The cabin came in

I've chased cabins these past few years. One room spaces on the creek's edge, tiny homes on farms, converted barns by grazing sheep. I lit fires. Sat in a river-house-boat watching a muskrat swim. Screened in porches. Pecan pie. Ambling hours.

Every time I arrive, I see that I no longer have cell reception and grin. I unpack a stack of novels and books of poetry. I brew coffee. Light slides geometrically through pines. A veil is lifted in my imagination. There's a spark of a story and I grab a pen. Hours slide away, longer and leaner than I normally know them. I run through them but there's no rush, just open space.

I wonder, every time, could I live like this?

I come home and it stays for a bit. The cashier tells me I'm "friendly" because I still carry a whiff of a long evening watching fireflies. I'm unencumbered by the momentum of home. But, eventually, it gets me. And I get it. I like the pace and possibilities for anonymity. I like endless coffee shops to hide in and classes to take. I sign up for stuff, begin projects, and clutter my desk.

And then it gets to be too much and I run away to a cabin in the country.

Something odd happened this past week. The cabin came in.

Over these last two years I shed a lot. A sort of unimaginable lot. In the process, I fought plenty. I raged and grieved. Projects, ideas, relationships, identities all came undone.

It's done now. I feel that and know. It's done.

After the storm, I felt space. Open, undefined space.

And that's a bit terrifying.

My old habits have been chomping at the bit. I liken it to an empty living room. There's some impulse urging you to buy a sofa! Any sofa! Just put something in there, dammit!

But I knew that's habit. That's reflex. It's not intention.

So I've waited. In the empty room.

The space has felt deafening. It's felt a bit frightening. I'm so used to being set on my path, moving forward one step at a time. Where is a path in an empty room? Shouldn't I just do something? Anything?

But a smaller, wiser part said, "wait."

I've waited. I decided the answer is "no" until it is a clearly lit, brightly felt, undeniable "yes." And the undeniable yes hadn't yet arrived, so I've waited in the empty room. I've said "no" to many sofas.

Finally, last week, I got sick. And surrounding being sick for a few days were endless March nor'easters. Even when I would have rejoined the world around me, I couldn't. Roads were closed. Everything was canceled.

Initially, panic. I am home alone in a metaphoric empty room. What am I doing? Don't I have to decide it?

And I know that frenetic reaction is the devil. So I waited. I decided the job was to heal and rest because those were the opportunities in front of me. I got lots of sleep, read novels, and tended to my own health. And it returned fully.

Something else began to take shape in those open hours too-- that feeling. The phone didn't ring. I had stacks of novels. I watched the snow fall.

The cabin came into my house.

I looked at the ceiling and it looked like my ceiling but it looked softer and sweeter. It looked like my ceiling but not the one I have to make sure to sweep and repaint and tend, but like soft points of focus during day dream. It looked like the ceilings in the cabins. The ones I'm not responsible for.

I realized that the cabin could live in here. I can live in the cabin. Even in the midst of my life. My life has its own pace and momentum, but I have some say here too.

I always wondered what the ingredients would be to take that open, sunlit cabin feeling into my daily life. I'm starting to wrap my head around it-- it's time. It's open, unencumbered time. And not being afraid of that time. Being within the open space.

That's the cabin.

No wonder I couldn't do this on my own. I had no frame of reference for bringing the softer space into what I know. I'm good at making it hard and defined. There's a level of surrender in allowing something to grow.

I don't know if I'll be able to sustain this and I'll say that outright. But I intend to try. At the very least, when I find myself with a gaping calendar and the predictions for a couple of storms, I won't fight it. There's peace in there.

Hands full of Time

Over the last few days, successive nor'easters and a bug kept me home. I suddenly had ample amounts of something that often feels scarce-- time. It freaked me out a little bit. Having it, in some weird way, almost felt like a failure. If I worked harder or was more successful, I wouldn't have this thing we all crave.

I know that thought is the devil so I tried to settle into it. I visited my list of things to get to "when I had time." Books I'd meant to read. Preparation I could do for upcoming workshops. Using therapy balls to roll out my feet and hips.

I did that stuff and I also took great care of my health. I ate so much raw fruits and vegetables. To me, a pear is a commitment! You have to sit down and see that thing through! I lived in the ways I always intend to-- some ginger tea first thing, a couple of yoga stretches, a tangerine and banana, reading a chapter. My days meandered and yet looking back, I got to a fair amount.

My body and its health were tended to with the care I give my work.

That's crazy.

I'm OK listing the projects and deadlines I need to get to in my day planner because I get compensated and I get attention for their completion. I like those things. Both are connected to how I view my worth. And, practically speaking, they're necessary. I need income to stay sheltered and fed.

I'm pretty attentive to my health. I'm a yoga teacher for chrissakes. And I absolutely do have daily rituals of movement, diet, and rest to keep my health balanced. However, that attention is nowhere near as great as the attention I feel my work deserves. Work feels important and justified. I'm allowed to be busy with it. Doing so, I get to join the masses of overwhelmed. We get to commiserate together. We get to feel important and valuable together. I'm totally a part of it.

I've recognized this value-as-doing and tried to at least pause it and create some counter-weights. I think by and large, I've found some means that help me like having one day a week offline to stave off the constant stimulus of the internet.

But how weird. We collectively decide our work is justified. Our bodies, our lives, indulgent.

And that is completely possible. We could all succumb to endless rituals of health that amount to navel gazing and stop creating together. Again, balance.

These past few days I had abundant time. I used it to brew ginger teas, juice vegetables, eat raw foods, and rest, and all the things that restored my health fully. I listened to some of my favorite Alt-Country-- the stuff I tend to listen to on my favorite mountain sojourns. I saw a pattern there too-- I listen to that stuff when there's open road and open sky. When everything opens up.

My time and my life had opened up. I had that cabin in the mountains sense in my own suburban home. That felt great and again, highly unusual. In the rural south I pace myself to my environment and it feels delicious-- a long sip of iced tea. Here, outside of Philadelphia, I felt other than the environment and it gave me that same nervousness. If I was successful and on-the-path, I should feel much more rushed and harried. Something must be wrong.

I tried to slow it again. Part of why Kevin and I are growing a food forest in our suburban backyard is to remind ourselves that you can live intentionally wherever you are. I want to leave as many spaces as wild as possible so I'm staying with the humans in population density. But I can still carve out my little bit of country.

The country, rural life that feeds my creativity, came in slowly as my schedule opened up. They live together, that ambling mind and slowly tended stew. The projects I took on like food prepping lots of roasted vegetables and a long, hot soak with epsom salts and essential oils took much more time than I usually have in the window here or there between a class or before a meeting with Officiating clients. I shoveled the walk and talked to my neighbor. I didn't have anywhere else to be. I got groceries before the storm and let someone else in line ahead of me. I wasn't in a hurry.

It's a way of being I can rarely connect to here. I don't know what it would look like to maintain because it's against the grain and against the current. But I know it feels well-rested, settled, well-fed, quietly moved, and gentle. There's a current and a rumbling, there's a responsiveness if needed. But there's no rush.

I feel my history in these moments. This is how my grandmothers lived. They tended their homes, prepared things, and had time to read novels in the afternoon. I've thought recently about how all of my women ancestors were artists-- my paternal grandmother a vocalist and pianist, my maternal grandmother wrote, crocheted, refinished and restored antiques, and painted detailed china. They created so much with the time in their hands.

Sitting is the devil

I tried my hardest, but whatever bug is going around got me. I've seen this thing hit a few people and observed a trend: those who tried to push through suffered a prolonged bout. Those who just rested and let the thing run it's course recovered more quickly and completely.

I surrendered.

Through a host of weird circumstances, I actually found myself with a few days to just rest. It hasn't been great because I haven't felt great but I am grateful that I'm able to take time and heal when needed. As I've recovered my body felt weird. Not, sick and sore weird but like, immobile sore. While sick I primarily laid down or sat. My body isn't so accustomed to this. Teaching yoga means a lot of moving around. I'm literally walking to and from teaching appointments in addition to moving when teaching. I purposefully don't practice alongside my students because I see teaching and practicing as two fundamentally distinct activities. I prioritize my own practice and make sure to be a student at a yoga class several times a week. When I teach, I teach. I observe the students in my class, if something I'm verbally instructing is unclear, I demonstrate it or demonstrate a piece of the pose, and I'm continuously assisting. I've found that the posture I'm in most often when teaching is a squat. Which is great. Super healthy. And my squat is improving in time. I'm finding more hip mobility, ankle mobility, and length in my spine.

After being sick, my low back hurts. My low back very rarely hurts. I realized it's from sitting too much!

Sitting is the devil!

Thankfully, as a yoga teacher, I have some tricks up my sleeve. I'm still home due to a similar host of circumstances, still staying pretty quiet and preserving my energy, but I am doing prep work for upcoming facilitations. I laid out my yoga mat, a nice thick blanket over top, and did yin. I added my yoga tune up balls (a lovely gift from dear Rachel Cope!). I rolled out my feet while I stood reading. I laid on heart bench and put the balls under my glutes. I rolled out the front, sides, and backs of my hips. I laid down and placed the balls under my upper back and shoulders where I could roll those tight areas as well.

After about an hour or more rolling and reading, I got up to fix myself an espresso. I feel so much better.

And simultaneously so sad for those who don't know how to care for themselves.

I hear complaints of lower back pain continuously. It's not one of my personal afflictions so I can't commiserate, but I can offer suggestions towards alleviation.

I'm increasingly grateful for the work that I've chosen and how it allows me to structure my life. Convenience is the devil! I've noticed it these past few days as I've still had to trudge outside to retrieve clothes that were drying on the line. I didn't want to. I grumbled as I didn't feel well. And then, getting outside for a bit made me feel much, much better. The fresh air was incredibly restoring.

I'm trying to remind myself of this continuously because I want convenience. I want a remote starter for my car. I want to sit and relax.

And yet, when I do just sit, it hurts.

Humans aren't meant for that. We're meant to move. Even when we're under the weather. Movement relieves us.

Seen on a run through Philly. I took this run super reluctantly just prior to getting sick. I didn't regret the movement. It showed me this frame of sweetness.

Feeling for no good reason

The Eagles won the Super Bowl.

Philadelphia is happy.

Like, so happy. It's infectious.

I don't know football. I don't know the rules. I don't know the people. I know Philly likes the Eagles. That's about it.

On Super Bowl Sunday, I painted my bathroom.

I woke up at 5 am the day after to go teach yoga. I looked online to see who won, mainly so I would know the mood I'd walk into when I taught class. My eyebrows raised. The Eagles won! OK. People will be happy.

The morning was very, very quiet. Very still. People slept the sleep of drunken champions.

As the sun slowly rose, a quiet jubilation blew through the streets. Even people who cut me off did so cheerfully. People are happy.

I felt happy too. I returned to the yoga studio to teach a 9:30 am class. After one student at 6 am (the hangover slumber) there was now a full studio of 20 some people. Everyone was chattering and connecting with their neighbors. I decided there was only one way to call to order under these circumstances. I blasted Queen's "We are the Champions."

Some students jumped up and danced, people waved their hands, we sang along. We had a moment. And then we did yoga.

Throughout the day I thought of how long people had waited for this. I saw so much Philly pride. Everyone was so happy to be from Philly. We were all happy to have wanted something together. We were so happy to share the good thing.

It felt like a wave of joy.

Given that I know nothing about football, I felt somewhat guilty sharing in the celebration. But I thought that plenty of times I get stressed or miserable for no good reason. Why not get happy for no good reason? We all want to feel joy. Sometimes, we only allow ourselves to go there with an excuse.

A football game is as good a reason as any.

And I'm starting to get team sports a bit. People want to root and cry and lament and celebrate together. They want the thing that makes them feel a thing. It's a projection. It's something to agree upon.

I'm so happy to be in Philly when we all decided, together, to be happy that we're here. To be proud of ourselves. To be excited about what we do and who we are. To hug each other in the streets. To be happy. For no good reason. For all the reasons.

Cause no one likes us and we don't care!

Actually Communicating

In my winter hibernation, I am listening. To many podcasts. Of a weird assortment.

Top contenders right now are Krista Tippett, Joe Rogan, and Duncan Trussell.

Their voices are very different from one another.

I love their curiosity, broad interests, and desire to truly communicate. Rogan and Tippett, in particular, talk frequently about the need to truly communicate with one another. I've been listening to the language they use to describe this need. Tippett has a series called "Civil Conversations" meant to offer a real conversation about a hot button issue that often is debated in sound-bites. She's had people on opposing sides of abortion or gay marriage speak together. "Civil" is a word that shows up often for her in searching for meaningful conversation.

Rogan uses words like "reasonable people having a logical conversation." "Reason" and "logic" show up often.

I appreciate both of them because they're introducing me to thinkers who I don't come across otherwise and they're offering them a platform where they can actually be heard as opposed to being reduced into a bullet point.

I also love the idea about how we communicate and the potential around our communication.

I've been thinking about whether or not I'm after "civil," "reasonable," "logical" conversations.

I'm not.

All of these words bother me. I want to understand why.

"Civil" is a word posed in opposition to "wild." The implied idea is that the "wild" or nature, is chaotic and unruly. Civilization is the order imposed on this disordered natural state.

Well, that's a problem. Given that human bodies are natural, there's again an implication to impose order on our natural state, our nakedness, our frailty, our vulnerability. The natural world, in my estimation, is not disordered. There's a beautiful, soft order that often escapes human comprehension, but exists nonetheless. Even storms provide the clarity of a cleansed environment. The wild might lie outside of human comprehension, but it's not chaos. Our understanding of it might be chaotic but that only speaks to our comprehension, not what we seek to comprehend.

Similarly, words like "reason" and "logic" feel really masculine to me. They feel like words my Dad uses. "Reason" especially feels rooted in Enlightenment thinking of moving away from the fearful idolatry of gods to the clear-eyed measurements of science. (Please read the ample sarcasm.) "Reason" implies that thinking can be divorced from intuiting and feeling.

I don't believe that we can be so divided.

We are always feeling and intuiting-- my understanding of intuiting being processing information through senses more quickly than we're able to categorize that same information through analytical cognition. I think Rogan uses the word "reason" to distinguish our tendency to "react."

Logic is a useful philosophical process to work through ideas. It completely has a place in conversation. There's also an assumption of objectivity here-- that we can get sufficient distance from a subject to look at it without investment.

I disagree. We are subjective beings. We are interwoven. We are in context. Claiming logic or objectivity is simply dishonest. Honestly, we can own our subjectivity and admit how it influences our thinking. That's being an accountable human.

These words have helped me clarify what I appreciate about the conversations Rogan and Tippett conduct as well as the interactions I seek.

I think I'm trying to be in and create environments for the following:

• Context. Owning where we are situated in a topic. Claiming our own biases and acknowledging how they might influence our thinking.
• Emotional awareness. Acknowledging when a topic feels close to home and allowing it to affect us. Not trying to claim that our insight is more credible because we don't feel but owning that feeling is being human. We're allowed to feel. And admitting that doesn't invalidate our thoughts on a subject.
• Accountability. Being willing to evolve. Being willing to be wrong. Being more interested in growth than "winning" a conversation. Being more interested in ideas than the stakes we've claimed.
• Curiosity. Allowing human curiosity to drive us towards creativity and connection. To allow us beyond the bounds of the group think many of us have affiliated with.

I'm sure there is way more, but this is my working list. These are the conversations that I cherish because they take place between humans. Humans are wild, they are not logical, nor are they reasonable. They have feelings about things, passions, excitement, and fears. And we can talk about that.

The Knights Templar of Tomar

From our quiet sojourn in the Portuguese country-side, we began to gather ourselves. I had booked two nights in Fatima in honor of the Centennial sighting. More on that to come.

As we consulted the map, we saw that as we were in the northwest mountains of Portugal heading southwest towards Fatima, we would pass through Tomar. Kevin petitioned for a stop. This, after all, is home of the Knights Templar. 

A castle wall surrounds the Convent of Christ, the Knights Templar home built in the early 12th century. 

Every inch of the Convent of Christ has mystical symbolism. Esoteric symbols intermix with Christianity. Rooms were circular, well protected, and basically every guy's wet dream.

Kevin kept looking in the forests outside of the castle walls. Apparently that's where really super secret weird rites went down.

The Templar Knights were ultimately banned but their burial site remains in view of the Convent of Christ. Kevin and I drove down away from the church fortress on the hill through the beautiful town of Tomar to Igreja do Maria do Olivais. Kevin got super excited finding the circular rose window above the entry. Standing with your back to the church, you have a clear view of the Convent of Christ high on the hill ahead.

This church was perhaps the most fascinating in all of Portugal. Entering, above the altar a window with a pentagram surrounded by interlocking circles. So much esoteric symbolism! No cross! As I walked down the steps I saw flyers advertising normal church events for the community. This church, more than any other we visited, seemed most in use and loved by its community. The Virgin Mary was centered below as a point of worship with Jesus off to her left. To the right of the church and all along the side were small tombs containing the remains of the 12th century Knights Templar. This church felt like the quiet, breathing home of the strange, esoteric protectors of medieval treasure.

Guarda: Portugal's staring contest with Spain

We woke in a sagging bed facing a stone framed window over the Portuguese hills. The sheep bells clanged as the animals marched around the property. A few cats climbed the window ledges.

I thought about home and how easy it is to get a cup of coffee. How many cafes I can drive to. And saw the cost of that convenience.

It was quiet and still.

We ultimately did decide to venture out. We got back on the highway continuing towards the Spanish border to the medieval outpost of Guarda. 

This imposing cathedral faces the Spanish border, an architectural "come at me!" 

There's a theater in town, shops, and restaurants, but it's small. This is a bit of the last frontier in cooler, mountainous Portugal.

This beautiful old church, like so many in Portugal, had spaces for anchorites, or Catholic renunciates. These spiritual seekers were built into solitary cells in the church. Sometimes they could view the regular church services and sometimes not. Food was delivered to them like they were a death row inmate in modern day prisons. 

The larger communities recognized that these people might be more able to hear spirit and would sometimes come to their windows and ask for counsel.

The church was filled with spaces that whispered secrets-- passageways for clandestine purposes, ways to renounce the world, guarded treasures hidden from sight.