Losing my labels

Blue-collar, white collar, chief executive, day laborer, and stay at home mom, and the list goes on. Words that we use to describe who we are and what we do; they may even shed some light on who we are as individuals. Really they are just labels; labels that many of us are deeply invested in. Labels that hold so much power and sway in our personal orbs that if we are faced with the reality of losing our labels, it can rock us to our core.

For the past several weeks in the midst of the professional storms that I am facing, I have found myself in the quiet moments wondering who will I be if I can’t turn things around? For the past four years, I have been known primarily by my professional accomplishments and at times my ego has sucked it all up. The ego has a tendency to thrive on accolades and accomplishments, it feels good. Yet the ego is not my friend and I know this, but the ego is that lover who is bad for you but you just can’t quite break free of…not even for your own good. No one is completely free of ego and the ego knows it, hence my own desire to work towards mindfulness at all times. I can’t shake ego but I can at least be aware of it.

I realized that should I cease to be the executive director of my agency, I will still be me. If my column for the Portland Phoenix should end, I will still be me. Hell, I could lose my family and I would still be me. I am more than the roles I play and the labels I wear. The labels I wear and embrace may say something about me, but they are not me. The problem is we live in a time where our labels say so much, that to lose or change labels especially on the things we as a society deem to be most important in the eyes of others are the hardest to lose. It’s why America has a middle class problem. We all claim that label even in the face of clear data that says otherwise. We are more than our class levels, we are more than our jobs but it takes time to accept that truth and feel comfortable in it.

As for me, no matter what happens I will make peace with just being me. Individually made and unique. Growth requires change and change requires accepting that nothing stays the same, not even our labels.

Mom and bodies…uncomfortable and unspoken truths

I lost the battle of the flat stomach twenty-one years ago when I gave birth to my son at nineteen. Sure, I was back to my pre-pregnancy weight less than a week after giving birth, but I have been chasing the dream of the flat belly ever since and it stops now. Despite talking a good game over the years and decades, I have been involved in a dysfunctional hate-tolerate relationship with my body like too many women. This relationship is over and it’s all because of my seven year old daughter.

A few days ago, my daughter was talking to me and all of a sudden I heard her utter that word that should just be stricken from the English and any other language that it exists in…diet. My antenna went up and I asked her what she was talking about, where did she hear that word? In the end it doesn’t matter where she heard it because the truth is we live in a society that worships at the altar of thinness and I have been guilty of being a congregant at that church more times than I care to admit.

Just last week, I went out to the local tweet up and mentally spent most of my time filled with angst because the majority of the bodies present were young and thin. So I hung on a bar stool and spent most of my time talking with just a handful of people since as a 40 year old slightly overweight woman, I felt out of place. As if I didn’t belong. Who told me that I didn’t belong? No one but I felt that I didn’t belong because my body isn’t perfect, it isn’t thin. Never mind that it is strong, healthy and limber as hell thanks to four years of yoga.

For the past few days I have been reflecting on my conversation with my daughter and wondering how many times have I subconsciously passed on the message that certain bodies are better than others even though I have been careful to never use the word diet? I think about the times my girl has suggested I wear a certain outfit because she thinks it is cute but I won’t wear it because it will accentuate that which I am not comfortable with? Too many times.

Today, I woke up thinking about the parts of my body that I adore…turns out that I love my legs. They are gorgeous and more importantly they are strong and they root me into the ground, they are my metaphorical rocks. Even this jelly belly that I loathe because it makes clothes shopping a hassle is soft and squishy and warm like a buttery corn muffin. Who doesn’t love a buttery corn muffin?

My leg

I won’t lie, it will take some work to truly embrace my entire physical being but just like the mental and spiritual work that I have been doing in recent years. It is time. What about you? What do you adore about your body?

Questing for a bestie…the search for a best friend

This past week was school vacation week here in New England. Between the Brother’s Evil in Boston mucking up our plans to visit the Museum of Science and that pesky job of mine turning me into an indentured servant, we really didn’t do much. However late in the week when it was clear that the seven year old was going to snap if I didn’t give her some much needed Mama-daughter time, I decided a trip to the mall was the perfect way to blow off some steam. My toes were in dire need of some TLC and the girl child had been asking if she could get her nails done too.

After we enjoyed a relaxing visit to the mall nail shop aka the McDonald’s of the nail world, we wandered around and stopped in Claire’s. Claire’s for those not in the know is an accessory shop that seems specially designed for girls 7-14 since I am pretty certain that no one over 15 years of age really shops there. Cute and completely disposable items that most of the time are a complete waste of money but I am sure if I were a little girl, I would love the place.

Of course since the idea of the mall visit was to hang out and browse, we did just that until seven found a necklace she had to have and negotiated a loan on her savings. It was a two pack necklace set designed for best friends. Tacky and cute all rolled into one…why the hell not?

The only problem though was after buying the necklace, we had a mini crisis, and whoever would the kiddo give the other necklace to? After lamenting for some time I suggested she keep both necklaces since the truth is my daughter doesn’t have a best friend. Funny thing is neither do I. I have a small group of folks who have my back but a Sex and the City style group…nah.

So after the mini crisis over the necklace was averted I didn’t think anything of this issue of a best friend again until a few days later when the kiddo bought a new stuffie aka Miss La Fluff Fluff. A day after Miss La Fluff Fluff became a member of the BGIM household, according to the kiddo Fluff Fluff was causing her to pay less attention to Ruby the American Girl doll she has had for the past couple of years and damn it Mama…this is a crisis.

It seems that at almost 8 and in second grade, my luv, my daughter the child named after a most mighty Goddess is struggling because she wants a best friend. It’s a process and we are working through it but the past few days have brought up my own baggage around this best friend issue. Raising kids as I have learned in the past 21 years will bring up baggage even baggage we completely forgot about.

Back when BGIM was just a wee lass in Chicago, I was a pretty awkward kid. I was teased terribly by my family for “sounding white” and being bookish; needless to say I have exacted my revenge on the bulk of my extended family by growing up and forgetting that they exist. I am sure it didn’t help that I was a physically awkward kid to boot. To be honest, I never quite fit in, at least in my own head. In elementary school, I was in a program for the performing arts. All the kids in the program were like a mini family (by the way one of the gals I knew when I was 10 is now married to the former Man Unit, so I guess we were like a family since this gal was one of the popular kids and now she is my son’s stepmother) and while we all got along, I always longed for that one best friend.

From second grade going forward every school year I would imagine myself to be best friends with this girl or that girl. Sometimes the feelings were shared and we would be like the Bobbsey twins for a spell but eventually our interests would change and the relationships would fade. I did luck out though in that many of the connections that I made in elementary school have endured over the years and many of us have reconnected thanks to Facebook. While our bonds are strong and we support each other, many of us are now spread out geographically and the day to day types of support that one thinks of with best friends is simply not possible. We are all too busy juggling all the balls in the air and trying not to drop em. So by day’s end there isn’t much to give aside from the occasional text or call unless one of us is in crisis.

Even in high school, I still wanted a best friend and instead ended up being the kid who literally got along with everyone but never quite made it to best friend status. Don’t get me wrong, I had friends but no one who was quite BFF material.

Of course running off at 18 to get married and becoming a mother at 19 pretty much killed the need/desire/whatever for a best friend but as the years have gone on, there are a handful of people who fill various roles in my life. There is one person who knows me as well as my husband and mother and knows where the bodies are buried. But we aren’t the talk on the phone, do everything together types. Our connection is forged by the fact that when shit hits the wall we are there for each other. When my mother died, this friend drove 8 hours with a newborn to come to the memorial service and literally hold me up. Afterwards, despite the fact she was nursing and needed to get back to her brand new baby she held my hand for hours at a diner as I alternately cried and chain smoked. After the dust settled from my mom’s death, we didn’t talk for two years. It’s our pattern, when life is well, we are in our own worlds but when the world blows up, we are there for one another. That said, she wasn’t in my wedding and I wasn’t in hers…nothing personal. Just didn’t work out that way. Yet when pressed, she might be the closest thing I have to a BFF but really I just have a small crew of people I love and adore and trust.

I wasted a lot of years wanting a best friend. In my search to meet that one person who would truly get me, I have spent many years getting to know all kinds of people and looking back on it, I am thankful for that experience. By not having a special group early on in life it forced me to learn how to connect with all kinds of people, which it turns out is a useful skill. I have been blessed to have women in my life who were at times 40-50 years older than me and each and every one of them brought something special to my life and has left their imprint.

There are times when I wish I had that one BFF, who I talk to weekly if not daily. For reasons unknown to me it was not to be; but at times I think that this idea of women having one best friend or one group of best friends is a media construct. While I know women who do have those types of relationships, I know many more that do not; instead their family members, mates, siblings, and parents often play those roles.

So for my precious babe, I am just going to continue suggesting that she make as many friends as possible and don’t worry about settling on a BFF as this stage in life, it will come with time.

I am worthy…a mini life crisis

I am worthy. I am worthy. I am worthy. That was the intention that I set for myself recently while lying still in a yoga nidra session. Such an intention may seem odd, but lately as I find myself constantly assaulted by life, I have found myself going back to that inner place where the chants are loud and clear. “You aren’t worthy.” “No one will pay to hear that.” “You aren’t a good writer, people are just stroking you.” “Your career success has all been a fluke.” You get the idea. A regular chorus of doubt triggered by some very real and serious situations, that aren’t in my head.

Professionally, I am at a crossroads, my agency is in deep doo-doo and for the first time in four years I don’t have the answers. However if the answers don’t come to me and come soon, not only will I be out of a job but so will three other folks. The biggest losers though will be the families and kids that are served by my agency, if our doors close, kids who were already near the cracks, may completely fall in. I have been tossing and turning ever since I realized how serious this situation is and if things weren’t already bad, if a miracle doesn’t happen by April 15, my ass is grass. I walked in faith that helping my Dad out financially when he was sick was the right thing to do and morally it was the right thing. The problem is that the money that I used to help him; was my tax money. Despite my most valiant attempts to pick up extra work to make up for the help aka the money I extended to him, all my efforts have turned up is a steaming hot plate of frustration and offers to work for free. (Duh…why would I do that?)

It seems when you are already on a payment plan with the tax man, he’s just not herefor excuses. Sometimes shit happens and happens and not even the good stuff will make the shit stop.

Then when I was at my already lowest point, trying to figure out if I should just become an electronic panhandler (just can’t bring myself to do that, but I will be say if you know of any publications looking for freelancers or want to throw some change in the tip jar, leads and tips are greatly appreciated it). My allergies decided to go out of control in a way that they haven’t in several years. Walking around feeling like a brick is attached to your head when you are already taking a slew of allergy meds just sucks. It seems the dust and dander factor is out of control in my corner of the world. Gee, I am sensing a theme here…out of control.

Yet the final straw, the final kick in the ass, the final assault was that this weekend was the second out of four of my yoga immersion weekends. To be honest, I just wasn’t feeling it this weekend and instead of trusting my gut and just not going despite the logistical inconvenience (remember my goal is to eventually get to 200 hours) I went and it was just blah. You would think by now that I know myself well enough to know when I need to pull the plug and regroup but I allowed my ego to take over. Instead, I went for the first two days and was only half present and ended up feeling rather resentful of something that I really enjoy. Not a great feeling. But made worse when I found myself questioning why the hell I even am bothering with this yoga stuff. I am fat, I am Black, I am working class…blah, blah, blah. All reasons that I shouldn’t even be wasting my time. Just as the private pity party was in full swing, I had a quiet moment where I just sat and watched the gremlins of doubt attempt to take over all that I have worked hard to achieve.

Rather than chase the gremlins away, I have allowed them to have a say and now I am having a say. I am worthy. I am worthy. I am worthy. As someone who replied to the not so private portion of my pity party said, “Sometimes honoring the divinity within yourself is honoring the frailty of the vessel it sits within.” I do have a lot on my plate, no doubt life is a bit harrowing at the moment but I am worthy of all goodness and abundance, so shoo gremlins of doubt and pain, shoo.

No maps, no guides, the final frontier of parenting…grown kids

When I was a much younger woman, nothing would piss me off faster than hearing some “older” person tell me ever so patiently that when I got older, I would get “it”. Whatever this mysterious “it” was. It always felt patronizing to tell me that despite the fact that I was an adult, I wasn’t old enough. Funny thing is, now that I am older, many things that pissed me off as a younger adult, now make a lot of sense. Turns out those well-meaning adults, knew what they were talking about.

Lately I find myself chuckling privately when younger friends talks about their parents, because when I was a young woman, my own parents used to bug me. Why the hell was my dad always talking about me as if I were still 8 years old? I am a grown up, can’t he see that? The thing is your parents no matter how old you are and how many kids you have, will always see you through their parenting lens which means you are always 8 years old in their minds eye. It isn’t intentional, but the fact is kids grow up entirely too damn fast. One day we are wiping your asses, kissing your boo boos and providing the vocal backgrounds in floor games and then the next thing we know you are more than halfway through college and bringing your love interest home to meet us. Life is moving entirely too damn fast!

The past few days here in BGIM-land have marked the official end of an era, one that I have spent 21 years with and the ushering in of a new era and I am still just trying to catch my breath. My son, known here as college boy came home for Easter Break and brought his girlfriend home to meet me…dear ole Mom.

College boy and his girl

It was a great visit, but I admit in the quiet moments, I found myself in tears as I watched the two of them share their private jokes that couples have and watched the ease with which they operated together. This is the first time in 21 years, where I wasn’t financially responsible for my son. No trips to the store with dear ole Mom buying much needed items for the boy. Nope, thanks to the college boy’s recent tour, he financed the entire trip and even treated dear ole Mom.

My son is a man now, a man standing on his own two feet as he should and I am proud of him. Yet I find myself thinking more and more about the fact that as a society we expend a great deal of energy on our kids when they are younger but few speak about the days when our birds leave the nest. As a mother, what is my role with regards to my son? For the past 5 days, I was careful to mind my words and to be gracious, going so far to say that after 14 years, maybe it was time to finally kill our ritual sign off that started after he went to live with his dad. Maybe air kisses are no longer appropriate?

When you find yourself with an adult child, you know you still have a role but it’s murky. This is the part of the parenting road map filled with dead space and you just have to navigate it on faith that you are making the right choices. So if your parents say and do things that make you roll your eyes or make you want to scream…do me a favor. Cut them some slack. Knowing how to relate to babies, toddlers and school-aged kids is almost easy because we have a ton of resources and guides to fall back on but once you cross that line into adulthood not just based on chronological age but by developmental markers, us parents are lost. Logically, we understand that you are adults but in our hearts and minds, you are still our precious babes.

Vulnerability and yoga…what they give

It never fails that when my to-do list is a mile long, that my body decides it wants to take a break from the action. So instead of prepping for the Man Unit’s 45^th birthday tomorrow and the college boy’s arrival from school in a few days (he is bringing his girlfriend home to meet me…Zoinks!) I am nursing a rather uncomfortable head cold. Of course sickness is useful as I have learned because it serves often as a period of involuntary mindfulness though at the moment this period is feeling more like a strong case of acid reflux.

Maybe it’s a coincidence; then again maybe it’s not. This week has been laden with vulnerability minefields just as I started getting into reading Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly. For those not familiar with Brene Brown, she is a researcher who works with oh so unsexy topics such as shame and vulnerability. A local pal turned me onto her work last year and I have been hooked ever since.

Though let me just say that reading about an issue and experiencing it and working through it are two totally different issues. All week, I have been grappling with the unpleasant reality that after overseeing four glorious years of growth at the agency that I head up, the tide has shifted. Hard times abound for small agencies in this region and no matter how dynamic I am, and marvelous my ideas, I and by extension my agency have hit the wall. Right now I am grappling with some very real and hard choices that may include a thousand less meals for kids already living with scarcity this summer. For shits and giggles, add in the fact that jobs may be on the chopping block. (My staff/board already knows this, so no, I am not sharing organizational secrets) Ultimately I will do the best that I can but it is hard when you know people are depending on you to ensure that they can continue doing things such as making their rent and car payments and you don’t have the answers.

Despite the baby steps of growth I have taken in recent years to accept what I can and can’t do, I struggle mightily when I fall short in my own eyes especially at the professional level and ultimately I know where it comes from. Yet in these moments being open and honest about reality is often what pulls me out of my self-inflicted inadequacy hole.

Last night though as I thought I was on the road to making peace about the professional situations I am facing, my vulnerability monster decided to come back out to play. I learned that a longtime supporter of my work decided to end our relationship. The details aren’t important but when someone who has taken the time over the years to help move you on the path toward fulfilling a lifetime dream ends the connection, it hurts. I was initially embarrassed to admit even to the Man Unit that I was hurt by this person’s actions but when I took the baby step of telling him, he immediately understood and didn’t belittle my feelings.

In a world where we seem less willing to admit our true feelings, I admit writing this feels strange yet I know holding onto it definitely isn’t good for me. Though in this moment, I am reminded of how I often tell my seven year old that she is entitled to her feelings, and it’s okay to be hurt and saddened.

Vulnerability doesn’t feel good, in many ways it reminds me of yoga class. I don’t love getting up and going to class in fact if left to my own devices, I would never go. What I do love is what yoga gives me. As hard as my mind fights being present, by the end of a class I am whole again. I am present and at peace with myself as I am and the world as it is. Vulnerability is much the same way, it hurts at first but when we give it a chance, it gives us so much back in return.

Mind my gap and creating space

“Writing is who I am. It’s not a choice.” – Quote from an unnamed fiction writer mentioned in the latest issue of Spirituality and Health

The above quote pretty much sums up my newly revised attitude about this space and my views on writing in general. Just as I need to breathe, eat, sleep and have sex, I need to write in order to be alive. That said, I need to create space, a gap around when I write and as a writer who often tends to draw from current events, I need to create space around just how much information I am consuming.

During my first yoga immersion weekend, participants were asked to unplug as much as possible which initially seemed like a daunting task when you are as connected as I tend to be. I mean unplug? I’m a news junkie, I can’t wait days to get information, I need it right when it’s happening because I need it…or do I? While I didn’t fully unplug for that first weekend, I did unplug enough to notice that when I came back to the daily grind, I wasn’t as nearly hungry to jump back into the never ending parade of negativity that doubles as news. Lately reading the New York Times that arrives in my inbox every morning before I actually engage with the world is no longer a priority. Sure, at some point I will browse through it since it probably makes sense to have some idea of what’s going on in the world but lately I find myself no longer desiring to gobble up every detail of the latest breaking news. News and current events are starting to look a lot like my relationship to chocolate and wine, an occasional glass or square of chocolate is good. However guzzling a bottle or two along with a slab of chocolate generally leaves me feeling queasy and hung-over and in an overall lousy mood physically and mentally.

I found myself thinking about this over the past few days since the verdict was reached in the Steubenville rape case, a case that is certainly tragic for the young Jane Doe. I suppose justice was served granted the mainstream media’s handling of this case leaves a lot to be desired. For the past several days, bloggers and many others have been writing, tweeting and Facebooking about this case and I am glad for it because I don’t want to write about it. We do need to make some changes in this country so that little boys don’t turn into young men who behave in such a despicable manner. We absolutely need to have dialogues on how a culture of rape exists and how we can dismantle it but I am not convinced anymore that nonstop discussion of such weighty issues is good for my mental and emotional health. In the past several days when I have ventured on to my usual online haunts, it’s clear that cases like this bring up many emotions for many women, especially any woman who has been the victim of a sexual assault. It’s important to tell our stories and not allow ourselves to be victimized again but the digital nature of how this is getting done seems like a recipe for disaster because in a 24/7 news cycle no sooner than we deal with one weighty emotional story, we are onto the next one. It’s a roller coaster of emotions, and after unplugging halfheartedly and unwillingly I can say there is great value in creating space, a gap between ourselves and the world. A gap where we exist without the constant bombardment of information and can actually exist in silence that allows us to stay tethered to our deepest selves.

Several of my professional colleagues and friends are clinical social workers who often see the worse of humanity up close and personal every day when they go to work. Most also rarely stay plugged into current events for any length of time because they recognize they need balance, and when your life’s work involves human misery on a regular basis, there needs to be limits on what one consumes.

As one of my favorite bloggers, said yesterday “Never a shortage of things to be outraged about.” She’s right; sadly we live in a world where the elimination of human misery most likely is never going to happen in our lifetimes or frankly ever. We humans are funny that way; happiness is a moving target for most of us.

PS: I am not saying to not speak up or work for the betterment of our fellow inhabitants of this rock, by all means do it. Just know when and how to achieve balance, even do-gooders suffer burn out, trust me I know.

A mama’s heart…where I pretend to do that Mama blogger thing

There are times when a Mama’s heart is so filled with emotions that it wants to explode. To choose to bring a new life into the world is to sign up for a lifetime of the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. As a Mama who straddles the line having both an adult child and a school age tyke, I am constantly amazed when my fellow parenting pals seem stunned that I still worry and parent my now 21- year-old. Of course I do; my job didn’t end when he turned 18 or 21. Like my mother before me, this parenting gig only ends when I die. Otherwise I am ride or die for life. That said, the parenting my 21- year-old gets is far different than what my 7-year-old gets.

However, today for a moment, it was a rare occurrence that for once I was speechless for both my babies. This morning started like any other, except that I had gone to bed late last night since I was up dealing with day job work. This meant that I was a tad grumpy this morning but really I am just grumpy in general in the mornings. Only this morning, I got to ride the grumpy bus and the Mama emotional bus as the Man Unit came back from taking the 7-year-old to school and solemnly announced that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny both died this morning. Our 7-year-old killed them and he was the one who called it…death to magical symbols of childhood to many.

I am sad to say that my initial reaction was less than joyous in fact it was downright pissy. But as the Man Unit explained how our girl had asked him a direct question on the matter, he had no choice but to answer in absolute truth. I am happy to say that after much discussion this afternoon and evening, the girl child is happy to still pretend because it is magical but she just wanted to know what was real or not. Besides Mama admitted that she too believes in magic, sometimes those fairies and angels do seem real.

She is my last baby; my womb will never bring forth a new life. It is bittersweet at times but it is my reality and I strive to accept it and for the most part, I do. However I want to savior each and every moment of her childhood because I know this is it for me. This stage of Mama-dom will never come again. They grow up too damn fast.

On the flip side, my son, my amazing young man, the child born out of my youth and first love is soaring and following his heart. For the past three weeks he has been touring on the road with a musician he has long looked up to. After much finagling with his college to get the time off, he set off for the west coast and has had a whirlwind experience but the best is yet to come as he does two showcases tomorrow night at the much hyped South by Southwest event in Austin, Texas. In fact as I sat down to write this post, who sent his mama a text describing the scene? Yet another reminder that the sacred bond between mother and child, if healthy, is rarely broken. It may have its ups and downs and its growing pains but it’s always there.

So, I take a break from my crazy hazy life to actually live up to my label as a so-called “mommy” blogger and share some thoughts before I get plugged back into the matrix. If you have kids, hold em tight and love em because the moments pass too damn quickly.

Immersion, the path of a budding yogi

If you have been reading this blog aka the thought dump for any length of time or follow me on any of the social media channels, you probably figured out by now that I really like yoga. It wasn’t always that way and the truth is I don’t like yoga; I like how yoga makes me feel both in the moments I am practicing and more importantly after I leave the mat. In almost four years, I have gone from needing to carry a bottle of Bach’s Rescue Remedy with me at all times and knowing that at any minute I could fall prey to a panic attack so bad that the only recourse was a trip to the ER. Where after a slew of tests, the not so amused ER physician would come back to tell me that I wasn’t dying and send me on my way with some Ativan.

Yoga has brought me a sense of peace and mental well-being that even physician prescribed medications couldn’t bring. Therapy made me aware of my issues and taught me about my triggers but it seemed that the older I got, the list of triggers grew to the point that neither therapy nor medications were able to give me the tools to live the life that I wanted and desperately needed. Instead they created for me a world of dependency and left me with side effects I really didn’t want.

I am a reluctant yogi, I am a Black woman with Southern Baptist roots and a most decidedly Christian lean (liberal Christian, but still very Christian). I think it’s safe to say that you don’t see a lot of Christians in a yoga class and if you do, they often aren’t willing to divulge that tasty tidbit. Trust me, I get it. To admit you are a Christian especially in certain settings is often an invitation to have others remind you of how unenlightened you are…

So it is might be surprising that someone with such a lean not only ends up falling in love with yoga but starts off on a new path. This weekend was the first step in what I hope will eventually be the path to teaching yoga. To be blunt, I think we need nonstandard issue yoga teachers or rather teachers that don’t fit the current idea of what one thinks of when they think of a yoga teacher and as Black woman and a Christian with a 40 year old body that is decidedly fluffy, that would be me.

This weekend though was my first real step in the journey, one that I have been discussing with a few select friends and my own teacher since last year. A moment I didn’t even think was possible since with my schedule and lack of funds, who was I to dream such a seemingly silly dream. Hell, I couldn’t even bring myself to attempt a headstand until a few weeks ago! Yet today, I finished the first 25 hours of my 100 hours of Immersion workshop. (After this first 100 hours, I will do another 100 hours focused on the process of teaching)

Catching the sun before set up in the studio

Let me just say it’s been a weekend. For starters Saturday and Sunday started at 7am, now for most folks being up and alert at that time of day isn’t a big deal but I am not most people. I am not a morning person, throw in the fact that there was to be no caffeine on the premises and you can understand why I was more than a little nervous. Me sans coffee is not a pretty sight but I threw caution to the wind and came in with a travel mug of coffee. Talk about feeling awkward, at 6:55am everyone else is sipping their herbal tea looking quite ethereal and here I am monitoring that travel mug like a dying person looking at the morphine drip praying it doesn’t run out too soon.

Twenty folks willingly giving up an entire weekend (and a bunch more in the future) including Friday night and bonding over a desire to go deeper in their personal practice is a beautiful thing though and let me tell you, regular classes don’t prepare you for such an experience. It was an emotional, spiritual and very physical experience. I got a little cocky, allowed my ego to get in the way today and I have the aching shoulder to go with it. The mat is life; get too high up on the horse and it knocks you down and makes you take stock. It was a good weekend though even with the vegan vittles, I am pretty sure I have enough gas in me to fuel a few cars.

A few of tasty vittles…they were good, just that some bacon would have been better.

There were a few awkward moments especially during the discussion on food choices and my confession to the group that I like bacon. Hey, I have walked the vegetarian path and I might even end up going back to it but at the moment, I strive for moderation. But I was also reminded that this path for me is not about fitting into a premade box but creating my own box if I so choose to go into any box at all.

Despite the uncomfortable moments and it has become clear that uncomfortable will be a part of this journey, I love it…I love it all. So I give thanks to my teachers and their teachers and all that made sure that these practices could be handed down. Now let me get that salve so I can get a little relief.

My teacher, her teachers include Gurudev Yogi Amrit Desai and Sri Dharma Mittra

My free bird, my Mama

I used to joke that my parents were the original Black hippies. Today marks nine years since my mother decided this rock we call Earth was just too small to contain her. The morning after she decided to depart this space, I had to fly home to Chicago to make arrangements with my Papa and on the way to the airport I found myself playing Lynard Skynard and for some reason this song spoke to me…in many ways my mother was the ultimate free spirit and free bird. She lived life on her terms and if it couldn’t be her way, she wasn’t having it. Many tears have been shed since she left us and many laughs. I still get melancholy when I think of her but it’s not sadness just an acknowledgment that we will all leave this space, no matter how we try not to think of it. Life is time limited, live, enjoy it and maximize it.