This wagon has squeaky wheels. That's all. No big deal.

It's been almost 3 months since I cracked open an overpriced Dale's Ale on my plane trip home from Portland, Oregon.

I haven't gone this long without alcohol since 2007.

I thought it would be the hardest thing I've done since giving birth but it turns out giving up alcohol hasn't been the real struggle.

The struggle has been having to realize that the same overwhelming waves of frustration, sadness, anger and exhaustion are still there.

Sobriety hasn't made me happier.

My life is the same dynamic mess of laughter, tears and waiting for the sky to fall as it always has been.

Every time, I reinvent myself I tell myself that it's not motivated by a need to 'fix' myself.

I tell myself that I don't believe my own bullshit but when I wake up with the same amount of mopey self pity that I had months ago, I'm surprised and somewhat pissed about it.

Being sober was supposed to break that habit, too.

Once I got sober, I'd finally be the uncomplicated/ low maintenance woman my boyfriend wanted.

When I quit drinking, I would sleep better and have more patience for my son.

When I quit drinking, I wouldn't waste my money on beer everyday and finally build up my savings.

When I quit drinking, I would learn to deal with my shit without taking a drink first.

Well?

I've woken up but it turns out that I'm still a complicated, impatient and restless woman just like always.

I still hold back tears everyday as I scan the daily news, I still wince and want to scream at intolerance (I believe there's some irony in that, no? ) and can't believe that in the midst of getting sober...I would have to watch Donald Trump become a possible contender for President of The United States, see 'Christians' shame The Pope for wanting to help the poor and watch millions risk their lives fleeing horrible living conditions and be told there is no room for them!

What the fuck? 

Doesn't The Universe know I need all my ducks in a row while I learn to not chug a beer every time something in my life starts to lose its sheen?

Damn it..the answer is?

No. 

The Universe doesn't give a rat's ass about my little white girl problems.

If ever there was a time to become knee deep drunk in whiskey, it feels like it's now.

I'd like to be.

Oh man...I'd like to get drunk, go dancing and get sloppy with a stranger but I'm not going to.

Nope, I'm just going to sit with the crappy whiny voice in my head that incessantly lists everything that annoys me.

I hear it.

I hear it but it's not the boss of me.

I'm finding that whether I'm sober or not, I'm probably always going to feel lonely.

I might never have a good close girlfriend that I can just call up to hang out and eat chocolate with.

I might always wonder if I am lovable and I may still roll my eyes every time I hear someone tell me that if I was just more positive the universe would provide me with wealth, joy and ease.

Actually, I will ALWAYS roll my eyes at that privileged belief but I just won't slam a shot of tequila  quickly so I can feign a smile and nod in agreement.

My life is rich, though...its rich with stinky stupid drama, it's rich with kid tv shows, board games and burritos.

It's rich with overwhelming thoughts, inconvenient desires and unattained dreams.

It's rich with randomn 'I love yous' from my son.

It's rich with hands that touch my shoulders to acknowledge that I am living with a man who loves me even though we seem barely able to make time to open the door for one another as we race off to work, appointments and events.

It's rich with an awareness that I can keep trying to fix things but I'd be better served by noticing what's working.

I don't know if I'm going to do this sobriety thing forever.

I keep thinking that come Winter...I may have to get a fancy Spanish Coffee to warm me up as I step deeper into my 40s.

I don't know.

I never do.

I do know that I won't ever pay $8 for a can of beer on an airplane, again.

Well, ...if Trump wins the election, maybe?

But, it's a maybe.

 

  

Sometimes, people are great.

I have a wonderful job.

I get to teach Yoga and Mindfulness for a living.

It's a privilege and I am fortunate to have been patiently trained by very accepting people over the years.

At Miraval,

I am allowed to be myself (amazingly) and given a lot of room to decide how I will teach and respond to students.

Of course, there is some structure to it, as well.

Each day, I'm likely to teach a combination of classes that include asana, pranayama, meditation and lectures on mindfulness.

It still blows my mind at times, that this is my life.

Considering what a hot mess of a teacher I was at the beginning, I am pretty sure that there are a few who knew me then that are equally shocked that I'm still at it.

When it comes to major newbie mistakes to be made...I made them all!

I didn't injury anyone but I said a lot of stupid stuff and wasn't always professional.

After almost a decade of teaching yoga full time, it is nice to know that with maturity and humility, I have been able to improve as I continue along this path.

I've gained a fair amount of wisdom and become more compassionate towards myself and others.

Hooray, for that!

But today?

Well, today was special.

Today was one of those days where I got to witness just how much I've learned as a teacher and how important it is to value the trust that must happen between a student and their instructor.

In the middle of my day (between a 2 hour lecture on stress management & 2 asana classes) I got the pleasure to work with an amazing woman and her seeing eye dog, Buster.

She's in her early 60's, almost completely blind and recently started practicing yoga because "I need to take an interest in myself, for once".

She was nervous (I was, too) but also aware that she needed to move her body more,

She has only 10% of her sight left.

It started when she was only 10 years old but it did not prevent her from becoming a gymnast, having a career and raising 2 sons with the help of her husband.

Soon she will be in complete darkness. 

She knows that now is the time to learn how to be in her world fully because sooner than later she won't be able to see it.

So, we took the time to practice.

Buster sat next to her. 

Relaxed and half awake.

We did a little Yin, a little Joint Freeing Series and then she said she needed to work on her balance and get stronger.

I took a moment to think about it and asked her if she had used a wall before.

She rolled her eyes as if to say "I'm blind, what do you think?" So, I asked her to walk over to the wall and demonstrated Ardha Chandrasana (Half Moon).

She very quickly said "Oh no, I can't do that".

I said "Let's just try...if nothing else you can pretend you are holding the wall up".

She was reluctant but gave it a go.

She did it.

Easily.

Before her eyes could tear up...mine did, instead.

It was one of those experiences when the sweetness of triumph is freely celebrated.

I cried.

It was simple, you know?

A person puts there backside against a wall and drops their hand to the floor and lifts a leg up.

Nothing Earth shattering except it was something.

It was special.

We ended our private session shortly after.

We didn't 'do' much. 

No handstands. 

Nothing that required a hot room or a commitment to practice every single day.

What we did do was to be open to the possibilities that would allow her to feel strong, balanced and courageous.

We were willing to experience a moment of vulnerability, to be honest about it and be aware that this might reduce future hesitation.

It was just a moment but I still feel shaken by it and really can't do it justice.

Lately, I've been questioning what I am doing. Yoga is such a 'thing' these days but it is a practice and it can rip you wide open sometimes and that's fucking beautiful. 

Tight pants won't fix you because you're not broke, damn it.

A few weeks ago, I was at a family gathering to say goodbye and celebrate my niece's accomplishments before she moves away to begin college and ultimately save the world.

After a 5am start to my day, I arrived late after work, found the buffet of food and begin to devour a heaping pile of wilted garlic salad.

Half way into it, two women I adore sat down next to me to catch up.

Within moments they surveyed my work outfit: yoga pants and top and said "We need you to come over and teach us yoga".

"Of course, I'd be happy to" and then their real reason was said without hesitation:

"We've got jiggle. Dimples.Yuck".

They grabbed their thighs and shook them to accentuate their point.

My shoulders slumped and I felt sad.

They reminded me that most of us whether it's yoga, cross fit or whatever...are wanting to do these practices because we are hoping to fix what's wrong with us...on the outside.

Our dimples, stretch marks, grey hairs and laugh lines...those parts of us that reveal a life history are not celebrated but instead hidden or condemned.

I mean, let's be honest...if a woman doesn't talk about what's wrong with her we label her as arrogant and full of herself and if you spend any time in a grocery store line you can't escape the messages on magazines that reinforce that being gorgeous is the key to happiness.

In addition, pretty much any current women's magazine is going to have a caption that praises yoga as a fun and interesting way to get it all:

If you do just a few simple moves, you too will get sexy-yoga arms like Tara Stiles and can look svelte in super cute yoga pants like Kate Hudson.

It's what the beautiful people do and who doesn't want to be beautiful like them?

I mean...uh...I do!

I want to be beautiful, lean, strong, calm, thoughtful and liked and quite often believe that I am anything but so I am just as neurotic as my friends who are wanting to do yoga for the sole purpose of getting rid of cellulite which it doesn't, by the way.

That conversation we had several weeks ago ended after I told them that even though I practice yoga every day...I've had cellulite since I was in my 20's and it hasn't disappeared but instead recruited more friends.

They were NOT happy to hear this and quickly dismissed the notion of even trying yoga if it wasn't going to give them the elusive yoga body that seem to be overwhelmingly promoted.

"I mean what's the point, then"?

Well? It a very common question and one that I've been asking myself a lot but not because yoga hasn't given me Tina Turner legs but because yoga has become a mask for covering up the continuation of women devaluing themselves as mere physical objects.

I am a yoga teacher, therefore, I am obligated to acknowledge that I have been an active participant in abusing yoga as a tool to be prettier on the outside, as well.

I am one of thousands of American women making a living off of an appropriated practice that many of us chase after with an expectation of eternal youth.

When I began to practice yoga 20 years ago, I was recovering from a serious eating disorder.

It began as a means to appreciate my body after years of bulimia and anorexia but once I got into it I too began to abuse it as another opportunity to overdo, under consume and hide behind its exoticness so that no one could see that I was still obsessed with being perfect.

These days, I still find myself falling into that trap from time to time (specifically, right around my period) but I own it, I know it's futile and I know I can choose to spend my time objectifying myself or tell that voice to speak up about issues that actually matter.

I've grown up and my practice has been along for the ride and given me a foundation of support.

I have a responsibility to be clear with myself and my students as to why after all these years, after the obnoxious amounts of yoga scandals, commercialization and tacky reinventions (Happy Hour Yoga or worse yet, Ghetto Fabulous Yoga, anyone?) as to why I am still participating in a 10 Billion dollar industry that lately seems more focused on selling insecurity, better sex, vacant new-ageism and expensive pants than encouraging health, wellness, awareness and social responsibility. I do it because it feels good, It calms me down and I'm nicer to myself and others when I practice so that is why I practice yoga.

Yoga is old.

It is a living practice that continues to evolve and the fact that women practice yoga more then men is a sign of progress. 

50 years ago, that fact would have been taboo to the men teaching yoga so I say "Yes, sisters...do more yoga" but stop using it as another means to oppress ourselves physically, mentally and spiritually just like I did.

Please, Stop. Doing. That.

Yoga is not lost. 

It's just covered in a lot of party make up and like myself...I hope it will start to realize that it can be fun to glam it up now and then but you can't pull that shit off all the time otherwise you just wind up looking in the mirror and seeing something resembling Bette Davis in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" and thinking 'Damn yoga, you lied to me. I'm getting older. These Sun Salutations and Handstands were for nothing'.

Some of us are going to get cellulite, some of us are going to get those sexy yoga arms, some of us are going to bind in a twist or not but regardless we are all going to die. 

Don't let those stories of Gurus living forever trick you...that's just good marketing of the ultimate lie.

We are all going to die.

What's important is what are we going to do before that?

If it's yoga then practice yoga.

Show up, feel your breath, your bones, your jiggly thighs and if your mind wanders off (it will) than maybe consider how you're going to make the world better today.

In the interim, support yourself and all the other women who have yet to discover the depths of their yoga practice: it's to prevent future suffering so that they may live a life worth their time.

I'm still jiggliy after all these yoga years. I'm still weird, awkward and obnoxious after all these years but those things don't need to be fixed. All I want is to be awake for my life AND yours so that I can keep on eating garlic salad and keep on laughing and loving.

Road Trip Wisdom 2015

It's been almost 14 years since I took a vacation longer than 3 days.

On July 2nd Zack, Atticus and myself hit the road to Encinitas, California.

I had asked a friend if we could crash at his place with only an expectation that we would have a floor to sleep on.

We rolled in around rush hour and found ourselves pulling up to a 2 bedroom house all to ourselves and only a couple blocks from the beach...

Atticus had no memory of being in the ocean so my heart was full of happiness to be sharing this amazing world with him.

We ran into the waves and I remembered how much I love the immense hug that the ocean gives you as the sand sways beneath your feet.

It felt good to be in water, to feel small and to feel nothing but delight.

The rest of our adventure took us up the California Coast starting at The San Diego Zoo then L.A. and The Santa Monica Pier and then up to Sausalito, San Francisco, The Redwoods, Sonoma, Gold Beach, Eugene, The Oregon Country Fair, Portland and Mt. St. Helen's.

I spent a lot of time in the car, looking out the window, looking at the ocean, looking at trees and just observing different people and the way towns and communities change depending on the environment and economy.

I had a lot of time to rest, to observe the world and observe myself...and I came to a few conclusions:

I love being quiet. I like not having to talk or being concrete with my words all the time.

If it has a tiger on it, I'm likely to wear it for days so a 2nd suitcase is unnecessary. 

Always pack cold sore medication. Always. 

Drink more water. 

Drink less alcohol.

Remember to breathe when we hit heavy traffic and leave Zack alone to be in his world when he is driving.

Listen to my external voice when I speak to people. Sometimes it sounds a lot like my Mom.

Continue to observe my internal voice and question it if it sounds too familiar. It may be only a habitual story that I'm clinging to because I'm in a different place.

Don't worry if I think someone is judging me or my kid. I love kids and I love being a parent. I'm not always great at it, pretty messy actually but I found myself feeling insecure around my parent less friends and felt like I needed to make excuses for my choice to become a mother and how I disciplined Atticus but after 2 weeks on the road with a feisty 6 year old. I can say that I love that freak show and I'm a good mother. 

I want to live in a cabin in the woods near the ocean.

I do not like crowds and no matter how much the air is filled marijuana I don't relax in them.

I am in love with Zack.

I ate enough meat at one BBQ to feel guilty for the rest of my life and am going back to being meatless. It was a fun 2 year experiment but I think I'm done.

I can maintain my yoga and meditation practice on the road. I live it. It's cohesive.

I miss trail running.

I will always feel a draw to Mt. St. Helen's and couldn't hide my tears from my son as we stood in front of it. 

Spending more time in one place is the one change I will make next time. I missed connecting with several people I adore due to time constraints.

My Ex-husband and I can finally be social together and that's a great thing.

I am getting older but also wiser. I think I will be a beautiful woman as I age.

I may be addicted to coffee but I still can't drink fully caffeinated cups so...slow down.

No matter how long it's been...my friends are loyal and generous.

So...really?

I need to relax more.

Visit more.

I also need to do all of the above at home more but the next 2 week vacation will come much sooner. 

It's needed.

A very strong whisper.

It started with some loud and inconsistent snoring, then grumpy mornings that evolved into cranky and impulsive school days so after several discussions with his pediatrician and a specialist, Atticus had his tonsils and adenoids removed this Tuesday.

Like most things that are big deals...I felt like I could handle it with ease.

I do that:

I worry over little things like the bath mat not matching the shower curtain and under prepare when things are serious like my child having the back of his throat cauterized. 

I bought the things you're told to buy for this sort of ordeal...Popsicles, pudding, juice, applesauce, mashed potatoes.

We bought him a Kindle and loaded it up with all the games that he isn't usually allowed to play for days on end and told him to zone out whenever he wants.

I bought him a book about having your tonsils removed and read it beforehand.

I took most of the week off of work and prepared food for myself so that I wouldn't forget to eat.

I sent his father details on what to expect, gave him a shopping list and a schedule for when to give Atticus his medicine.

I thought I had it figured out.

I asked Facebook for encouragement and support but nothing can prepare you for a big-eyed 6 year old who can't swallow and is desperately trying to tell you that he hates you for doing this to him and then immediately apologizing for using the word 'hate'.

I'm on day 5 of feeling like an asshole and trying to remind myself that this will pass.

I've been a caregiver before.

I've been sick before.

It's awful.

Sick people don't like you.

They don't like anything or anyone and for good reason...physical pain can be overwhelming and my boy is able to pause and breath but he's also a little kid who didn't ask for this and he is pissed.

I feel ridiculously clueless.

I feel sad and incredibly arrogant for thinking that we would get through this quickly.

It's like everything...pretending it doesn't hurt, thinking that it's not really going to be this way doesn't fix it or make the unpleasant suddenly say "oh...this isn't a good time? I will come back later or maybe not at all"....it doesn't have an agenda, it just is.

The next few days will continue to challenge us.

It continues to challenge me from taking it so personally.

I'm the mom.

I have to fix this:

If I can just find the right pudding flavor then he will eat it, if I can use a different tone of voice then the next time I ask him to take a sip of water...it'll be easier for him to swallow.

Last night, I found myself holding my breath, crossing my fingers and hoping that the next sip of water wouldn't be as painful as the last and I realized again how much the little things matter.

One sip of water.

A spoonful of honey.

A breath. 

A deep breath.

Everything is important.

His tears tell me he's hydrated.

His desire to scream tells me he's still a feisty spirit despite feeling such sadness at the same time.

Anything I can get him to swallow is a gigantic victory and one I usually take for granted.

I'm humbled and exhausted and find myself wondering if this was the wrong thing to do but I know it wasn't despite feeling so shitty right now.

Everything is ephemeral, I know that but it's not easy to explain that to a 6 year old so...

this is where that lesson will start.

It will start with a moment that will happen soon in which the pain is gone, the sips turn into gulps and the screams come out loud and clear and have nothing to do with a sore throat but wanting me to shut the door so he can have privacy in the bathroom, again.

Then we will remember what was and that life is constantly changing.

My Boy: Super Hero

The missing never stops but it can become sweeter.

This is my time to celebrate the beauty of loss.

Whenever you lose someone close to you, the dates of their birth and death become days of remembrance. 

I am currently in that phase again, however, for me there are 3 dates that mark what I call 'The Season of my Dad'. 

There is his birthday, March 22nd.

There is the day he died, April 23rd and the date that I arrived back in Tucson, January 21st knowing that I was returning to care for and eventually bury him.

On January 20th, my Sister-in-law called to tell me that my father's 5 years of chemotherapy to battle liver cancer were over.

My ticket was bought, I packed a duffle bag with some clothes and caught the red eye from Portland to Tucson completely unaware that my stay would be wind up being months not days long.

My Sister-in-law was 9 months pregnant and believing my father would die at any moment chose to be induced the very next day so that my father could meet his grandson.

That day.

January 21st was the day that life and death became equally balanced to me.

I made a commitment to be just as aware of being with my father until he let go of his life's last sigh into death as I was watching my nephew come into his life and this world screaming. 

I kept that promise to myself and because of that my recollection of that time is full of sweetness.

Every year, as my nephew gets a year older I remember his birth as one of the most profound moments of my life. My Sister-in-law had all of us in her delivery room. It was at least 10 people thick and my father sat with his back turned to her and he held his hands to his heart and prayed.

I imagine he prayed for the health and happiness of this brand new little boy but also gave gratitude for the chance to meet him.

As the days continue on in memory and I move forward towards March, I find myself thinking about the things we did together during that time:

going to every Cowboy themed steakhouse in Southern Arizona, seeing The Sons of the Pioneers, walking the trails of Sabino Canyon, eating our body weight in Banana Cream Pie and sitting on his patio to watch the magic of an Arizona sky.

He was happy.

Cousins, aunts, uncles, exes and friends made their way to his refuge near the mountains to spend time and grieve with him but his ability to accept death was done with a grace that I couldn't have imagined.

After his 52nd Birthday...his health declined rapidly but he still wanted to be with people.

He would talk for hours with all visitors, even though it hurt to swallow and was difficult to breathe. 

He hugged and held the hands of those that came to bid him goodbye.

He cried openly. He was no longer a man fearful of tears. He knew that he would be missed and he would miss out on seeing his 4 children and 2 grandchildren grow up.

He wrote his own obituary (he didn't give up control entirely) and constantly reminded us that we were loved.

2 weeks before his death, it snowed.

It was Easter and as always we attempted to celebrate the balance between birth and death but that day seemed to weigh heavier as a foreshadowing of my father's life ending as the snow covered the new growth of desert wild flowers and the air was quiet and crisp.

The night he died...is a night that even 16 years later is clear.

I had given my father a morphine shot earlier and for the first time in 2 months we had been able to get my grandmother to let my father sleep alone.

He wouldn't die in front of her but he needed to die, it was time.

I will never forget the feeling of calm as I sat with him, holding his hand and hearing his last breaths.

His last gasp.

Never. 

Minutes after I left the room...the hospice nurse came out to say he had died. 

In the middle of the shock of recognizing that my father's last moment...had just came and went without the rest of the world noticing, I looked towards his bedroom door and I saw him.

He smiled, he winked and waved goodbye.

I will never forget that.

This is 'The Season of my Dad' and even though I sometimes wonder how this slow walk of remembrance serves me I know that it opens my heart a little bit more each time I feel the tears run down my face.

This is the time when a grown woman still misses her father.

I know that my life like his is just a moment not to be wasted.

And I sigh and breathe it all in.