Today tastes like the perfect peppermint mocha--that amazing alchemy of espresso, steamed half and half, peppermint schnapps, chocolate, and whipped cream. With a side of fried plantains, garlic, and crayons.
It would be easy to start out with an apology for not being here lately, but I'm sure you've read your fill of those already, so I won't waste eyeball space with another one. There's plenty I need to fill in before the rest of this post will make sense, so if you feel the need--sorry. Done.
Work on the book proceeds apace. We are coming up on 100,000 words--probably crack that barrier by the end of the week/weekend. Yes, I've slowed down some. Right now the Evil Plan is to complete the first edit by Halloween so I can do NaNoWriMo this year and replace the story I was telling about Rodentia that I lost in the Great Computer Cataclysm of Whatever Year That Was (and Finally Learned the Value of BACKING SHIT UP).
The knitting continueth, as always. I was able to hit a personal goal and have a shawl ready for EasterBirthday this year (being born in early April means an interesting convocation sometimes. As Li'l Brah says--Hallelujiah, the KNITTER is RISEN!) Pictures later, maybe. I'll have to look at the Pile of Finished Objects cross-reference it with the blog, and see where I left off.
Hokay, where to start this thing? If I start at the beginning, we'll be here all night with you scrolling down and down and down and wondering if Spike ever shuts up. If I cut to the chase, then you'll be sitting there totally lost and mourning the waste of bandwidth.
There is a genius woman by the name of Havi Brooks. If you haven't yet met her, click on the link and read her blog. Amazing. She's done me more good than an equivalent period in therapy. If I'd spent that long on the couch, which I probably wouldn't because sheesh, at $90 for a fifty-minute hour . . . and three years . . . that's a lot of moolah.
I joke that one day I'll go to the bead store and get some sterling beads (a W, H, a D, and a ?) and some Savarowski crystals and make a bracelet that reads "WWHD?" What Would Havi Do?
The thing that's got me going is the shadow work (ok, eeeeewwww, Jungian shrinkology. Deal, buttercup.) that she's been modeling on her blog for a while and now has a learning packet for. She thinks of it as "talking to your monsters."
See, all the talk about "embracing your monsters" just adds more should to the pile of bullshould. Monsters are . . . monstrous. Big and hairy with fangs and claws, or cold and slimy and tentacular, or wearing facepaint and handing out glowing skull balloons (wanna FLOAT?). And they're that way for a reason.
And then there's the other school which talks about crushing your monsters, conquoring them, vanquishing them, smashing them into itty bitty bits and then jumping up and down on the pieces and peeing on the dust. And that's not good either, because these monsters are just a part of you. That's cutting off a part of yourself and making it not be anymore. Which is where your shadow came from, after all, when you split off the parts of you that you decided were not acceptable and shoved them out into the dark away from the light of your attention . . . and set monsters to keep you out of there.
That's why monsters are scary, and you just want them to go away. They're there to keep you safe, from taking risks, from feeling pain when what you want and what you can get from where you stand are separated by the learning curve.
Problem is, of course, all the stuff you need in order to grow and become complete once more? That's out there in the dark, waiting for you to get past the monster and retrieve it.
So what do you do? You sit down and talk with your monsters. You find out what shape they are. You find out why they think they're doing the best job they can to keep you safe by doing what they do. You tell them what you need in order to take those steps into the dark to get the treasure there, and discuss how they can help you get there. And you renegotiate their job terms so they can do a good job (everyone needs to be proud of the work they do, even monsters) and you can work on integration with your shadow, the bright and the dark.
I've already thrown up a couple of conversations with my muse--who's shifted a lot since we started the book. He's less grabby, less likely to put a fist in my hair and haul me bodily to the appropriate forum. In return, I listen to him better, and am rewarded by having more flow, more ease in my work. Less of the tormented artist bit; less blood on the keyboard.
And yes, there's more to follow. Watch this space for details.
Showing posts with label Yoga. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Yoga. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
H is for . . .
Today tastes like habaneros and halva, heliotrope and hippocras1.
A lot of things start with "H" apparently. Let's start with hoo-doggies2.
So . . . I caught my annual turn of the season cold, which has developed into bronchitis (as it usually does) but I learned my lesson in 2006-07 and STAYED PUT for the run of the sickness. That meant not going to the gym till this week.
Which doesn't sound like a hardship, but I've worked very hard at developing that pattern until it's become as automatic as putting on clothing before I leave the house. Wouldn't think of doing it any other way . . . until I knew I'd better not.
So I went back this week, and the workout, she has kicked my butt.
Not to mention that I've added on a cash-out to the routine for core and shoulder strengthening. Raising the resistance on the pull-ups taught me right where the weak spots in my shoulders were. So now, as DH Gareth bemoaned, we do the workout before the workout (the warm-up), the workout, then the workout after the workout (the cash-out). Getting old is not for wussies.
Let me add that H is for Havi Brooks. From her, I learned about dialoging with your negative emotions--your fear, your pain, your whatever--which always makes me think of throwing a little tea party in your head. (Hey, better than throwing a tantrum in your physical body, and less disturbing to those around you.)
I played with it, a little, and love the results. Goofy and twee, sure, but it allowed me to actually process the emotions rather than wadding them up in a little bitty ball and cramming them into the closet. O, that closet. The one in the corner . . . breathing. Someday maybe I'll be ready to open the doors and process what's in there, rather than pretending I don't see the eyes in the night.
But along those lines, H is also for hair. Yes, indeed, my vanity is showing.
I have worn my hair very long for most of my life. I cut in once when I was about ten to fit in (regretted it madly about three days later, when the novelty had worn off and my classmates returned tomaking my life a living hell their usual behavior), then when I was seventeen (into a lion's mane to celebrate passing a milestone as I was a senior and graduating soon, then my best friend died, and I cut it all off from grief)and four years ago, as I was getting a convertible.
I enjoyed the last four years, don't get me wrong. This was where I was, with my hair blowing in the breeze but too short to tangle. (I mean, SHORT.)
But now . . . I miss it.
So I’m hanging on to my patience by my stubby li’l fingernails, taking my vitamins, sleeping on satin pillowcases, using a horn comb, and most importantly NOT CUTTING IT while I wait for it to grow.
And it is growing. Bless digital cameras, since pixels are free. I can take back of the head shots and prove that the hemline is slowly slowly creeping down to my shoulders, slowly slowly inching its way along. When I compare March to January I see the progress I’ve made, and having the photo history of the growing out period may be useful/amusing at some later date.
Meanwhile, I am at the awful stage where I can’t even put it all up in a ponytail. And thanks to the wonders of the intarwebs, I have found beaucoup styles that all require long hair to perform . . . including one doozy where you mold giant pincurls into a stylized rose wreath. Le sigh.
So–an open letter to my hair.
Dear Topper:
I recognize that we have had a long and tulmultuous relationship. I grew you out and gnawed your ends, I left you to tangle in the wind, dry in the sun, and basted you in chlorine. I changed your shape; I changed your color. You hung with me through it all. This last time . . . well, I cut you off and swore I would never never change until you went completely white.
And now here I am, asking that you come back one last time.
I have nothing to give you but promises. Promises of oil and honey, of patience and protection, of care and loving treatment. Why should you trust me this time? Why, after the purple and henna and high tight cuts should you believe I'll let you go your way this time?
Because, dear Topper, I've learned my lesson this time. I've found that I feel more like me when the two of us are together. I've learned the pleasure of long lazy time, time where everything else can be set aside, where I can demand that the world turn without me for an hour or so.
I will treat you like the vintage textile you are, with no harsh chemicals, no demands on your shape, and with care for your delicate ends. If you will only come back this last time.
Sincerely,
She Who Lives Beneath
1. A medieval spiced wine, served hot.
2. A doleful ejaculation particular to my family. "The stock market just lost another 347 points!!!" "Hoo-doggies! Did you go short, I hope?"
A lot of things start with "H" apparently. Let's start with hoo-doggies2.
So . . . I caught my annual turn of the season cold, which has developed into bronchitis (as it usually does) but I learned my lesson in 2006-07 and STAYED PUT for the run of the sickness. That meant not going to the gym till this week.
Which doesn't sound like a hardship, but I've worked very hard at developing that pattern until it's become as automatic as putting on clothing before I leave the house. Wouldn't think of doing it any other way . . . until I knew I'd better not.
So I went back this week, and the workout, she has kicked my butt.
Not to mention that I've added on a cash-out to the routine for core and shoulder strengthening. Raising the resistance on the pull-ups taught me right where the weak spots in my shoulders were. So now, as DH Gareth bemoaned, we do the workout before the workout (the warm-up), the workout, then the workout after the workout (the cash-out). Getting old is not for wussies.
Let me add that H is for Havi Brooks. From her, I learned about dialoging with your negative emotions--your fear, your pain, your whatever--which always makes me think of throwing a little tea party in your head. (Hey, better than throwing a tantrum in your physical body, and less disturbing to those around you.)
I played with it, a little, and love the results. Goofy and twee, sure, but it allowed me to actually process the emotions rather than wadding them up in a little bitty ball and cramming them into the closet. O, that closet. The one in the corner . . . breathing. Someday maybe I'll be ready to open the doors and process what's in there, rather than pretending I don't see the eyes in the night.
But along those lines, H is also for hair. Yes, indeed, my vanity is showing.
I have worn my hair very long for most of my life. I cut in once when I was about ten to fit in (regretted it madly about three days later, when the novelty had worn off and my classmates returned to
I enjoyed the last four years, don't get me wrong. This was where I was, with my hair blowing in the breeze but too short to tangle. (I mean, SHORT.)
But now . . . I miss it.
So I’m hanging on to my patience by my stubby li’l fingernails, taking my vitamins, sleeping on satin pillowcases, using a horn comb, and most importantly NOT CUTTING IT while I wait for it to grow.
And it is growing. Bless digital cameras, since pixels are free. I can take back of the head shots and prove that the hemline is slowly slowly creeping down to my shoulders, slowly slowly inching its way along. When I compare March to January I see the progress I’ve made, and having the photo history of the growing out period may be useful/amusing at some later date.
Meanwhile, I am at the awful stage where I can’t even put it all up in a ponytail. And thanks to the wonders of the intarwebs, I have found beaucoup styles that all require long hair to perform . . . including one doozy where you mold giant pincurls into a stylized rose wreath. Le sigh.
So–an open letter to my hair.
Dear Topper:
I recognize that we have had a long and tulmultuous relationship. I grew you out and gnawed your ends, I left you to tangle in the wind, dry in the sun, and basted you in chlorine. I changed your shape; I changed your color. You hung with me through it all. This last time . . . well, I cut you off and swore I would never never change until you went completely white.
And now here I am, asking that you come back one last time.
I have nothing to give you but promises. Promises of oil and honey, of patience and protection, of care and loving treatment. Why should you trust me this time? Why, after the purple and henna and high tight cuts should you believe I'll let you go your way this time?
Because, dear Topper, I've learned my lesson this time. I've found that I feel more like me when the two of us are together. I've learned the pleasure of long lazy time, time where everything else can be set aside, where I can demand that the world turn without me for an hour or so.
I will treat you like the vintage textile you are, with no harsh chemicals, no demands on your shape, and with care for your delicate ends. If you will only come back this last time.
Sincerely,
She Who Lives Beneath
1. A medieval spiced wine, served hot.
2. A doleful ejaculation particular to my family. "The stock market just lost another 347 points!!!" "Hoo-doggies! Did you go short, I hope?"
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
D is for . . . Dance
Today tastes like dandelions, doucets1, daikon, and diesel. The Universe has once again bitch-slapped me and demanded, “Pay attention, dumb-ass!”2
See, I admit to being athletically declined. I also have no patience whatsoever, and am harshly critical of myself. I am a kinesthetic learner, so I have to try it to do it, but of course I spend a lot of time ragging on me for doing it wrong.
But I love to dance.
I love to feel my body moving in space, and I live for the times when everything goes just right–where you hear the music and your feet and hands know what they’re supposed to do and miracle of miracles! They actually just do it. But the getting there. O, the endless getting there.
So this whole dance thing has been a beach ball for me; where I hold it underwater, but it keeps popping out. I climb up on top of it–hah, now I have you! And then I fall into the water as it bursts out again.
And it’s not just a beach ball with bright and spiffy colors–no, this is the Beach Ball of Dooooooooom, the Beach Ball of the Apocalypse that presages the end of all things, the coming of the Gidget.
Worse yet, the horrible wet feeling of having failed at it (whatever IT may be) again.
But I relate to dance as a metaphor for moving with the flow of things as they are and not slamming my ego against the rocks as I insist that reality conform to my perception of things. (He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.)
I've tried movement based reprogramming before and enjoyed it (tai chi, NIA, yoga). However, I was coming from a fitness standpoint, which is like using a hammer to drive screws. You may indeed get the screw in the wall, eventually. You may also have a number of holes in the drywall, and a gouge in the tile from where you flung the hammer in exasperation before you picked it back up again and went to get that verdammnt screw in the friggin' wall.
But . . . what if I did this for [smallest voice] fun?
And the first thing that comes to mind is the time it takes to learn movement, and classes and schedules and my life is so full right now how will I ever make a hole for one more thing?
But, see, I have some DVDs and a six-disc player. I could pop one in and whenever I needed to get up and stretch (or--heresy!!!--make a POINT of getting up and moving every half hour or so, just get up and move it with Carmen Electra for five minutes in the living room) I could switch DVDs and shake my bootay; not gettin' fit, but moving the body. Heck, I lurves me some TV on DVD, I could just hop up and flip channels every episode.
And if the object is just to move and enjoy, then I don't have to be the World Famous Ecdysiast with the mythical perfect body who taught Salome everything she knows. I can just move, creaky knees and all.
Singing the body electric.
1. Savory tarts baked in a sweet dough. I’m thinking classic French onion tarts, or maybe the fabulous alligator-shrimp cheesecake from Jacques Imo’s in New Orleans, but on a salty graham cracker crust.
2. So where's the bitch-slap, Spike?
Well . . . the Dowager Empress herveryownself sent me a New York Times article about a yoga teacher. With a rubber duck mascot/assistant yogini/clever prop. And I laughed and was charmed and deleted the email/tossed the article into the wastebasket and never gave it a second thought.
Turns out that was a love tap to get my attention. ("Pay attention, dumb-ass!")
Today, I'm reading my Feedblitz digest (bless you Feedblitz, for filling my inbox with digests of bloggy goodness and wonderment) whensomeone I respect very much (or they wouldn't be in my Feedblitz account) Jennifer Louden mentioned Dance of Shiva as a practice to do in between classes at a retreat.
Hmm. Dance . . . Shiva? Ok, worth a clickthrough. (Second, more insistant tap on the shoulder. "Pay ATTENTION, dumb-ass!")
So I tapped the mouse and found . . . the Rubber Duck Yogini. With a movement-based reprogramming tool on DVD. And I just received some Xmas cash from the Most Excellent (Adoptive) Grandmother In Law with note that "Christmas is supposed to be joyfully spent."
Thwack goes the Clue-By-Four. "PAY ATTENTION, DUMB-ASS!!!"
Okay. Okay. Paying attention now.
See, I admit to being athletically declined. I also have no patience whatsoever, and am harshly critical of myself. I am a kinesthetic learner, so I have to try it to do it, but of course I spend a lot of time ragging on me for doing it wrong.
But I love to dance.
I love to feel my body moving in space, and I live for the times when everything goes just right–where you hear the music and your feet and hands know what they’re supposed to do and miracle of miracles! They actually just do it. But the getting there. O, the endless getting there.
So this whole dance thing has been a beach ball for me; where I hold it underwater, but it keeps popping out. I climb up on top of it–hah, now I have you! And then I fall into the water as it bursts out again.
And it’s not just a beach ball with bright and spiffy colors–no, this is the Beach Ball of Dooooooooom, the Beach Ball of the Apocalypse that presages the end of all things, the coming of the Gidget.
Worse yet, the horrible wet feeling of having failed at it (whatever IT may be) again.
But I relate to dance as a metaphor for moving with the flow of things as they are and not slamming my ego against the rocks as I insist that reality conform to my perception of things. (He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.)
I've tried movement based reprogramming before and enjoyed it (tai chi, NIA, yoga). However, I was coming from a fitness standpoint, which is like using a hammer to drive screws. You may indeed get the screw in the wall, eventually. You may also have a number of holes in the drywall, and a gouge in the tile from where you flung the hammer in exasperation before you picked it back up again and went to get that verdammnt screw in the friggin' wall.
But . . . what if I did this for [smallest voice] fun?
And the first thing that comes to mind is the time it takes to learn movement, and classes and schedules and my life is so full right now how will I ever make a hole for one more thing?
But, see, I have some DVDs and a six-disc player. I could pop one in and whenever I needed to get up and stretch (or--heresy!!!--make a POINT of getting up and moving every half hour or so, just get up and move it with Carmen Electra for five minutes in the living room) I could switch DVDs and shake my bootay; not gettin' fit, but moving the body. Heck, I lurves me some TV on DVD, I could just hop up and flip channels every episode.
And if the object is just to move and enjoy, then I don't have to be the World Famous Ecdysiast with the mythical perfect body who taught Salome everything she knows. I can just move, creaky knees and all.
Singing the body electric.
1. Savory tarts baked in a sweet dough. I’m thinking classic French onion tarts, or maybe the fabulous alligator-shrimp cheesecake from Jacques Imo’s in New Orleans, but on a salty graham cracker crust.
2. So where's the bitch-slap, Spike?
Well . . . the Dowager Empress herveryownself sent me a New York Times article about a yoga teacher. With a rubber duck mascot/assistant yogini/clever prop. And I laughed and was charmed and deleted the email/tossed the article into the wastebasket and never gave it a second thought.
Turns out that was a love tap to get my attention. ("Pay attention, dumb-ass!")
Today, I'm reading my Feedblitz digest (bless you Feedblitz, for filling my inbox with digests of bloggy goodness and wonderment) when
Hmm. Dance . . . Shiva? Ok, worth a clickthrough. (Second, more insistant tap on the shoulder. "Pay ATTENTION, dumb-ass!")
So I tapped the mouse and found . . . the Rubber Duck Yogini. With a movement-based reprogramming tool on DVD. And I just received some Xmas cash from the Most Excellent (Adoptive) Grandmother In Law with note that "Christmas is supposed to be joyfully spent."
Thwack goes the Clue-By-Four. "PAY ATTENTION, DUMB-ASS!!!"
Okay. Okay. Paying attention now.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
B is for . . . Box Jumps
Today tastes like bananas and butterscotch, beef and bilirubin.
New year, new slant on the workout. I still am athletically declined, but having been given notice by the doctor that I will lose weight or suffer the consequences (and what vey ugly consequences they are, m'dear) I am ramping it up a touch by incorporating a cash-out.
See, Crossfit incorporates a warmup into its workout. Or rather, "a workout before the workout," as one member refers to it. Three rounds as quick as you can--leg stretches (15 seconds per leg), 15 squats (I use a 25 pound dumbell and do goblet squats, I feel silly doing air squats), 15 sit-ups (on an incline board), 15 back extensions, 15 pull-ups, 15 dips.
Now you're ready for the workout.
So I've been warming up and working out for a year (and a third, come Sunday). I know where the holes in my armor are, and this year I've decided to get out the brazer and go to work mending them.
Unfortunately, the only way to improve a physical skill is to do more of that skill. Over and over and over. Which leads us to box jumps.
I hate box jumps.
To perform a box jump, you set up an object that will support your weight in front of you. Squat down, feet together. Now jump up onto that object, both feet at the same time--otherwise you're doing step-ups. There's a balance component to getting your body settled upon landing on the box or on the floor as you hop down again. You need explosive strength in your hips and thighs to get enough air to land on the box instead of tripping over it.
As your box gets taller, there's an abdominal element since you have to haul your trailing legs up to get your feet on top of the box.
Yup, this is an example of Prime Suckitude. So of course, this is now the cash-out for the workout. 20 box jumps.
So I'm hanging with some pals, and we get to talking about chick stuff--bodies and maintenance of same, and how we wish things were different, and one notices that I've lost a bunch of weight. How'd I do it?
So I explain the workout, starting with the warm-up, and then go into the workout of the day--three rounds of 45 pound thrusters and pull-ups. The first round you do 21 of each, then 15 of each, then 9 of each. That doesn't sound so bad, she said. The kicker is, done right, you complete the workout in under five minutes. Done well, you complete it in under three minutes.
You could hear crickets chirping.
And a moment later, the group was back into bemoaning how hard it is to get fit, how hard it is to lose weight, how hard it is blah blah blah let's go get pastry.
Excuse me? Pastry? Weren't you just talking about . . . and now you want pastry?
Ok, I get it. Pastry is easy. Talking is easy. Wishing is easy.
But easy doesn't get'r done. Easy doesn't get the bar up over your head. Easy doesn't own your desire.
If you have a desire, then it only seems right to determine the cost of that desire and then decide whether or not you're willing and able to pay that price. The cost of a fancy vehicle is money, money, money; for the payments, the insurance, and the gas. The cost of six-pack abs is a strict diet and exercise routine.
Now, being unable to pony up is one thing. (Although one might want to consider what stands in the way and work on that, if one desires the object sufficiently. There are ways to make more money, more time, and exercises are almost infinitely modifiable to suit innate [or inert] athletic ability.) But it seems that most who claim to be unable are just unwilling.
I can't because I don't have enough money. Couldn't you take in a roommate, get a second part-time job, cut back on expenses? Instead of cable TV, go to the library? Well, yes, but . . .
There is a yes-but for everything. I have my own yes-buts. And the only one that trumps the others is "Yes, but THIS is what I really want."
And I really really want to be able to do box jumps at 36 inches. (Hell, just to be able to do them reasonably well and not internally whine all the way to the gym on a jump-centric day.)
And so, the cash-out. Four inches at a time, up and down, forward and back. Working my way through the yes-buts.
New year, new slant on the workout. I still am athletically declined, but having been given notice by the doctor that I will lose weight or suffer the consequences (and what vey ugly consequences they are, m'dear) I am ramping it up a touch by incorporating a cash-out.
See, Crossfit incorporates a warmup into its workout. Or rather, "a workout before the workout," as one member refers to it. Three rounds as quick as you can--leg stretches (15 seconds per leg), 15 squats (I use a 25 pound dumbell and do goblet squats, I feel silly doing air squats), 15 sit-ups (on an incline board), 15 back extensions, 15 pull-ups, 15 dips.
Now you're ready for the workout.
So I've been warming up and working out for a year (and a third, come Sunday). I know where the holes in my armor are, and this year I've decided to get out the brazer and go to work mending them.
Unfortunately, the only way to improve a physical skill is to do more of that skill. Over and over and over. Which leads us to box jumps.
I hate box jumps.
To perform a box jump, you set up an object that will support your weight in front of you. Squat down, feet together. Now jump up onto that object, both feet at the same time--otherwise you're doing step-ups. There's a balance component to getting your body settled upon landing on the box or on the floor as you hop down again. You need explosive strength in your hips and thighs to get enough air to land on the box instead of tripping over it.
As your box gets taller, there's an abdominal element since you have to haul your trailing legs up to get your feet on top of the box.
Yup, this is an example of Prime Suckitude. So of course, this is now the cash-out for the workout. 20 box jumps.
So I'm hanging with some pals, and we get to talking about chick stuff--bodies and maintenance of same, and how we wish things were different, and one notices that I've lost a bunch of weight. How'd I do it?
So I explain the workout, starting with the warm-up, and then go into the workout of the day--three rounds of 45 pound thrusters and pull-ups. The first round you do 21 of each, then 15 of each, then 9 of each. That doesn't sound so bad, she said. The kicker is, done right, you complete the workout in under five minutes. Done well, you complete it in under three minutes.
You could hear crickets chirping.
And a moment later, the group was back into bemoaning how hard it is to get fit, how hard it is to lose weight, how hard it is blah blah blah let's go get pastry.
Excuse me? Pastry? Weren't you just talking about . . . and now you want pastry?
Ok, I get it. Pastry is easy. Talking is easy. Wishing is easy.
But easy doesn't get'r done. Easy doesn't get the bar up over your head. Easy doesn't own your desire.
If you have a desire, then it only seems right to determine the cost of that desire and then decide whether or not you're willing and able to pay that price. The cost of a fancy vehicle is money, money, money; for the payments, the insurance, and the gas. The cost of six-pack abs is a strict diet and exercise routine.
Now, being unable to pony up is one thing. (Although one might want to consider what stands in the way and work on that, if one desires the object sufficiently. There are ways to make more money, more time, and exercises are almost infinitely modifiable to suit innate [or inert] athletic ability.) But it seems that most who claim to be unable are just unwilling.
I can't because I don't have enough money. Couldn't you take in a roommate, get a second part-time job, cut back on expenses? Instead of cable TV, go to the library? Well, yes, but . . .
There is a yes-but for everything. I have my own yes-buts. And the only one that trumps the others is "Yes, but THIS is what I really want."
And I really really want to be able to do box jumps at 36 inches. (Hell, just to be able to do them reasonably well and not internally whine all the way to the gym on a jump-centric day.)
And so, the cash-out. Four inches at a time, up and down, forward and back. Working my way through the yes-buts.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Tied Up In Knots
This rant has been a while in coming, so if it bursts out of your screen and crawls down your throat screetching, please try to be understanding. Fend it off with a mug of cocoa and a warm cinnamon roll. Thanks.
I practice yoga. Well, I practice practicing yoga, I'm not a deadly serious practitioner of the eightfold path. I do some hatha, but I don't take classes wiht the Big Names of Yoga, nor do I make pilgramages to India to study at backwater shalas because anything else is "inauthentic."
And because I can learn from the written word, and know enough to keep my ego off the mat, I subscribe to a couple of magazines. Or rather, used to subscribe, because frankly, I'm never going to be limber enough to be happy with people who can talk out of both sides of their mouth at once.
You see, there's a tremendous emphasis in the text of the articles (and the essays, and the related conversations) about our duty as the Enlightened to walk softly on the face of the earth--don't eat meat, for in order to produce one pound of steak it takes ten pounds of grain, which could feed ten people for ten days, instead of one fat hog (that's you, o USDA taxpayer, do you feel GUILTY YET??) for one meal. Don't wear leather, that's cruel. Don't wear "unnatural" textiles, for they are poisonous and wasteful. And so on, so on, so forth. 1
And that's fine, as far as it goes. I can turn that off and get the good out of the pieces that I come here for. I am one of the Untouchables--I eat meat, I wear leather, and no, I don't feel bad about my choices. I own them, and I own whatever results comes from those choices. I own the possibility that I may choose (or be required to choose) differently in the future.
But what gets my goat (and I thought I'd finally rid myself of the Noxious Flock) is the sheer number of advertisements for stuff. Actually, for STUFF. (Where's the HTML code to make that burst out of the screen, laughing maniacally, spouting fireworks like a Catherine Wheel?)
STUFF like $50 tank tops. STUFF like $180 yoga pants. STUFF like mats, mat bags, and music, all endorsed by the Big Names of Yoga. Will buying this CD make achieving full Padma Shirhasana 3 easier? By golly, looking at this ad it will--but only if I also purchase the tank top, pants, and mat.
And here's the part that finally made my carefully suspended disbelief fall right out of Mool Bandha and into my lap. The Winter issue took up the flag for an anti-mindless consumption holiday season. (Editorial: Deep cleansing releasing breath; we KNOW you're going to celebrate Christmas/Hannukkah, regardless of what we say, so you might as well keep in mind that this is a season of giving, not of receiving, AND CERTAINLY NOT OF BUYING STUFF STUFF AND MORE STUFF for the sake of giving and receiving. Namaste, you unenlightened slugs.) And whaddaya know, instead of the ad on every third page, it was a half ad every OTHER PAGE, with a big section on how this one company was giving away ten percent of its profits on every sale to this one charity!! Woo-hoo!!! You can buy all your goodies through them and know that you are doing good in this world, doncha feel all warm and fuzzy NOW! Look, look!!! One of the REALLY BIG NAMES is a spokesmodel for this company!! Why, just reading this ad should kick your kharma up a notch or two!
And, okay, they had one thing that struck my fancy. A niceish necklace, wrapped around and around the spokesmodel's wrist, just as I enjoy doing with antique paste necklaces. No prices listed in the ad, so I went to the website.
Holy craparoonie. $350 for wood, turquoise, and coral?? For WOOD, with ACCENTS of turquoise and coral????
I do a lot of DIY, and I'm a careful shopper. I am the first to admit I know what materials cost, but not what THINGS cost. If I can get it secondhand (like classic jewelry--diamonds have no provenance) (or silk shirts--once to the drycleaner, and they're just as clean as they'll ever be again) then I do it. I'm not consuming any new resources by doing so--these have already been made. If it's leather or fur in good condition (you'd be amazed at what a pawn shop can have) then I'm not killing another being just to wear it on my back three-five times a year. I know all the secondhand places that specialize in designer jeans, and as long as somewhat worn is chic, I'm good. (When they HAVE to be hard new blue, well, I guess I'll just be out of touch for a while.)
But Spike, the company donates ten percent of their profits to charity? Why would you deprive the charity of their cut? How can you be so unfeeling?
Well, let's do a little math. The jeweler donates ten percent of their profits. Since their asking price includes their profits, the raw materials, the labor, the shipping (of material to the factory, of the finished items to the warehouse), storage space, advertising costs--spokemodel time (you don't think that the Big Name donated her time to go pose for the ads, do you?), photographer's time,printing and binding and mailing cataloges, and probably designers' fees and coffee, you know that the final donation will be substantially less than ten percent of their asking price. But let's go with that for argument's sake. $35 to charity.
The fact that I can make the same sort of lariat in pearls with accents of coral and turquoise plus give $35 to charity for less than a third of what they're asking for really honks me off. How stupid do they presume their customer to be??
If you want the article, buy the article. If you want to donate to charity, donate. But don't let yourself get fooled into thinking that ten percent of profits to whatever charitable organization represents serious goodwill on the part of the manufacturer. Suppliers will offer ten percent off their ASKING PRICE just to entice you to purchase.
Needless to say, I'm practicing letting go this season. One of the things to go will be my subscription to yoga magazines. If I feel the need to find new poses/receipies/information--I'll go to the used bookstore where I can pick them up for a buck apiece, already printed, already used once and being tossed aside.
Walking a little lighter now. Om shanti, ya'll.
1. I'm not going to get into the fuel it takes for the machinery to grow the grain, or the fuel and other chemicals needed for the fertilizer, or for the amazing costs of watering a cotton field or any of that. Someone else may take up the agricultural screed and relate the doleful facts of just how much it costs to farm in a green and sustainabler way--and how much MORE the consumer has to put out to acquire. That's not the point of this particular rant; that's why all my facts are not in order, cross-indexed and footnoted.
I practice yoga. Well, I practice practicing yoga, I'm not a deadly serious practitioner of the eightfold path. I do some hatha, but I don't take classes wiht the Big Names of Yoga, nor do I make pilgramages to India to study at backwater shalas because anything else is "inauthentic."
And because I can learn from the written word, and know enough to keep my ego off the mat, I subscribe to a couple of magazines. Or rather, used to subscribe, because frankly, I'm never going to be limber enough to be happy with people who can talk out of both sides of their mouth at once.
You see, there's a tremendous emphasis in the text of the articles (and the essays, and the related conversations) about our duty as the Enlightened to walk softly on the face of the earth--don't eat meat, for in order to produce one pound of steak it takes ten pounds of grain, which could feed ten people for ten days, instead of one fat hog (that's you, o USDA taxpayer, do you feel GUILTY YET??) for one meal. Don't wear leather, that's cruel. Don't wear "unnatural" textiles, for they are poisonous and wasteful. And so on, so on, so forth. 1
And that's fine, as far as it goes. I can turn that off and get the good out of the pieces that I come here for. I am one of the Untouchables--I eat meat, I wear leather, and no, I don't feel bad about my choices. I own them, and I own whatever results comes from those choices. I own the possibility that I may choose (or be required to choose) differently in the future.
But what gets my goat (and I thought I'd finally rid myself of the Noxious Flock) is the sheer number of advertisements for stuff. Actually, for STUFF. (Where's the HTML code to make that burst out of the screen, laughing maniacally, spouting fireworks like a Catherine Wheel?)
STUFF like $50 tank tops. STUFF like $180 yoga pants. STUFF like mats, mat bags, and music, all endorsed by the Big Names of Yoga. Will buying this CD make achieving full Padma Shirhasana 3 easier? By golly, looking at this ad it will--but only if I also purchase the tank top, pants, and mat.
And here's the part that finally made my carefully suspended disbelief fall right out of Mool Bandha and into my lap. The Winter issue took up the flag for an anti-mindless consumption holiday season. (Editorial: Deep cleansing releasing breath; we KNOW you're going to celebrate Christmas/Hannukkah, regardless of what we say, so you might as well keep in mind that this is a season of giving, not of receiving, AND CERTAINLY NOT OF BUYING STUFF STUFF AND MORE STUFF for the sake of giving and receiving. Namaste, you unenlightened slugs.) And whaddaya know, instead of the ad on every third page, it was a half ad every OTHER PAGE, with a big section on how this one company was giving away ten percent of its profits on every sale to this one charity!! Woo-hoo!!! You can buy all your goodies through them and know that you are doing good in this world, doncha feel all warm and fuzzy NOW! Look, look!!! One of the REALLY BIG NAMES is a spokesmodel for this company!! Why, just reading this ad should kick your kharma up a notch or two!
And, okay, they had one thing that struck my fancy. A niceish necklace, wrapped around and around the spokesmodel's wrist, just as I enjoy doing with antique paste necklaces. No prices listed in the ad, so I went to the website.
Holy craparoonie. $350 for wood, turquoise, and coral?? For WOOD, with ACCENTS of turquoise and coral????
I do a lot of DIY, and I'm a careful shopper. I am the first to admit I know what materials cost, but not what THINGS cost. If I can get it secondhand (like classic jewelry--diamonds have no provenance) (or silk shirts--once to the drycleaner, and they're just as clean as they'll ever be again) then I do it. I'm not consuming any new resources by doing so--these have already been made. If it's leather or fur in good condition (you'd be amazed at what a pawn shop can have) then I'm not killing another being just to wear it on my back three-five times a year. I know all the secondhand places that specialize in designer jeans, and as long as somewhat worn is chic, I'm good. (When they HAVE to be hard new blue, well, I guess I'll just be out of touch for a while.)
But Spike, the company donates ten percent of their profits to charity? Why would you deprive the charity of their cut? How can you be so unfeeling?
Well, let's do a little math. The jeweler donates ten percent of their profits. Since their asking price includes their profits, the raw materials, the labor, the shipping (of material to the factory, of the finished items to the warehouse), storage space, advertising costs--spokemodel time (you don't think that the Big Name donated her time to go pose for the ads, do you?), photographer's time,printing and binding and mailing cataloges, and probably designers' fees and coffee, you know that the final donation will be substantially less than ten percent of their asking price. But let's go with that for argument's sake. $35 to charity.
The fact that I can make the same sort of lariat in pearls with accents of coral and turquoise plus give $35 to charity for less than a third of what they're asking for really honks me off. How stupid do they presume their customer to be??
If you want the article, buy the article. If you want to donate to charity, donate. But don't let yourself get fooled into thinking that ten percent of profits to whatever charitable organization represents serious goodwill on the part of the manufacturer. Suppliers will offer ten percent off their ASKING PRICE just to entice you to purchase.
Needless to say, I'm practicing letting go this season. One of the things to go will be my subscription to yoga magazines. If I feel the need to find new poses/receipies/information--I'll go to the used bookstore where I can pick them up for a buck apiece, already printed, already used once and being tossed aside.
Walking a little lighter now. Om shanti, ya'll.
1. I'm not going to get into the fuel it takes for the machinery to grow the grain, or the fuel and other chemicals needed for the fertilizer, or for the amazing costs of watering a cotton field or any of that. Someone else may take up the agricultural screed and relate the doleful facts of just how much it costs to farm in a green and sustainabler way--and how much MORE the consumer has to put out to acquire. That's not the point of this particular rant; that's why all my facts are not in order, cross-indexed and footnoted.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Lhassi With a Mango
A forum I post in has a thread for do-overs. What did you do (ten minute, ten hours, ten years ago) that you’d take back and “do over” if you had a chance?
I posted that I wished I’d gotten into yoga sooner, then started to explain why—but then realized it made a better blog post. So if you’re here from Postcard X, welcome. Get a drink and put your feet up. May I suggest the mango lhassi? That’s what today tastes like, sweet without being cloying, and creamy without mush. And mango. Mmmmmmmmmango.
I hated hated hated gym because I am athletically declined. I never saw much point to running, jumping, being active simply for the sake of being active. I like to hike; the world is pretty. But to have to get on a pair of shorts and run around--then change quick quick quick and dash to your next class; or change and run around right after lunch--ick.
And stretching. Hated that even more. It seemed like all the girls I went to school with were made of rubber, with powerful core muscles, so they could flip upside down hanging on the parallel bars, do the front splits and put their chins on the floor, stand on one foot and lift their other leg up over their heads.
And now all two of the guys who read this blog are saying “Where the hell was I???” Trust me fellas, this was back in the days when girls had cooties.
So I hated to stretch—stretching hurt, dammit. None of this “you may feel a slightly intense sensation now” nonsense. I know pain when I feel it. And since I hated to do it, well, I didn’t. Not if I could avoid it.
And there’s a lot you can do to avoid doing something you don’t wanna do, after all. Feeding the dog your Brussels sprouts, pushing all your stuff under the bed, walking past the growing pile of laundry with your nose in a book—great avoidance techniques. Until the day when you have an ingrown toenail, and you can’t get to your feet to free the little monster.
Not in one session. No, in several tiny little increment sessions, gasping for breath at the end of each one because you can’t find room for your ribs and lungs and organs when you’re bent, seeing as you haven’t bent since they stood over you in grade school when your toes were much closer to your hands.
And close behind that came the day when I wanted a meditative practice—some time each day to set down my problems and clear my head for a bit so I could come at my “stuff” fresh.
And then the clincher—I’m a big Cirque de Soliel fan. Deeply envied the contortionists just as I envied those limber girls in grade school. Walking through Barnes & Noble, I saw a pose on a yoga calendar that struck a memory—and when I looked at the back and saw more that only needed the makeup and costume to be exactly what I had seen on stage, I realized that I could do this too. All it would take is practice.
I’d love to relate how one year later I can go from Mountain to Wheel (with one leg in the air and my elbows on the ground, thank you). I’d love to relate how I practice twice every single day for half an hour in the morning and evening. I’d love to say that all my emotional quirks have been smoothed and resolved, but well, I’d be lying. Like a cheap rug, one that you keep telling yourself will lie flat once it’s been used for a while, but no matter how many parties you hold, it still humps and bumps in avocado green and burnt orange swells.
I’ve made progress. I’m making progress. I’m working to get my afternoon routine back in place, and the morning routine is solid. It’s part of getting ready for work, and I’m more likely to forget to put on my rings than I am to forget to do my six stretch day-opener.
However, every time I get frustrated that I can’t get my hips on my heels and my head on the floor at the same time, I think of a yoga teacher I knew, who still couldn’t get her head to rest on her knees in the long classic hamstring stretch that was my grammar school nemesis. It’s as much acceptance of your limitations as it is the drive for progress at any cost; and that’s the lesson I wish I’d learned earlier.
I posted that I wished I’d gotten into yoga sooner, then started to explain why—but then realized it made a better blog post. So if you’re here from Postcard X, welcome. Get a drink and put your feet up. May I suggest the mango lhassi? That’s what today tastes like, sweet without being cloying, and creamy without mush. And mango. Mmmmmmmmmango.
I hated hated hated gym because I am athletically declined. I never saw much point to running, jumping, being active simply for the sake of being active. I like to hike; the world is pretty. But to have to get on a pair of shorts and run around--then change quick quick quick and dash to your next class; or change and run around right after lunch--ick.
And stretching. Hated that even more. It seemed like all the girls I went to school with were made of rubber, with powerful core muscles, so they could flip upside down hanging on the parallel bars, do the front splits and put their chins on the floor, stand on one foot and lift their other leg up over their heads.
And now all two of the guys who read this blog are saying “Where the hell was I???” Trust me fellas, this was back in the days when girls had cooties.
So I hated to stretch—stretching hurt, dammit. None of this “you may feel a slightly intense sensation now” nonsense. I know pain when I feel it. And since I hated to do it, well, I didn’t. Not if I could avoid it.
And there’s a lot you can do to avoid doing something you don’t wanna do, after all. Feeding the dog your Brussels sprouts, pushing all your stuff under the bed, walking past the growing pile of laundry with your nose in a book—great avoidance techniques. Until the day when you have an ingrown toenail, and you can’t get to your feet to free the little monster.
Not in one session. No, in several tiny little increment sessions, gasping for breath at the end of each one because you can’t find room for your ribs and lungs and organs when you’re bent, seeing as you haven’t bent since they stood over you in grade school when your toes were much closer to your hands.
And close behind that came the day when I wanted a meditative practice—some time each day to set down my problems and clear my head for a bit so I could come at my “stuff” fresh.
And then the clincher—I’m a big Cirque de Soliel fan. Deeply envied the contortionists just as I envied those limber girls in grade school. Walking through Barnes & Noble, I saw a pose on a yoga calendar that struck a memory—and when I looked at the back and saw more that only needed the makeup and costume to be exactly what I had seen on stage, I realized that I could do this too. All it would take is practice.
I’d love to relate how one year later I can go from Mountain to Wheel (with one leg in the air and my elbows on the ground, thank you). I’d love to relate how I practice twice every single day for half an hour in the morning and evening. I’d love to say that all my emotional quirks have been smoothed and resolved, but well, I’d be lying. Like a cheap rug, one that you keep telling yourself will lie flat once it’s been used for a while, but no matter how many parties you hold, it still humps and bumps in avocado green and burnt orange swells.
I’ve made progress. I’m making progress. I’m working to get my afternoon routine back in place, and the morning routine is solid. It’s part of getting ready for work, and I’m more likely to forget to put on my rings than I am to forget to do my six stretch day-opener.
However, every time I get frustrated that I can’t get my hips on my heels and my head on the floor at the same time, I think of a yoga teacher I knew, who still couldn’t get her head to rest on her knees in the long classic hamstring stretch that was my grammar school nemesis. It’s as much acceptance of your limitations as it is the drive for progress at any cost; and that’s the lesson I wish I’d learned earlier.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
It's Only a Little Addiction
I wish I could say that today tasted like mango margaritas, brought by a handsome and flirtatious cabana boy while I lounged in the shade between two palm trees, dandled in a Oxhacan hammock; a fine spiderweb where you use your body as the spreader bars. Under a tropical sum, swaying in the balmy salty breeze, charting intricate lace patterns—no, dictating them into a hand-held recorder to play back in Dragon later so I wouldn’t need to proof a secretary’s work.
Unfortunately, today pretty much tastes like cat food smells. Dry cat food, at least. Greasy and crisp, with wheaty overtones, and a vague spoiling milk smell.
I have a bottle of bubbly from America’s oldest winery (founded in the 16th century, when that part of the USA belonged to Mexico) chilling in the fridge for the day when this trial is over, and I will order a case on the day that the verdict is appealed. (Because I know that it will be, and we’ll ramp up at least once more after that. Sigh. Put the lawyers out of business--get it in writing and make sure you understand what you’re signing.) This could be very good business for that winery, but it’s wreaking havoc on my general “life is about balance” motto.
I’m back to yoga in the afternoons. The whole routine fell apart when we went to Mexico last Thanksgiving and I didn’t want to carry the bulk, weight, and space that my mat takes up. (Never again—when we go to Italy that mat is coming with. I can get by on fewer clothes.) So of course when we got back to Arizona it was cold and dark and icky and waaaaaaaah. (Excuses, excuses, mara mara mara.) The morning routine has been rather slipshod until lately, now that it’s warm and the mornings are bright. I look forward to July when it’s in the eighties around 6:00 a.m., and thus warm enough to go out on the porch first thing. I plan to pick up a space heater this winter when such things are again available, and use that to stretch the porch days out for a while. There’s those awkward periods of spring and fall (Na’too’ot, in the native tongue [embedded joke—tourist is talking to Yaqui Indian, says “The Navajo call winter ‘the Season When Thunder Sleeps.’ What do your people call winter?” Yaqui shrugs. “Na’too’ot.” The tourist raises one eyebrow, and asks, “And summer?” Yaqui answers, “Hot.”]—you were warned at the entrance that this is stream of consciousness!)
Anyway—awkward periods of spring and fall where it’s too cold to effectively stretch outside, but you don’t want to warm the house up any more. (Winter will find me and my space heater in the foyer to the backyard, pumping out the joules.) I’m hoping that having a heater to plug in outside will allow me to continue my hatha routine and keep moving and motivated through the winter. Yes, even when it’s dark and icky and cold and waaaaah.
Thinking about ATC’s, my little addiction. (Knitting is the big one—just finished seaming the black and blue cardi, am swatching the moss stitch bands, and contemplating zippers. I think a tight moss stitch band with a plain black or matching blue zip, as this is a classic sweater—nothing flashy except the poured-on fit. Ah, the wonders of ribbing.)
Anyway, ATC’s. A kind soul responded re: shaker cards, suggesting that I sew them together. An interesting idea. I may have to try that and see what happens. This morning, I started thinking about laying them out as a sheet of ten since I use 8.5” x 11” cardstock anyway.
Essentially, I would alter the cardstock on the fronts, then lay out the 10 card cut lines on the back. Cut the windows on one sheet, lay the frames. Lay the backgrounds on the other sheet, fill the frames, lay the glue and dry under pressure. Less likely to slippy slide out of alignment as the little individual cards. Let everything dry, then cut them out and slap labels on. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
And that led to thoughts of quotation cards. I like them—but I hate my handwriting. It’s on the to-do list (I think—that may say “hamburger” after all. {Holds mental list upside down in an attempt to improve legibility.}) So wouldn’t it be fun to alter some cardstock, then use the computer to print out quotes in the appropriate size—then alter the paper to make it fun, in a different way than the cardstock. (F’r instance, paste cardstock and watercolored paper. So the stock makes a frame around the quote, which is a keeny bit on its own.)
Ah well, that’s what weekends are for, right?
Unfortunately, today pretty much tastes like cat food smells. Dry cat food, at least. Greasy and crisp, with wheaty overtones, and a vague spoiling milk smell.
I have a bottle of bubbly from America’s oldest winery (founded in the 16th century, when that part of the USA belonged to Mexico) chilling in the fridge for the day when this trial is over, and I will order a case on the day that the verdict is appealed. (Because I know that it will be, and we’ll ramp up at least once more after that. Sigh. Put the lawyers out of business--get it in writing and make sure you understand what you’re signing.) This could be very good business for that winery, but it’s wreaking havoc on my general “life is about balance” motto.
I’m back to yoga in the afternoons. The whole routine fell apart when we went to Mexico last Thanksgiving and I didn’t want to carry the bulk, weight, and space that my mat takes up. (Never again—when we go to Italy that mat is coming with. I can get by on fewer clothes.) So of course when we got back to Arizona it was cold and dark and icky and waaaaaaaah. (Excuses, excuses, mara mara mara.) The morning routine has been rather slipshod until lately, now that it’s warm and the mornings are bright. I look forward to July when it’s in the eighties around 6:00 a.m., and thus warm enough to go out on the porch first thing. I plan to pick up a space heater this winter when such things are again available, and use that to stretch the porch days out for a while. There’s those awkward periods of spring and fall (Na’too’ot, in the native tongue [embedded joke—tourist is talking to Yaqui Indian, says “The Navajo call winter ‘the Season When Thunder Sleeps.’ What do your people call winter?” Yaqui shrugs. “Na’too’ot.” The tourist raises one eyebrow, and asks, “And summer?” Yaqui answers, “Hot.”]—you were warned at the entrance that this is stream of consciousness!)
Anyway—awkward periods of spring and fall where it’s too cold to effectively stretch outside, but you don’t want to warm the house up any more. (Winter will find me and my space heater in the foyer to the backyard, pumping out the joules.) I’m hoping that having a heater to plug in outside will allow me to continue my hatha routine and keep moving and motivated through the winter. Yes, even when it’s dark and icky and cold and waaaaah.
Thinking about ATC’s, my little addiction. (Knitting is the big one—just finished seaming the black and blue cardi, am swatching the moss stitch bands, and contemplating zippers. I think a tight moss stitch band with a plain black or matching blue zip, as this is a classic sweater—nothing flashy except the poured-on fit. Ah, the wonders of ribbing.)
Anyway, ATC’s. A kind soul responded re: shaker cards, suggesting that I sew them together. An interesting idea. I may have to try that and see what happens. This morning, I started thinking about laying them out as a sheet of ten since I use 8.5” x 11” cardstock anyway.
Essentially, I would alter the cardstock on the fronts, then lay out the 10 card cut lines on the back. Cut the windows on one sheet, lay the frames. Lay the backgrounds on the other sheet, fill the frames, lay the glue and dry under pressure. Less likely to slippy slide out of alignment as the little individual cards. Let everything dry, then cut them out and slap labels on. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
And that led to thoughts of quotation cards. I like them—but I hate my handwriting. It’s on the to-do list (I think—that may say “hamburger” after all. {Holds mental list upside down in an attempt to improve legibility.}) So wouldn’t it be fun to alter some cardstock, then use the computer to print out quotes in the appropriate size—then alter the paper to make it fun, in a different way than the cardstock. (F’r instance, paste cardstock and watercolored paper. So the stock makes a frame around the quote, which is a keeny bit on its own.)
Ah well, that’s what weekends are for, right?
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Insatiable Monkey Mind
Today tastes like chai and hot chocolate, graham crackers and cardamom.
Lately, it seems that my sig line should be that Lovecraft quote about "the greatest kindness of the universe is the inability of the human mind to correlate its contents."
I’m grumpy at having to get up in the dark, do yoga in the cold, leave at sunrise and return at sunset. Lack of heat and light leaves me scattered and groping. And it’s only going to get worse until late December. Bah! In a civilized society, I’d be able to come to work early (the sun comes up at 5:00 in the morning, here in AZ; my eyelids poink! right open at 5:01 a.m. Even on a Saturday, when I’ve been out painting the town fuschia.) And in summer, I’d leave late, after some of the heat dissipated—say, around 8:00 p.m.
In exchange, during the winter months, I’d drag my leaden limbs through the door around 10:00 a.m., and leave at the reasonable hour of 3:00 p.m. Ah, but no. That is Not the Way the World Works. Or at least, not my world, not right now.
This has been an interesting year—a year of doing things I actively said I would never do. I’d never take up yoga. Freezing in position makes my joints hurt. I’m not flexible enough. I have the tightest hips in Christendom. Never never never . . . say never. You only tempt the gods.
And, of course, when I take something up, I don’t do it by halves. When I learned to knit, I learned on a baby sweater. (Yes, I had a fantastic teacher. I was also lucky enough to be the only one who signed up for the class, so it was a one-on-one experience. ) So by the time I was through the class, I had the basics down and could follow a pattern knit flat in pieces. I knit myself a sweater, teaching myself about cables and fixing errors in cables as I went. At one point, I dropped 12 stitches down six rows to correct some mis-twisting, and then laddered them back up to the body. I can only plead that I didn’t know that was an advanced move, I only knew that I didn’t want to rip more than I had to.
My next project was socks, because I had fallen in love with lace . . . but you see how it goes.
And it’s no different with the old yoga than with “the new yoga.” I get interested, then went to the library and pulled every book on the shelf I could find. I was just interested in hatha yoga, the stuff with all the poses, done for fitness/flexibility. (The first taste is free . . . )
So just recently I was back in the library, feeding the insatiable monkey (AKA the 900-pound baboon). One of the books I picked up was Rodney Yee's _Poetry of the Body_.
Yee is a big name yoga teacher, and what I found refreshing about the essays were his comments on beginning and doing yoga. It goes along with a recent conversation about different bodies and different abilities with the Dowager Empress Odie-Bird. IN an amazing moment of parent-child synchronicity, we took up yoga within a few weeks of each other, with no prior discussion of the subject.
_Poetry of the Body_ is one of Yee’s books. I get the feeling that he’s aiming at the beginner—there’s nothing flaky here regarding meditation, advanced system cleansing, and the poses are arranged in series. I appreciate that very much—I find it easier to learn when there’s some flow to it, when there’s a series of do this, then do that, instead of having to learn about a hundred different poses, then figure out how to arrange them, then . . .
But the part I enjoyed the most is Yee’s essays and interviews with his less-renowned co-author (whose name has slipped my feeble mind.) It’s refreshing to hear someone who makes what appears to be a very nice living talk about his experience as a beginner in the field he now works in. It feels good to have a yoga teacher explaining that no, actually, he left ballet because he was so inflexible, and now he does yoga because he’s still naturally tight.
And to read it now, while I'm feeling like toffee that has cooled (when it was warm, I flowed in ribbons and mounds of satiny shiny smoothness. Now that it's cold, I'm brittle. I flex a tiny bit, then snap.)--well, it makes me feel better and encourages me to just be with it now. Not to worry about what was a few months ago, how it will be when summer returns, just to take deep breaths and do what works for me right now.
Additionally, Yee has another book worth a flip through _8 Weeks of Yoga With Rodney Yee_. It has routines laid out like the book I am leaning on, and I snitched his restorative routine. I do some poses from that on the mornings when "my bed is warm, my pillow deep" and it's hard to drag myself to the mat. I set a timer, so if I drift off, something will bring me back in time for shower and breakfast, and then settle in. Ahhhhhh, it's like 2 hours of sleep in fifteen minutes.
I plan to obtain materials to build some props because I can't see spending the kind of money supply shops want for bolsters. I priced the materials out, because we all know that fallacy of being able to make it cheaper than you can buy it. It looks like the cotton batts will be the pricy part. Polar fleece (which is what I'd want to cover the things with [ohh so soft and cushiony]) and plain weave for the pillow forms is cheap, especially this time of year.
Anyway, build some props and then establish that Fridays when I get home, I do a full restorative routine to pinch off the workweek and get ready for the weekend. Right now, it seems like I finally get relaxed and weekendish, then look at the clock . . . and it's 7 p.m. On Sunday. Ahhhhrrrrrgh!
I also said I’d never start blogging. I have multiple physical journals, and also do a little bookbinding, so have enough blank books to keep me going forever. I had started a couple of private, eyes-only web logs to get the really vituperative junk out of my head and off where it wouldn’t have repercussions. So why would I want a public diary?
But then, as a constant knitter, I would get asked by friends whom I see monthly if I ever finished anything. I knit primarily for charity—Project Linus in particular. Blankets are good easy social knitting, especially in garter stitch. But since I was knitting to give away, no-one ever saw the fruits of my labors. And I don’t have much use for sweaters in the low desert. That which is not seen is not, after all.
That, and I’m prone to startitis. (“Hi, I’m Spike, and I’m a startaholic.” “Hi, Spike.” “I’ve begun four sweaters, a yoga mat bag, two pairs of socks and three blankets in the last week . . . I’m running out of needles.”) So it seemed to me that beginning a diary of projects would let me tell people who asked where to look to find pictures of what I’d done, as well as keeping me honest about the progress (or, ahem, lack thereof) in my knitting.
Then a group of pixel pals (who uses pens any more, I ask you) from an e-mail list all began blogging, and reading through the little bitty ring that was formed to let all the members find and read their virtual (and in some cases, meat) friends’ words of wisdom and look at the projects being chatted about on the list finally inspired me to get going on my own. And now that I’ve been here a couple of months, I’m really pleased with the side benefits.
It’s easier to write. I ran across a comment in my trolling the web, where the person writing the commentary put forth the idea that there are four types of writers—prolific facile; prolific agonized; scanty facile; and scanty agonized. I belong firmly to the agonized school of writing, which is why my first drafts are so clean—I’ve gone back and revised even as I type the sentence out. (By the time you see these words, I’ve already gone over and revised it at least twice.)
But now I have to face the blank screen three times a week (yes, it’s a self-imposed schedule. Aren’t they all, to some extent?) and bang out something I’d want to read regarding where I’m at in this uber-project we call life. And sometimes I score a big one and hit the mark on what I’d want to say, with authenticity and flair. And other times, well, what’s floating in the punch bowl is not a Baby Ruth bar.
On top of that, in order to get what I want insofar as the visuals on this site, I’m having to learn to navigate my way around photoediting programs, learn some baby code, figure out where stuff gets stashed when these programs do what they do . . . and I can see a lot more ahead.
At least I’m enjoying the journey.
Lately, it seems that my sig line should be that Lovecraft quote about "the greatest kindness of the universe is the inability of the human mind to correlate its contents."
I’m grumpy at having to get up in the dark, do yoga in the cold, leave at sunrise and return at sunset. Lack of heat and light leaves me scattered and groping. And it’s only going to get worse until late December. Bah! In a civilized society, I’d be able to come to work early (the sun comes up at 5:00 in the morning, here in AZ; my eyelids poink! right open at 5:01 a.m. Even on a Saturday, when I’ve been out painting the town fuschia.) And in summer, I’d leave late, after some of the heat dissipated—say, around 8:00 p.m.
In exchange, during the winter months, I’d drag my leaden limbs through the door around 10:00 a.m., and leave at the reasonable hour of 3:00 p.m. Ah, but no. That is Not the Way the World Works. Or at least, not my world, not right now.
This has been an interesting year—a year of doing things I actively said I would never do. I’d never take up yoga. Freezing in position makes my joints hurt. I’m not flexible enough. I have the tightest hips in Christendom. Never never never . . . say never. You only tempt the gods.
And, of course, when I take something up, I don’t do it by halves. When I learned to knit, I learned on a baby sweater. (Yes, I had a fantastic teacher. I was also lucky enough to be the only one who signed up for the class, so it was a one-on-one experience. ) So by the time I was through the class, I had the basics down and could follow a pattern knit flat in pieces. I knit myself a sweater, teaching myself about cables and fixing errors in cables as I went. At one point, I dropped 12 stitches down six rows to correct some mis-twisting, and then laddered them back up to the body. I can only plead that I didn’t know that was an advanced move, I only knew that I didn’t want to rip more than I had to.
My next project was socks, because I had fallen in love with lace . . . but you see how it goes.
And it’s no different with the old yoga than with “the new yoga.” I get interested, then went to the library and pulled every book on the shelf I could find. I was just interested in hatha yoga, the stuff with all the poses, done for fitness/flexibility. (The first taste is free . . . )
So just recently I was back in the library, feeding the insatiable monkey (AKA the 900-pound baboon). One of the books I picked up was Rodney Yee's _Poetry of the Body_.
Yee is a big name yoga teacher, and what I found refreshing about the essays were his comments on beginning and doing yoga. It goes along with a recent conversation about different bodies and different abilities with the Dowager Empress Odie-Bird. IN an amazing moment of parent-child synchronicity, we took up yoga within a few weeks of each other, with no prior discussion of the subject.
_Poetry of the Body_ is one of Yee’s books. I get the feeling that he’s aiming at the beginner—there’s nothing flaky here regarding meditation, advanced system cleansing, and the poses are arranged in series. I appreciate that very much—I find it easier to learn when there’s some flow to it, when there’s a series of do this, then do that, instead of having to learn about a hundred different poses, then figure out how to arrange them, then . . .
But the part I enjoyed the most is Yee’s essays and interviews with his less-renowned co-author (whose name has slipped my feeble mind.) It’s refreshing to hear someone who makes what appears to be a very nice living talk about his experience as a beginner in the field he now works in. It feels good to have a yoga teacher explaining that no, actually, he left ballet because he was so inflexible, and now he does yoga because he’s still naturally tight.
And to read it now, while I'm feeling like toffee that has cooled (when it was warm, I flowed in ribbons and mounds of satiny shiny smoothness. Now that it's cold, I'm brittle. I flex a tiny bit, then snap.)--well, it makes me feel better and encourages me to just be with it now. Not to worry about what was a few months ago, how it will be when summer returns, just to take deep breaths and do what works for me right now.
Additionally, Yee has another book worth a flip through _8 Weeks of Yoga With Rodney Yee_. It has routines laid out like the book I am leaning on, and I snitched his restorative routine. I do some poses from that on the mornings when "my bed is warm, my pillow deep" and it's hard to drag myself to the mat. I set a timer, so if I drift off, something will bring me back in time for shower and breakfast, and then settle in. Ahhhhhh, it's like 2 hours of sleep in fifteen minutes.
I plan to obtain materials to build some props because I can't see spending the kind of money supply shops want for bolsters. I priced the materials out, because we all know that fallacy of being able to make it cheaper than you can buy it. It looks like the cotton batts will be the pricy part. Polar fleece (which is what I'd want to cover the things with [ohh so soft and cushiony]) and plain weave for the pillow forms is cheap, especially this time of year.
Anyway, build some props and then establish that Fridays when I get home, I do a full restorative routine to pinch off the workweek and get ready for the weekend. Right now, it seems like I finally get relaxed and weekendish, then look at the clock . . . and it's 7 p.m. On Sunday. Ahhhhrrrrrgh!
I also said I’d never start blogging. I have multiple physical journals, and also do a little bookbinding, so have enough blank books to keep me going forever. I had started a couple of private, eyes-only web logs to get the really vituperative junk out of my head and off where it wouldn’t have repercussions. So why would I want a public diary?
But then, as a constant knitter, I would get asked by friends whom I see monthly if I ever finished anything. I knit primarily for charity—Project Linus in particular. Blankets are good easy social knitting, especially in garter stitch. But since I was knitting to give away, no-one ever saw the fruits of my labors. And I don’t have much use for sweaters in the low desert. That which is not seen is not, after all.
That, and I’m prone to startitis. (“Hi, I’m Spike, and I’m a startaholic.” “Hi, Spike.” “I’ve begun four sweaters, a yoga mat bag, two pairs of socks and three blankets in the last week . . . I’m running out of needles.”) So it seemed to me that beginning a diary of projects would let me tell people who asked where to look to find pictures of what I’d done, as well as keeping me honest about the progress (or, ahem, lack thereof) in my knitting.
Then a group of pixel pals (who uses pens any more, I ask you) from an e-mail list all began blogging, and reading through the little bitty ring that was formed to let all the members find and read their virtual (and in some cases, meat) friends’ words of wisdom and look at the projects being chatted about on the list finally inspired me to get going on my own. And now that I’ve been here a couple of months, I’m really pleased with the side benefits.
It’s easier to write. I ran across a comment in my trolling the web, where the person writing the commentary put forth the idea that there are four types of writers—prolific facile; prolific agonized; scanty facile; and scanty agonized. I belong firmly to the agonized school of writing, which is why my first drafts are so clean—I’ve gone back and revised even as I type the sentence out. (By the time you see these words, I’ve already gone over and revised it at least twice.)
But now I have to face the blank screen three times a week (yes, it’s a self-imposed schedule. Aren’t they all, to some extent?) and bang out something I’d want to read regarding where I’m at in this uber-project we call life. And sometimes I score a big one and hit the mark on what I’d want to say, with authenticity and flair. And other times, well, what’s floating in the punch bowl is not a Baby Ruth bar.
On top of that, in order to get what I want insofar as the visuals on this site, I’m having to learn to navigate my way around photoediting programs, learn some baby code, figure out where stuff gets stashed when these programs do what they do . . . and I can see a lot more ahead.
At least I’m enjoying the journey.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Mindful Musing
This morning, my mother, the Dowager Empress Odie-Bird sent me a story she had enjoyed regarding one woman’s experience with anticipation—how we tend to believe that there is a better place than we are now, and how we overlook the pleasures of the moment we are in as we rush to get to the next minute, the next Big Thing. We spend our lives in the next five minutes, anticipating the destination rather than savoring the journey. Read the whole thing here (http://www.beliefnet.com/story/19/story_1915_1.html).
I took up yoga earlier this spring—what the hell, I already do the new yoga (knitting), so I might as well take up the old. As the seasons progressed, and the summer warmed up, I would go out on the porch first thing in the morning and right after I got home from work, and stretch in the hundred-degree plus heat. Even at six in the morning, the thermometer would read in the mid-eighties. Stretching was astoundingly easy. I was never this flexible, even as a kid. And the more I worked at it, the easier and better it got.
I had some Really Kewl Moments on the porch this summer—one of the best came on a July morning. The sprinklers came on, I was grounded and twisted, and along came a hummingbird in his little suit of lights. He hovered by the tree, watching the sprinkler spray and rotate, then he darted directly into the line of fire! Splash! He zipped up a foot, watching, watching, watching and hovering, then just as it came around again he ducked down into the spray again. Splash!
I stopped to watch him, wondering if he was dazzled by the sun and spray, or trying to drive the sprinkler off, but then, when that array turned off, he followed the spraying water over to the next head, and proceeded to dunk into the spray again and again. He was taking a birdbath on the wing; a kid flying through the sprinkler in a bright green swimsuit. (And what kind of swimsuit does a hummingbird wear? Speedos!!!)
Now, however, the season has turned and it’s getting chilly. (Yes, compared to the northeast, we’re relatively warm. However, the high temps are now nearing what the lows are in summer. Brrr.) I’ve moved inside where I can look out the back door, but the cold has seeped into my joints and in the morning I’m stiff stiff stiff. It’s hard to get out the mat and practice, especially remembering that a short time ago I was cooked spaghetti flexible and now I expect to hear breaking when I bend.
My ego wants to push, and insists that I make progress each and every time I go to the mat. When you had barely started, it insists, just weeks after you started, you were able to get your head to the floor. Now, when you do straddle bends, your head is level with your tailbone, and your hands just reach the floor! MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE! (My ego would make an excellent aerobics instructor.)
But just as you have to learn to have the strength to contain your flexibility, you have to have the strength to contain your ego. It isn’t about having a set of calendar-perfect poses each and every time, it isn’t about being able to kiss your elbows and put your feet on your shoulders. It’s about being with and in your body, with all its imperfections, and being in the minute wherever you are, and having it be enough. Enough for right this minute—because that’s always where you’re going to be.
The Dowager Empress mentioned that this article moved her to practice mindfulness (just for a few minutes, she mumbled). But that’s all there is, is this few minutes, and the next few minutes, and the next few minutes. Just like practicing sobriety; just like knitting. All there is is the next few minutes, the next stitch, the next pose. Flow into it, be with it, be in it. Let the sweater take care of itself. And one day, your feet will touch your shoulders.
I took up yoga earlier this spring—what the hell, I already do the new yoga (knitting), so I might as well take up the old. As the seasons progressed, and the summer warmed up, I would go out on the porch first thing in the morning and right after I got home from work, and stretch in the hundred-degree plus heat. Even at six in the morning, the thermometer would read in the mid-eighties. Stretching was astoundingly easy. I was never this flexible, even as a kid. And the more I worked at it, the easier and better it got.
I had some Really Kewl Moments on the porch this summer—one of the best came on a July morning. The sprinklers came on, I was grounded and twisted, and along came a hummingbird in his little suit of lights. He hovered by the tree, watching the sprinkler spray and rotate, then he darted directly into the line of fire! Splash! He zipped up a foot, watching, watching, watching and hovering, then just as it came around again he ducked down into the spray again. Splash!
I stopped to watch him, wondering if he was dazzled by the sun and spray, or trying to drive the sprinkler off, but then, when that array turned off, he followed the spraying water over to the next head, and proceeded to dunk into the spray again and again. He was taking a birdbath on the wing; a kid flying through the sprinkler in a bright green swimsuit. (And what kind of swimsuit does a hummingbird wear? Speedos!!!)
Now, however, the season has turned and it’s getting chilly. (Yes, compared to the northeast, we’re relatively warm. However, the high temps are now nearing what the lows are in summer. Brrr.) I’ve moved inside where I can look out the back door, but the cold has seeped into my joints and in the morning I’m stiff stiff stiff. It’s hard to get out the mat and practice, especially remembering that a short time ago I was cooked spaghetti flexible and now I expect to hear breaking when I bend.
My ego wants to push, and insists that I make progress each and every time I go to the mat. When you had barely started, it insists, just weeks after you started, you were able to get your head to the floor. Now, when you do straddle bends, your head is level with your tailbone, and your hands just reach the floor! MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE! (My ego would make an excellent aerobics instructor.)
But just as you have to learn to have the strength to contain your flexibility, you have to have the strength to contain your ego. It isn’t about having a set of calendar-perfect poses each and every time, it isn’t about being able to kiss your elbows and put your feet on your shoulders. It’s about being with and in your body, with all its imperfections, and being in the minute wherever you are, and having it be enough. Enough for right this minute—because that’s always where you’re going to be.
The Dowager Empress mentioned that this article moved her to practice mindfulness (just for a few minutes, she mumbled). But that’s all there is, is this few minutes, and the next few minutes, and the next few minutes. Just like practicing sobriety; just like knitting. All there is is the next few minutes, the next stitch, the next pose. Flow into it, be with it, be in it. Let the sweater take care of itself. And one day, your feet will touch your shoulders.
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