'& (Then)'... Change

I went to yoga tonight for the first time in, oh, many moons. Fellow yogis or former brides might infer that I stopped avoiding the good hurt because of where I am in the wedding count down (one-day-post-final-dress-fitting) and the fact that nothing melts your mind or belly fat like Bikram would all but confirm that. But alas. I had a Groupon for the studio around the corner that expires tomorrow and tomorrow’s class is 90 minutes and tonight’s was 60, so there you go. 

And there I went, to a sunny twig of a girl named Jenny’s class, 26 poses and 2 AP-level breathing exercises punctuated by Jenny’s sweet encouragement. You know you’re done with each of the 26 brutal poses when Jenny cheerfully exclaims, “and change!” and there is something magic about that phrase, the repetition of it, the renewal. Acknowledging every threshold, every milestone.

So anyway I went to yoga tonight and it occurred to me that it’s right and proper that I would come home to myself on the vernal equinox, the very first day of spring. Yoga is appropriate for any season, sure, but I hibernate and avoid it. It is my way. Then something breaks (or a Groupon looms) and I scamper in, cranky and stiff, and I gobble up Jenny’s positivity like a kid on Easter morning. (Jenny was the perfect teacher BTW. Ellen and Rachel, none of this archetypal shit. She is the ideal. And god Rach, I miss you and our complementary masochism. Full download: my Padangusthasana was shoddy, my tree had two trunks, I skipped camel because I am not a martyr, and my standing bow was freaking on point.) 

So, yeah, Easter, renewal, spring, right on time. 

So, I ended up here, my old stomping grounds, and as per ushe, I feel the need to tell you that my life is changing. Seemingly rapidly, but then this is also years in the making, isn’t it? My hair is naturally curly! Like, all of it! I am an actual fundraiser! John Mayer songs no longer resonate! 1460 Erie is still my north star, but now 43 South takes me home. We’re adding two new people to our little Nease foursome! And, well, MY NAME IS GOING TO BE BOBBI BANKS. 

A pair of 20-somethings were chatting pre-yoga about online dating, and I did not relate. There were three guys in my class and I did not eye up a single one. It’s not even because my fiance (fiance!) will read this (hey babe!) but because I am not lonely. I'm not lonely, not only because I found my sushi- and dog-loving blue-eyed plaidie but because I found myself along the way. Because I am right with myself, and strong. Because life has come full circle and because I have exactly the tools I need to proceed, no matter what my name is. 

Because I have learned that every winter has a spring, and that every threshold, every milestone deserves to be honored. 

Full circle. I see what you did there, Equinox. Happy spring, all. ‘Tis my New Year’s Day. To all the late bloomers, to all my soulfriends who agree that Q1 is for the birds and the real new-year-new-you begins today, namaste. We are blooming. Right on time. 

The Shortest Day

Today is the shortest day of the year, yet it stretched on like it had one hundred shadows.  

A shadow is an area of darkness where light is obstructed. A shadow is a silhouette or a reverse projection of the object blocking the light.

Maybe it's because I spent today brain-deep in cancer biology, but that sounds like poetry to me. A shadow is just an obstruction, a blockage. A shadow is a mere outline of whatever is blocking the light. And really, a shadow is the opposite of whatever appears in front of you, the opposite of whatever is between you and the light. 

It sounds a lot like fear.

Today, I did 108 sun salutations to celebrate the winter solstice. Fitting, because I am thinking about balance and centeredness in a completely different way than I have before.

I am wondering how long my heart will have shadows, how long it takes to see yourself clearly again when circumstances have changed so drastically. I already know the answer, but I can't recall it easily in the midst of change, so it waits for me, lurking.

Did you know that on the winter solstice, the sun does not rise at the North Pole—so you would have no shadow? And at the South Pole, the sun is up all day on December 21—so you would cast a shadow all day. So the size and very existence of your shadow depends on where you are, and when, and, presumably, with whom.

But tonight I was reminded that it depends quite a bit on the source of your light, too.

The number 108 has many symbolic meanings. Tonight's teacher shared one: the Buddhist belief that humans suffer and move through 108 human delusions in their lives. Buddhists believe that if you bow (or, in Chicago CorePower style, salute the sun) 108 times, you purify these delusions and as a result, find infinite capability and vitality of mind.

Delusions, I have many.

I am hoping my shadow might be one of them.

Forward Fold

Oh, January.

Sorry to you Capricorns and Aquariuses (Aquariai?) out there, but for me, January is a throw-away month.

One reason is that I live in Chicago and, well:

Yep, I changed my social media names, you smarties.

Big changes to come once my soul unfreezes.

But there are other factors, too. The holidays knock me off kilter: I stop exercising, I binge on gluten. I've also had a few blows to my system in the last few months; this Aries saw the words "tension between two planets" in her monthly horoscope email and knowingly deleted it without needing to read the rest. So I was feeling pretty low by the time the New Years Eve countdown started. There was no resolution this year, unless you count just hanging in there.

But I've been here before. Last winter when the skies went grey and the city got pounded with sleet and wind, I experienced the same quiet panic, the same dimness in spirit.

So I knew just what to do. Lots of quiet time. Ginger tea with honey before bed, lots of exercise for a happy Henley, clean sheets, and...you know where this is going.

Back to yoga I went.

--

I can always tell how long it's been since I've been on the mat by how tight my hamstrings are in forward fold.

Source

And you guys, it was bad. Really bad. Basically like I was starting from scratch, post-back injury.

In a vinyasa class, where you "flow" or move quickly and repetitively from pose to pose, you come to forward fold over and over again. I normally love the vinyasa style because it both challenges your endurance and creates a rhythm that's easy to lose yourself in. Vinyasa yoga usually helps you forget, but coming to forward fold 20 or 30 times in an hour was reminder after reminder of how far I'd let myself slip.

At first I tried to force it by making my legs poker straight and lunging my chest at the floor. Ouch, no bueno. When that didn't work, I bent my knees a lot and touched the floor...but missed out on the hammy stretch. I just didn't feel right, no matter how I contorted myself or how much I strained.

--

This weekend, I was one of two people who showed up for a hot vinyasa class during the blizzard and the Super Bowl. Without dozens of other people in the room (enjoy your guacamole, people), I was more aware of my body--I wanted to have good form so the teacher wouldn't correct me too much--and also hyper-aware of my thoughts. And a funny thing happened. I got sick of myself. The repetition eventually became my friend, because every time I found myself in forward fold, I couldn't bear any more contorting or flinging. I couldn't bear any more wallowing or disappointment. I choose, instead, to look at it as an opportunity to be looser, to let go, to quite literally hang in there. Each time I found myself in forward fold, I thought, I've been here before. I know just what to do.

"Hanging in there" became my intention during each class this week, and tonight I touched the floor with both hands firmly planted on the mat. The hamstring gods sung a sweet hymn.

I don't know if it's the happy hammies or if maybe mercury is going into retrograde (ha), but tonight I feel light. Like maybe it's going to be alright after all. Like maybe I believe spring is actually coming. Like maybe I can remember what it's like on the other side of heartbreak.

I still have February to go, yes, but I've been here before.




P.S. This is exactly how I feel about winter.

Extended Optimism

I've had a draft in my blogger account for a few months entitled "What I've Learned from Dating...So Far". Sometimes drafts sit for a really long time, fully written, just because I'm not ready to press "publish". I know what I want to say, I'm just not ready to say it.

This one just sat empty.

That's misleading, though. I have learned a lot from the year-plus that I've been dating in Chicago. You can find the lessons all over this blog.

But I kept that draft for a reason.

Because, until now, I haven't been able to articulate the most important lesson I've been learning, in dating...and in yoga. (You can roll your eyes. This life/yoga thing is annoying for me, too. Sometimes I'd really just like to go get my stretch on and keep my back healthy without finding a lesson waiting for me. But, alas, I keep finding them in the same spot.)

The Most Important Lesson is something I talk about continuously on Gchat with my friend Ellen. It's the grueling work of continually staying open. Cultivating endless optimism that the next guy might be different or that, despite a string of lackluster second dates or premature arguments, it's not me. I'm not too stubborn, too liberal, too emotional, too affectionate, too complicated. That is, I won't be, for the right person. Because I am the right person for someone.

But that's difficult. To not get hardened. To not get frustrated. To not throw my hands up dramatically and proclaim that I'll only ever love chocolate labs and that's okay with me! To not get in my head. To not avoid, deflate, construct theories. To stay open, stay vulnerable, stay me. To cultivate what I like to call extended optimism.

--

I've been doing a six-week Bikram yoga run with my friend Rachel. Bikram is some serious business, people. 60 or 90 minutes in 105 degree heat, 26 poses, 2 breathing exercises that make you feel like your head might float away. You need to eat the right amount of food, at the right time, and drink ridiculous amounts of water, and that's only just to feel normal in the room--not panicky, fainty, or just plain weak.

(When you start Bikram, they tell you that your only goal is to stay in the room. That should tell you everything you need to know right there. Just staying in the room is considered success, because many people panic and think they can't do it.)

The next 60 or 90 minutes is spent in poses that are not unlike those you'd find in a regular class. As in, I can do them in a regular class. Not perfectly, but I can do them. Not so much with the sweat and the heat. It makes ordinary things challenging and challenging things impossible. I can't tell you how many times I've looked at myself in the mirror during the last six weeks and thought, Really, Bobbi? What the fuck are you trying to prove? I've nearly had some grade-A meltdowns.

The worst is extended side angle, because in regular classes this is pie for me. But in Bikram, it falls after a grueling "warm up" that gets your heart beating like you've just run a mile and literally covers your body in sweat. It takes everything I have just to stay in the pose. Everything. I. have, and sometimes I can't even manage it. That's the worst part. Sometimes you just have to lie down.

This is the perfect image for Bikram.

Because you're basically that close to the sun.

But, despite all the alarms in my head as I enter the studio, Rachel and I have been doing so with pretty impressive regularity. Back to the mat. Back to the sweat. Mustering as much optimism as I can that this time will be better.

--

Yoga teaches you that it's okay to fall, over and over again. That there is strength in trying new things, honor in not shying away. Yoga teaches you to be deliberate, to show up, day after day, even when you're sore or it didn't go so hot (ha. ha. I can't even laugh at heat puns.) the last time.

And so it is with dating. So-and-So never texted back? Not a soul in sight on Match.com that piques your interest? So what. It didn't line up today. Try again tomorrow. Give that cute boy at the bar your number and love up on life in the meantime. Just stay open. Just stay in the room.


I don't know what you smoke / or what countries you've been to
if you speak any other languages other than your own
I'd like to meet you
I don't know if you can drive / if you love the ground beneath you
I don't know if you write letters or panic on the phone
I'd like to call you, all the same
I would want to / I am game

I don't know if you can swim / if the sea has any draw for you
if you're better in the morning or when the sun goes down
I'd like to call you
I don't know if you can dance / if the thought ever occurs to you
if you eat what you've been given or push it 'round your plate
I'd like to cook for you, all the same
if you want to, I am game

if you walk my way / if I could keep my head
we will feel our way / through the dark
or maybe now we could shoot it down anyway

I don't know if you read novels or the magazines
if you love the hand that feeds you
I assume that your heart's been bruised
I'd like to know you

You don't know if I can draw at all / or what records I am into
if I sleep like a spoon or really at all
oh maybe you would do
oh maybe you would do

Lisa Hannigan, I Don't Know

Savasana & Fetal Pose

I've been thinking lately about spring. Why is it sometimes harder than fall, when fall is about letting go? Autumn is literally about things dying and fading away, little by little, until winter washes everything out.

But spring is often harder for me--the push and the pull, the teaser day in March when its 70 degrees and you see, physically feel, what you've been missing yet have to wait so long for.

In yoga, they call this savasana and fetal pose.

Savasana (corpse pose) is taken at the end of practice. You let your body splay across your mat, taking up as much room as possible, and letting all your muscles and thoughts go. It's said to be the hardest pose, because after an hour of exertion--of twists and turns and stretches--you collapse into total relaxation. It's hard to let go completely, to dissolve. It's hard to let go at all.

Source

But the hardest part for me sometimes, especially after a really "heavy" savasana, is what comes next: Bringing small movements to the body, and turning onto your side into fetal pose. It symbolizes a rebirth, a reawakening that marks the start of something new:

"...a new cycle of movement, awareness and being. [Fetal pose] is a momentary reminder that between the end of one cycle and the beginning of another, we must transition."

Sometimes I just don't feel ready to leave my mat, my place of contemplation and evolution, and, as one instructor says, "bring the practice, quite literally, to life." I suppose it makes sense, as I don't really like mornings, either.

It's the perfect metaphor for this spring in particular, which has been an exercise in transitions, a period of pause and uncertainty: Will the house sell by the end of the tenants' lease or won't it? What will my new boss be like? I've had to really dissolve into the unknown, and let any expectations or worries fade away.

I've learned that spring is hard because it takes resolve. After a strenuous class or a shitshow winter--whatever the twists, turns and stretches are in your life--it takes tenacity to find the courage to face the new with an open heart and clear mind, even if it has potential to be much warmer and brighter. 

Marichi's Pose

"Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know." --Pema Chodron

This notion has been blowing my mind since December.

Life has presented a difficult situation lately--complex, without an obvious solution. Murky. Something that required a finesse I felt I didn't have, and a level of patience I feel I may never obtain. I was feeling inadequate, and so in light of my new motto of sufficiency, I dove in and starting looking for the lessons. Alright, Pema, what could these situations be trying to illuminate? What could I learn if I stopped resisting and started listening?

I found two trends: Flexibility, as in I needed to have more of it, and patience, as in...I needed to have more of it. Hmph, that sounded a lot like deficiency to me. No bueno.

So, I listened harder. I wouldn't say I shut down so much; it wasn't even really a child's pose.  I couldn't find reprieve; I was right in the middle of the action. I was being twisted and stretched farther than I'd like. But I just observed. (This isn't exactly true. I observed on the surface. I bitched and moaned and stewed like nobody's business behind the scenes.) I just...didn't act. Moreover, I didn't react.

And the situation started to resolve itself, as situations tend to do when left to themselves. The complexity--the pinch--started to work for me instead of against me. I noticed something else. Many of my initial concerns were correct. My gut told me what I needed to know from the beginning.    

Flexibility, patience, sure, I need to grow in those areas.

But trust in oneself...I've got this one covered. I just need to remember it when I'm in the middle of a chaos, when I'm feeling the squeeze.

And, of course, where else do these themes appear but yoga. Through flexibility, gaining trust in oneself. And through patience, realizing what you needed was there all along. Sufficiency.

Source

"[Marichi's Pose or seated twist] is often referred to as the Sage Pose, one who cultivates wisdom from both age and experience... Working with any twisting pose...helps you cultivate the patience to squeeze out toxins and release negative thoughts as you grow in awareness and sensible wisdom." - examiner.com

There are some days, in yoga and in life, that I don't feel any more flexible or patient than I was two weeks ago, six months ago, a year ago. But there are times, sweet fleeting times, where I gaze over my shoulder amidst chaos, and I'm able to tune out the pinch, and I realize just how far I've come.

Child's Pose

This past month, I've been doing a quiet challenge with myself: 20 yoga classes in 4 weeks. Some weeks it's been six classes and some weeks it's been four. But, regardless, I hit my mark of 20 and its been so wonderful that I am going to keep it up.

This partly resulted from needing some serious stand-in 30-Before-30 goals to make up for the things I could no longer do because of geography, money, or the fact that, well, I just didn't want to do them anymore. It was also a product of a harsh winter, out of desperation for something that would warm me up, physically and emotionally. We've also had a health challenge going on at work. And, well, I hate the treadmill.

Then, I found a studio that offers all classes for $5... where some of the instructors play rap during classes. They had me at TI.

I've done yoga off and on since college, but this disciplined practice has given me a new appreciation for its benefits. I am getting noticeably stronger and more flexible every day. My back has never felt better. The moment I walk out of the studio is the best and most calm moment of my day. I am more tolerable of others (in general; this particular week has been rough in that department) and more accepting of myself. I've made friends. And, having pushed myself to take as many as 8 days of class in a row, I have a brand new appreciation for child's pose.

Source

 

Child's pose is a resting pose. It's meant to be your home base, where you begin your practice and start to notice your breathing while, as one instructor says, "letting anything beyond the four corners of your mat go." But it's also a pose you can retreat to if you need a moment to withdraw at any time during class. A pause, a safe place. A haven while you prepare to face larger challenges.

I realized last night that I've been doing this, metaphorically, since New Year's. Retreating. Resetting. Reevaluating. Looking for respite and finding relief in quiet moments by myself.

In the past, I've looked at that as a character flaw, as myself running away or pushing others away when the world gets to be too much. Sometimes people understand, and sometimes they do not: "You hold so much inside sometimes." "It's like the sun goes away."

But I've come to look at child's pose--the retreat--as a perfectly healthy and necessary thing. For me, it's what prevents overflow or taking things out on others. It's absolutely crucial to my well-being, and therefore it's no longer something I'm trying to change. I can work on vulnerability, sure, but my strength and my ability to rebound will always largely come from within.

Speaking of, let me set the record straight about introversion.  Introversion and extroversion are labels we use about how we fill our buckets--not our cups, mind you, but the place that holds our energy. Introverts spend energy on interactions with other people and gain energy from being alone--and vice versa for extroverts. Introverts can be outgoing, assertive, dynamic people. They just need to recharge in solitude. (This may be my favorite line on Wikipedia ever: Some popular writers have characterized introverts as people whose energy tends to expand through reflection and dwindle during interaction. I might as well pop that on a nametag and wear it to brunch.)

Turns out child's pose is not so childish after all--in fact, it's the most mature thing that I do for myself on a regular basis. Huh. How about that.

Tree Pose

The other night, my yoga instructor asked everyone to get into tree pose--balanced on one foot, with the sole of the other foot propped up on your grounded leg, in a sort of triangle, like so:

Source

We were practicing balance, spending several minutes on each leg. "Notice when you shift," she said. "And you will shift. Being grounded takes practice."

She told us to pick a spot in the room to help us focus. A white room with mirrors doesn't give you a lot of options, so I chose a word on the shirt of a girl in front of me. The girl was a rock star, firmly planted on her right leg. I cringed with unwelcome jealousy, as the weakness in my right quad from my back injury had me swaying back and forth.

"Switch slowly to your left," the instructor said. "It will feel different on each leg, and that's normal. The goal here is not perfection, but to learn to trust yourselves for longer periods of time."

I shifted my weight onto my left leg, and focused on the same spot on the girl's shirt. This time, the girl faltered every so often, her right foot falling to the ground over and over. Every time she moved, I moved. Finally, I moved my gaze from the girl's shirt to my face in the mirror. I gave myself my best "I'm being serious because I'm in yoga class face" and, miraculously, remained steady for the rest of the pose.

The tree pose is a balance pose incorporating three lines of energy, emitting from the centre outwards. One line proceeds down the straight leg, one line extends up the spine and out the fingertips, and the third moves outward through the bent knee. --Yoga.org.nz

Sometimes I forget that roots are not external. They are not a place. They are not other people. They are not even necessarily memories or beliefs or traditions.

They are the anchors deep inside of you that help you stand tall and afford you balance, that help you weather the external storms. The voice that endures any and all criticism or opinion, the parts that remain when your leaves are blown away. You may need water and sunlight to grow branches, but with practice you can also strengthen the part of you that sustains, no matter what.