The Ballad of Twyla

My baby,

You are made of mountains

When I was sorting out how to extend an invitation to you

I drove south

And west and out of the cities

And into the earth. The red clay, the pine trees, the land that held

You and me. For you were in my Mom, your potential, your life, as I was in my grandmother. I contain your daughters. You contain my great-granddaughters.

I drove into the thread back, winding through blasted shale, 

Mountains opened to their vein, left bare,

Sunlight blinking through their wounds.

I downshifted iron from them,

I heated my cabin with their energy.

The landscape down there gently swells and I feel

That, I feel you, now.

I swallowed the cosmos. Your Dad sent a spark and now

You’re nesting inside me.

I feel how you’re preparing me. I feel your drawing in

And down and I didn’t know I could love a word not yet whispered.

It shows me that truly, I am so loved, I was so loved,

How could I not have been given what I feel for you now?

I love carrying you. I love holding you

In my body. I’m starting to feel who you are, little twinkle,

Little twilight. I’m starting to sense you out.

We heard your name in a song.

I was feverish and wan, struggling through undiagnosed Lyme disease. We drove

Out on a spring Wednesday night to hear a favorite band, Calexico.

The lead singer said he had twin daughters who wrote a song. One of 

Their names was "Twyla" and that night lit upon me. I heard it with Kevin’s great-

Grandmother, the Irish Catholic, "Eulalia."

Eulalia, whose mother read the Imitation of Christ each night in Richmond. Eulalia, whose round vowels were too big for her grandbabies’ mouths so she became “Wa Wa.” 

I heard Twyla Eulalia. I heard you. 

I hear your name as a song.

I heard your name as a spell you could cast when you need to remember who you are.

The mountains who made you.

The parents who prayed for you.

Your mother, who heard you.

We listened to those Calexico songs, the driving beats of the US southwest and thought of you coming towards us.

We drove south and west back to Tennessee, where my grandmother was exiled after losing her mother.

I kept feeling my great-grandmother, Maggie, feeling her tugging at my sleeve. We saw her house. We learned of her losses-- her mother Susie Griffith who passed just two years before Maggie took her own life. That exile shot my grandmother and all her siblings out of Tennessee. They lost that land, those mountains, being known in that way.

We were in the south on Maggie’s birthday. And that’s when you took root inside of me.

I’m gathering your songs. So many women conspired to pull you here-- Maggie, my grandmother Sue, Eulalia, my Mom, and so many more.

We want you here. We’re making a place.

These are your mountains.

You come from this. 

From these heroines and devils. From the sweetness and the absolute worst. 

I’m still trying to figure out what to do with that material myself. But I think it’s a reminder that we contain it all. We’ll control our monsters and let our better angels win.

And when we forget, we listen to our song to draw us back in.

Writing Yoga and Moving Words

A few years ago, I drove down the highway into Philly and had to pull over. I had a blast of insight: a yoga workshop with writing! And not only the idea (which is by no means original) but how to structure it: vignettes of movement narrated by a story. Meditation. Partner work. A related prompt and time to respond to it. Swapping writing silently with the yoga partner. Providing constructive feedback. Rinse. Repeat.

I've offered iterations of this intial idea several times in many locations. It's such an interesting thing-- these workshops don't fill as quickly as say, a retreat to Vietnam. Yet, when studios or students contact me, it's probably the first offering they request.

One of my students and friends finished her senior year at Smith College. She invited me upto Smith to offer a yoga and writing workshop during the VegFest conference on campus. (This friend is also a badass animal right's activist.) It was such a treat to head back to Northampton. I hadn't been since I was an undergrad student at nearby Mount Holyoke. The town had changed drastically and yet I still knew it intimately. I brunched at a Smith dining hall with my friend and other students. I remembered doing the same many, many times with Smith friends during my stint in the Pioneer Valley.

We had a beautiful, intimate workshop at a research station on Smith's campus. This workshop delved into tonglen meditation, activism, and used sample poems by Mary Oliver, Aracelis Girmay, and Naomi Shihab Nye, to aid participants in cultivating the internal reserves to be activists, the necessary compassion, and insight.

I was invited to offer this workshop again in Philadelphia at The Wellnest. This workshop focused on ego, fear, purpose, and transcendence as illuminated by yoga poses and related poems. After feeling the poses in their own bodies, participants read related pieces by Denise Duhamel, Theodore Roethke, Wendell Berry, and TS Eliot. Looking through my own notes from that evening, I found the following snippet from my own response to a prompt:

When it rains the wndow remembers our fingers drawing constellations in steam.

When it rains the door blows open and the neighbor's cat claims the corner sofa.

When it rains my skin is humid and unapologetic.

When it rains the earth sucks and receives.

My feet tattoo soil.

My steps stain the floor.

Until the wind blows the rain sideways and all trace of me is gone.

I'm grateful to have received another invitation to offer one of these workshops. I met my friend, Abby, while training in India. She's a beautiful human, yogini, and director of Hamptons Yoga and Healing Arts. The workshop will be Saturday July 25, 1-4 pm. For those considering enrolling, Abby has offered to help with housing. I can help with rides from Philly and my friend and fellow India trainee, Aaron, is willing to take folks with him from NYC. Email me if you would like to coordinate rides. 

Still curious about the relationship between yoga and writing? My Mythic Beings Retreat collaborator, Caits Meissner, and I wrote companion pieces on just this topic! (Psst! Come with us on retreat!) Read Caits' piece on how yoga can make you a better writer on MindBodyGreen. My friends at Rebelle Society published my piece on writing informing yoga. (This was my first piece that generated fan mail! Rush!) 

I'm steadily in awe of the space yoga creates in my body, breath, and mind. In that space, there is creative generation. There's healing. There's wonder.

Humbling

Humility is hard because it means having a backbone.

Humility is hard because it means it's not all about me (and sometimes the vastness makes me feel so small & I want it to be about but not so just be among the vast).

Humility is a blessing because it's not about me.

Humility is permission because I am/ we are human.

Humility is orienting because web.

Humility is within the network of all others.

Humility is within.

"Access" in Chrysalis Journal

I wrote a poem about my ability to travel, practically unencumbered, in a world with so many heavily policed borders and people. The piece, titled "Access," was included in the Transformative Language Arts' Chrysalis Journal. I'd love your feedback--

Enter the Woo

Sitting still in a quiet house.

Still in a quiet house with-- blessedly-- no internet.

Quiet house with a cat. Press face against fur. Consent-based kitty snuggles.

Regular body work.

Creatively figuring out how to afford regular body work. Includes: finding a local massage school with heavily discounted student massages.

Body work that includes energy work.

Body work that includes energy work with an practitioner who makes you feel safe.

Energy work that radically moves energy.

(Believing you have energy and that it can be radically moved.)

A body worker who you are convinced is clairvoyant.

You become certain that they know.

They want to process with you and you ask them if they know.

They smile, defer, deflect, but based on their response a) they know, b) because you're not so unique, c) unfortunately, it's all so common.

Thinking about food, sleep, movement, inspiration, aging.

Fear around all of it.

Decisions around all of it.

What privilege to be able to make decisions around all of it.

What fear to have to make decisions around all of it.

What mind f*ckery.

Sitting in a quiet house.

In the suite

I received an acceptance from The Feminist Wire a few months ago. Just now, I went to update my writer's bio for another upcoming anthology and checked to see what was forthcoming and what was live. Behold! The piece on the Feminist Wire is live!

http://thefeministwire.com/2014/07/poem-suite-silencing/

Thanks for reading!

Showing Skin

The #GrowFierce Showcase, highlighting writers from Caits Meissner's Digging Deep, Facing Self course, offered another round of voices last Monday night at Bluestockings Bookstore. I was on the line-up. Kevin & I have both been burning the candle at both ends, so we decided to make a day of it. 

Fairly early in the morning we headed to NYC to catch a Jivamukti yoga class with Ruth Lauer-Manenti. She's on the faculty leading my Jivamukti training in India this February. It was such a treat to meet her and practice with her! Plus, I got to introduce her to Kevin, which feels nice. Even if he won't be with me in India, at least one person will have met him!

One of Kevin's cousins lives in NYC and yet another was visiting on said day. We met this cousin, Maria, for Momofuku noodles and much wandering around the Lower East Side. There was even a nap in there. Brilliant.

As the afternoon progressed, so did my nerves on publicly performing my work. I don't read my poetry often. In fact, I don't write to read out loud. I was also toying with reading some pieces I was nervous about-- they deal with race, my family's background, and orienting within the racial landscape. They're uncomfortable, as this history is uncomfortable. However, I really believe that white people need to think and write about race, and to contextualize ourselves. Practice what you preach, right?

Lots of deep breaths and pretending like I was OK. The showcase featured a range of talented women. It was fun having Kevin and cousins there. I'm not used to performing nor having my entourage-- support is nice!

I'm consistently pushing myself to do things that make me slightly, or actively, uncomfortable. The wonderful part of this practice is that less and less feels daunting. Reading my work totally made me feel exposed and sweaty and vulnerable. But, so does wearing a bikini. 

To showing literal & metaphoric skin--

Mythic Beings Retreat to Vermont, 2014

About a year ago, I heard of Caits Meissner's Digging Deep, Facing Self online writing course for women. I enrolled in the course and was exhilarated by the work I created thanks to its gentle push. Caits and I continued talking after the course concluded. I felt like we had a simpatico. As I lead yoga retreats, and have offered yoga and writing workshops, I asked if Caits wanted to collaborate.

She said yes.

We began developing Mythic Beings, a Yoga & Writing Retreat. I booked Good Commons, a retreat center I'm fond of in Southern Vermont. Caits and I believed in this offering, our own abilities to hold space, and a shared energy between us. However, this was the first try at this specific experience! It felt like something of a gamble and a bit of an adventure.

Fourteen women enrolled with us, though one had a last minute conflict bringing our numbers to thirteen participants and two facilitators. I was nervous as the retreat began, spending a lot of time breathing so that I could focus on being present to the retreat participants. I remembered the last time I felt nervous like that: when I facilitated at the Power of Words Conference last fall.

In each instance, big nerves and huge rewards.

Chef Alejandra Ramos was on site for this retreat offering the most delicious and inspired vegan meals. We all fell in love with her style, flair, and big laugh. Melissa Gellert assisted her, alongside Good Commons' owner, Tesha Buss. We also had Body Worker Danielle Fink on site offering massage and aromatherapy. 

The meals were intoxicating, invigorating, and almost distracted us from infectious laughter. This group was quick to claim one another.

Each morning we had a guided meditation sit followed by a sweaty vinyasa practice, infused with story. The stories that inspired the asana, or physical yoga, poses connected to our later writing prompts.

Caits powerfully read into the myths that shape yoga asana, connecting the themes to our lives and our words. With insightful and yielding prompts, we shared conversation and quiet writing time.

And of course-- down time! Afternoons were spent in the hot tub (the best place to marinate in advance of a massage), taking walks, runs, exploring nearby towns, hiking, curling up with a book, or enjoying a nap.

The last night, a sharing of works written over the weekend naturally evolved into a dance party. Cuz. You can't dim these bright lights.

This powerful weekend moved us all. It was definitely an affirmation to Caits and I that these offerings are important & needed. We are already developing the next Mythic Beings Retreat! Keep an eye out! Take the time to create and connect.

Typoeticus

Friends from the #GrowFierce reading series created a new journal, Typoeticus. Read on to find my submission as well as many other poems by fabulous females.

Write to Read Yourself

My favorite Aunt is constantly encouraging me to be more spontaneous. "Go out after dark, will you? You have a young husband! What?! You take your bra off as soon as you get in the house?! Where are you headed-- a muu muu? What will you be like when you're 80?" I love her and she's one of the wisest women I know, so I try to heed her word.

But I didn't really get it.

Then I translated to my vernacular: she's identifying that I'm a control freak. Right! Totally. Yup.

And she's urging me to relinquish.

Seems like everyone is. I've written here about working with writer, Shira Ehrlichman, on a one-on-one 6 week series. We're coming to the conclusion (sob!) & Shira is urging me to reflect on my growth. The biggest piece is this dawning self-awareness that I am even a control freak in my writing. I sit down to Say Something. I'm so accustomed to writing a yoga class plan to communicate an aspect of the practice to students. Or writing a statement about mass incarceration to convince the reader that it's an unjust practice. I am thinking of my thesis statement and offering evidence in support.

It's fine. But if it's the only way I know how to write, I'll be a bit lopsided. It's like I only ever lift heavy objects with my right arm. The left side of my body is just hanging there.

Some interesting pieces have emerged when I stepped inside an era of my life and simply described it. I didn't walk into these memories with an agenda of what I had to Say. I poked around a bit, looked at the flaking paint on concrete blocks, and wrote about it. I thought these pieces were throw-aways. Shira held them tenderly.

I thought that I control what my writing conveys. I have an idea in my head and I cleverly arrange language to deliver it. Boom. Done. Slowly, I'm seeing that my writing might translate something internal and unformed to ME. The thought is kind of freaking me out. I'm a control freak, remember?

Shira and I read the piece I'd written about middle school. She examined some of the verbs, like "haunt." "It sounds kind of dangerous," she said.

It was.

I never consciously thought that, but I was in peril during those years. I was vulnerable, as any child is, and I was in an unhealthy environment. I hadn't thought of the myriad of threats. For example, I remembered that in 7th grade a teacher was suspended for sexually harassing a student. 7th grade. We were what, 12? That same year I recall the gym teacher, who must have been 23 at the time, telling me to run "towards the mall." I have never been a shopper. It was simply sexism. He didn't get me and he didn't care to see his students. The scenes ranged from mild to severe, but there were lurking threats that I didn't quite know how to process at the time & haven't seriously considered since. When I walked into that time without an agenda, I was able to access intuitively.

And there it is again: intuition. That realm of information that might not always readily translate itself. It may operate in feeling or sense but outside of language. Loosening the reigns on my "purpose" in writing has ceded towards intuition. I read other people's writing to understand their experience. How odd. I'm reading my own writing, offered in this way, & realizing insight into my own.

Intuition is Un-Processed Information

In my bright, shiny, anticipated, glowy one-on-one writing course with Shira Ehrlichman, I'm being encouraged to trust the words. Shira continually steers me towards writing visually. A big breakthrough from reading Aracelis Girmay's poem, "Here." She writes:

"Here is your brother
in the backseat, sounding like he is drowning.
Here is his face pressed to the window.
Here is his wet face. Here is the near-quiet of the car.
Here is your stomach filled up with ocean.
Here is your Jurassic sadness. That’s all."


Whoa.

OK. Girmay didn't write, "I was sad & overwhelmed," did she? Right. Show, don't tell.

I'm repeatedly finding my control freak tendencies leaking into my writing. It's.My.Story! I will tell you how I feel! I will tell you what to feel!

Well. That's simply uninteresting writing. That shows a profound lack of faith in the reader.

I've been writing visually; that is, using words to paint portraits and scenes. That's a poem, right? A microcosm. Your face pressed against the glass. The immediacy is sort of poetry's seduction. Shira invited me to return to an era, present being an option, and describe it like a still life. I found it so challenging because I didn't know the why. (Pretty much the point, control freak. Let it go!) I let the images tumble one after the other. I felt like the result was a throwaway, but other readers strenuously disagreed.

I'm flexing this muscle. Today, Shira and I had our weekly session. While checking in I shared coming up against that same resistance to let go and trust the words. Shira urged me to trust the words a bit, to loosen the reins, and free up the expression. It was one of those, "Yeah, and!" conversations where we continued to spark one another, took notes while the other talked. As she gave me her prescription, I realized she was asking me to be more intuitive. I told her about a book I read years ago called "The Gift of Fear." The book's premise is that intuition, our gut, is unprocessed information. The author is sharing this so that we'll all trust our intuition more and maybe protect ourselves from dangerous situations. It also recasts intuition as the knowledge we haven't intellectually processed. For example, we may feel suspicious of the guy offering to carry our bags. We don't know why so our intellect might downplay the feeling and say, "don't be rude, accept help." However, the feeling might be a response to the quickly gained awareness that the guy has no grocery bags of his own and we didn't see him leave the store.

Poetry is often a playground for feelings. It stands to reason that feelings, unprocessed knowledge, wants an outlet that isn't linear. Have faith. Let it out. 

I had a conversation with a friend recently about some challenges in my work. She said, "always trust your gut." 

Last month, Jivamukti Yoga made the koshas, or layers of Self, the Focus of the Month. Apart from being a physical being, energetic, and intellectual, we are said to have an intuitive layer: vijnamaya kosha. I taught several classes about vijnamaya kosha specifically. As I read source texts, translations, and analysis, I'm continually taught that we need to live in every aspect of our being but not get stuck there. The idea is that our essential Self is beyond these layers. I am a body but I am also eternal. I am my intellect but I am also eternal. If I am not my intuition, then this layer gains a power over me, rather than being an equal aspect of my experience.

Let it go. Let it out. Let.

Define Everything

I gifted myself six writing sessions with an artist I really dig, Shira Ehrlichman. I had a hard time narrowing down my chosen course from her ridiculously sublime offerings, but eventually settled on an exploration of writing about spirituality. We began today and I don't want to reveal the whole process, because I respect Shira's intellectual property, but also because I think you should enroll in her classes and discover for yourself.

What I will tell: I'm trying to write about God.

Obviously, a pretty common project. Yogic theory says that God, or the Divine, is in all things, in everything. I definitely came across that idea in my Presbyterian upbringing. JOHN AFRICA said that "God is common as dirt."

In poetry, we want to be so specific. Microscopic. Freeze frame the moment when it happens, before it happened, the aftermath. Poetry fogs the windows and cuts the lines. Everyone is hostage until it is told. If God is everything, how do you define everything?

Everything includes what scares me. Is God a car accident? A car accident is sometimes described in Divine proportions. "Because of the accident, I woke up, and it all changed." "Because of the accident, I got home too late. It was better that way."

Is God a Hurricane? Hurricanes clean natural systems. Water is more clear afterwards, the air is sweeter, the planes were grounded, traffic stopped.

Does God benefit universally in every act? Or not?

Is God there when crimes are committed? Is God the criminal? The victim?

God is everything.

A central metaphor to Hinduism, Buddhism, and where they bleed into Yogic theory is the lotus, a gorgeous flower rising out of muck.

Where is your God?

Salty Words

It's National Poetry Month! I've been writing a poem a day, but privately. I have some raw material today that I thought I'd splash into the world. I always welcome feedback.

Grow a Pair

And a backbone.
Stop apologizing for
every inhale.
Stop swallowing your
words.

You're happiest tied
to railroad tracks;
unleashing your hair
from the castle tower;
sleeping for decades
under glass.

Get up and make a
trail of muddy boot
prints.
Publish every one of
their whispers.
Steal their leverage.

I dream of islands because
they are calloused scar
tissue rising from
the sea.

I'm still

Reckless Self-Righteousness

vs.

Reckless Humility

Kevin just said those words and I love the idea. Working towards reckless humility, untethered humility, freed from ego, present.

I was able to see family last week when I headed down to DC for the Split This Rock poetry & activism conference. Kevin had been sick. I felt twinges, but tried to shrug them off. Between a heavy work week and lots of travel, the twinges graduated on Thursday, while I was in DC. For that reason, I cut my time short, only attending two of three possible workshops. Thankfully, I made it home safely. During the trip, I had my favorite high school teacher on speaker phone and got to catch up.

Thursday night my sore throat growled and I drank water to appease. Then the cycle of having to go to the bathroom. Then trying to comfortably lay down to find sleep only for it to be interrupted by post-nasal drip. I didn't sleep at all. The silver lining? My sweet cat, Laz, stayed by my side the entire time. Usually, Laz puts Kevin and I to bed and then gets to the important business of wandering. Thursday night, he took care of me.

Anxiously, I waited for an appropriate hour to text fellow yoga teachers about covering my 6 am class. I had hoped to be able to teach it myself, but that seemed wildly unlikely after such a rough night. A friend came through quickly, and I fell into a few hours of sleep in the morning.

All day, Laz by my side.

Weeks ago, my friend Deb told me that she'd been feeling the need to be quiet and still. I was so impressed by her wise adherence to that message. I often feel that too, but unfortunately, I don't always heed it. I'm compelled by "should," I "should" go there, do this thing, be there for this person. Or, I don't want to miss something. Illness is always a messenger right? Be still.

I'm still.

Travel Bend Write

Last night I headed up to NYC to perform with the #GrowFierce showcase of writers from Caits Meissner's Digging Deep, Facing Self course. 

I parked at my spot in Hoboken. Took the PATH train to 14th. Got the F train downtown. Scouted out Bluestockings. They were playing intimidating punk music. I skulked down the street and nervously sat over a bowl of Pho and a Vietnamese iced coffee.

I picked at my food, hungry, but too anxious to eat. 

A woman came in sharing her excitement over an upcoming trip to Vietnam. A staff member explained that she was from Saigon. I had to jump in. Soon, we're swapping stories of rice paddies, red sand hills, and misty switchbacks. My mind in Vietnam, my palms stopped sweating.

I mentioned that I develop yoga retreats and ache to offer one in Vietnam. The woman's eyebrows raised, "Really?! Do you have a card?"

Why yes, yes I do.

And then, remembering myself. I do. I do that. I travel around the world. I bend bodies. I write words.

With the warmth from these two women, I wandered back to Bluestockings. This revolutionary space has offered haven to Ramona Africa, to activists and artists spanning decades. The workers began setting out chairs and I begged to help, desperate for something to do. Their warm smiles made the punk seem less intimidating.

Soon, a trickle of familiar faces, though regrettably, mainly familiar from Facebook. No matter, they soon were in my arms as we embraced in greeting. 

And then, one by one, we offered ourselves up. The audience held us warmly.

An untitled piece that I shared last night:

Used to say vacant lots were

ugly until we dropped beats

around them, kicked life against

chain link fence, strung shoes

like ornaments on telephone 

wire

Said open fields were boring

until we painted the canvas 

with seed and let the horizon

bleed into the sky

They said Brooklyn was a

dump, Philly an armpit. Now

we splash home across our

chest, claim ancestry in

concrete

They disqualified most

female bodies--

too

big

hairy

pale

brown

skinny

flabby

We ask, "Where did

you come from?"

-Maiga Milbourne

A highlight, sweet Amy's son took the mike. He huffed, explained he had to get himself together, made sweet, determined fists, and basically displayed everything I had felt. Gathering what he needed, he crafted a poem on the spot.

The promise of big stories and whole humans. Space made for vital, small voices.

Plots made and wishes shared about the Mythic Beings Retreat, a weekend opened up specifically to nourish and create. I can't wait to experience more of what these women have to offer.

I slipped out, onto the F train, out on the PATH train, and then driving south to home. Tired, my brain spun. Space for our stories, for our voices, for each other.

This morning, Caits shared a poem written for each of us.

For me:

Maiga:

Ma, you ride

wind, song & 

waves, bend 

space & spine

& being fluid &

sunflower-fist

burst straight

through sky's 

thick canvas -

come sing

this freedom

loud as a flock

of gulls alive

over ocean &

then shhhh,

be still & bold

as stone,

you beg us

to be good

but strong.

-Caits Meissner

Come to the next two dates in the series! April 14 & May 12!

Poesia En Vivo!

The AMAZING Caits Meissner has created another opportunity for new artists to shine. I'm hitting the stage at Bluestockings (BLUESTOCKINGS! Legendary!) this coming Monday. I would love to share this experience with you.

Later in the week I'll be at Split This Rock conference on poetry and activism in DC. Quite the charged spring.

BTW, notice a running theme here? Lots of exclamatory punctuation whenever I utter Caits' name? Yup. She's a powerful being. Check out the side-bar Mythic Beings Retreat that she and I host this summer in Vermont. Join us.

Paris Landing

Too many of my friends are moving away right now. To New Orleans, Michigan, Maine, possibly Pittsburgh... there is exodus in the air. I'm trying not to be mad about it. Seriously, I get mad about it when folks get to stepping.

The upside? I get to spend more quality time with folks I love in advance of their departures.

On Friday night, there was one such gathering to send Deb off enveloped in a big hug. I was able to spend some time with Marisa, who I haven't seen much of due to work sending her to Paris. Repeatedly! She's the creative genius behind The Artemisian, a beautiful jewelry line that is taking off. She filled me in on magical synchronicities on the cobble-stones of Paris. 

She touched my arm and said, "I thought of you while I was there. That phrase, 'Land Meaningfully Wherever You Are,' was my mantra."

Shucks!

She continued, "I visited this old bookstore in Paris. It's probably the oldest. Gertrude Stein and Sartre held salons there. In it, they've preserved an old cubby-hole with a typewriter."

Paris Bookstore hide-away

Marisa told me, "People sit down and write something on the type-writer. The surrounding walls are covered in their messages."

I had to sit with that image for a spell. I love word walls.

"I wrote 'Land Meaningfully.'" Marisa said.

Marisa's contribution in yellow: "Alive. Awake. Present. Landing Meaningfully Wherever I am."

So beautiful.

Has this idea of being present, wherever you are currently, impacted you? Tell me about it. I'd love to share more of your stories!

The potential of suffering

Recently, I've been invited to teach modules of yoga teacher trainings. I taught trainees at the Yoga Center of Medford vinyasa krama, the art of sequencing yoga asana. My mentor, Beth Filla, challenged me to teach the kleshas to the trainees at my home studio, Yogawood.

If this is all Greek (er, Sanskrit) to you, the kleshas are loosely translated as the root causes of suffering. Ironically, as I fretted over my class plan, I suffered. When Beth and I met about upcoming retreats, I asked for guidance on teaching this subject. Beth offered some great suggestions and I exhaled.

And then I started getting jazzed. The more I reviewed and dived into the kleshas, I began to see these misperceptions, attachments, and aversions as incredible opportunities. Through suffering, we know freedom. Freedom has no meaning to us if we haven't known it's absence.

Whoa. My mind started to charge around these ideas of obstacles being portals to release. The deity Ganesh is said to be the remover of obstacles. However, Ganesh doesn't just grant us our wishes, genie-like, or do us favors. It's said that when we appeal to Ganesh he places an obstacle in front of us. If I pray to Ganesh, adorn his altar, and chant his name to achieve ease, chances are he'll present me with the circumstances that I deem stressful. If I navigate this terrain wisely, applying yogic principles like the yamas of non-harming and truth-telling, I'll arrive at the other side with ease. Ganesh offers opportunity.

The kleshas have the same potential. Practically delerious with yogic theory, I decided to take a mental break before facilitating teacher training all day last weekend. I picked up something that I thought would be completely unrelated to the subject at hand, Glitter in the Blood by Mindy Nettifee. This book is a fantastic guide towards better writing. I turned to my bookmarked page and read, "being too attached to the narratives of your life, the stories of 'what happened to you,' can also make you crazy."

Shut the front door.

I then decided the kleshas were following me. Obviously, the previous sentence displays both avidya, misperception of reality, and asmita, ego identification. And then I realized that I was presented with another opportunity.

Yogawood Teacher Trainees, who have obviously moved to the other side of the kleshas

#GrowFierce

I've been out of the country for awhile, which is why I've been oh so quiet.  Shortly before leaving to run two yoga retreats in Guatemala, and then take some rest in El Salvador, I was invited to read some of my poetry with other badass women in Manhattan's Lower East Side.

Such an honor.

I am thrilled to share the stage this upcoming Monday evening!  I'm still unpacking, doing laundry, but I'm also selecting my pieces and doing some run-throughs.  Catch me tan, nervous, and exhilarated.

New Year's Day

I don't cry when they find each other in the movie
I don't cry when the patriarch makes his gratitude speech over a baked turkey carcass
I don't cry as another candle is lit and the song sung
I don't cry when children bake cookies and lay out carrots for reindeer

I cry when thousands cheered, unceasingly, as Mandela left prison
I cry when Lynn Stewart walks off the plane, and out of jail
I cry when their struggle represents all of our struggle
I cry because they know a taste of freedom, and through them, so do I

I don't understand partying at the end
Why is New Year's Eve the exciting moment?
For me, when dawn breaks on New Year's Day
I feel renewed.
The light returns, the potential is here.

Why celebrate the end, the nostalgic, the sentimental,
the reflection?  Why not save your energy
for what we create in our cauldron of revolution.
Tend the flame, feed the stew your tears.
I cry at the realization of our own unbreakable power.
I cry knowing that we rise like the sun.