WORK that extra pat of butter, dahlin’

Love this.

Rock on with your strong self. Inside and out.

 

grow, dammit!

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2011/10/tread-lightly-teachers-put-down-your-big-stick/

There’s a fine line between encouragement and bullying. Everywhere, not just in a studio.

I want less stuff

More is not better. I want less stuff. I’m forever telling anyone unfortunate enough to come within earshot that “it’s not about more, it’s about better”.

Confession: I’m a closet product designer at heart. Always have been, but am a slow enough learner to really only be realizing it the past few years. Apparently, everyone  else around me has always know, and assumed I did too.

Slow learner aside, it hit me yesterday whilst here in Belize that 90% of our purchases are fear based. Or “Fix it” based. And a fix is the same as a fear – a fix just means something is “wrong”. All this applies, even down to the most essential “stuff” ala the George Carlin bit from years back.

Don’t think so? Try on a few examples…

Fleece because afraid I might be cold. These yoga pants because I’m afraid the cotton ones will be uncomfortable. A flashlight because I’m afraid I might need it to see. This spatula, because I’m afraid of putting my hand in hot oil. (I didn’t say the fears weren’t valid!) Hairspray, because my hair will be in my eyes otherwise. etc… etc…

All true though. And also, valid. It’s navigating our world.

At the same time, everyone knows the joy of the perfect product – the bag with all the pockets in just the right places, the hammock that doesn’t leave marks on your skin that you can actually doze off in and is portable, the jeans that fit just right, the e-book that you can carry 100 books around without breaking your back.

So with that in mind, I’m back to It’s Not About More, It’s About Better.

I’m kicking around the idea of starting another blog (*gasp*), along those lines— products that are mo’ betta. Multi functional. So we can stop buying 8 spatulas to find the one perfect one that we could’ve bought in the first place.

Something to chew on.

But for now – from lovely Belize in a mediation garden (the only place with wi-fi), my battery is at 10 minutes left. I need a mo’ betta battery.

new beginnings

Beginnings are exciting.

One of my oldest, dearest friend sistah-gurls (and often psychic shoe twin) is adopting a wide eyed 4 year old who is finally "coming home" to their house this weekend. I know it’s exciting and scary for them, and him being 4, he’ll likely remember this weekend too, even through the blurry lens of time. Might be scary now, but what a gift to remember the day you got PICKED.

And by such cool people too.

Much love friends— today is just the beginning.

Sent from an amazing piece of pocket sized technology with more computing power than the space shuttle.

third time’s the charm

Headed back to Belize tomorrow for the third year in a row.

The palapa could hold about 80 people at once practicing yoga. And YES, this is what it really looks like there. Mr. Geauxgirl snapped this shot last year.

I didn’t post or update at all last time. I shut down 100% completely, unplug, zippo, nada. Could’ve been overkill, as I was sooooo plugged in I had to do the extreme opposite to find balance.

This year, I might actually post a time or two whilst there. Or maybe not.

Either way though, I suspect there’s a bit more balance coming with me this time to begin with.

penalty box

Drat. Absolutely unequivocally confirmed that yes, do indeed have carpel tunnel. So yeah, lots of modifying of poses, and challenges all around.

Turns out, it very well could be an old never-fully-healed nerve *thang* at C7/T1 rearing it’s ugly head again. Me being stubborn and living life in spite of it, has been a great boon and gotten me way farther than expected. The irony is that now that same determination is what’s gotten me back into the penalty box for a while, having to watch a lot of the game from the sidelines.

MRI scheduled for later in the week. Heck, if being in the penalty box means finally getting some answers about the 15+ year old C7 craptastic nerve stuff, then HELL YEAH! Sign me up!

Cross your fingers, er carpals, that the penalty box turns out to be the best seat in the house.

guilty as charged

 

Started yoga teacher training in January. Found a site with loads of observations, some gave me a giggle — and I added to it a bit too:

• Not wearing body lotion because it messes up your grip.
• Barely recognizing your classmates fully clothed, or dry, or with hair/makeup coiffed.
• Freezing in any environment that’s less than 80 degrees.
• Realizing that Sanskrit no longer sounds foreign.
• Buying underwear based on how quickly it dries, and if it will peek out whilst in a full forward fold.

100 mile “practice”

You’ve heard of marathons. Of course you have, those 26.2 oval stickers are breeding like wildfire on the backs of SUV’s everywhere these days, but have you noticed the stickers with numbers bigger than 26.2? Those are “Ultra” marathons, the new badge of honor. They’re typically 50K’s, or even 50 miles, or the grand poobah: 100 milers. (Although I bet there’s someone somewhere who’s hosted a race longer than 100 mi.) 

Mr Geauxgirl and I have worked an aid station for a 100 miler in the past. We used to “run” (term used loosely– much beer involved— and Delightful was there too) with a fella who actually set the course record for one of these jobbies seven or eight years running. He also had legs that were up to about my armpits, and kinda just loped along– his one step was about 3 or 4 of mine, and I’m about 5′ 6″. The majority of folks coming through at mile 85 were just brok-ted. As in likely causing irreparable harm.

Enter into the fray another friend of ours – we’ll call him “This Guy”. This Guy started “running” with us (the beer variety), then somehow he caught the Running bug that we managed to successfully avoid. (Well, “we” meaning me. I still don’t run unless I’m chased. Hubby has done 2 marathons, but his training regimine to get to 26.2 miles consists of about a month’s worth, where training for a month means I can go twice around the block without stopping instead of once around.) He also worked this overnighter aid station, and we together tsk-tsk’d (and awed) at the extremity of how much people voluntarily will put themselves through.

So my point?

Our friend, This Guy, a fellow scant 5′ 6″-er with legs to match, just completed a 100 miler over superbowl weekend.

He posted about it here, including a short video.

While I did read Born to Run recently (fascinating), plus I confess to owning 3 pair of Vibram Five Finger shoes (new jayas!), at the same time we’ve already established that I’m no runner. But I am a yogini. And part of what we yammer about (sometimes endlessly!) is that ours is a “practice”. As in, you get to “practice” managing your body and mind’s reactions to putting your body and mind through a self-induced stressful situtation in a safe place, so that your “practice” in dealing with stresses comes in handy when you step off your mat too.

Well lo and behold, watching his video during the run itself, he’s doing the same damn thing. Hmph. Looks to me like runners are closeted yogi’s, only with tighter hamstrings.

Rock on, friend. Now sit down and eat a bag o’ chips already, will ya? (Beer highly recommended too.) And next time you come for a visit, I’ll lend you my mat so you can work on those hamstrings.

yup! this guy....

it’s not about YOU, it’s about THEM

When someone’s horribly injured, or terminally ill, it seems I hear an astonishing number of people say that they didn’t go see someone because they don’t want to remember someone “that way”.

Horse-shit.

I’m all for honoring yourself and your limits, but come on. Get over yourself. Yes, I clearly remember her discomfort, her puffy face, her scant scraggly bits of remaining hair, the flaky grey skin that wasn’t quite hers, and even at the end: her struggles, sweats, and gasps.

Yes, that memory is very clear. Crystal clear. But so what?

I loved her. Any discomfort I might have of what images might linger wasn’t diddly squat compared to what she was up against. There are loads of other memories. It wouldn’t have even crossed my mind to NOT be there. How could it?

She needed comfort. Most especially right at those very moments. And what a privilege for me to be able to be there and hold her hand, stroke what was left of her hair, breathe with and maybe even FOR her at times, and speak soothing memories and comforts to her as she endured the pain and fear until she was freed into the big peaceful unknown. Most of us aren’t so lucky– squashed on the highway, heart-attack alone, and if you’re one of the lucky ones you’re in a home for years and years only to end up choking on the mashed peas– I just hope I’m as lucky to have that kind of love surrounding me when it’s my time.

As awful as those long minutes were, and as much as I wanted them to pass, both for her to be out of discomfort and for myself to be out of it too, at the same time I wanted to hold onto every last precious second we had together.

So yeah, I remember. Some may call those images ugly. And I suppose they are in some ways.

But I see it differently.

Sure, I still cry when those images come. Because they were beautiful.

i get on my own nerves too, don’tchu worry

I’m an only child.

Well, sorta.

I do have a baby half-brother. He’s a full 15 years behind me, so in essence, we’re BOTH only children. I was out of the house before he was out of diapers, plus mother was a completely different person by then, with different circumstances, etc, as you might guess.

So now that she’s gone, I’ve become the matriarch, and therefore also the mother figure. Which is fine. Really. He’s really one of the sweetest souls I know. He’s got his own problems and gets in his own way, but then again don’t we all?

Point being, I confess: sometimes it’s hard to not be annoyed. And DAMN, I know it shows, no matter how hard I try for it not to.

It’s my problem, not his. I didn’t have the prep time of having the baby/toddler/kid/tween/teen progression beforehand, I just skipped straight from baby to Young Adult. And my official “I’m Practicing Kindness” mindset this year mandates that I not only of course show kindness and patience to him as his inner-self grows to match his size 13 shoes, but also that I show kindness and patience to myself as I adjust too.

Just the same, it makes me realize that what I found mildly irritating, is likely because on some level I cringe that I probably used to do whatever that is too (and please GAWD, hopefully I have grown out of it otherwise I wouldn’t be recognizing it in him when it goes awry.). All minor things, none of which are a crime of course, but still, *sigh*.

And yeah, even still: every now and then, just like watching him, I also watch myself. I see my own lips flapping, and I am powerless to stop my own annoying self. I’m choosing to find it “mildly, charmingly, annoying”. (I’m trying really hard here, work with me…)

Pesky “witness”.

Phone conversations rather than face-to-face might have something to do with it, but fortunately so far, I think I’ve been pretty good with him not noticing the occasional eyeroll.

The Witness agrees.

(whew)

And that is all for tonight.