40 Days of Yoga

It means I'm not going to Happy Hour. A simple post on elephantjournal.com confirms what I already know. I'm not the only one struggling to breathe life back into a practice that's laying limp in the dirt. I've been beating myself up about it for months, forcing myself to practice (ahimsa, anyone?), struggling with an athletic body riddled with seemingly pointless injuries, grinding that limp, yogic will deeper into the dirt with every higher expectation. There was a terrifying moment where I thought I hated yoga, but it was worse than that. I was starting to hate myself. I was missing my job and back in school. I was slouching...and I like slouching- in the worst possible way. Caffeine re-entered my life like One Froggy Evenings' rousing, ragtime-singing bullfrog: loud, green, and talented as hell. I let teaching numb the discomfort for a while, and distract me a little from my homework, but the real hope for sustaining my practice was about something else.

Have you ever been to one of those studios that devours everything in it's path? Well, that's where I practice. It's power yoga. There's triathletes and new Lululemon outfits, and lots and lots of pitches for the workshops, TT's, lifestyle programs,... and everyone's cleansing. The music is loud and pulsing, and the instructors all have their advanced practices captured forever in glossy photos splattered all over the Walls of Facebook. Cringe. No wonder I'm exhausted. Burnt to a crisp. Maybe it's just jealousy. Maybe it's something worse. Maybe it's Lack.

I broke up with my studio. We were together for three years. My studio doesn't know it yet, but I've made a side-step. Oh, how I will miss my favorite DJ/yoga instructors and compass-to-headstand-to-flying crow-to-dragonfly. But I played with matches, and...you guessed it.

So, I'm starting fresh. Letting it go. Going on a journey to find my yoga...even if it takes 40 days ;)

Bag-a-vad Gita

I started Yoga Teacher Training two weeks ago. It comes with a warning label: Mind expansion, deep introspection, surprising physical flexibility and strength, and an uncanny knack for reintroducing ghosts from the past. The typical student might experience something akin to the plot of The Changling, where the spirit of the past comes to haunt the present, and rectification can only happen now. Each student has their own journey, and I think most who find themselves ready for this trip have come to a brink or edge through some natural, transpersonal, mind-body shift. Although the students, as a group, are entirely compassionate and supporting to their fellow struggling yogis, the thickest, spongiest of safety nets cannot keep your Self from undermining your Self. Old ghosts and fears stop you in you tracks, and we're encouraged to not step around them, but to move through them, as the only real means to coming to embracing the fear, doubt, apprehension, and curses that lock us into our limits.

The Bag seeks higher ground.

Marc is out of town doing some kind of crew boat race in Oklahoma. This has left me to myself for four days, and I have to admit, I was looking forward to a little me-time and the lack of grease rags, bike parts, and computer anatomy laying around the apartment. I spent the past few days literally tripping over an endless list of things to do around work and yoga training...OMG. Tonight I'm sitting here sipping the last of the homebrew (I'm not supposed to), completely annihilated. I've committed to a seven week program that sums to around 20 hours of yoga and yoga-teacher training per week. The weekends are non-existent at this point, and at the moment I'm sore as hell. I'm still chasing animals in the parks, and that means about 10 miles of hiking in the next two days.

On the flip side, the Kombucha is coming along nicely. I have a slightly sour fermented tea awaiting bottling on top of my fridge. Other exciting events include the third flooding of my and another lower condo due to a neighbors dysfunctional dishwasher. Plaster fell from my bathroom ceiling in chunks. I am in awe. I may need to rip up some flooring to see what lurks beneath. I may find Nemo.

Tea Bag

Tonight I am making my first ever batch of Kombucha. I thought my friend Tiffany was just pulling a loony when she suggested it, and before I could say 'scoby', I had her cruising craigslist for free fungus to start our stuff.
Now I have a culture the size of a pancake living in a Martha Stewart casserole in the fridge, and organic green Chun Mei tea steeping on the stove. In just 10 days The JellyMama, as we call her, will convert her bath into the fermented nectar I've come to love. To boot, this mushroom-like organism of bacteria and yeasts will have a baby scoby, and Tiffany will become a proud mother-of-a-fungus.

A recent trip to Garrett's yielded 10 pounds of free concord grapes from his backyard, which Marc turned into a rich, purple juice. Some if it will flavor the Kombucha when it is bottled. I just hope to hell I'm doing this right, and some rogue cat hair doesn't contaminate Her environment...

Clearly, Chloe-Jean has selected a box, not a bag. A minor faux-pas, but we'll let it slide...

Going Into the Bag

Ever notice that a cat will, without much trepidation or pause, get inside a paper bag left on the floor? If there was one big enough, I'd probably do the same. What is it about a paper bag that changes things? The darkness? The brown, papery smell? The frank ending, after crawling inside, that causes one to back out again...or the only other option, to turn around and peer out of your bag? Either way, I am sure they're onto something.