Community is needing each other

Last week Kevin & I sat around our friend's South Philly living room, balancing plates of home-made spaghetti on our laps, reflecting on a talk from Michelle Alexander heard earlier that night at Penn.  The conversation began wandering back into our own day-to-day lives and Kevin related how we'd found ourselves so reliant upon community when the landscaping truck broke down.  Both of us are still trying to work our ways, mentally, into the shared space of needing people.  There's so much latent individualism lurking in the recesses of our mind.

Our friend shared an exchange that happened with her CSA a few seasons ago.  An older Italian farmer was in attendance-- like real farmer-- she clarified.  Not a young urban bearded dude in flannel, but a man with broad hands and a history in land.  The collective was sitting around discussing building community.  They talked about a variety of events they could host to get to know one another, projects they could take, duties they could share.  The Italian farmer scoffed and voiced his lone opinion for the night: "That will never work.  You only have community when you need one another."

At the time, our friend, a Left-y historian with a focus on class, took this as eye-rolling at middle class liberals.  We began discussing his point in the context of our truck incident.

It's so true.

Community is built out of need.

Kevin & I have floated the idea of not having certain tools that we use regularly & instead sharing with a neighbor.  And reciprocating by purchasing something they might borrow from us.  Not an unheard of practice-- many communities historically and throughout the world either pool resources or are comfortable with sharing.  Kevin & I often resist this for probably the same reasons many others do-- it's more convenient to have you own thingamabob ready when you want it & it's much simpler to not worry about caring for someone else's precious doohickey.

On the one hand, Kevin & I care for our belongings & make them last.  We don't purchase a lot of physical stuff-- we're more likely to purchase an experience, like a concert or a meal out.  However, we're hard on stuff.  And it drives us nuts to have something loaned be returned in a lesser condition.  We don't want to be bad-mouthed (yes, like we have at times bad-mouthed others) so we get nervous about borrowing.  So nervous, that when we do borrow, we often will try to return the thingamajig in better shape than we received it.  This might be a good practice & make us look good, but it's time-consuming, and ultimately makes us both want to be more isolated, less in the network of sharing.

We're working to just be more transparent.  And to not be so scared of work.  Maybe our fear over disappointing someone with how we care for their whooziwhatzit will make us stronger, more mindful stewards in multiple areas of our life.

But this is all very mild need.

We've all heard of communities forming and bonding in times of crisis.  There's nothing like shared experience to unite people.  But you can't impose that & we don't wish crisis upon one another.  And yet-- I think we all crave some sense of belonging & community-- that's why we try to create it again and again.

Is the practice again of just being more transparent?  Not being so isolated?  Letting the impact of life be seen and known so that there's room for others to support?  To share, swap stories, scoff, roll eyes, bad mouth, and ultimately know and be known?  To balance spaghetti on our knees, listen, and learn from one another.

Okra is blooming. I'm returning.

The view from the okra/strawberry patch in our front yard.  I'm falling in love with okra.  It's tall, regal stems.  It's sweet fruit spearing the sky.  The yellow blossoms spiralling open at leaf junctures.  There seems to be a lovely world at the feet of okra.  I imagine myself miniature, strawberry stained feet, eyes reaching upwards to okra blossoms, to life climbing.

I'm getting back on schedule.  Expect more frequent postings here.

I've even gotten fall seeds in the ground!  I was late to it, so warm footed plants went into the hugelkultur beds.  I'm hoping their internal heat might extend the cold crop growing season.  I may also experiment with some cold frames this year.

Nails are painted to mask the dirt beneath.  My cuticles are ripped up as I refuse to plant with gloves or a trowel.  I like to dig my fingers deep.  Let work be tactile.

Here's some of what I've been upto:

Tending the serviceberry tree.

Remembering a teenage fling.

Offering a yoga workshop to access creativity.

And wandering through the garden.  Building fires at night so that I wake with smoke-scented hair.  Rubbing my fingers on rosemary, persimmon leaves, feeling the soft underbelly of a tomato stalk.

Loving destruction

Recently, many things happened that weren't supposed to.

My husband thought he killed his friend.  Thankfully, his friend was fine.

Our small business relies on this truck daily.  We were in the middle of a job & booked through early October.  

The net result was that we relied on friends.  One friend loaned a truck for a few days so we could try to stay on schedule.  His truck wasn't the size of Kevin's, so then we were able to borrow a second truck.

Then that truck broke down.  

Our neighbor has been a miracle.  He helped us rectify the original mess within ten hours of the event.  He then helped us repair the loaner truck.  

We're seeing that our plans are less important than being present, calm, and in community.  I'm also learning that sometimes things have to get all busted up to then get clear.

I'm teaching yoga classes this month dedicated to the practice of Bhakti, loving devotion towards the Divine.  A fellow teacher said that Bhakti is often associated with Shiva, a holy representation of destruction.  I sat with that & tried to work out how destruction can be in keeping with loving devotion.  And then I observed my own recent days.  When the things I thought I needed-- a truck, a schedule, savings, what have you-- were suddenly blown up I had to devote myself to what is less tangible & more reliable-- community, vulnerability, trust.  My faith in the less tangible has grown immeasurably.  Kevin & I keep wanting to write country songs, but less plaintive and more grateful.  We're realizing what aspects of our life we try to shield and where we isolate ourselves.  We've been forced to be more transparent and connected.

When things fall apart there is room for something else.  

Big Kids

I teach yoga in a studio that uses the Jivamukti Focus of the Month as a theme guide.  This past month, every class I taught had something to do with Gopal, the child incarnation of Krisna.  Simultaneously, I began reading Neil Gaiman for the first time since high school.  I'm currently main-lining The Ocean at the End of the Lane.  The narrator explains the vulnerability and fear children experience.  They're small.  Adults are bossy.  I remember that feeling completely.  Adults can be so freaking arbitrary.

In some ways, that memory of being at adult's mercy is plain and clear.  In other ways, that sense feels a bit distant.  I'm trying to pull that knowledge closer, mostly to be an adult who listens to children.  Among the lessons Gopal and Gaiman are offering me are that children are Divine.  Thankfully, I'm around a community who largely agrees.  Years ago a friend said to me: "Prejudice against children is the last acceptable prejudice."  I paused, and then thought of my grandparent's neighbor who had said to me, "Children should be seen, not heard," or how many adults don't feel that children are owed explanations for their decisions.

Of course, this is all written within reason.  I'm not a parent, & I acknowledge that there are plenty of moments when debate with a little one is ill-advised.  However, this past summer I spent a week with my husband's cousin, his wife, and their daughter.  Both adults explained why she had to come up from the beach when she did.  They told her why they wanted her to eat the food they offered.  She listened.  She's a quick one, but most kids are capable of getting simple, clear communication.  Because they were reasonable with her, she's reasonable with them.  She didn't think her parents were simply mean or arbitrary.  They afforded her the respect of explanation.

I know plenty of adults who don't want to explain their reasoning nor actions to other adults, let alone kids.  And these same people often are frustrated when communication breaks down or problems arise.  It's frustrating to be in the midst of muddiness when you're grown, and have recourse.  But when you're little?  Trying to figure out the world?  Everybody is big?  Way worse.

Two children in Ocean at the End of the Lane tried to make sense of adults: "Grown-ups don't look like grown-ups on the inside either.  Outside, they're big and thoughtless and they always know what they're doing.  Inside, they look just like they always have.  Like they did when they were your age.  The truth is, there aren't any grown-ups.  Not one, in the whole wide world."  The narrator, "wondered if that was true: if they were all really children wrapped in adult bodies, like children's books hidden in the middle of dull, long adult books, the kind with no pictures or conversations."  Adults are just that.  Divine, holy children in bigger bodies, bumbling along.

No need to escape

It always feels like Christmas Eve.  As we approach our next trip, I excitedly skip through the possibilities in my head.  What unexpected delight can I potentially expect?  What will it be like?  Will this corner of the world match my imagination or feel completely unprecedented?

It's exciting because it's new.  In recent years, I've taken trips that don't exceed a month, because I can't afford longer excursions.  In years past, I spent several months in various destinations.  Comparatively, I know that my crap catches up with me.  Once the novelty wears off I'm left with routines, responsibilities, & myself, in a new locale.  The Havana that was charmingly crumbled and echoing with music becomes the place that houses daily classes and various annoyances.  The Buenos Aires that felt haunted, dramatic, sharp, and cool becomes the place of another grind.  Get up, on the bus, downtown, & back again.

A month isn't enough time to set up routines, to create accountability, nor to fall into a rut.  A month is long enough to be reminded of the excitement of something else... & then maybe to breathe fresh life into the something known.  

I still travel for new experiences.  The world is so impossibly beautiful and I want to see it.  People are so unendingly creative and I want to learn from them.  

But I no longer want to escape my life.  My life is mine no matter where I am.  My life continues along its path of ruts and valleys and wide open runs.  I get to cast light on dissatisfaction, potentially illuminating that contentment, like the yogis teach, is a practice.  I've never found where it lives on the planet, because it doesn't.  It's sweet and elusive and present only when nourished.  

Now I travel, in part, to remember to make my life feel like Christmas morning.  What unexpected delight awaits me in my routine?  What can I be open to in the daily grind?  

In my imagination, adventures await in seemingly exotic locations like Mongolia or Tunisia.  In reality, I live adventure in domesticity, community-- with myself.

Offering Yoga to Deaf Students

Recently, I had an opportunity to make a yoga workshop more accessible for participating deaf students.  I am not one iota of an expert, but I wanted to share my experience in case it's of use to other instructors creating space for students.

Orientation: I am a hearing instructor.  I don't have a lot of experience working with hard-of-hearing nor deaf students.  Thankfully, a fellow instructor, Erik Marrero, has taught a deaf student in an open-level vinyasa class for some time now.  He also has done independent research.  He and I shared resources in advance of my workshop and I did some further research.  Erik shared that a lot of communication with deaf students is visual.  Demonstrating poses within their line of sight can be of great use.  It can be challenging to rouse a deaf student from savasana, given that their eyes are closed.  Erik began placing a singing bowl on the student's sternum.  He gently strikes the bowl to create a vibration to resonate with the student and alert them that the class is coming to a seat and concluding.  (This practice has been well-received.  A deaf student told Erik that in the past she had been left with no communication from the instructor.  When she opened her eyes after savasana she found that everyone in the room had left!)

The information I found on offering yoga to deaf students focused on a regular vinyasa practice.  Like Erik, this instruction emphasized being visible to students.  They also suggested using vibration.  If students are folding, slap the floor so that the vibration is felt, thereby alerting the students to come back to seated.

The workshop I was offering was not a regular vinyasa yoga class.  This workshop was geared towards other instructors who wanted to become more proficient in offering adjusts and assists to their students in back-bending poses.  I love adjusting and assisting students.  Part of what I find rewarding is delving more deeply into communicating with students via touch.  The description of the workshop emphasized this aspect of honing adjusting and assisting skills.  The deaf students who enrolled mentioned this as a draw.

These workshops usually involve the participants sitting, getting to know one another, and then going through an abbreviated practice to warm up.  Readied, I then demonstrate adjusts and assists on a volunteer while the other students watch.  Afterwards, they partner off and practice what they saw.

Obviously, there is lots of talking.  I hoped that my deaf students might read lips but learned that they didn't.  They requested an interpreter.  Our studio found an interpreter who was a great resource for me.  We met in advance of the workshop so that she could learn to sign names of poses and understand how the day would unfold.

I created materials for the workshop-- pages with stick figures assuming the poses we'd practice adjusting and assisting, along with the typed name of the pose in sanskrit and english, and space for notes.  I forgot that deaf students are visual communicators.  They can't listen to instructions and write in their own short-hand.  In the future, I'll make bullet-point notes.  As I became aware of this oversight, I promised to email notes to these students.

In the course of the workshop I tried to speak less.  Generally, I'm working on this with my teaching.  More breathing room, more quiet, seems to really serve students.  In a workshop like this, content-heavy, it was a challenge, but I worked towards being truly concise.  As the interpreter had suggested, I looked at deaf students when we spoke, not at the interpreter.  I tried to slow down.

I thought about how to work on pranayama with deaf students.  It made me aware of how heard ujjayi and other breath practices can be.  The only idea I've come up with, and this is untested, is first explaining to the student that we'll work on lengthening breath.  Elaborate on how to create ujjayi, how to make it soft, steady, seamless.  Then sit back to back with the student demonstrating the long, smooth breaths so the student can feel the practice.

Teaching this workshop was a powerful experience, and I'm so glad to have had the opportunity to work on making yoga more accessible for deaf students.  I would love to expand my skill set to meet the needs of other student populations.  I'd also love to hear from other instructors, deaf and hearing, to skill share resources.

Key Tips:
-Be visible to your students, especially if working on asana or physical movement
-Look at the student when communicating, not at the interpreter
-Prepare in advance.  Written notes and visuals for students can be helpful
-Speak less
-Remember to coax a deaf student from savasana or meditation.  A singing bowl on the sternum is a lovely way to gently lure them back into the room.

I walked away

I walked away.

I walked away from the pressure-cooker.  I walked away from the ever-quickening treadmill of career and ambition.  I walked away from prestige and resumes and one-dimensionality.

I walked away from a "Seven Sister's College."

I "withdrew."  Dropped out.  I left college.

I was a second semester junior.  I had a strong GPA, had studied abroad in two countries, done an internship in NYC after my first year.  I was a solid student.

And I let it go.  Gladly.

I left feeling isolated.  I left feeling that I was worth my grades, my resume, my career.  I left using only my mind and not my body.  I left not having a community.  I left status and prestige.  I left doing what I was supposed to.  I left going through the motions.  I left not knowing how to care for myself

and I learned how to take care of myself.

I learned to get a job.  Any job.  And pay bills. . I learned to find an apartment that I could afford.  I learned to live out of the way, a few subway stops, and be OK.  I learned to live in small spaces with few pieces of furniture and appliances.  I learned to prepare my meals on a budget, to pack a lunch, to take care of myself.

I learned to clean.  I learned to tidy.  I learned to budget.  I learned to manage.

I learned to do work that was fulfilling to multiple aspects of myself-- socially, physically, intellectually.  I learned to do any job well.  I learned about the various types of intelligences one might possess.

I learned to stay with something that is hard and worthwhile.  I learned when it's time to let go.

I walked away.