Almost cried several times. Apologized to a family for my generally shitty attitude because they deserved it. The apology I mean. Not the attitude. 

Stopped at three galleries on the way home hoping to buy a few special gifts for coworkers without any luck.  Came home, opened mail, found out I accidentally cancelled my phone service 27 days before the end of my contract and so owe some extra mula. Cried. Cried cried cried about my phone bill. 

So there's a chance I'm still Human, not just Being, and I may have a teensy tendency to stuff my inconvenient emotions until they spill out all over a phone bill. I don't really know why I was actually crying.  But the crying felt closer to the truth than the irritability and pissy-ness I'd worn like a back brace all day to keep me from bending far enough to surrender to whatever I'm going through. Who has time for going through stuff when it's messy and snotty and it's thirty minutes before yoga and you don't want to get all puffy and blotchy…?

It's snowing like nobody's business outside. There are still a million tears behind my eyes. I'm going to put a fresh bandaid on my thumb wound, roll up my mat and head to yoga to see what miracle I can find there...

The miracle I found was not the one I was hoping for.  I thought I'd leave class all peppy and energized and able to really relish, maybe even photograph, the ice on the trees and the way it sparkles in the streetlight. Not so much. There will be another time for that, maybe. Today is a day for burning through old sadness. 

When I used to facilitate couples' counseling, it was common to encourage the couple to "reach for a softer emotion." In heated angry moments, couples could connect and understand one another in a really meaningful way if they were willing to soften and acknowledge the more vulnerable emotions that often motivated their anger--fear, hurt insecurity, etc. It was usually an uncomfortable stretch at first, but it could become a very natural movement over time, with practice. 

Yoga has introduced me to a new intimacy with myself--a significant relationship, a romance even. Today's vinyasa was couples' therapy. All day I have been my own nagging spouse--nit-picking, critiquing, berating myself for the chores left undone and the missed appointments. And when I kept being bitchy and didn't find my zen, I punished myself with the cold shoulder: Quit your phone bill bawling, suck it up and go to class.

I'm glad I did, of course, even though I was wobbly and distracted and gave myself plenty more reasons to be critical. My teacher and my mat asked me in their way to reach for a softer emotion.  And there were plenty of soft emotions waiting to be found under my anger. There's the part of me, like lots of people, who feels vaguely unsettled and anxious each time the holidays roll around. There's the part of me that feels self-conscious and defensive showing up to another holiday gathering alone; a section of my brain is already apologetically fielding the questions I anticipate about my romantic life. There's another part of me--dare I say it?-- that feels pretty lonely about flying solo through this season of yuletide couples. Add to that the anxiety of a new job hanging in limbo, and the anticipatory grief I'm feeling about leaving my current one. And of course there's the also the vague, baseline grief we all experience this time of year when we celebrate and congregate and there are people missing who used to be there.

I'd like to be past all of this, able to balance myself out and move beyond it all by doing a headstand or meditation or something. But I'm not. So that's what this moment brings to me. All the irritability and complaining of my day, and all the pain it was protecting. Instead of replaying my old pattern of feeling freaked out by the discomfort of feeling freaked out, and then closing up by fixing or distracting or talking myself out of this funk, I'm going to try to open up, Michael Singer style.

If you haven't read Untethered Soul by Michael Singer, put down the laptop and put on your shoes or open up a new browser window and buy it right now. Seriously. Right this minute. 

In it, among other priceless epiphanies, Springer points out the human tendency to close up when pain comes around in an effort to protect ourselves from it, rather than opening to pain and letting it move through us.  He says we build emotional walls to protect ourselves from feeling what we're afraid to feel, to protect old injured places and vulnerable spots, and we inadvertently reinforce within ourselves the idea that we ARE injured, vulnerable and unsafe and that life is a scary opponent. Operating from that premise of fear, we keep repeating old stuff that's stuck in us, doing the dance that feels safe and familiar, closing around the pain again and again and giving it more and more power. The other option, he says, is to open up when we feel like closing, to experience the pain and injury, and to watch as we live through it, let it move through us and burn a little bit of old junk away. 

This feels true to me. I'm not an absolutely huge fan of it being true, because it means the solution is to feel the pain instead of finding new and improved strategies for avoiding it. I'm generally more a fan of finding new and improved strategies. I've got a collection of textbooks on the subject, in fact. But I've watched myself play out old patterns over and over, despite all my coping skills and good intentions, and I'm sick of it. I'm tired of feeling so angry about traffic when I know it doesn't really matter. I'm really, really over the tight feeling behind my eyes and in my throat when I start my day with a coffee spill and get myself into the kind of tense tizzy that leads to a bloody thumb. I would love to open up when a relative asks, with good intentions, if I've met any nice young men, instead of closing defensively around my own fear of what they think of me. I'd be living closer to my truth if I could let that be their fear instead of mine.

So these little tensions are gifts. They're ugly, but they're gifts. Little opportunities to open up. One of the most valuable things I've learned in yoga is what it means to open up. There's a perceptible, palpable shift in my emotional self that happens when I change my physical posture to open my heart--roll my shoulders back, stretch my collar bones, slide my shoulder blades down my back and lift the crown of my head.  I really do feel more open to life and my circumstances, even annoying ones, when I'm conscious of having an open heart. I also feel more balanced and solid, ready to let some old stuff in its new disguise move into me and do its burning business.  Which is not to say I look forward to the fire. Maybe someday I'll be that enlightened. But tonight, as I apparently continue to attract silly little calamities--really, burnt veggie burger? and how could I possibly be out of tea lights??--I'm sitting up straight and rolling my shoulders back to see what happens.

Photo credits: Me :) Please use responsibly.

closet would accuse me of being a minimalist.  And I  get  a  lot of pleasure out of arranging and fussing with and staring at my beautiful things. But I think some of the fearlessness I'm developing on the mat has spread all the way to my closet. No, I know it has. 

It's pretty incredible, now that I've been looking for it, to notice how far fear's tentacles have reached into my life. In the case of my closet: how many times have I pulled out that same red button-down, the one that tugs in the shoulders and gaps in the bust, that I haven't worn in ages, and thought, well, you never know. What if I need it someday. It might look really good under a blazer, if the occasion arises. I'd hate to not have it if I need it… Fear thoughts. Thoughts based on a premise of lack and chaos. The consequence is small in this case, just one more heavy hanger on the rack, but it's a symptom of a more systemic sickness.

I've been working for years, through study and thought and thought and more thought, on internalizing the opposite premise--that the universe is abundant and supportive. It's often felt like a struggle and I've felt like a failure more often than I've felt faithful. Over the past 29 days, yoga has turned those thoughts into a practice, a part of me, a muscle memory. Without trying, and thus without giving myself anything to be mad at myself for, these ideas are becoming actions and my life is transforming as much as, or more than, my body.

How cool and special that today is the winter solstice, the day the "sun stands still," the darkest day of the year.  It's a day to acknowledge darkness and to allow transformation and healing as the days begin to grow longer. It's also day 29 of my yoga journey. What friggin luck! A perfect day to acknowledge the dark ghosts in my closet, so to speak, and to make space for the natural transformation that is taking place. 

I feel compelled to make an announcement or write a song or do a dance or something. This seems important! 

And here's what it took, drumroll please: Relaxing. Letting go! I know! The yoga metaphors for life are endless! I wish I could teleport you into that moment as me, to show you what it felt like, how profound. 

As instructed, I took my wide-legged seat and propped a bolster, well... in my crotch is the best way to say it I guess, so that I could lean and rest over it. And that's what I did, I leaned. And the lovely Gretchen said, as she tends to, pause at your first point of notice and breathe there. I love that. Breathe at the first point of notice, the place where the body stops naturally due to resistance. So that's what I did. I paused at my awkward, almost-upright first-point-of-notice angle and breathed. I'm afraid the tension and suspense might not be coming across fully here. It wasn't maybe a moment for the movies. But if epiphany and progress were fireworks, I'm telling you this would have been a spectacular show. 

Instead, the magic was not a ball of fire. It was gentle. It was release. Not just in my lower back or my tight hamstrings, but in my hips and my arms and my face and my brain, too. They just let go a little bit at first, and then gradually, with breath and very little thought, they softened and released further than I knew was possible. 

Draped over the soft bolster, I realized there was no issue at all with my body's ability to bend in this way. The problem was not the tightness of my back body, it was fear of release. It was a volitional, muscular avoidance of letting go fully, a fear that literally resided deep down in my ligaments and bones--fear that I'm not built for such full expression maybe, or concern that I'd let go so fully I'd never be able to return to my comfortable seat. 

It wasn't a conscious fear until it was, but that's another thing: I didn't know that it was fear and resistance holding me upright when I wanted to bend. I thought bending was something I needed to will to happen, or wait for. And sometimes, in the metaphor I'm making here, will and waiting may be exactly the right tools for the job.  But in this case, all it took was some focused breathing into the tight place, and then conscious, fearless release. And ta da! I was flopped right over that bolster. My nose wasn't quite on the floor, but it was, I kid you not, a solid eight inches lower than I'd managed to get it during any diligent commercial-break practice. 

It makes me think, of course, beyond my yoga mat. What else am I holding on to? What else am I trying to will or skill into place when the right strategy might actually be an intentional letting go, a surrender powered only by breath and gentle attention?

Photo Credit via pinterest

energy come over me, partly inspired by the music I think and partly by the confidence I had built over the course of the practice. I felt… dancey! My flow actually flowed. Instead of moving step-wise through a series of poses, I felt like I was truly flowing from one movement to the next, inspired by heart energy, emotional energy. Each movement continued to feel strong, but it was soft, too, ready to transform into something else, from something else. It felt really awesome and beautiful until I realized how just how enthusiastic I must look, got a teensy bit self-conscious and almost took a little face-plant tumble in a standing split. But I left class still buzzing and carrying that novel energy with me--that feeling of physical intuition.

When I got home, I took care of the normal business of life--phone calls, mail, dinner, all that. Through all of it, and despite my buzz, I remained slightly preoccupied with the chance that I'll be offered a new job sometime in the coming week. Do I want it? Do I want to leave what I love for something unpredictable? In talking a bit with my very wise and thought-provoking mom, I added a new question to the mix: am I afraid of standing still in one place? Should I be? Was this new job opportunity merely meant to foster a deeper appreciation for what I already have? So many questions with so many pros and cons and subtexts. And I know, I firmly and deeply believe, that the answer doesn't live in the language--the mind-chatter and rumination. But how do I access the quiet, still part of me that knows what's best?

I rolled my mat out on the dining room floor and searched spotify for the song that inspired my body during class. As it played, my brain got quieter and my body took more control, moving from pose to pose naturally, without thought and with, if I do say so myself, some beauty and grace. Strong reaching backbend, deep forward fold, flat back, forward fold. Plank, chaturanga, down dog, high lunge, standing split, breathe, breathe, breathe. Then right into warrior III, and tree, half moon, close. Breathe, don't think, feel, focus on breath, balance the poses on the other side. There wasn't the thought of movement and stability, there was just the movement and stability, with the music, with the breath. A difficult sequence, fueled and sustained by something wise and strong inside of me that had no use for planning or weighing the pros and cons of each muscle firing, each limb extending.

It's been my experience so far that what starts on the mat generalizes quite organically into life. I don't know yet what the song will be to inspire my next move--from this job to that one, or deeper into the one I already have--but I trust that the song will come, and with it, the dance.

Photo Credit: Yoga-Kamala via Pinterest

stories I tell myself, the limits I set, the dysfunctional thoughts and strategies I use sometimes, the things I take for granted. I could go on and on. These insights can and do inform change, foster gratitude and  make me braver.

Another facet of the magic, I think, has to do with intention. In the beginning of many classes, I'm asked by the instructor to set an intention for my practice. There's something to be said for asking myself in a moment of stillness, with my hands in prayer at my heart, what is my intention? What do I want? What do I hope for? And that question travels with me through each day, as does the answer that motivated this commitment to begin with: I intend to live fully.

When I say I intend to live fully, this is what I mean: I seek to be fully present, alert, tuned in to what life is asking of me, and to be open enough, and more and more open, to say yes when I'm asked to stretch and expand and give more and receive more. I want to do all of the fancy twisty hand-stand stuff you see real yogis do in videos and magazines and things. I do. And I think I can do all that if I keep practicing, facing fear, opening, softening, falling, coming back to the mat. Just as much or maybe more than reaching those inverted-body-pretzal goals, though, I also want to feel the way my feet ground me each time I stand and reach toward the sky, urdhva hastasana. I want to notice the energy in my fingertips and the stretch in my spine. I want to understand the release of surrender when I forward fold, uttanasana, and the fierceness of breathing stability into my flexing calves and thighs in chair, utkatasana. I want to feel fearful and still lift off an inch or two into crane, bakasana. I want to try it again the next time, even if I fall on my face.

And I want to do all of that, in English, in street clothes, off the mat as well. To live the yoga metaphor. Today was an opportunity to say yes when it scared me and stretch beyond my limit. Through a series of serendipitous events, I found out about and expressed interest in a new position within the wonderful organization I work for. When I started this yoga journey, this particular position didn't exist and leaving my current role--one that I really enjoy and feel very comfortable in--wasn't a thought that had crossed my mind. I love being reminded that my sight is so human and limited--how silly, life says, to worry about what will happen when you can't even see all the options! Anyway. Today I breathed through two waves of group interviews, flexing muscles that have been out of practice, feeling pretty shaky sometimes and surprising myself sometimes with skill or strength or flexibility. And if you'll stick with me here as I stretch the metaphor just a little more, the savasana after all that exertion brought me quite literally to tears. 

It's funny. I asked for this. I don't know what the outcome of the interviews will be, I really don't have a clue. But I asked to be challenged, to become intimate with fear in order to find a new vantage point and then soften or stretch beyond the limits I perceived from the old one. I still want that. I'm still committed to saying yes to that. But today I'm learning, or I'm reminded maybe, that growth and grief are often really good pals. Like I said, I don't know what will come of the interview. I'm mentally jumping the gun all over the place. But in moving even mentally on from where I am now, in this case professionally, I'm ironically so acutely aware of the sweetness of my current position.  

When I got home from work today, I made muffins for Dr. Jackson. He's been a mentor and a friend since I started working in my current position two years ago. I really respect both his earnestness and his levity. He cares deeply about his patients, is thoughtful about their treatment, and is aware of his own reactions and biases to an extent that not many doctors even strive for, and certainly very few achieve. And he's funny! Funny in an offbeat way that surprises people. Which is also funny! I've learned so much from him and I just plain old like him a lot. It's scary as hell to risk leaving that sure bet in favor of a big fat unknown--a new program, a new role, new teammates. Glopping glaze on birthday muffins, listening to the borderline-over-the-top-emotional Girish song "Diamonds in the Sun," I can't help it, I cried a little. Maybe more than a little. Possibly like the whole time I glopped glaze and then for a little while after. I thought of the anonymous note I know he tucked into my mailbox when I started this job: you made our team feel whole again. 

Instead of moving into the next pose--the action of planning or predicting, the straining, the balancing, whatever--I think I'd like to sit instead with that thought for a moment. What a gift to fill that gap. What a thrill to connect that way, to feel like a part of a cohesive, whole, hilarious, super awesome team. How ridiculously lucky to get to use this body and this active, neurotic brain in a way that feels meaningful and challenging every single day. And what amazing fortune to get to conspire with so many like-minded, like-hearted people. I am blessed. Right here, right now, in grief and in growth, sitting with the smell of fresh-baked muffins, snotting all over the place, feet planted firmly on the ground, I am so blessed. As Virginia Wolf said, though, "I am rooted, but I flow"--grief and growth have momentum. In order to learn to trust my arms with the full weight of my body, to move toward those twisty inversions, my feet will need to leave the ground. The grief I'm experiencing right now, which comes almost inevitably with change, is bound to continue its bloom into pure gratitude--appreciation without attachment. Through sweetness and through sadness, I've set my intention and made my commitment, and I'll continue to say Yes. I'm not made for limits, but for lift off.

My best photo credit guess: Awakened Lotus via tumblr (via posts and reposts and reposts on Pinterest)