Just Call Me Yogi

So this resolution did not go the way I had planned. Oh it got done—don’t fret about that. “Getting it done” is the only guarantee in this blog. Each of these resolutions will be completed…

…just maybe not in the way I imagine or map out in my head. And that is something I’m quickly learning—these entries are not just about fulfilling my resolutions; they are moments of self-discovery in the most unexpected ways.

I’ve taken Yoga many times before. And though I have always enjoyed it—the stretching and breathing and moments of zen—yoga never affected me the way it seems to touch others. Which is why I was so excited about the Candlelight Flow. It was Yoga—but more me. This is the kind of yoga that will influence me the way it influences my friends, I thought. I was absurdly excited about it. But it had to wait until the end of the month before I could take the class.

There are only a few places in LA that offer it—one on Wednesday nights, the other on Fridays. I work nights—every weeknight, except one Friday each month. And so Candlelight Flow had to wait until the end of February.

The plan: go to class with Jen (henceforth known as RPC—Resolutions’ Partner in Crime as she seems to be involved in each of the resolutions so far) and then dinner afterwards (I mean—what’s the point in 90 minutes of stretching and sweating if you can’t double the intake of calories you’ve just burned off? Jeesh. Where’s the fun in that?)

I drove the thirty minutes to Sherman Oaks, climbed up the steps to the studio to meet Jen and sign up for the class. Just walking into the place made you feel more relaxed. The ground was made of hardwood flooring, the wall was stacked with mats against the wall, the drinks and snacks were organized on a table, soothing music whispered in the background, and a very friendly “welcomer” sat behind the desk.

He smiled. I smiled. And then I waited, wondering if he was going to show me the way—what I was supposed to do, where I was supposed to go for my hour and a half of tranquility. He just kept grinning, and so I glanced around. This was the right place, right? I mean, the music, the mats, the zen floor—but the friendly welcomer just stared at me, his brown curls spiked up around his head, and I stared back. Then finally…

“So, is this where I sign up? I asked. He stared. “For—yo—ga?”

“Well, I certainly hope so,” he replied as he motioned to a clipboard on the counter in front of him.

Ok then. I signed my name and then looked at him. He smiled.

“Should I pay now, or…?” I started. It was like pulling teeth to get this guy to give me some direction.

“Well I certainly hope so,” he answered. He sure does a lot of hoping, I thought. “Cash or Credit?”

“Cash,” I said as Jen walked through the door. Thank God, I thought, a face I recognize. I was beginning to feel weird around Curly.

And as she paid for her entrance to the class, a man beside me grabbed a key dangling off a long wooden handle on the wall next to me and opened the door beside the key. Ah, the bathroom key, I thought. Good to know. We need a key to use the bathroom.

Then, like waddling penguins, we followed the mass of people into the only open room in the studio, laid out our mats, and waited for class to start. The instructor lowered the lights, mounted her I-Pod to a surround-sound stereo, closed the door and settled down before us.

I looked around the studio. Where are the candles? I glanced up at the chandeliers. Is that what they consider candlelight flow? A dimly lit room? I tried to reread the class description in my head. Did it actually say there would be candles? Or is it just symbolic of a darkened room?

Jen didn’t seem to notice anything peculiar, and so I decided I must have read it wrong. I shrugged. Maybe this wouldn’t be the type of Yoga I had anticipated, but it was Yoga nonetheless.

And so the stretching began. This ain’t so bad, I thought as we entered into our first stretch (legs apart, torso down, hands wrapped around one foot). I can reach my feet, no problem.

“This is the first in our series of long stretches,” the instructor said. “So take it easy. Don’t push yourselves yet.”

I loosened my grip. What does she mean, “long stretch”? How many minutes are we talking here? I refocused. Think about your breathing—in and out, in and out. But after five minutes of breathing, I was getting tired and my hamstrings were begging for mercy. And this was a stretch I could handle. What else did she have in store for us?

We switched legs and then entered into different positions—not so bad, but not so easy either. And then came the One-Legged King Pigeon Pose—a stretch I would come to know as my nemesis.

Oh-my-god. This was the most uncomfortable position any person could be in. Why in the world would anyone choose to do this voluntarily? And from the sound of the grunts and groans around me, I knew I wasn’t the only one declaring war against this pose. It can’t get worse than this, I thought.

And then the instructor said, “This is the second long stretch of the night.”

I was wrong. It had just become worse. Judging by the first long stretch of the night, I’d be looking like a one-legged pigeon for a while. My hips burned, my right leg (bent beneath my torso) didn’t feel like it belonged to me anymore, and my left leg (stretched out behind me) was beginning to feel numb. Focus on your breathing—in and out, in and out. Just focus, I kept repeating in my head.

“Take your final breath,” the instructor said. “And release.” Oh sweet God, kinder words had never been spoken. I creaked out of the position I was stuck in, feeling like a ninety year old man getting out his chair after watching TV for too long.

And then she said, “Now switch legs.”

I quickly realized that my left leg was not as willing to bend beneath me as the right one had been. This was by far the most unpleasant shape my body had been forced into. And it was a long stretch.

When we were finally released, I wasn’t sure I could unfold my body back to normal. It genuinely took effort. But my legs and hips felt so loose afterwards. Loose and relaxed.

By the time the class had ended, my entire body felt less tense, my breathing felt more regular, and my mind was clearer.

We got into the prayer pose and held it for some time, breaths moving in and out.

“Namaste,” the instructor said. Literal meaning, I bow to you. My favorite figurative translation, the best in me greets the best in you.

“Namaste,” the class repeated.

Then as we all broke out of our meditative state, stretched our bodies and continued to breath deeply, Jen turned to me and said, “So where were all of the candles?”

Ah-hah! So I wasn’t the only one wondering about the candles!

We gathered our belongings, walked out of the room, and decided to ask someone. The only person there? Yup, Curly.

“So, is there a candlelight class too?” I asked, as nonchalantly as possible.

Curly smiled. And then slowly nodded. Of course he wouldn’t make it easy. The teeth pulling resumed.

“Did it already start?” I asked.

He nodded. And then pointed to the door beside the key that had been dangling on the wall. I arched my eyebrow. The candlelight class was held in the bathroom? That was the immediate thought that flittered through my head. Then reality struck. The key was not for the bathroom, it was to open the second studio where Candlelight Flow was held.

Jen and I looked at one another, and then giggled. We had totally gone to the wrong class.

We walked out of the building and down the steps to our cars.

“I’m kinda annoyed,” I said. “I can’t believe we missed the class.”

Jen laughed and then told me about the Happiness Project (http://www.happiness-project.com/). It was a book and blog that I had heard about, but not read.

“The writer has a moment where she realizes that she gets frustrated when things don’t happen the way she plans. And then she ultimately realizes that she needs to learn how to laugh at herself," Jen said. Then she leaned toward me. “You need to laugh at yourself more.”

And she was right.

What I learned from this resolution: the left side of my body is way tighter than my right; I really do enjoy Yoga, even if it feels like torture, and I will probably continue to take classes—especially the Candlelight Flow; that there’s nothing wrong with asking questions, even to people like Curly who are difficult to get information out of; that I shouldn’t assume that a key dangling from a wooden handle is for the bathroom; that things will rarely work out the exact way I plan; and that I need to learn to laugh at myself.

And so as I greet the best in you with the best in me, I laugh.

Because at the end of the day, it's the laughs that I will remember the most.

Namaste.

Yoga 101

No seriously. YOGA 101. This entry is not about fulfilling my resolution. Not yet anyway. It’s about yoga itself: what it means, where it comes from, how the various types differ, and why it’s on my to-do list.

I’ve had a lot of people ask me why this or why that from the list. Why a haunted hotel? Why fly a plane? Why ride a mechanical bull? (Seriously? Does that one really need to be answered?). Why yoga? So I will give you what you want: an answer to your why’s, one resolution at a time.

But first, a little bit about yoga itself.

I am no expert, not even by the most liberal of standards. These are things I discovered as I researched about yoga. The quick and dirty-get to the heart of the matter-meat on the bones-kind of stuff. What I have learned without doubt is that yoga is a very complex art and belief system that cannot be explained away in a single blog entry. But if you’re interested in understanding it a bit better, read on.

In Sanskrit, yoga means effort, and it’s derived from the root yuj, or to yoke/concentrate on/join; it is a type of meditation in Hinduism and Buddhism. One who practices yoga is called a yogi. Within yoga there are various branches, the most popular of which, in western culture, is Hatha Yoga.

Ha meaning sun, tha moon. It improves physical and mental health through breathing techniques, meditation and postures. It is what we think of when those of us from the west picture yoga. Downward Facing Dog this, Happy Baby that, Feathered Peacock one, Half Frog the other.

But there are so many other types. Mostly practiced in the East.

Raja Yoga

Also known as “royal yoga”, Raja Yoga is mainly focused on using the mind to conquer the body. It does this through self-discipline, pushing us to forgo our obsessions with objects.

Karma Yoga

Not to be confused with Kama (sutra)—a very different type of posturing.

This is the “discipline of action” wherein the yogi acts according to his or her duty on earth without seeking desires, and acting entirely without motive.

Jnana Yoga

This is the “path of knowledge” which will lend to salvation by following 4 rules. Viveka—differentiating between real (or eternal) and unreal (or temporary); Vairagya—detaching oneself from the temporary; Shad-Sampat—finding the six virtues (control of the mind, control of the senses, letting go of things that are not one’s duty, endurance, faith, and perfect concentration); and Mumukshutva (longing to detach oneself from temporal limitations) [1]

So why yoga?

All of the yogis I know tell me that it has changed their life. They feel healthier, both body and soul, and happier. I’ve taken yoga classes in the past, but have never quite experienced what they have.

My initial plan was to take a class in each one of these branches, to see how they differed and determine which one worked the best for me. Unfortunately, many are not offered where I live. None that I could find, anyway. And the more I researched, the more I learned that these types of yoga are not learned in a single class. People go to school in these disciplines, become scholars in the various forms.

Instead, I’ve decided to take a few different classes in Hatha Yoga: traditional, deep stretch, and (drumroll please…..) candlelight flow. Clearly the one I’m most excited about is yoga set to candlelight. Not for the romanticism. Because we all know there’s nothing sexier than sweating in a classroom full of strangers. But rather for the calm that candles induce. There is something so soothing about them. And that’s what I’m seeking. At least in part. Tranquility and serenity—synonyms for the resolution that I’m hoping yoga will help me check off my life’s list: peace.

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[1] From Wikipedia

Rain Dance

Rain Dance (rān/ dan(t)s, ˈdän(t)s)

Definition

—noun

: a ritualistic dance performed to invoke rain and protect the harvest.[1]

Last week it rained in California. And the rains—or monsoons really—could not have come at a more apropos time. First, we really needed it. The water reserve level is at an all time low, lingering in the “yellow zone” (far from blue, or full; and far too close to red, or empty).

There are constant reminders and tips on the radio on how to save water—the right time to sprinkle the yard, the shortest way to shower, the most effective way to sweep the driveway (broom, not hose people!). So yay for the rain! California was thirsty and the rain helped quench some of that thirst.

Second, it was a great first resolution to fulfill—a gentle transition into this new world that I’ve created for myself, if you will. But I’m just as new to this world as you are. So, it took a couple tries before I was satisfied with blogging about my rain dance.

Take 1.

The day started off at a tearoom for lunch, specifically the Scarlet Tea Room in Pasadena, an adorable restaurant that does tea the old fashioned European way. This was my first visit there; my friend, Jen’s second or third. We picked a peach-flavored black tea, Persian Nectar (of course, right? What else could a Persian woman choose?); ate our scones, with raspberry jam, lemon curd sauce, and whipped cream; chose our crust-free sandwiches; and ended the course with petit dessert and strawberries romanoff. The initial plan was to walk around Pasadena after teatime and then go to the beach to watch the sunset—that was supposed to be the first resolution I completed.

But as carpe diem would have it, as we finished lunch, the rain clouds stitched together and the sky turned absurdly dark for 3 pm. Walking around Pasadena was out. And sitting on the beach in the rain to watch the sunset didn’t sound very appealing to either one of us. So we decided to leave. I’d watch the sunset another day when the rains stopped.

And then it happened. My moment of spontaneity.

“I could just dance in the rain instead,” I said.

“Do you want to?” Jen asked. “I could take the pictures.”

I shrugged. Wasn’t that the point of this blog? To do the things I don’t normally do? To be willing to break out of the shell I’ve locked myself into? To live? I mean, I wrote it in my mission statement, after all. I promised it in my first entry.

“Yup,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

We pulled over and walked down the street in search of the “right place” to dance. I let Jen choose—and of course she picked a small cobble stoned patch in the median of the road where everyone could see me as they drove by.

I ran across the street to the designated location. And danced. While Jen snapped pictures, videotaped and laughed, I danced. I even sang. After all, there was no music, and I felt that I needed music in order to dance properly. The song I chose? “Dancing in the Rain.” What else would I possibly choose?

And I have to tell you all….

It was sooo much fun! And liberating! It felt great to just live in the moment, to not care who saw or what anyone thought, and to boogy-woogy under the rain.

Except it was only sprinkling.

And there was no music (if you watch the video, you will understand that I’m no singer and my singing shouldn't count as music)

So came along Take 2.

I was having lunch with my parents at their house. It was POURING. Literally. Like someone had unzipped the sky right where it was holding back a river. Pouring, typhoon wet. And as we sat around the kitchen table enjoying our lunch and the warmth that a good home-heating system provides on a cold, wet day, one of the chairs in the backyard flopped over. It must be saved, I decided. And so must the other swivel rocker chairs where I read books when the weather is sunny and more California-esque. So I “braved the storm” to move my old friends out of harm’s way.

As I carried the chairs to the loggia and pressed them against the wall, carpe diem nudged me again. Dance now. It’s actually REALLY raining, and adding music would be so easy.

The chair saving went on hold in order to fulfill my resolution. Take deux. Of course, by then, the rain had slowed—not to a sprinkle, but also not a cyclone.

I turned on the radio. The song playing? T.I’s “Dead and Gone” (featuring Justin Timberlake). What better choice than that? How much more appropriate can it get? A song on the radio about rebirth, just as I’m getting ready to dance in the rain.

Oh how the stars have aligned.

And so I danced. Happily. With the rain slapping against my face. And it felt just as liberating as the first time.

Now I have my own personal definition of rain dance.Rain Dance (rān/dan(t)s, ˈdän(t)s)

Definition

—noun

:the first step in harvesting a new life. [2]

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[1] Combined definition from Dictionary.com and Wikipedia

[2] Me

Resolutions

“Dance like no one is watching, love like you'll never be hurt, sing like no one is listening, live like it's heaven on earth.” –William Purkey

Each year we make resolutions. Lose weight, exercise more, be nicer to the in-laws, organize the garage, yell less at the kids, eat more fruit and not as much chocolate. But let’s be honest. Most resolutions fizzle out by mid February. Maybe some go as long as April, almost none to August, and by December we’re making the same promises as the year before only we add to it by swearing, up and down, that “this year will be the year I really do it.”

At least that’s what I do. Guilty as charged. I don’t follow through with my New Years Resolutions. I’m a New Years Half-Ass Resolver.

So it got me thinking. Why? Why am I a half-ass resolver? Is it the resolutions I make? Do they not matter enough to me? Maybe. I don’t care much about my weight as long as I’m healthy. I exercise every day (laughing counts, right?) I don’t have in-laws, so that’s out. I haven’t lived long enough in my house to make a mess of the garage. Yet. No kids either (unless you count my two four-legged-furry ones that speak dog. And I don’t really yell at them often enough to make that a resolution). I eat fruit, but more chocolate—and that will simply never change. I don’t care how long I live; the chocolate stays.

Is it the lack of accountability? Possibly. They’re my resolutions. No one else knows about them. So, if I don’t follow through…who will be the worse for it? Really not a single person. I can already hear some of you saying, “YOU! You will be the worse for it.” To those nay-sayers, I reply, “not really.” Refer to the paragraph above. The promises I’ve made haven’t mattered enough to me.

And there it is. My “ah-hah” moment: the answer to the question ‘why?’

I haven’t cared enough about the resolutions that I’ve made. Of course, being held accountable to someone (or many many someones) doesn’t hurt either.

And so came along this blog. I’m picking resolutions that matter to me—pledges I’ve made through the years to live my life completely and do the things that terrify me, make me laugh, seem impossible, and help me find peace—and asking myself, and you, to hold me accountable.

I will pick a resolution from the list, in random order, and do it. I have a year to complete all of them. Some will be easier than others, some more costly, some more frightening. But, they will all be done. And I will write about each one, complete with pictures as proof. I make that promise here. Now. To you. And more importantly, to me.

Goodbye half-ass resolver! THIS is my New Years RESOLUTION!

Here it goes! Thank you for coming along for the ride!

-PM