namaste

This month marks a year that I've done yoga as my main source of exercise. It started as an experiment and quickly became a passion. Doing yoga full time (about 5 times/week) has not only improved my relationship with my body, but it's also carried over into other aspects of my life. If I've had a good yoga session, my energy is up and my attitude is improved. Even on those days that I'm frustrated with a pose and my inability to get into it, I try to accept my limitations, literally and metaphorically. The studio I attend has many great instructors with all kinds of varying backgrounds.

I love having a little taste of all the different types of hatha yoga, but occasionally, when I attend a class like the Ashtanga workshop I just finished, I feel orphaned. I chatted with one of the beautiful women near us in the class (who happened to be a teacher herself), and when she discovered my lack of an Ashtanga teacher, she looked at me with compassion and pity. It's the curse of being a Jack of All Trades. I am master of none.

I envy those who've had one mentor all their lives. I've had so many from so many different backgrounds and philosophies that I often feel wishy washy. On the other hand, I love nothing more than getting to the heart of a person's passion, and so I must remain open. What I get out of practicing so many kinds of hatha yoga is a deep appreciation of all I can do when I am open and accepting.

Yesterday was humbling because I was one of the few in a class of 70 who couldn't do full lotus, let alone all the acrobats involved with Ashtanga. But what I came away with from David Swenson's teaching was that I must nurture myself wherever I'm at today. Pushing and driving myself will only bring injury, defeating the purpose of exercise.

As for my homogenized practice, I am grateful for my many different teachers, experiences and options for what my body needs in the moment. Sometimes it's vigorous, sometimes it's passive. Wherever I'm at is where I need to be.

tsunamis

Recently, the coast of Chile was hit with a tsunami due to a massive earthquake of 8.8 magnitude. The news of this taps into a deep fear of mine, tidal waves. I have a general fear of the water of which the symbolic significance is not lost on me. Water is a metaphor for emotions, and while my well runs deep, it is not always calm. My phobia stems from 2 separate near drownings, so it's a reasonable fear. But I'm pretty sure it's more than that.

I've had many a nightmare involving tsunamis where they've taken me under, even when I'm on dry land. One counselor offered some insight noting, "it's a wave so big and overwhelming that you're forced to deal with it." When Cindy went to India, she had taken lots of shots of the coast in Chennai, which was devastated only months after her trip in 2004. When she showed me the pictures of the beautiful children on the beach, we both wept wondering how they fared through such a catastrophe.

Early this morning, the tidal wave hit me. The dogs awoke Tim and me and as we were working out an issue we'd been trying to resolve, it dawned on me that my natural course was to run it by Cindy and come back with objective insight. The loss hit me hard, taking my breath, spinning me every which way. I was disoriented, sobbing, unable to breathe. Tim stayed with me through it, as did my trusty dog Rocco who had been curled up at my belly and did not budge, even with all the thrashing and heaving with grief.

There is a strange calm after a storm. I hadn't cried since the house was emptied and I knew this week would be tough, so I'm relieved to have ridden the wave and come out breathing again on dry land.

Earlier this week I had a beautiful dream that started with me feeling distressed when Bruce appeared in his leather chair, which now resides in my living room. He gave me words of reassurance and hope in typical Bruce fashion, pragmatic, stoic and logically sound. I was instantly grateful and told him so, and he just smiled. It's going to be okay.