Bring it.

The process of teaching, for me, aside from being lots of fun, is always an opportunity to receive as much as I give.

Years ago, I observed Ross Rayburn training teachers on what to do when you don't feel like teaching.  Maybe you're sad or distracted.  I remember that lesson because today, as I walked in to teach my first class, I was in a fun, a nasty little viper pit or depression, worry and negativity.  I'm not prone to these moods, so I can get pretty far into them before I can recognize them.  So as I grumpily drove to teach, I just wanted to go home and go to bed.  I also knew that the best thing I could do was to teach.  I remembered Ross' clear advice to the trainees.  Buck up and bring it.  Leave your stuff at the door and serve your students.  Right.  And away we go.

Fast forward an house and a half later, and 8 people are on the floor, absorbing their practices and my teachings.  So was I.  I had taught on the power of our core.  That we should seek to know what is true for us when everything else is stripped away, like trees in winter.  What is it that holds up, like tree trunks, when everything moves around us?  With the students in savasana, and nothing more to say, I had time to contemplate just that. And then, by the process of my own contemplation, I opened the floodgates and in rushed powerful remembrance of the truths of my heart.  I am held up, as as we all are, by Shiva  and Shakti, by the creative power of the universe and the very power of existence.  Oh, right.  Isn't that what I wanted my students to get?  To know intimately the power of their own existence?  I needed that lesson, too, I guess.  I'm so glad I followed Ross' advice, brought my best, and left all the other stuff at the door.  I feel better and am endlessly grateful for the teachings of Tantra that remind me that I am never without.  That I am never alone.  And that showing up for life is always the right choice.

What's so Painful about Sparkles?

I have a student that I will call "Sparkles." Anyone who practices at my studio immediately knows who this student is. There's no missing her. She's tall, blond, has two giant full moon blue eyes, and is about the sweetest person you'd ever want to meet. It's almost hard to believe she's for real, under all that generosity, concern and fierce loyalty. But she is. And the best part is that she really does sparkle. Everything she wears has a touch of bedazzle on it. People have, on occasion, applauded when she walks into the studio. Resistance is futile. She's about the brightest spot in my field of vision whenever I'm lucky enough to have her around.

A few weeks ago, Sparkles told me a story about a colleague who intentionally pissed her off and behaved aggressively to her. When Sparkles confronted this woman (I was so proud of her for standing up for herself), said colleague explained that she was glad that she was the one to make her mad because she was too cheery all the time. She didn't believe Sparkles could be that happy and be for real. Now maybe we all live in a sheltered yogic paradise where we find this motive unfathomable, but really—WTF? Someone went out of her way to dampen the light of a sparkle-y star and was pleased with herself about it. Proud even.

So here's my question. Why would a person want to dampen something that illuminates their surroundings? Why are there people like that? What's the deal with that? So I've been thinking about it.

What I've come up with is that for residents of twilights, greys, shadows and darks, the light is actually painful for them. It's like turning on the overhead light when you're dead asleep and being momentarily blinded. To feel compassion for these folks is the yogic way, of course, but for me, it doesn't stop there. That's the easy answer (although not necessarily easy to execute.) What I find most interesting was the response of Sparkles. She refused to be diminished by that woman's efforts and stood tall in her own light.

Because it's her truest nature to shine brightly, she can only do that. When we reside in our own personal truths and light, even darkness cannot dampen us. There will always be people who find the light of truth and beauty to be painful. It crops up as anger, pettiness, jealousy and avarice. Through world history and through our own personal histories, I'm sure you can find no shortage of examples. But I take Sparkles as my own example. Shine with authenticity, no matter what, like a lighthouse reaching out into the darkness. That kind of light is so bright that not even the darkest intentions can dampen it. I might even have to bedazzle something as a reminder.

Re-gifting as the highest offering.

Re-gifting gets a bad reputation as something to be avoided-something we only sheepishly cop to. But Bernadette got me thinking about the gifts we offer of ourselves last week, so I started thinking about it all from a Tantric perspective. At this point in my life, I'm pretty sure that I can't think of it any other way. Tantra teaches us that re-gifting is exactly the action of the Grace of this world. Each of us has come into this world complete with gifts, parts, instructions and all. While we spend a lifetime figuring out how to put it all together (I'm kind of sure my instructions came in Swahili,) we refine what we are and what we have to offer from ourselves. Get it? We receive gifts from the Source and then we offer them back out. We re-gift them. Isn't that easy?

Now, to take it a little deeper, you may say, "but I didn't ask for these gifts. Am obligated to participate in this exchange?" And the answer is emphatically-No. You don't even have to acknowledge your gifts if you so choose. But herein lies the rub, the gifts are still there. In your heart. Do with them what you will. Ignore them, shove them under the bed, or sweetly offer them back out. That's what makes it a gift of Grace. You didn't ask for it, you can't really repay it (not that it's expected,) and the more you pass it on, re-gift it, the more you have. The beauty of this elegant system is that the more you partake of and engage with your own gifts, the more you will have to offer. You don't give it away and get left with nothing. Grace is way smarter than that.

All of the gifts aren't lined up under your metaphorical tree, waiting for you to unwrap and assemble them for the offering, though. Sometimes we have to go searching for them, like I make my kids do for their birthday presents every year. (It's a little torturous for them, I admit, but it teaches them perseverance and the joy of discovery! And it's kinda fun for me too.) But knowing that what you give away of yourself will refill the well abundantly, isn't it worth the effort? It can be painful to give away things that we think will leave us without. No one wants to be without. But when we learn that it's really the opposite, that we receive more than we could ever give away, it becomes an exercise in abundance and gratitude. Now that's a gift worth assembling.

A step back from the Apocalypse: The Three Gunas

Recently, a student told me that my classes were apocalyptic. Yikes. I think he was saying it lovingly, but point taken anyway. I guess I've had a rough month and have really been indulging in the darker side of the practice. In and of itself, darkness isn't a problem. It's just one side of a spectrum of light. I guess my students have been wondering about the lighter side of the spectrum, because today, another student asked me about joy. Could I talk about how to cultivate joy? Ok, I can take a hint. I will take a step back from my apocalyptic blinders and gratefully offer a practice that is more balanced. I'm so grateful for my students for dragging me back from the edge every now and then. It begins like this:


Just because you can, doesn't mean you should (as in, just because there's a whole pie on the counter doesn't mean you should eat the whole thing.) Availability shouldn't be the sole criteria for cultivating joy. Likewise, just because something is hard, doesn't mean you should avoid it. There are many lights in the dark spots that will help us navigate our way.

We meet extremes on both ends of the spectrum, and they have names. On the dark end of the spectrum, we have Tamas. It's heavy, weighty, and oh so dark. On the other side of our spectrum, we have Rajas, which is light and fiery.

Now, Rajas and Tamas, like two ends of a see-saw, have a middle point. A point of delicate balance where both sides balance each other out. This point is called Sattva. Sattva is the middle point of the spectrum that has all the perspective to see out to the edges. It's the place where joy and contentment arise gracefully. Have you ever sat on a see-saw? I remember that the first thing my partner and I would do, would be to shimmy forward and back, until we found the point of balance—that sweet spot where you could both balance your 40 pound bodies on the board and lift your feet off the ground. It was magical and always fleeting. Sattva often appears like that. When we find the balance between the Rajasic and Tamasic energies, we balance in Sattva. It's sweet. It doesn't always last, but we always remember it and continue to seek it. Seeking balance is a practice of awareness that requires steadfastness, determination, and compassion. It's exactly the cultivation of these practices that are the act of cultivating joy. Joy doesn't just drop in your lap. You have to work at it. (When we live in that place of joy, we eventually move even beyond sattva. But that's a whole other blog.)

If our viewpoints or actions are off center though, mired in the polar ends of the spectrum of sattvic light, we can't see the dharma, or the most life enhancing choices. We can't see all the way to the other end. When we're in the middle, however, we balance between the opposite ends of the spectrum. As seekers of the sattvic middle, we can't avoid the ends, or we throw the whole thing off balance. Kind of like one kid abruptly getting off the board and sending the other one flying to the ground. Not much fun, I assure you.

Now that I've stepped back from my apocalyptic ledge, I feel a little closer to the middle.

Little Silver Charm

As I spent a weekend in Florida, away from my husband, children and friends, I knew that I should enjoy the responsibility-free time, being grateful for uninterrupted breakfasts and only having to wipe my own nose. It's amazing how the little details of life increase in importance once they're gone. Instead, I felt like Dorothy in the middle of Munchkin land, a complete anomaly who no one knew quite what to do with lest I drop another house out of the sky. This surely wasn't Cold Spring. Over the three days I visited my grandfather with the women of my family, I may have even clicked my flip-flops together a few times and muttered my own personal mantra, "Let me go home, where people don't think I'm weird."

Somewhere in the distance between New York and Florida, I gained enough perspective on my life, to find not only deep gratitude for my present life in and of itself, but I also to acknowledge the fact that this wonderful life was one I had created not been born into by chance or karma. I couldn't look into a snow-globe glass at my own life without marveling at how well it fit who I was at that very moment. For the first time in my life, I felt a safety net of support, not only in my immediate chosen family, but in my friends, who wouldn't roll their eyes at my compost pile, the women who not only didn't think cloth diapering was a silly idea, but some had done the same. The seemingly insignificant details of my life now became magnified in that strange land; the washed out Ziploc bags, the non-hydrogenated snacks in the cupboard, and the friends who thought I was funny and not weird. Or at least they were as weird as me. This was a life worth living and I had constructed it myself. I amazed myself with the fact that I could do such a thing — my life wasn't accidental — it was a family, with most elements chosen by me, and some thrown in by random good luck. For the first time since having my children, I didn't feel that I had escaped; I wanted to go home. Like Dorothy, I had to go on a journey to realize the value of home, and I didn't even have to get thumped on the head with a window to realize it. Lucky me.

For the rest of the weekend, I answered my family's curious questions about my life, shrugged off my mother and her cousin giggling as they watched my yoga practice on the patio, and maybe, no, were those flying monkeys out there over the man made lake? Must have been my imagination. At the end of the weekend, as I gratefully packed up my bag and headed back to the airport with my family, I felt a relief spreading across my entire being, not that I was leaving my childhood family, but that I was going back to my snow-globe world. I could enjoy the last of my time alone with my mother and sister, enjoying the women who helped shape me enough that I could make the choices leading up to my present life. I was ready to return to my own life, and I guarantee, they to theirs. I returned, not only with gratitude for my own ability to create a fulfilling and rich life, but also for everything leading up to it. Let them think I'm weird; they love me regardless and I love them too. Along with the souvenirs I brought home for my kids, I bought myself a little silver pair of flip flops for my charm bracelet to remind me to constantly have gratitude for my small world. And sometimes, If I feel the lesson slipping away, I put on my charm bracelet, slide into a pair of flip flops, and survey my surroundings; it's then that I know that there is truly no place like home.

Optimism park

Last week, as we drove around North Carolina after the Anusara CTG, I was deeply involved in a conversation with my boyfriend about self honoring, not as a concept, but as an every day sadhana, or practice. The point of the conversation was that I have a very hard time practicing what I preach. As an over-achiever, I strive for my best constantly, and like most perfectionists, think I'm falling short at every corner. I've been told I never miss an opportunity to shoot myself down. True enough. I get caught up in a fearful space of not being the best, or not getting what I want, so I fall into my default safety zone of pessimism. If I don't hope for anything, then I won't be disappointed, right? One certified teacher, named Paula, put it very well, "the inner core is the sharpest edge." Ouch. I realized that I had been living on that sharp edge for a while.

At the Certified Teachers Gathering, John Friend told us that words can have an emotional or physical charge. We must be skillful in how we decide what to put out there because it will build strength as it moves out into the world, especially when we unthinkingly repeat self defeating words to ourselves like mantras. John said, "Lay every part of yourself down with devotion." This clearly does not say, "Lay every part of yourself down with trepidation and clenching fear." If I want to live fully in the light of the Self, then I must be willing to be hopeful. I have to be willing to entertain the possibility of success. This way, I build a matrika that shows my Self the highest of respect. When I honor myself, I also honor the Self, the highest aspect of existence.

As this conversation got deeper and deeper, I vowed to myself and my boyfriend, who keeps me honest, that I would be more skillful in the matrika of optimism, rather than building the possibility of disappointment.

At this point, we realized we had overshot our destination and turned into a side street for a U-turn. Lo and behold, a sign directed us to Optimism Park. Seriously, Optimism Park? How could we resist? We accepted the invitation from Grace, and drove up to a small town park with trails, a pool and tennis courts. Hardly a place I would imagine making a vow to the universe in. But this wasn't a coincidence. It was a message. A funny one, at that. So we parked just long enough for me to close my eyes, and make a commitment to myself—to the compassion and respect that go hand in hand with it. It seemed right. Just like the adage, "You are what you eat," you are also what you speak. As a new resident of Optimism Park, I say this from my heart.

Pretty Pink Shoes

Note, this was written four years ago when my kids were younger, now I'm a no-frills mother of three children under 12.

In my everyday life, I'm a no-frills mother of three children under the age of 7. Just your standard making lunches, breaking up toy wars, wondering when my last shower was kind of stuff. Some days, I really pull myself together with a shower and mascara and just as many days, I don't. I've learned to forgive myself for those days that I knowingly leave the house with a stained shirt, planning on blaming a recent cup of coffee for those unsightly blobs. Or the days that I can smell myself when the wind blows in the wrong direction.

I have one (maybe a few) indulgence though, that makes all the difference in the world. Nothing rare — just your standard shoe fetish. Like Clark Kent emerging as Superman, slipping on my new pink Stuart Weitzman sandles transforms me from domestic goddess, into Cleopatra, Grace Kelly and Princess Di, all rolled into one. I no longer walk — I glide. My posture improves. I'm the fantasy of every man, woman and child I pass. My sons tell me my shoes are beautiful and my daughter sneaks them into her room and attempts to break her ankle in them. Who can blame her?

I'm convinced that fabulous shoes have a potentially transformative power on the universe, and every time I look at them, they make me smile. Does it matter that when I wear them, my t-shirt states, "we like tha moon!"? or that I have retained a bit of morning cream cheese under my nail polish chipped pinky nail? No, my friends, once the leather soles connect to the floor and the heels click click click against the tile, it all fades away and I once again begin to channel Jackie O. I can almost feel the pillbox hat materialize on my head as I go to break up another fight over the latest McDonald's toy. Yes, yes, these shoes are self help books, therapy and anti-depressants all rolled into one. I may sleep in them tonight, just to start tomorrow off right. I'll fall asleep, smug with the knowledge that in my world of downwardly mobile breasts, lack of adult conversation and horror of all horrors, 2 minute showers, the powers that be, have blessed me with pretty toes, high arches and a closet full of pretty leather ego boosters. I now understand the phrase "mother's little helper." For each of us it's different. In the fifties, it was a good stiff cocktail, in the sixties, it was Prozac. For me, the 21st century has brought Stuart Weitzman. In my world, I'll take what I can get.