff, head on over to the Logophilia shop for one heck of a deal.
And share the good news. This is the best sale I've ever seen on Imagekind.
(If you're looking for the family proclamation link, check out the Logophilia Facebook page. It's posted there today.)
And share the good news. This is the best sale I've ever seen on Imagekind.
(If you're looking for the family proclamation link, check out the Logophilia Facebook page. It's posted there today.)
Monday, December 5, 2011
SATANILIAC ON ELEPHANT JOURNAL
I've talked a bit about my god-given flexibility. I've talked about it being quite awesome. I may have also mentioned that it's very not-awesome at times. I say more on that here on elephant journal.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
FOOD AS FUEL
I want it. I need it. I look forward to it. When I go out of town—for work or for pleasure—I go find a yoga studio. When I’m traveling for work, yoga’s my treat at the end of the day. I spend the entire meeting looking forward to getting cosy with my mat. I've been known to pay a $35 cab fee each way to get to a $20 drop-in class out of sheer yoga desperation.*
Immediately after confirming travel reservations I go surfing for a class. I find the best studio nearest my hotel. I look up directions, both walking and driving. I find a cab phone number. In the way that some people plan cool restaurants to visit, I plan my yoga classes.
Now I’ve been doing this yoga thing long enough to know what my body needs in order to have a decent class. (Decent means I’m not swaying with fatigue or dealing with a hunger headache.) And, yes, one of those things I know that I need is food. Duh, right?
Though it’s not usually a problem to feed myself when I’m at home, work meetings make the simple task of eating so complicated. It screws with my routine.
It begins with breakfast. Bacon breafast burritos. Cereal with 2% milk. Big sugary muffins. Sausage. And fruit. Thankfully there’s always fruit. So that’s what I eat. I look like a pig piling my plate—and I do mean piling—with the cut pineapple and melon, but since it’s all I get to eat, I’m not bashful.
Mid morning snacktime? If I’m lucky they have nuts. Nuts are helpful. But too often hotels serve parfait-type things, and I’m not eating one of those unless I made it myself. You’ll find this is a theme with me. I have to know what’s my food. I once thought that everyone was like this. But I really don’t put anything in my mouth that I don’t know exactly what’s in there. In restaurants I order things simple, bare. A potato that I dress myself. Green beans. A roll. Chips. Salsa. I eat simply because I trust exactly no one. Same goes for meeting food.
Lunch is always a party. Today’s menu: pasta with smoked tomato and cream sauce (uh-uh), chicken caesar salad (nope), barbecued chicken (yeah right), [way over-] roasted root vegetables (bingo?). Not quite bingo. I couldn’t tell what each vegetable was. I picked out the potatoes, but left the weird smooshy bits. Lunch: a couple pieces of potato, a slice of bread, and a square of brownie. I was getting desperate for calories.
The throbbing hunger headache set in around 3PM. And here I am at a clinical event designed to teach 110 drug reps more about health and diabetes. My blood sugars were definitely in the toilet. (I can’t be certain though, ‘cause when it came time to test them like diabetics do—an empathy exercise—I opted out. Voluntarily stick myself with a needle? Are you out of your Vulcan mind?)
So yoga? Could I treat myself to an evening class today? No. I absolutely could not. I came back to my hotel room, ordered room service—black bean burger and hummus plate, if you were dying to know—came thisclose to licking the bowl that held steamed broccoli, and now I’m waiting for the headache to depart. Please. Soon.
I so look forward to finding a class. To hitting my mat. Especially on this trip. In visiting Minneapolis I have the chance to visit a CorePower studio, and I've been wanting to do that for a long time. So when it can’t reasonably happen tonight? When I'm not sure about tomorrow either? When work or food or work and food get in the way? (Did I mention I also had a 6PM conference call this evening?) Well, it doesn’t piss me off so much as it makes me sad. Yeah, there are times that I feel guilty for not making it to the mat, but when I don’t go to class—by choice or circumstance—I miss it. I’m bummed.
And thanks to this day of hunger and time zone fatigue I’m damn near close to crying. Again.
*Why not just practice in my room, right? Well, sometimes I do. I'm the little thing in the airport with a mat slung across her back. But when my company makes me share a room, I don't dig into a personal practice. There's just something not quite right with flowing through sun salutations and some strange woman walks in. It gets in the way of yoga giving me what I need. So I leave the premises for a class.
Immediately after confirming travel reservations I go surfing for a class. I find the best studio nearest my hotel. I look up directions, both walking and driving. I find a cab phone number. In the way that some people plan cool restaurants to visit, I plan my yoga classes.
Now I’ve been doing this yoga thing long enough to know what my body needs in order to have a decent class. (Decent means I’m not swaying with fatigue or dealing with a hunger headache.) And, yes, one of those things I know that I need is food. Duh, right?
Though it’s not usually a problem to feed myself when I’m at home, work meetings make the simple task of eating so complicated. It screws with my routine.
It begins with breakfast. Bacon breafast burritos. Cereal with 2% milk. Big sugary muffins. Sausage. And fruit. Thankfully there’s always fruit. So that’s what I eat. I look like a pig piling my plate—and I do mean piling—with the cut pineapple and melon, but since it’s all I get to eat, I’m not bashful.
Mid morning snacktime? If I’m lucky they have nuts. Nuts are helpful. But too often hotels serve parfait-type things, and I’m not eating one of those unless I made it myself. You’ll find this is a theme with me. I have to know what’s my food. I once thought that everyone was like this. But I really don’t put anything in my mouth that I don’t know exactly what’s in there. In restaurants I order things simple, bare. A potato that I dress myself. Green beans. A roll. Chips. Salsa. I eat simply because I trust exactly no one. Same goes for meeting food.
Lunch is always a party. Today’s menu: pasta with smoked tomato and cream sauce (uh-uh), chicken caesar salad (nope), barbecued chicken (yeah right), [way over-] roasted root vegetables (bingo?). Not quite bingo. I couldn’t tell what each vegetable was. I picked out the potatoes, but left the weird smooshy bits. Lunch: a couple pieces of potato, a slice of bread, and a square of brownie. I was getting desperate for calories.
The throbbing hunger headache set in around 3PM. And here I am at a clinical event designed to teach 110 drug reps more about health and diabetes. My blood sugars were definitely in the toilet. (I can’t be certain though, ‘cause when it came time to test them like diabetics do—an empathy exercise—I opted out. Voluntarily stick myself with a needle? Are you out of your Vulcan mind?)
So yoga? Could I treat myself to an evening class today? No. I absolutely could not. I came back to my hotel room, ordered room service—black bean burger and hummus plate, if you were dying to know—came thisclose to licking the bowl that held steamed broccoli, and now I’m waiting for the headache to depart. Please. Soon.
I so look forward to finding a class. To hitting my mat. Especially on this trip. In visiting Minneapolis I have the chance to visit a CorePower studio, and I've been wanting to do that for a long time. So when it can’t reasonably happen tonight? When I'm not sure about tomorrow either? When work or food or work and food get in the way? (Did I mention I also had a 6PM conference call this evening?) Well, it doesn’t piss me off so much as it makes me sad. Yeah, there are times that I feel guilty for not making it to the mat, but when I don’t go to class—by choice or circumstance—I miss it. I’m bummed.
And thanks to this day of hunger and time zone fatigue I’m damn near close to crying. Again.
*Why not just practice in my room, right? Well, sometimes I do. I'm the little thing in the airport with a mat slung across her back. But when my company makes me share a room, I don't dig into a personal practice. There's just something not quite right with flowing through sun salutations and some strange woman walks in. It gets in the way of yoga giving me what I need. So I leave the premises for a class.
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