Digging for Depth

If we thought of action as nutrition, what would you crave? I get bored easily, and I find myself longing for eccentric complexity, novelty, anything outside the lines. My mind vibrates when I read something weird, gothic, or just unusual. My body cries out for movement that isn't walking or biking, something outside normal movement patterns. Not only do I want to take part in these experiences, I want to be a provider of these peculiar, whimsical steps off the proverbial rails.

Last month, I had the joy of completing a portion of something I have pined over for years. Three weeks were spent under the tutelage of the staff at Steadfast and True Yoga, a studio in Nashville, in pursuit of my 200 hour training on the path to become certified to teach yoga. I've taught in the past, uncertified, but I found myself in a place where I no longer felt that was an acceptable option. I was increasingly aware of the disservice it was to myself and others, especially my fellow practitioners. My choice of studio was intentional: Gillian has an amazing reputation as a teacher and life-long practitioner. She's ridiculously creative, has a strong alignment-based background, and has studied with some of the best. The staff at the studio are a driving force in a mission to provide - in my opinion - a truly unparalleled experience. The daily drives to and from Nashville were a challenge, but it was a worthy sacrifice for the level of education I received, the chance to learn more about myself, the opportunity to find depth of thought and character.

Throughout training, Gillie reminded us we would, "... Teach like our teachers until we learned how to teach like ourselves."

I long for depth, so I found a teacher who offered depth.

I long for eccentricity, so I read authors who write the eccentric.

I long for complexity, so I gravitate to designers who create complexly.

I long for visual challenge, so I adore artists who don't take the easy route.

When we visited family in Providence over the summer, we visited the HP Lovecraft Book Store in the Arcade, a shop totally dedicated to the weird and eccentric. I left with a collection of short stories by Shirley Jackson tucked under my arm, and as I read through them, I see a mirror image of my own short stories. I only read The Lottery in high school, and nothing since, so I'm certainly not lifting her style or words to use as my own. But Shirley has been a good teacher, showing me new ways to hone my craft, to stretch the truth, to catch the reader by surprise and force them to squirm uncomfortably when faced with the secrets we all stash away in the vault of our stomachs. Anne Lamott or Twyla Tharpe tell of a writer who learned to write well by copying, word for word, the works of the classics. He emerged from his experience a better writer. Obviously. How could he not? This is why as a writer, I read. This is why my favorite affirmation as a writer is this: When the reader within me unites with the writer within me, great things happen.

The Vampire's Wife is my current point of high design obsession. Susie Cave makes stunning, ethereal pieces, magical dresses, which are way outside what I could ever afford. I recently began the process of draping something similar for myself though. I can only hope what I make is a worthy homage to her beautiful dresses. Is it a copy-cat move? Yes. But I am learning about draping and form and function. From this experiment, I can apply the knowledge I gain to ideas of my own.

In high school art, we copied a particular piece of art three times over with different methods and media. Now I understand what we were doing all those years ago (Penny, I hope you are reading this!): We were learning how to create, from the masters. Reapproaching the Mona Lisa three times over didn't teach me how to copy a DaVinci well - oh no, not at all! The process taught me about shape and form and how to build the human face and hands from nothing but a pencil, how to breathe life into a sheet of paper with oil pastels, how to craft humanity from paint.

It all makes sense now, actually. We can learn by studying the masters of our craft. What I realize now is that it's okay if my work resembles these other sources for a while, as long as I give credit where it is due. In fact, it's okay if I am in that place for a while. I know I won't stay there. The more I deep dive here, the deeper my own reservoir can extend. As I learn, I am finding my own creative voice. 

A Tell of a Hun - See What I Did There?

A few weeks ago, I received a message from an acquaintance on social media. We may have spoken all of three sentences to each other, ever. All the red flags went up for me, leaving me feeling like Tootle the train in the tale of his travails off the track. Gosh, this blog is going to be full of references no one understands. Tootle is a train who discovers a beautiful world off the rails. When the trackmaster and engineers discover he is off track, they create hundreds of red flags to guide him back to the tracks where he belongs. Red flags = danger.

Look, there is nothing like being approached by those we perceive as the "cool kids", only to realize they are giving you the time of day solely for their personal gain. Wait. This isn't junior high anymore. Or even high school.

Still, even though I knew what was happening, that I was being hunned, it might have stung a little to have someone approach me and ask me fairly personal questions, then abruptly end the conversation when I tell them I am not interested. Even though I knew their play book. Even though I saw the red flags waving. Even though I didn't even play into the script. And then they just ghosted. Poof, gone, into thin air.

I know they were just doing what they do, and it's how they make money, but it seems so unethical.

But okay, shall we flip the calendar pages back a bit to the first of July? I was in Boston and had just finished a contract date for my job. I was feeling good. Optimistic. I looked out the window of the hotel room at the rough-around-the-edges city of Boston, realized it was the half year, and made a half year resolution. As an introvert (INFP), I self-protect often and am lazy about friendships. Then I hear about people having fun without me, when I should have been invited, and despite the fact that I nearly always decline invitations to do fun things, I find myself feeling disappointed. So, I resolved to be more intentional about my friendships. To be more vulnerable. To - gasp - invite people over to my house.

Now, fast forward to the hunning. Wait. Is that reference lost on you, too? Okay. Urban Dictionary defines "Hun" as:

"A term used women to address others in a condescending manner.

Often used by pyramid scheme selling moms when approaching a potential customer."

I'm using it as a verb here, but you get the idea.

But here is where I find the meat of the situation. This person was extremely intentional about getting to know me, understanding my situation, and finding a way to connect. This is the take-home. If I am serious about meeting the metrics I set forth for myself in that hotel room, I need to work from the Playbook of the Huns. Maybe we all should, in this era of fragmegration and fragmentation, of too much time spent building a life on-screen rather than off. How can we see people for who they really are? By meeting them where they are, by asking them who they are and what makes them who they are.

Maybe, just maybe, the Huns have a secret we can use to be better people, the build a kinder, healthier, happier society built on acknowledgement of individual identity, understanding and compromise. Lets just make sure we stick around instead of ghosting.

The Experience of Art

"I just don't experience art the way you do." This is what my husband says often when I rave about a song, a painting, a film, a book. I do this often, feeling coursing through my veins as I extoll the virtues of a given work. I connect with art, with creation, in an intense way. He doesn't.

This summer is the summer of shows for us, it seems. First there was Gregory Alan Isakov in a cave. Then Wu-Tang Clan at the Ryman (!!!!). I found myself on a Bonnaroo adventure last weekend and watched, most notably, Childish Gambino.

Last night was something different, though, something special. A few years ago, in the midst of the great divorce between me and all those miles on the bike, I was seeking. My rudder was knocked off by utter exhaustion, and I needed to repair it so I could find my way again. I picked up Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love, and something about the story resonated with me. Much about the story resonated with me. A deep intonation that quieted the panic at my lack of health and certainty. I finished the book, and read interviews upon interviews with Liz. What vibrated the most was this idea that we are in charge of our own vision quest, and regardless of budget, time, resources, we can find ourselves.

I went on that vision quest, and maybe I'm still riding that wave. The quest doesn't end, much in the same way the layers of proprioception in yoga peel back only to reveal another. I am, each of us are, Russian nesting dolls. What's your kernel like? You won't know if you don't dig.

How can I describe sitting in the same room as my idol? When I was in high school, I went on a trip to Europe. Hearing Elizabeth Gilbert speak, to be privy to her reading of City of Girls, was like seeing the Mona Lisa in person, across the crowded gallery, or standing in the Sistine Chapel. This person who has created so much magic, and there she was in an auditorium in Nashville. How could I be so lucky?

After her reading, which was a sheer delight, she offered Q&A, which was even more delightful. Of course. Questions surrounded the matter of creativity, process, and embracing your own eccentricity and right to exist as your accepted self. I was moved to tears when she responded to a question at length about her now-defunct podcast, and why she no longer records episodes. She said, "There's only one reason people don't do the creative thing they want to do, and that is fear."

My current has been filled with fear lately. Fear of mediocrity. Fear of lack of success. Fear of sharing. Fear of putting words on paper because they'll sound trite and novitiate. I've been a boarded up Victorian house, ramshackle boards criss-crossing the windows, ghosts rattling the floorboards, with the bushes growing high at the front to hide myself. I came, I shared, and then I went into hiding.

At the Wu-Tang show, they played an intro with quotes dubbed in, and one I can't place stuck with me.
"You know, anybody can rhyme, but it's what you say that make people know about you."
Look, I don't want to make this a random collection of quotes, but I could go on and on. This brings me to the final question of the night, and Liz's answer. The question regarded our essential humanity and sexuality, but her response circled back around to creativity in such a beautiful way. I think our creativity is far too tangled with these other ideas to ever find the end of any string.
"What the universe seems to want is constant creative response. It's always growing and creating... It's not Creation, capital C, it's creating, and we are part of creating." 
It's quintessential to our nature, our elevated consciousness and awareness, to create. To make simple things beautiful.

So pardon me while I rip the boards off the windows and replace the curtains, repair the roof and make friends with the ghosts in the parlor. It's time to move with the Universe and create. Maybe someday I can also pack an auditorium.

Devotional Beauty and the Act of Doing

I don't have any pictures to share, it was so long ago. I have them, of course, but they're tucked away in a box somewhere at my parents' house, with all the things I need to finally go through with adult eyes. It was the year 2000, a jubilee year, and I was just seventeen. My only serious high school boyfriend and I had just gone our separate ways; he had gone off to join the Navy, and even though he thought we were marriage-track I had known all along that I liked his affection and attention way more than I actually liked him. And there I was, in Europe. With friends and a teacher who became my friend. The train had carried us through to dawn and France. I was hungover from a love affair with Italy and was mourning my loss of the sight of medieval embattlements and Roman columns and Renaissance magic around every corner. 

To say the word dawn implies light. What I've since learned is quintessential French spring weather welcomed me, damp and chill, and I sighed at the loss of my real love, my first true love, warm Italian sun and art and men with espresso cups clasped between tanned fingers reaching from the arms of suits. Still, I swoon. 

I was naïve of France. Of Paris. As Americans, we sometimes seem bent on denigrating France. Look at our response in the early aughts. Pouring champagne down drainage gullies and rebranding fries and toast. That baggage was packed into my ramshackle, overpacked rolling suitcase as I bounced off the train in flipflops and a rain jacket. I shivered, and we boarded a bus destined for Our Lady. I don't remember standing in front of the façade of the cathedral, but I recall skipping puddles as our tour guide discussed flying buttresses and the rose window and surely the forest in the ceiling of this magnificent specimen of high gothic architecture. Two years later, I would find myself seated in an art history class during my year as an art history major, hearing these same words and rehashing that rainy walk. 

Inside, out of the rain, the light was dim. I'm grateful for the rain that day, the clouds, the failing quality of the light outside, for Notre Dame was all candles flaming and flickering and stained glass saints with their rose window, captured in bright white stone. I don't have a cute photo in front of the façade. Or maybe I do and I don't recall. But what I do remember is the beauty of the secret inner being of that place built of devotional beauty. I realize as I carried my phone tearfully to my husband yesterday, he who I did know in an instant that I could settle down and spend a lifetime with, that I wasn't mourning the loss of something tangible. Tears fell at the loss of beauty that we as a people share. What I learned yesterday is that we can't always wait and rely on the reliable. If you have something to create, do it. We need more beauty in this world. If there's something inside you that must be said, say it. If there's something you must see, see it. To be held, hold it. To be done, do it. The act of doing is beautiful. Make doing your devotion.

I settled into a heart opener. Bolster beneath my back, so that my sternum opened up to the sky. Let energy come in. Allow it to leave. Breathe and feel your skin stretch and expand. Then, she said it...

"It's not just about the work."

Class had been fantastic. Fallen triangles, wild things, a dancer where my favorite instructor-friend (emphasis on friend) supported me so I could reach for the full pose. I felt like a ballerina. Touching deep into my artistic side is one of the best things yoga offers me. Sometimes, maybe I do get wrapped up in the work.

But Suzanna said that, and all my preoccupations fell away.  What is life, if we aren't here to enjoy it when we can? It really isn't just about the work, the way we toil away at our life's efforts. It's about rest, too. And fun. And the love we have to give. Finally, it's about joy.

I fear it, the honest truth that sometimes on my mat and off I am too absorbed in the big picture to see the small moments in their golden glory. Can I live more awake to the lulls? To the in-between times with their abundance of goodness to offer? Rest is good. May we find joy in it, rather than guilt that we aren't doing enough. Can we let others support us so that we may reach further? Allow the light in, friends.

Thirty Six

My own New Year.

I spent the first hour and a half of the first day of year 36 on a mat. Not my own, but a rented red foam mat, in a very warm studio in Florida. Like the religious seek out a church for worship, I find a place to practice when I'm on vacation, a place to move and breathe, an anchor for my days and months and years. When I step on that mat, I know what to expect in a way, and that I won't leave the same as I entered.

An early bird to any new studio, I arrived with plenty of time to work out the kinks that arise when I spend time folded up like a paper clip in a car seat for hours on end. First I sat and took in the heat in the room, the way it pressed in against me, the space thick with dry warmth. Then I began to stretch and take up area, to press back against the atmosphere gently, with some hamstring work and then a supine twist to each side.

Twists are delicious poses, to be devoured and digested, and I love the feeling of my spine and ribs spiraling toward purpose. I thought to myself, as I often do, "Am I moving from my core?" So I felt with my free hand across my stomach cavity, to feel my muscles doing their work properly, then slid my fingers across my ribs to sense the skin stretching and twisting and exhaled to find more space in the posture.

And I wondered, as I looked at the darkness of my closed eyelids... Can I live my life for the next year, moving from my core?

Can I, for 365 days, move and live in such a way that is loyal to my innermost being?

Can I, for 365 days, trust the amazing power that lies within?

Can I, for 365 days, find joy in every moment?

Can I, for 365 days, lay aside 50% of my cynicism?

Can I, for 365 days, see my plans through? Can I flexibly deviate when needed?

Can I, for 365 days, move from my core?

This will be a year of choice. Choice for action. For courage and bravery. For chasing the horizon. For lovingkindness. Join me. Even when you're tired, when you've been folded up, can you find the space to love yourself, to move, to take a risk, to find more?

Growth Mindset

This year so far, if I could give it a title, would be called, "The Year of Being Comfortable Being Uncomfortable."

Playing in a huge window in NYC

The summer when I was ten, the divider between third and fourth grade, I sat down to write a book. I could see the idea in my mind, crystalline in all its juvenile detective noir goodness, but when I started something awful happened. Somewhere, there's a little black diary with hearts all over it, with a starting paragraph that stops abruptly. All because, CLICHE. I wrote down the phrase, "... little did she know..." and I never picked up a pencil for anything but academic writing and teenage poetry until a couple of years ago when I finally felt comfortable enough -- or deep enough in existential crisis -- to trust myself to write the strange worlds in my head.

I was still terrified of the thought of sharing my work. What if someone found out I was an amateur hack? Or even worse, an imposter. Because to any kid who came of age during the nineties, whether you preferred grunge, hip hop, or pop, being a creative poseur was literally the worst thing you could be. To be a poser was to be unacclaimed, unauthentic, disingenuous. So I started slowly, sharing little stories here and there, with friends and family. But a creator can't grow with only pats on the back. I need to stand up for critique.

Thanks to a random meet-cute on New Years Eve, I found my way into a local writer's group. I gradually began to share, and the first time was a disaster. But I heard critical thoughts I desperately needed to move out of the first stage of the Dunnen-Kreuger scale and understand I'm not prodigious or a wunderkint. And that's alright. Because I am an amateur, with so much to learn, and I'm grateful for this chance where I am in my life.

Speaking of growth, I've also spent the winter learning a completely new skill. I started working with a friend at events for Cycle for Survival, and this has proven to be a whirlwind of learning and growth for me. Before the first event weekend, I listened to a guided meditation from Positive Energy Magazine on YouTube about trusting that we have unbelievable abilities stored up inside us, just waiting for the need to arise so we can unlock the vault and dig down deep to find just what we need. Great challenge means great growth.

The delightful team I've been lucky to be a part of

I used to believe the lying voice that tells me that if something is hard for me, it must mean I'm not good at whatever the challenge is. I'm learning to trust that I can tackle any task, and while it might not be easy, I can learn to be comfortable outside of what I know. I am definitely an amateur, but my creations are authentic and genuinely mine, and I won't stop learning to be a better and more adept creator of beautiful things, so I can give the visions justice.