A Blessing

I enjoyed such a special yoga class today. My mother and I took my two daughters to a girls-only session. They were thrilled to be in the studio, and see my teachers again, and generally just be as cool and fun as I am.

I love spending time with them. They are so the light of my life.

During partner work, we sang this to each other:

May the longtime sun
shine upon you -
All love
surround you -
The pure light
within you
Guide your way on

Namaste

Maybe I'm learning why the sea on the tide

There's a lot to like in Roxy Music's More Than This. Of course, it reminds me of high school, but in a generalized, comforting way. Unlike so many nostalgic songs, it's not tied to any particular moments or associations for me.

Then there's the mellow sound, very flowing and relaxing.

But, best of all, thanks to my helpful friend Google, I now know what the actual words are saying. Instead of just humming general phonemes, I have meaning.

And I like those lyrics very much indeed, although I still only understand them in an organic way, like a poem, rather than in a concrete way. Which is all the better I think.

Nibbling Olives with God

So another day, another yoga class. My goal this week is daily attendance. After a wonderful class with many twists, downward facing dog, upward facing dog, frog pose, crow pose (darn it!), and my improved kick-ass tree pose as practiced on the sunny shore, we stretch out for relaxing Savasana.

As always, I’m eager to find out what my experience of this relaxation will be. You’ll remember that yesterday my body faded away. No such luck today. Body’s still there, whispering little reminders. Mind’s still there too, ticking along like a happy little wristwatch. Here, there, everywhere go my thoughts. Tick, tick, tick.

Oh, well. I breathe and accept it. The instant I do it all deepens for me. Suddenly, I am plunged through my inner self into the vast limitless expanse that lingers there. God is waiting for me.

“Oh, so delightful to see You!” I think.

God gives his usual wry and loving wordless reply.

“Yeah, yeah, You are always here. I’m the one who forgets to visit. Okay, I get it.” God doesn’t mind if I roll my eyes, or get a little attitude sometimes. He’s pretty forgiving.

Today, God is like… God. Traditional. Male, benevolent, paternal, wise and kind. Often my conception of God is of a willowy red-haired woman who wears flowing, green gauzy dresses that set off her creamy skin. She is ageless, beautiful and lives in an indescribably charming cottage in the midst of a lush, flower-filled garden. We like to chat and eat homemade cinnamon rolls in her welcoming parlor.

Today, God wants to go somewhere. He takes me out to a nearby bar and orders martinis. I love this bar; it’s classy, well appointed, and vaguely European in a cosmopolitan way. God has (of course) good taste.

It’s just what I need too. Just a chance to hang out in the comfortingly dim light, watching the glowing end of cigarettes, and grooving to the music that wraps around us like a warm haze. God likes His music with some bass. It’s a little loud for me, but I’m not about to complain.

I sit there and sip, and groove, and relax. When our drinks are gone, we nibble our olives and smile at each other. “Delicious,” I say, “Thanks so much.”

Across the studio, the music fades and the teacher chimes the copper bell three times. I come back into my body on the mat, chuckling as I roll up to easy pose. Namaste.

Yoga at the Edge of the World

For like the fourth Sunday in a row, my family goes to the beach for the late afternoon and dusk. I cannot help myself. I have become the kind of person who sits on the shore, right at the water’s edge, and does yoga.

I worry somewhat about this. I don’t want to look pretentious, laughable, or more likely, crazy. I even ask my husband, Do I look okay? I reassure myself that I must look passably socially acceptable because I have the perceptible normalcy of spouse and lovely children going for me.

In any case, my ego worries are not as strong as my irrepressible urge to celebrate the glory of the beach. What better than with my favorite and most heartfelt kind of prayer?

There is no yoga surface as intriguing as sand. You haven’t done standing poses until you’ve done them on shifting sand in the moving sea. (Yeah, technically, I haven’t done them either because I always fall. But that’s so not the point.)

Also irresistible to me is doing poses atop the rough rocks that dot the shoreline. I did some kick-ass tree poses, made all the more awesome by the rugged uneven rock below my feet, the constant churning of the water, and the danger that if I lose my balance and fall, I am not only going to be completely embarrassed as onlookers rush to my aid, but I am also going to seriously injure myself on a lower rock. Nothing makes you focus on balance in the present moment like the awareness that both your body and your pride are in peril.

Sitting in lotus on the unforgiving yet so comforting surface of a broad sun-warmed rock, my breath and the rhythm of the ocean are one. The horizon …and me… and you… are everything.

Free Lunch

It’s such a gorgeous day.

I enjoy my fruit lunch in the park. The pear is ripe and juicy, at that perfect stage of sweet softness. I plucked it from the tree two weeks ago, and, finally, it is ready to eat, a dream of "sugary sand melting on my tongue." The purple grapes are firm, crisp and cool.

I intend to study some Sanskrit from the yoga text I’ve brought with me. Instead I am swept up in the show. Branches wave in the breeze, birds flit, and the sun glints lively off the moving leaves. It’s more engaging than anything I could ever see on television.

I say a prayer of thanks for my blessed life.

Celebrate Light

When I work in the office, I like to dress up. Now that I’m not a teacher, I can totally get away with wearing heels, the really high kind that look great but hurt like hell if you have to do any walking at all.

Since yesterday was the Chinese Moon Festival, I wore unbelievable red heels for good luck.

What? You don’t celebrate Chinese Moon Festival?

According to my sources, this festival takes place in the 8th lunar month and is basically just a good excuse to get together with family and friends, eat delicious mooncakes, tell stories, sing songs, and admire the luscious full moon. In other words, what’s not to love?

Last night, in Riverside, Heritage House and the Municipal Museum sponsored a wonderful family-event. Probably a thousand people crammed into the landscaped grounds below glowing paper lanterns to sip tea, tie good-luck knots in red cords, sample bean paste mooncakes, hear traditional stories about jade rabbit, and just enjoy the moonbeams.

It’s nice to think that the same benevolent moon lights all of our nights. Just one more way we’re all connected.

To end yoga class today, teacher H said, “May you see the light that is luminous, radiant, and right there, shining on your path.” May you indeed, my friends in this world.

The Stuff I Don’t Know Would Fill a Book

Asserted by Reviewer Tim Rutten in today’s LA Times: Philip Roth is (apparently) our greatest living novelist.

Why don’t I know this? Sigh.

Rashomon Effect

Just like Kurosawa I make mad films,
Ok, I don’t make films
But if I did they’d have a samurai

Fabulous! The Academy Film Archive has slaved painstakingly for years to restore Rashomon, one of Akira Kurosawa’s greatest films, to its original splendor. The restored version will be shown on Thursday, that’s right, this Thursday, two days from now, at the Samuel Goldwyn Theater in Beverly Hills. Film Critic Kenneth Turan will lead a discussion on Kurosawa’s work immediately preceding the film.

(I wish I could be there. However, I’ve already promised to attend the Aztec Dance performance at my daughters’ school that same night. Darn.)

I have loved this film ever since grad school when my whole world snapped into a beautiful, jumbled house of cards of relative perspectives with my discovery of Narrative Theory.

Man, I went to grad school with some great people. I remember how the intellectual discourse would whirl through the room.

One fellow student, an ex-cop, shared how true to life Rashomon’s competing stories felt to him. He said that, in the case of rape, the bewildered husbands would come to him in confidence to ask, What did my wife say happened to her?

Oh, all the world’s a story…

Thank You

In yoga class today, our teacher H tries to distract us from our burning thighs as we press our backs against the wall.

She shares this nugget read recently:

Self-pity is an abomination. It is denying God’s love.

Broken Beer Bottles

(Note- I actually wrote this on January 23, 2008. It's been hanging around waiting for me to get this blog up and running.)

I treated myself to a trip to the park today. I love the park. I go there for a double reason – to be immersed in nature and to be immersed in my Self. Walking the trails through this particular park soothes me and helps me think. My exploration becomes a walking meditation, a large-scale labyrinth that I am unfurling with my motions as my heart unfurls its emotions.

Trees grow, wind blows. Birds chirp, call, and circle in the sky. Squirrels hop from tree to tree. Various nooks hold benches that invite me to sit and reflect.

One spot I adore is a concrete hexagon terrace overlooking an orange grove. This morning, I notice that someone has been partying here again. That tends to happen. Apparently, I am not the only one who finds this spot the perfect place to hang out.

I can tell partiers visited because they have shattered their discarded beer bottles. The broken shards of glass trouble me. They contrast with the atmosphere of peace and growth. One time I threw away two dozen bottles that thoughtless rowdies had hurled down among the orange trees. The soft earth kept them from breaking.

These couple of bottles had no such luck. They have fragmented into hundreds of pieces against the hard stone. I am about to walk on when I realize that there is something I can do. I can pick the fragments up.

I have a little internal debate, listing all the reasons that I don’t have to take on this chore. Yes, it will be hard, Yes, it will take a while. Yes, I should be careful. No, I don’t HAVE to take the responsibility.

But I choose to.

I kneel and begin to tidy up. Slowly I bring my attention to the task. I begin to practice being mindful. The first challenge I notice is that I am impatient. I try to get away with only picking up the biggest pieces. I am skipping on to the next one before I have even finished with the one in my hand.

I access gentle compassion and tell myself to slow down. Take your time. You have nowhere else to be, I say. I pick up each piece slowly. I notice their shapes, their textures. Some are brown squares; others splintered into knife-like shards, miniature amber icicles. Truly, they are beautiful. I consider that people from the long-ago past would have viewed these crumbles with awe. What I conceive of as annoying trash would have been a miraculous substance.

I watch my hands. They are amazing. I feel my cupped left hand, patiently receiving each new chunk. I watch my fingers move on my right hand. I am so grateful to have full use of both of them. If I move slowly and with attention, there is very little danger of cutting myself.

I shift my awareness to my posture. I am in a crouch, knees bent. Because I am right-handed, I have a good placement with my right leg. My foot is directly under my knee and I can lean, reach, or swivel. But when I notice my left leg, it is not so happy. My knee is well ahead of my foot and it feels cramped and overworked. I would never adopt this pose in Yoga. Why should I do it here as I work?

I plant my feet firmly and straighten my legs into a hanging forward bend. This is much better. Now my body is symmetrical and I have good range of motion for my hands to work.

It takes some time, but I gather three handfuls of broken glass. When I am done, the damaged bottles are gone.

Later, someone will come back here and drink again. And they will smash their bottles. I know this.

That’s not the point. The point is that for this little while, I paid attention. The point is that I made a positive difference in the external world and myself.

The point is that I said Thank You to the park that I love, and I got gifts in return.

The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower

In shoulder stand yesterday, I focused on my femurs. As my legs became long wands of golden light, lifting energy to the ceiling, I rotated the femurs inward toward each other. This automatically aligned my pelvis and spine and strengthened my torso. It’s incredible to feel that extra lift and extension, effortless like a growing vine.