Raw Rach

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2012-01-30T10:28:00.000-08:00

You know so much more
than you think you know.

Trust it, ok?

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2012-01-27T00:13:00.001-08:00

Pretty stoked to let you know that rachelmeyeryoga.com is officially live. That would mean, I suppose, that this wee blog now has a big sister.

My girl Joy and I have been at it for some time cranking this little puppy out, and I'm blessed to call this design guru, yogi, and general rockstar a good friend, too. Hit up Swash Design for more.

In the meantime? I'll see you on the Interwebs.

Raw, adjective: 6. ignorant, inexperienced, or untrained: a raw recruit.

2012-01-24T19:30:00.000-08:00

One day, some people came to the master and asked: "How can you be so happy in a world of such impermanence, where you cannot protect your loved ones from harm, illness, and death?" The master held up a glass and said: "Someone gave me this glass, and I really like this glass. It holds my water admirably and it glistens in the sunlight. One day the wind may blow it off the shelf, or my elbow may knock it from the table. I know this glass is already broken, so I enjoy it incredibly."

— Achaan Chat Subato, Theravadan meditation master

(A favorite story of mine for years now, first found in Steve Ross's book, Happy Yoga)

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2012-01-24T11:03:00.000-08:00

Hey, y'all.

We're gonna get our Valentine's Day on together this year. What are you up to on Sunday, Feb. 12th?

"The heart that breaks open can contain the whole universe. Your heart is that large: trust it. Keep breathing."

— Buddhist scholar Joanna Macy

Crack your heart open with Rachel in this special Valentine's Day weekend workshop. Whether your heart feels rich with love or raw with regret, bring yourself — your whole self, your broken-hearted self, your questioning self, your most-hopeful self — to the mat for an afternoon of sweet heart openers, rich bhakti philosophy, heart-swelling melodies, and a whole lotta love. Rachel will guide you through a strong flow designed to breathe space and light into all the parts of your heart that might have shut down, tightened up, or closed off a bit over the years. Come for the sweat and the song; stay for the homemade heart-shaped bundt cake to follow.

Because it's never too late to fall in love: with yourself, with one another, and with the world.

Join us for this cozy Sunday afternoon at Glow Yoga & Wellness in San Francisco's iconic North Beach. Details and registration here. Official Facebook invitation here.

(And yes — there will be cake.)

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2012-01-23T11:45:00.001-08:00

Home and grateful for a wet drippy morning meant for looking ahead.

February's around the corner, and with it, a few changes. I'm stunned to see the calendar already filling up. It's going to be a good, big, moving-and-shaking kind of month.

In the meantime, we huddle inside and fight to stay warm, and try to avoid that Blue Monday sense of midwinter malaise.

After a cold and sleepless night at the Denver airport, around 4 o'clock this morning I brushed my teeth, slapped a little more eye makeup on top of yesterday's, and marched purposefully to Gate B32 to stare down the United Airlines ticket agent as, um, kindly and yogically as possible. Intent upon getting a seat on the 6am flight to San Francisco, I telepathically communicated to the exhausted ticket agent how imperative it was that I get home before things got ugly, and thanks be to Yahweh, found myself hustled onto the flight five minutes before it was due to depart.

I was ready to be home. The weekend in Nebraska brought with it sweet reunions and some much-needed time at the piano, but Real Life was waiting here on Lower Nob Hill, and so on landing in blessed Northern California, I hauled out of SFO and flagged a cab right away to steer myself hurtlingly home through what would surely be rainy, bluesy Monday morning post-49ers-loss rush hour traffic.

Ricky picked me up.

I didn't know his name was Ricky until he shook my hand just as I was about to step out of his cab twenty minutes later. But it was one of those rides, one of those moments, that I can't help but know was quite meant to be.

I needed him. And I think he needed me.

Ricky and I, right off the bat, well, we talked football and disappointing fumbles and kids and love and growing up in the Bay Area and whether marriage was really a smart thing for relationships and what it's like to be 64 and raising a 14-year-old in the age of Internet and texting and we talked boxing lessons and drum lessons and trips to Seattle and he took off his hat about halfway through and I felt like that was a big step, you know, a letting-me-in, an intimacy of sorts, and I saw there a man who was wise and grounded and earthy and real and sharp and possibly, yes, most certainly had a lived a few years on the edge here and there before settling down.

And we bonded, Ricky and I, over what it means to choose to live outside the box, to operate according to your own standards, to refuse to play by the rules. And I told him I'd been a bartender, and I knew then that he got it; one service industry vet always respects the other, knows there's a good strong tip on the flipside, and so things softened even more and we chatted and meandered and I found myself lost in the kind of conversation that rarely comes up when there's not a fair amount of vino or tequila involved to lubricate things.

Maybe it came from the freedom to be real that I have sensed so often over the years from folks on the other side of the bar. That ability to open up to a stranger, the knowing your Shit isn't gonna go anywhere, the knowing it's safe, the knowing there's no one to protect or fear. Or maybe it came from the years on the mat spent practicing being open, being real, being anahata, unstruck. Or maybe it was just a byproduct of my not having slept and, quite punch-drunk from exhaustion, having thrown all caution to the wind.

But I opened up there with Ricky, about living and loving and children and whether any of it was worth it, and about how little you really need to be happy, and about how those big inflated salaries and those long unbearable workweeks that we've seen folks close to us get sucked into are really, at the end of the day, so very unnecessary.

And, climbing Leavenworth toward home, my flat just a few blocks away, I almost didn't want the ride to end. Our conversation felt so real, so unedited, so authentically natural. Ricky told me he was a San Francisco kid raising his son on baseball and drum lessons in the 'burbs. His father had been a big-wig in the film industry back in the day, and had made a lot of money doing it. He said that, driving a cab, he was comfortable, had enough, could live easily enough beneath his means and take his kid to a Warriors game now and then, that sort of thing.

And I felt so close to him.

In the way you do when you realize you're very much the same person with the same resigned understanding of how short this life really is and how very little the material trappings matter and how easy it really is to be quite content with warmth and sustenance and a job that you don't hate.

Ricky and me, we were brothers, somewhere in there, back in the day.

And then, hauling uphill through the Tenderloin, he looked over his shoulder at me and said,

"You know, my Pops always told me, in spite of his money —

You only need three things in life: A solid roof over your head,
some good warm clothing, and a pair of arms to wrap around you.

The rest is bullshit."

I loved him for that.

It was grounding to be back on the prairie for a few days, to be reminded where I come from, of what I'm made. And it was sobering, quietly so, to sit in the midst of what has grown to be unfamiliar barrenness: the quiet of the rural setting, the emptiness of the big sky, the whipping of the winter wind. Everything felt more still, more simple, and most definitely more slow. I found my fiery, impatient, fast-paced urban pitta self grounding, calming, rooting, and it felt right.

In conversation with an old friend during the long weekend in Nebraska, our words happened to stir memories of a passing piece of wisdom thrown out some 15 years ago now, a quick bit of advice that my own Pops gave me on my very first cross-country move to the East Coast at age 18, as he turned to leave me in the strange city that would become my new home. He paused, looked over at me in his unsentimental, Nebraska farm kid kind of way, and said, simply, humbly, with that very same tone Ricky used in speaking to me this morning:

"You know, Rach, there's just one thing:
Never forget who you are, or whose you are, or where you come from."

There's great power, great truth, in that remembering.

And the rest? Bullshit.

I threw Ana Forrest's new book, Fierce Medicine, in my carry-on as I ran out the door to the airport Friday afternoon. I'd been looking forward all week to having six whole hours of no Internet, no phone, no nothing, to be left alone to get lost in a book for the first time in awhile, and somehow I knew that was the one that needed to come along with me.

Sure enough, a few minutes after lifting off from San Francisco, I cracked that puppy open and the entire tome was this fierce, fearless exploration of what it means to dive into all our shit: to plumb the depths of where we come from, the beautiful, the grotesque, the painful, the poignant, and the power of staying with all that comes up when we do that, and the liberation that comes in knowing it will pass, in knowing that if we're wild enough and strong enough and soft enough, we'll ride it out.

Forrest's book is the real deal. No joke, nothing spared. The messy stuff of life, writ large on the body, on the soul, on the spirit, that refuses to be beaten down. It's worth your time. It'll kick your butt and encourage you to dive into the sites of all your own traumas, and to see in them opportunities for moving through shadow into light.

Nebraska has been for me, in many ways and for various reasons over the years, that site of shadow in my own life. And so, in barreling breathlessly through Forrest's story in that plane speeding toward Omaha Friday night, I found in myself a new ability to say, hey, it's cool; sit with it; ride it out; watch it; love that guru for teaching you how to stay and be ok.

And the weekend ended up rich with those very gurus, thick with moments, perfect in ways I'd not even expected. As all things do. As even the sleepy-eyed cab ride home this morning did. Ricky and his 14-year-old kid and the wife he laughs with still and his lack of a need to get married before the son came along.

Sometimes out there in the world, just when you're thinking you've got it all laid out, comes along a creature in the form of a cab driver or a fellow airline passenger or even a gas station clerk who reminds you of the truth that all people are simply, radiantly, unquestioningly reflections of the divine. I am grateful for a very early morning that brought Krishna to me in the guise of a gruff, no-bullshit, beanie-wearing cab driver.

The sacred is everywhere we turn.

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2012-01-22T23:02:00.000-08:00

A beautiful weekend on the prairie.

Re-connecting and re-fueling and re-creating and re-newing.

We did some good strong sweaty asana Saturday afternoon at Yoga Body & Balance in Lincoln (thank you, radiant Thomas and Tataya!) and again today at One Tree Yoga (Jamie and crew, you rock!). In between times it was all prairie winds whipping and old friends re-visiting and easy catching-up with the most real, most rad Meyer cousins over dinner and a few blessed moments of silence and stillness intermingled with some precious stolen time at the baby grand piano before heading out for the airport this evening.

Worn out, well lived-in, I gladly settled into a seat at the bar in Omaha to watch the second half of the Giants-49ers playoff game. My flight was delayed, which felt like an unexpected gift; I savored the sport and the solitude and yes, the Sauza Hornitos, sitting there watching football and running over pleasant memories of the weekend in my mind.

And then they announced that our flight was delayed again, and so we sat on the runway for an hour, wondering who was winning in overtime, only to land here in Denver and discover that the blue carpeted floor would be my bed for the night.

Synopsis: Stranded in the Denver airport overnight. 49ers lose in overtime.

So? You choose how to react. In every breath, you choose how to react.

Patanjali wrote in Sutra 1.1, Atha yoga anusasanam: "Now is the time for yoga to begin." The yoga starts here, in moments like this one, sprawled on the dirty airport floor, eating Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, in the choosing not to freak out. In calmly and reasonably and patiently saying, "Ok, cool, so it's out of my control, and the weather was what it was, and this is my teacher, so thank you, guru inadvertent airport sleepover, for giving me a chance to practice being patient and chill and flexible."

This is why we practice. Not so we can put our feet behind our heads, or so we have really stretchy hamstrings, or a hot yoga ass. We practice so that when life behaves differently than we would like for it to, we already know how to be flexible with it, to let go of control, to soften our faces and relax our shoulders and breathe space into the minutes and know we'll be just fine.

So, thanks, barefoot airport slumber party, for reminding me what it means to do yoga.

Atha yoga anusasanam. Now is the time for yoga to begin.

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2012-01-19T12:40:00.000-08:00

The love of our neighbor in all its fullness
simply means being able to say,
"What are you going through?"

— French philosopher
Simone Weil

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2012-01-18T11:30:00.001-08:00

See you this weekend in
Lincoln and Omaha
for a little Bhakti-Flow,
Nebraska-Style.

You might wanna start
hydrating, um, now.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2012-01-18T09:11:00.000-08:00

Last night's playlist veered dangerously toward the hippie flute music genre, but in actuality it ended up being pretty rad. Details below. Crazy about Ben Leinbach's Sangha album, if you couldn't figure that out by looking at this list. Enjoy.

Sangha-Inspired

Toura Toura: The Medina Remix, Cheb I
Aureole, Jens Gad Presents
O Rama, Susheela Raman
Peaceful Steps, J Boogie's Dubtronic Science
Swan, Althea W.
On Namo Guru Dev, Fabian Alsultany
Rama Bolo (feat. Jai Uttal), Ben Leinbach
Prana Groove, Stevin McNamara
The Orbiting Suns, Jens Gad Presents
By Your Side/Jaya Gurudev, Ben Leinbach
Staraja Ladoga, Achillea
Nataraj (feat. Mukti), Ben Leinbach
Sharade, Girish
One Hundred Names, The Nields
Almost Blue, Diana Krall

Raw, adjective: 2. not having undergone processes of preparing, dressing, finishing, refining, or manufacture: raw cotton.

2012-01-17T10:05:00.000-08:00

I knew I loved Pico Iyer, but this
makes me love him even more.

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2012-01-16T23:28:00.001-08:00

Magnolia shared this today, and I love, love, love it:

Is teaching yoga your dharma — can you honestly say yes? Read this quote and ask yourself:

Dharma (your life's work) is not what you do, not what you should do, not even what you want to do, but you were born to do. If you are not clear about your dharma, keep exploring, try different things, look deeper into yourself. You cannot expect your dharma to magically descend upon you one blessed day. Exploring your dharma is your dharma. It is rare process of exploration. It is usually the effort — the attempt, the strife, the very act of looking — that allows a person to make this vital discovery. In searching for a home, we may visit a hundred houses, yet this extravagant effort is not futile, for we often have to see many houses before we can realize that only one of them is our home. Similarly, during the process of discovering your dharma, you may have to explore many options until you eventually develop the strong, unshakeable feeling, “This is what I was born to do”.

(Source unknown)

What were you born to do? Do you know? Have you ever had that "strong, unshakeable feeling"?

If so, my friend: grab that dharma by the balls and go with it. You are lucky, indeed. So many people spend their whole lives searching and never quite find it. Embrace that knowing. It's big.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2012-01-16T13:05:00.001-08:00

Hey, yoga nerds!

How do y'all feel about a little Book Club action?

Last night at our OMpower gathering with Off The Mat , I got to chatting with my old philosopher friend Gary about how much fun it'd be to launch a wee yoga book club. I've been flirting with this concept for awhile now, and you know, it's past time to make that happen.

Many of us — teachers, students, asana practitioners, and just folks with a particular curiosity for philosophy or religion — have participated in extensive teacher trainings, highly-structured academic programs, and whatnot over the years, but there's something to be said for building a monthly supported, informal practice of ongoing study into our lives, for creating the kind of intellectual sangha that reminds us to stay curious, to stay interested, to come at this yoga thing always and ever as beginners.

So let's do it, eh?

We can read flimsy, pop culture-style fiction that has ostensibly little to do with yoga; we can dig into thick philosophy texts; we can drool over beautiful illustrated works like Sanjay Patel's hip cartoon version of the Ramayana, pictured above; we can plumb the Sutras or the Upanishads themselves; we can dive into rabid anti-yoga treatises to better understand the practice we love with sharp, critical eyes. We can hit the vino hard or we can make it a chai/dessert kind of gig. It's pretty wide-open, kids.

I've got a few good ideas already taking root, but we'll really build it together, so if you've got favorite books, dishy topics or just general rad suggestions, please leave them in the comments below. And if you'd be interested in participating in a monthly salon-style gathering (whether in person or online), either leave your name, email address and any book titles you'd like to share in the comments below, or shoot me a private email with that same info at rachelmeyeryoga@gmail.com.

Let's do this already.

Raw, adjective: 2. not having undergone processes of preparing, dressing, finishing, refining, or manufacture: raw cotton.

2012-01-16T11:46:00.000-08:00

Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness. The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is.

— Willa Cather, The Song of the Lark

That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.

― F. Scott Fitzgerald

Raw, adjective: 6. ignorant, inexperienced, or untrained: a raw recruit.

2012-01-16T10:51:00.000-08:00

There has been just so very much buzz about the potentially injurious nature of yoga in the wake of the NY Times's recent magazine feature, "How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body."

Big drama in yogi land! Everybody's taking a stand.

It seems pretty obvious that, if one responds to the whole thing with a fair amount of reason and sensibility, it's quite clear that any athletic endeavor done to excess for the sake of the ego or competition can be seriously harmful. And the whole hubbub has raised a number of great discussions about what the "true" purpose of yoga really is — which has meant a lovely cultural reminder that "real" yoga (whatever that means) is about so much more than just gymnastics.

Dr. Timothy McCall, who's been the Medical Editor of Yoga Journal for years now, was interviewed for the NYT piece in regard to the safety of inversions like Headstand. In the wake of the controversy, he has written an extensive response to the article in his latest newsletter, and it's worth your time. Read McCall's point-by-point explanation of "How Not To Wreck Your Body Doing Yoga" on his website here:

The Times article correctly mentions that I developed (in late 2001) a case of thoracic outlet syndrome (TOS), in which I believe headstand, plow pose and shoulderstand played a role. But part of it could also be blamed on my own stubbornness (I’ve got a bit of pitta myself). Just before I developed intermittent numbness and tingling in my right arm, I’d been increasing my headstands up to 10 minutes a day, even though that was more than I could comfortably do. I was allowing an external goal suggested by someone else — not my own body’s feedback — to dictate when I came down. I now believe that at the moment (or just before) you lose that balance of effort and ease in the pose, if your breath is rough, or if it just doesn’t feel good, you need to come out.

Amen, buddy!

I generally don't teach inversions in big, busy classes. They're a little too dangerous and require too much hands-on instruction to really be able to appropriately and safely serve a class full of 40 people at the same time. I find, too, that it's more important to me as a teacher — and as someone who's trying to maintain the kind of rhythmic, meditative vinyasa pace that allows the inhales and the exhales to begin to calm the chattering mind — to focus on establishing a consistent flow, which stopping the class and spending five minutes breaking down a complicated inversion in partner-work can really interrupt.

There are certainly appropriate times to study inversions and similar extra-challenging asanas with the right highly-qualified teacher. Workshops, for instance, are ideal for perfecting the kinds of poses you've been wanting to try, but have been a bit afraid to dive into without personalized assistance. But in the wake of this industry conversation, I find myself recommitting to continuing to largely save inversions for private moments or post-class instruction.

It's not rocket science. Just listen to your body. Back off when it gets to be too much. Honor ahimsa. It's so easy to say that, yes, and yet, for many of us, so very hard to do. So we practice. And, day by day, the yoga, the asana, becomes less about the performance, less about the ninja moves, and more about the meditation, the refuge, the release.

We'll keep at it. And this hubbub, this controversy, this buzz? It's a very good teacher, too.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2012-01-16T09:23:00.001-08:00

I promised you a few playlists. Here are the tunes from yesterday morning, Saturday afternoon and last Thursday night's classes. Yeah, baby. Happy listening.

Salvation

Hari Krishna, Masood Ali Khan
Gate Gate, Deva Premal
Ganesha, Wah!
Arboleda de Manzanitas, Eighty Mile Beach
Leave It All Behind, J Boogie's Dubtronic Science
Om Triambakam, Deva Premal
Broken Ambers, Gil Tamazyan
Alright (3pm Mix), Soulstice
Samba Pa Ti Feat. Roy Hargrove, Angelique Kidjo
Rosada Flor, J Boogie's Dubtronic Science,
Salvation, Goapele
Chaap Tilak, Go-Ray & Duke
Hurt, Johnny Cash
Hari Om (feat. Prajna Vieria), Ben Leinbach
Anyone and Everyone, Lhasa de Sela
Breathe, Alexi Murdoch

Holiday Afterglow

Aureole, Jens Gad Presents
The Blissed Place, Hideo Kobayashi
Amber Sky, Samantha James
Pling!, Shuggie Otis
Really?, Bluemind
Realistic, Soulstice
Silver Sans, Jens Gad Presents
Fools Work, Inara George
Les Eaux Verts, Jens Gad Presents
Guaranteed, Eddie Vedder
Staraja Ladoga, Achillea
What Kind of Heart, Lhasa de Sela
Chanson Pour Une Femme, Althea W
Farewell, Dario Marianelli
Fool's Gold, Lhasa de Sela
Over the Rhine, Over the Rhine
Morning, Stolen Identity
Since I Fell For You, Gladys Knight
Love Letters, Dario Marianelli

I'll Be Ok

Gayatri Mantra, Deva Premal
In The Sun (Desert Dwellers Remix), Donna De Lory
Magpie to the Morning, Neko Case
In For the Night (Buddha Edit), The Moontrane Conductors
Black Thought, Michael Tello
El Bosque Eterno de los Niños, Amounsulu
Planktens Cover, Gil Tamazyan
Wings of Forgiveness, India.Arie
Crossing Beyond, Desert Dwellers
Love Cliché, Soulstice
One, Aimee Mann
I'll Be Ok, Sondre Lerche
Sira, Ablaye Cissoko & Volker Goetze
The Orbiting Suns, Jens Gad Presents
The Hours, Philip Glass
Let It Go, Matt Morris

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2012-01-15T07:48:00.000-08:00

It's an exciting day.

Spending a twinkly evening with the remarkable OMpower team and the radiant yogis of Off the Mat, Into the World™ as we welcome them to their new San Francisco headquarters and toast to a beautiful year of activism and awareness to come. Jai!!

May the spirit of service and open-heartedness infuse all that we are and all that we do in 2012.

Raw, adjective: 1. uncooked, as articles of food: a raw carrot.

2012-01-12T23:32:00.000-08:00

Exhibit A in the Life:
Lunchbox of an Urban Yogi

Some of yous whom I see on a fairly daily basis will recognize the little briefcase at left.

It's been called a suitcase (and I guess it is, though you can hardly fit a suit in it). It's been called a harmonium (I hang with yogis, what can you do?). It's been called, by various Walgreens clerks with whom I've exchanged brief pleasantries, "adorable" and "twee" and "vaguely vintage Hepburn." (I'll take that last adjective; you can have the others.)

I call it, well, my yogi lunch box.

You see, this urban yoga teacher life, well, it's pretty successfully engineered sit-down dinners out of my routine. Don't get me wrong; I am SO not complaining about getting to spend nearly every night of the week jumping around a studio hollering at people barefoot. I mean, life is good.

But a girl's gotta eat. And she can't eat a ton, because she's spending 4 hours a night in a room heated to 90 degrees plus humidity wearing heavy leggings, and she's likely demonstrating a little Parsvottanasana and a little Kurmasana here and there, too, which makes it tough to walk in with a full belly. And she usually starts teaching circa 4:30 and ends around 10, which effectively bypasses all reasonable dinner hours, well, anywhere except for Spain.

So she gets flexible.

I've been living sans car now for over eight years, and 95% of the time, that is such a rad way to be. Footloose and fancy-free, insurance and gas prices and tire repairs be damned. But living car-free also means living sans having-a-place-to-stash-yer-stuff-when-you're-busy, so when you're hauling from class to class, across the bustling city, and sometimes across the Bay, three or four times a day, with no time to stop off at home, you've gotta get creative, too.

I used to carry an old lululemon bag that was just the right size for a salad, with strong sturdy handles that resisted sticky Kombucha spills. But after that whole John Galt thing, I, well, just couldn't. Felt like I was endorsing them or something, waltzing in with my little black-printed bag. Regular plastic bags are bad news, and fabric bags are a tough bet, since usually a little balsamic vinaigrette or Bragg's Amino Acids or somesuch will seep into it and make everything I own smell like fermented probiotics or weird salty soy sauce. No es bueno.

Enter the mini-suitcase.

I've had this little guy for years now, so a few weeks ago, I pulled him out of retirement there on my dining room table where he'd found a home storing faded handwritten letters and dog-eared old journals and adhesive mailing labels and the other sorts of stationer's detritus that you really don't know where to keep. And he's proven to be, well, the best thing since sliced (gluten-free) cinnamon raisin bread.

At right: the contents of one urban yogi's lunch(dinner)box, also known as the art installation that is the

Lunchbox of an Urban Yogi

Contents:

One Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip LaraBar

Six Lydia's raw Italian crackers

One almost-empty container of Greek hummus

Tupperware of cold sauteéd cabbage

Tupperware of cold oven-roasted root vegetables

Small sandwich bag full of cashews, almonds and cranberries*

Two bags Bedtime Tea (Chamomile and Valerian blend)

Hippie green drink (flash-pasteurized) of essential greens: spinach, celery, kale, wheatgrass, sprouts and chard

One very large, scary fork for 1) the eating of the above and 2) brandishing at wayward potential muggers on my shadowy late-night walk back to Macarthur Bart after teaching in Oakland.*

* I think I may have a cashew problem. There are bags of unloved, leftover almonds sitting all over my kitchen. I pick the cashews out first, slam the cranberries, and leave the almonds to rot. So weird. What's up with the lack of almond love, Rach?

* That top pic would be said suitcase waiting patiently for the SFO/Millbrae train at Macarthur Bart. Sweet, isn't he?

Lesson learned?

Buy a damn wee suitcase. It's ever-so-worth it.
And very cute.
In spite of the polka dots.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2012-01-11T10:52:00.000-08:00

syn·cre·tism (sngkr-tzm, sn-)

n.
1. Reconciliation or fusion of differing systems of belief, as in philosophy or religion, especially when success is partial or the result is heterogeneous.
2. Linguistics: The merging of two or more originally different inflectional forms.

[Greek sunkrtismos, union, from sunkrtizein, to unite (in the manner of the Cretan cities) : sun-, syn- + Krs, Krt-, Cretan.]
syn·cretic (-krtk), syncre·tistic (-kr-tstk) adj.
syncre·tist n.

Pretty crazy about the notion of syncretism these days. Do you know that word? It's kind of big and scary and pompous-sounding, for sure. But definitely worth knowing.

Syncretism was a concept we tossed around a lot back in the day when graduate school meant spending a helluva lot of heady hours trying (often failingly) to meld Christian theology and Buddhism and Hinduism and Judaism and queer theory and post-modernity and post-colonialism and ecofeminist theology and French cultural theory and blah di blah, you get the picture. A lot of esoteric, complicated traditions, with roots that go way back, which often haven't budged much, and have been assumed to be contradictory, historically, that is.

But these days, the more and more that I come to the mat, and the more I think about the ways in which all of those ancient traditions unknowingly overlap, I realize that what we do in the yoga practice, this seeking to feel a fleeting sense of union, this down-to-earth holistic approach to being alive in a body, this desire to live well in the world that transcends dogma or spiritual boundaries? Yep. That's syncretism. And it's an ok — no, it's a good, a very good — thing.

Dig.

Raw, adjective: 8. brutally harsh or unfair: a raw deal

2012-01-11T09:57:00.000-08:00

We practice yoga not so that our life is perfect but so that we can cope when it isn't. Jai!

— Judith Hanson Lasater

(Damn, she's wise.)

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2012-01-10T06:55:00.000-08:00

The master of the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his education and his recreation, his love and his religion. He hardly knows which is which; he simply pursues his vision of excellence in whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he is always doing both.

— Buddha

(This makes me think lovingly of Karl Marx's old notion of sensuous labor: that idea that the work we do can be at once fulfilling, artistic, creative, interesting, life-giving and — gasp! — not soul-deadening. It's possible. Really, it is.)

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2012-01-10T06:40:00.000-08:00

Here's all the latest January news
from your girl Rach.

Raw, adjective: 6. ignorant, inexperienced, or untrained: a raw recruit.

2012-01-07T20:31:00.001-08:00

Parivrtta Surya Yantrasana

(also known as Compass or Sun Dial Pose)

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2012-01-05T14:23:00.000-08:00

Thanks and love to Austin
for this winner.

We are all artists.

Raw, adjective: 8. brutally harsh or unfair: a raw deal

2012-01-04T11:44:00.000-08:00

Must say how much I love this Smithsonian Magazine piece from Meghan Daum.

Daum, quite famously, was a New York City-bred writer kid who picked up in her late twenties and, out of nowhere, moved to Lincoln, Nebraska for a few years. Not exactly what you do, right? I mean, most of us, especially those of us with a hankering for a wee more cosmopolitan way of being, well, we flee to the coasts, not the other way around.

Daum ended up writing a novel based on her fish-out-of-water experience in Nebraska, and though she's moved West in the years since, her work (and her mindset) are both clearly still influenced by her time living just outside Lincoln.

Not gonna lie. Daum pretty much nails it:

You can’t live through a rural Nebraska winter without succumbing to at least a little of the “prairie madness” the early homesteaders battled when the wind blew mercilessly for weeks and months at a time.
Still, that landscape is the place my mind summons when I’m asked (usually in some yogic or meditative context, now that I live in Los Angeles) to close my eyes and “imagine a scene of total peace and serenity.” In those moments, I picture the Rothko-like blocks of earth and sky, the psychedelic sunsets, the sublime loneliness of a single cottonwood punctuating acres of flat prairie. I remember the sound of golf ball-size hail hitting the roof and denting the car. I remember sitting on the front porch and watching a lightning storm that was miles away but cracked the whole night open nonetheless. It was there, under that sky and at the mercy of all that weather, that I began to understand the concept of a wrathful God. In Nebraska, storms are a violence from which no amount of caution or privilege can protect you. Their warnings crawl across television screens in every season. They’ll blow you or freeze you or blind you into submission. They’ll force you into some kind of faith.
[and yet]....to this day, every time I fly in, even when the wind is tossing the little plane around like a rag doll, I always have the feeling that nothing can possibly go wrong. The space is so vast, the margin for error so wide, that getting thrown off course is just a minor hiccup, an eminently correctable misfire. Lincoln’s air space, like its ground space, is inherently forgiving.
After those acid trip sunsets, that’s the thing about Lincoln that rocked my world. That you can’t really mess up too badly. You can marry too young, get a terrible tattoo or earn $12,000 a year, and the sky will not necessarily fall. The housing is too cheap and the folks are too kind for it to be otherwise. Moreover, when you live underneath a sky that big, it’s hard to take yourself too seriously. Its storms have a way of sweeping into town and jolting your life into perspective. That jolt was Lincoln’s gift to me. It comes in handy every day.

Those "Rothko-like blocks of earth and sky," yes! The "sublime loneliness of a single cottonwood punctuating acres of flat prairie," yes! And the fact that, "in Nebraska, storms are a violence from which no amount of caution or privilege can protect you," yes!

The girl gets it. For realz.

(Says one who knows.)

As some of you know, I'm preparing to head back to Nebraska myself for just a few days later this month, and it'll be my first return in some time. Okay, years. Most of y'all who know anything about me know that I'm a big-sky prairie kid myself, having spent the greater part of my childhood first in eastern South Dakota (shout-out to Brookings, baby!) and then finishing out my early teens and high school years in Lincoln, Nebraska. As much as I immediately fled for the East Coast at 18 and then (several years and a few oceans later) very deliberately traded it for the West Coast, which I've now proudly claimed as home for some eight-plus years, and even though I work hard these days to sheath my populist, corn-fed prairie roots in fingerless gloves and all-black duds and bleak Beat literature and lots of references to vodka, I can't deny the fact that those formative years on the prairie were responsible for so much of who I am — and many of the parts of that self that I am most unapologetically fond of, particularly the most yogic, theological, Buddhist, anti-consumerist, countercultural ones — today.

I've played with this idea a little here and there in the past. The geography of prana, baby. Big sky, you know. The whole thing kind of wants to be a book. And it will be, when I get more than ten minutes to sit at my computer and knock it out.

But, that in mind, this morning I sat down with a few of Alan Ginsberg's thoughts on Jack Kerouac's casual-yet-all-permeating Buddhist ethic, and found myself loving the ways in which Kerouac's somewhat inadvertent, layman's-style Buddhist spirit evolved via his travels and his relationships and his literary adventures. And I've been thinking for awhile now — glancing down at the scribbled, sun-faded list of year-old brainstorms on "the yoga of the prairie" sitting here on my desk, waiting to be transcribed into some brilliant best-selling work of non-fiction to be bought by that huge market of erudite readers who just love to dig into some rich writing on yoga and prairies (!!!) — how very much, in spite of generally living up to their reputation as predominantly white, Christian, conservative expanses, those big rectangular flyover states in the middle of the country were actually quite responsible for turning me into a left-leaning, Buddhism-studying, existentialist-literature-loving, yoga-practicing, culture-jamming, socialist-embracing, Zen-curious, counter-cultural Beatnik wannabe.

Weird, right?

But, srsly. It's true.

Here's why.

1. Life is suffering

The prairie taught me about sorrow. It taught me about silence, about struggle, about the ways in which we have so very little control over the way the storms of our lives roll in and out and over and amongst us. The big unrelenting sky will teach you that, first thing. You watch the clouds roll in long before the storms ever hit, and you feel them stay awhile, and threaten your tiny human existence there on that vast expanse of land, and then equally, once you've finally grown brave enough to exhale, realizing you've got zero damn control over whether you're blown away or not, they pass right on by, and the sky clears, and the wind settles, and you're fine.

Most of the time.

Except for when that big black cloud carries with it a tornado and it happens to rip your roof off.

Then, you hunker down, you weep a few silent German Lutheran tears and shake your fists at the unfeeling sky, and then you pick yourself up again, and make do.

That's yoga, baby.

2. Learning to stay

The prairie taught me about patience. About learning to sit, and be still, and wait. About not having cable TV when the flimsy satellite gets blown off course by those screaming South Dakota prairie winds. About sucking it up and picking up a book and taking refuge in the resulting stillness. About letting go of the expectation that you've got any damn control over your life, because suddenly it's 4 a.m. and there's a howling prairie blizzard out the window, so you sure as hell better let go of those plans you'd made for the day and just sit down and watch the snow swirl outside and pray that you've got enough Cheez-its to get you through until the storm breaks.
Sounds like yoga to me.

3. Fierce impermanence

The prairie is wild, and fierce, and unapologetically transient. It's in a perpetual state of change: sometimes ferocious, sometimes terrifyingly unrelenting, and sometimes gentle, easy, soft, blooming into new seasons with fresh blossoms on the apricot trees when you least expect them to appear.

And then sometimes the frosts come in April long after those blossoms have appeared, and they freeze the flowers right off the trees, and you can say sayonara to any apricots this season, my friend, so I hope you weren't counting on jars of canned preserves to get you through the lean winter months.

That's the simultaneous grace and cutthroat cruelty of the prairie. The weather is at once a friend and a terrible, undermining enemy. So you learn to sit back and accept it for what it is and say: Ok. Such is life. Where do we go from here?

No bullshit. That's Buddhism, dude. That's acceptance. That's learning to sit with what is, and stop resisting it, and embrace it with the kind of reasonable clear-seeing that makes of it what one will.

[You can't let these teachings go. They seep into your bones. Ask mine. They'll tell you.]

4. Selflessness and ego

Suffering and selflessness. Oh, hell yeah, does the prairie teach you about suffering, and about anatta (soullessness). It teaches you about black ice and freak March blizzards and miserable steamy humid Augusts with the grotesque green-lit sky that hints only and ever of impending tornadoes. The weather extremes alone remind you of how small you are, of how little say you have over the stretch of things, of how little you have to do with the rhythm in which the much-greater universe unfolds.

East Coast kids, they've got shit at their fingertips. You can drive to another state in 10 minutes. You can visit DC or New York in a day. You can swing by the White House or a major league ballpark or the United Nations or the filming of a late-night comedy show in a heartbeat.

Prairie kids? Not so much. Some of them dream of seeing the ocean for years and never once do. Others wait, and wait, and finally have that glimpse of a sunset or a sunrise that doesn't stretch long over a grass-covered horizon, but instead ripples out over a vast expanse of water that echoes eerily of the way the winds blow the wildflowers across the prairie. Prairie kids learn to make do with feeling far away from the action. They know they'll never be the heartbeat of pop culture, they know they'll never find sitcoms that feature cool hip twentysomethings hanging out in a coffee shop in Des Moines or Cheyenne. They know they'll always be seen as secondary to the parts of the country that [arrogantly? yep, gonna say it] view themselves as the creative and cultural centers of the world.

(Yipes — and, with that, the age-old prairie kid resentment still comes out, even though I've spent the last 15 years living on one coast or the other).

Nope. Prairie kids don't amuse themselves with any idea that their lives are the center of the universe. They realize how far they are from the action, how their realities are viewed as marginal, peripheral, of flyover quality at best, how their worlds spin around things like DeSmet and Laura Ingalls Wilder's family home there (heaven to this little 7-year-old book nerd!!) and Arbor Lodge (yeah baby, Nebraska City, home of Arbor Day) and the Homestead Act of 1862 having taken place in their backyard (ahem, it's true; check your history books).

You've gotta claim something, you know. We didn't have anything as cool or as celebrated as the Liberty Bell or the Washington Monument.

The point of all that, though? Ego. Living on the prairie kicks the ass of your ego in ways that living on the coasts simply doesn't. Here in the major metropolitan centers of the country, we can pretend that we've got our fingers on the pulse, we know what's up, we're setting the cultural standard for everyone else, making Sazeracs hip before anyone else starts drinking them again, and wearing rad vintage hats before other folks decide they're cool enough to pillage from thrift stores, and listening to the hot new indie bands live, in person, that kids on the prairie can only dream of seeing at the local music hall (or who just then resign themselves to driving 4 hours to Kansas City or 10 hours to Denver to catch them in person).

I could continue. The point is, ego. You learn quickly, growing up on the prairie, that baby: it's so not about you. And that's ok.

5. Prana and sunyata

Sky. Clear blue sky. We talk about clear blue sky as a metaphor for the sunyata mind, that clarity, that emptiness, that rich, compassionate, pregnant-with-possibility consciousness. And I can think of no other metaphor that's lodged itself more deeply in my own body or that gives me more mental or emotional relief than that vision of the clear blue perfectly rolling prairie sky of my childhood.

Urban coastal kids? Mountain kids? Maybe you kind of get it, from your flirtations with the undulating ocean expanse or the endless view from the top of Mt. Rainier. But there's nothing akin to the simultaneous rolling nothingness of the flatlands, the Great Plains, bleeding directly into the parallel nothingness of that unending prairie sky.

That's sunyata. That's nothingness. And therein does that concept of the void, of emptiness, of that vast desolate expansive wasteland, become so kind, so friendly, so very much like home.

And if that's not Buddhism, I dunno what is.

I could go on, and on. Point of all this rambling is: damn.

The roots of yogic theory, the roots of Zen, the roots of an appreciation for all that is simple and clear and populist and no-bullshit and impermanent and expansive and wide in its emptiness?

Right there on the prairie. For which I will always give thanks.

For making desolation feel normal. For making space seem fundamental. For making stillness appear friendly. And for making the constantly churning, impermanent, suffering-laden reality of life seem, well, so very natural.

Fiercely so.

SO here's an ode to the under-appreciated land of my youth. Here's a shout-out to the Willa Cathers and the Laura Ingalls Wilders and the Harvey Dunns who taught me, growing up there, how rich, how rare, how rolling-around-in-art is this spare, bleak, empty, sunyata place. Here's to the scrappy pioneer spirit that infuses my own urban reality now: this understanding that only the sitting with what is difficult, and the staying with what is terrifying, and the breathing through what is grotesque and inhumane and so vastly impossibly huge that you're reminded again and again how very tiny you are, truly a flash on the landscape of being alive, well, it all matters. And it makes us who we are.

Even when we try to sheath that self in a cover of hard liquor and low-slinging hats and fast-paced strides and bleak anonymity and beloved urbanity.

All that stuff? It teaches us yoga.

Because the prairie is, itself, so.

Anyone can love the mountains, but it takes a soul to love the prairie.

— Unknown

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2012-01-02T11:40:00.000-08:00

"The problem is never other people."

— Charlotte Joko Beck

Man, oh man, am I crazy about this interview with Zen teacher Charlotte Joko Beck. I wanna wrap my whole yoga practice in her words. She's bursting with wisdom.

I was never good at sitting. And seated meditation still kicks my ass, every time, unless I'm coming into it from 90 minutes of intense asana. But I find, more and more, that in my yoga practice on the mat (and equally in my life practice off the mat), the 90 minutes or the 24 hours are turning into an exercise not so much in strength or flexibility, but into just watching. Watching the moment when I suddenly turn irritable out of nowhere in Vira B. Watching the breath when, out of the blue, it grows shallow and frightened as I walk down the street. Watching the thoughts as they churn from peaceful and grounded to flighty and fearful in the course of just a few seconds.

Just watching, and choosing how to react.

This reasonable act of choosing, this constant awareness of deliberate reactivity? Therein lies the power of transformation. Therein lies the palpable shift in the day-to-day, in the relationships, in the work, in the mundane.

I see it in my own life. I grew up — as I suspect many of us do — watching adults close to me instinctively respond to difficulty or challenge by either yelling or shutting down, and in that model, in that shadow, as a child, I learned to do the same thing. (Just ask my beloved co-workers and best friends, who've seen me at my irritable, crabby, reactive worst, slinging drinks behind a bar on a crazy-busy Friday night circa 2005 or so.) And in the wake of years of practice, years of learning to watch, to slip into that witness mentality, now in this adult body I know how to consciously choose not to replicate that behavior, to resist slipping into that pattern, that samskara, that groove, in every situation of my life, whether it's in falling out of Utthita Hasta Padangusthasana or in getting disappointing news and feeling my stomach drop in the hearing.

We choose. We choose whether to freak out and live in perpetual high drama, or to step back, take a breath, and think to ourselves, "Isn't that interesting? I feel angry [disappointed, afraid, resentful, sad] right now. And even though I feel that here, now, in this breath, it will pass. But I can watch it with a certain curiosity and a sense of gentle compassion, and know that I am not that anger [disappointment, fear, resentment, sadness]." And then we can radiate that same sensibility, that compassion, that non-reactivity, past ourselves and into the way we interact with the people around us, be they bus drivers or DMV clerks or whiny toddlers or longtime best friends.

And damn, that's powerful stuff!

Anyway — read the whole thing. Joko rawks.

On finding teachers everywhere you look:

With unfailing kindness, your life always presents what you need to learn. Whether you stay home or work in an office or whatever, the next teacher is going to pop right up. Let’s say you notice that you have no patience with a certain person. Well, right there, you pay attention: “What’s this impatience?” As long as you’re capable of being annoyed, you can be sure that something will annoy you. When you no longer can be annoyed by little monkeyshines, you’ll find most everything agreeable. And of course, you have to watch your own monkeyshines. It’s great fun, really. It is! It’s fascinating to begin to watch our life unroll and to see what’s really going on.

On reactivity and the power of practice:

In your books, you keep saying that “the problem is never other people.”
Never. ....
You’re saying life isn’t a problem.
Exactly, it’s you who’s a problem. It’s your reactivity. See, if you could really cease being angry with her, you would be a different person, not just with her but in hundreds of situations in which an attack seems to be coming your way. Your life would be more calm, you’d be better for yourself and other people. See, that person isn’t a monster. She’s a human being who is ignorant, or else she wouldn’t be doing what she’s doing. And if, as practitioners, our aim is to save all sentient beings — to use a goody-goody-sounding phrase — we want to benefit her in our interaction with her.
This is the enlightenment process. One idea that really hampers us is to believe that people get “enlightened,” and then they’re that way forever and ever. We may have our moments, and if we get sick and have lots of things happening, we may fall back. But a person who practices consistently over years and years is more that way, more of the time, all the time. And that’s enough.

On unmet expectations and the gift of disappointment:

See, we usually live our lives out of the ceaseless hopes and expectations of this self-centered mind or ego. And if that works, if you’re unfortunate enough that it works — you want the ideal man, you get the ideal man; you get the ideal job; everybody loves you — then you forge ahead in your usual way until something comes along that stops you in your tracks. Usually, it’s a disappointment or disaster of some sort. What most people do then, naturally, is try harder. They want to be happy, so they look for a new formula, and that’s when they take up some sort of a practice, or go to church, or do something.
If you’re lucky, though, you continue to meet painful disappointment. “Gosh, it just doesn’t work; I don’t know what to do next — I’m baffled.” I always congratulate people who arrive at this crossroads — “Aren’t you lucky!” — because now the true path can be glimpsed. A real practice can begin. It doesn’t mean that if I get disappointed, I like it. But I know it now for what it is.

Aren't we lucky? We get to be painfully disappointed! Gurus everywhere, indeed.

Life's Not a Problem (Tricycle)

Raw, adjective: 5. crude in quality or character; not tempered or refined by art or taste: raw humor.

2012-01-02T10:30:00.000-08:00

Y'all mentioned wanting the playlist from our little jam session benefit the other night.

Well, here you go:

Whole Lotta Love, Led Zeppelin
Realistic, Soulstice
Killing Me Softly With His Song, The Fugees
Alright (3PM Mix), Soulstice
Eye of the Tiger, Survivor
Another One Bites the Dust, Queen
No Diggity, Blackstreet
American Woman, Lenny Kravitz
I'm Too Sexy, Right Said Fred
Smooth, Santana Feat. Rob Thomas
Poison, Bell Biv DeVoe
Joy to the World, Three Dog Night
Stuck in the Middle With You, Stealers Wheel
Lose Yourself, Eminem
Like I Love You, Justin Timberlake
Bad Moon Rising, Creedence Clearwater Revival
Dream Weaver, Gary Wright
Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad, Moby
Special, Sara Devine
Can't Fight This Feeling, REO Speedwagon
Comfortably Numb, Dar Williams and Ani DiFranco
Hurt, Johnny Cash
Someone Like You, Adele
Careless Whisper, George Michael
Hari Om (feat. Prajna Vieira), Ben Leinbach, Prajna Vieira
Purnamadah, Shantala
Offering Chant, Lama Gurme and Jean-Philippe Rykiel

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2012-01-02T09:48:00.000-08:00

grace
[greys] graced, grac·ing.

noun

1. elegance or beauty of form, manner, motion, or action: We watched her skate with effortless grace across the ice.
2. a pleasing or attractive quality or endowment: He lacked the manly graces.
3. favor or goodwill.
4. a manifestation of favor, especially by a superior: It was only through the dean's grace that I wasn't expelled from school.
5. mercy; clemency; pardon: He was saved by an act of grace from the governor.

Origin:
1125–75; Middle English < Old French < Latin grātia favor, kindness, esteem, derivative of grātus pleasing

Feeling quite deeply the grace of this lazy morning.

Slept until 8 today. Eight!!! It's been so long since I've had a morning when I didn't need to be up at 5 or 6, crank out a few overdue email replies, hop in the shower and roll out the door en route to teach or practice or meet or fly or run or some other Very Important Action Verb.

It feels strange, and weird, and as though I'm forgetting to be somewhere.

I'm going to clean my house. I'm going to clear my mind. I'm going to sit down and read the 27 Tricycle articles I've had bookmarked for weeks.

And it will pass in a flash, and the evening will come, and the needing to be somewhere and the needing to show up and nod and talk and make eye contact and listen and be present and all of those other things we do when we participate in life beyond our own wee sanctuaries.

But, for now?

Damn. Grace.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2012-01-01T13:06:00.000-08:00

There is no shortage of good days. It is good lives that are hard to come by. A life of good days lived in the senses is not enough. The life of sensation is the life of greed; it requires more and more. The life of the spirit requires less and less; time is ample and its passage sweet. Who would call a day spent reading a good day? But a life spent reading — that is a good life.

— Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Raw, adjective: 10. not diluted, as alcoholic spirits: raw whiskey.

2012-01-01T12:39:00.000-08:00

Savoring the afterglow of a big, busy weekend.

Yesterday's solid morning session at Urban Flow was followed by a rockin', packed-to-capacity crowd for our Girls Rock Camp benefit class last night at Flying Yoga. We raised a good chunk of change and had a helluva good time in the process. I can't think of any other way that I'd have rather closed out the old year and welcomed the new.

Woke this morning with a scratchy voice (not so easy to holler out asana instructions over Eminem and Lenny Kravitz) and a heavy head (sparkling wine, I love you) and a full heart (filled to the brim). Chugged my coffee, threw on my leggings, and then, quite appropriately, rolled down the hill through the hungover Tenderloin (past one most-fabulous drag queen totally owning the glittery 8am post-NYE walk of shame in fuschia mini-dress, 4-inch heels and big silver wig) to usher the new year in with a sweaty, song-filled practice at Urban Flow.

Across the board, most folks I spoke with yesterday looked forward to a mellow holiday, and this morning quiet, simple celebrations seemed to be the theme. Maybe it's just me getting old and content (then again, I've always kind of been a grandma), but last night I too wanted nothing but close friends and good conversation and a little talk of what we'd like to see 2012 bring into our lives. And I got that, beautifully, and with the easy comfort that comes of longtime friendship. And I even rolled through a dose of the bumpin' urban scene on 22nd and Valencia/Mission on my way home, too. Seriously, all I could ask for, and more.

All good. All light. All ways.

Happy new year.

Raw, adjective: 6. ignorant, inexperienced, or untrained: a raw recruit.

2012-01-01T12:33:00.000-08:00

All of these glowing reviews of Glow Yoga & Wellness make me so proud to have been a part of it since we opened last March. Thanks for welcoming us into North Beach with such open arms. Please join me tonight at 6 and tomorrow at 6 and 7:30 for a strong flow to set the tone for your New Year.

Glow Yoga and Wellness (Yelp)

Raw, adjective: 10. not diluted, as alcoholic spirits: raw whiskey.

2011-12-31T15:01:00.000-08:00

Happy 2nd Birthday, Urban Flow!!

How blessed we are, indeed.

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2011-12-30T13:41:00.001-08:00

Hey kids.

New Year's Eve is just around the corner, so if you don't yet have plans, you've got two shots to spend it with me, Ganesha, and a few other sweaty folks:

Tomorrow morning, 11am, at Urban Flow. Sleep in, roll up at 10:59, and we'll get some thick sweat and some strong chant going to twist out the old year and ring in the new. Gonna be good. Come.
Tomorrow evening, 5pm, at Flying Yoga. Our wee candlelight jam session's looking like it just might hit capacity. So come early or sign in online ahead of time to make sure you've got a spot. We're gonna jam.

Love to you on this last Friday of 2011. I'm grateful for a year beyond imagination. Bring it, 2012.

Raw, adjective: 2. not having undergone processes of preparing, dressing, finishing, refining, or manufacture: raw cotton.

2011-12-29T09:33:00.000-08:00

We are all works in progress.

I am thinking a lot here in these latter days of the year about Ganesha. And about what it means to be raw.

And I'm not talking about veggies.

Ganesha, the remover of obstacles. Ganesha, the elephant-headed Hindu god who represents our own ability to get unstuck, to move things around, to be that always-emerging work of art, ever in progress. And I am thinking about the ways in which that very same Ganesha imagery shows up in Christian process theology, and in Buddhist notions of impermanence, and in queer and postmodern theories postulating the liberating and fundamental lack of essential identity, and in that ubiquitous contemporary progressive theological understanding of the world, our lives, our realities as being always in creative flux.

(Also known as: raw. Unprocessed. Unfinished. Unhewn.)

And I am loving the ways in which that theme of the universal process of constantly unfolding, of constantly becoming, of being created again and again, over and over, in every moment, in every breath, (in every year!), echoes throughout myriad spiritual traditions, in different words, in different ways.

There's wisdom in this rawness. Trust it. Unfold. Keep becoming.

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2011-12-28T10:32:00.000-08:00

Yup, it's true.

I'm headed for some serious
Bhakti Flow, Nebraska-style.

Details at left.
Get ready, kids.

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-12-28T09:37:00.001-08:00

How can you not love this?

Our New Year's Eve pay-what-you-can
jam session at Flying Yoga is gonna help
make this happen. So rad. Please join us.
Saturday, 5pm.

Candlelight Jam Session with
Rachel Meyer Yoga

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2011-12-27T06:59:00.000-08:00

Here's all the latest holiday news
from your girl Rach.

Raw, adjective: 10. not diluted, as alcoholic spirits: raw whiskey.

2011-12-26T08:08:00.001-08:00

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-12-25T09:36:00.001-08:00

All things light to you, today and always.

Merry, merry.

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-12-24T07:11:00.000-08:00

True that.
Happy Christmas Eve!
May it be beautiful.

It is very important that you only do what you love to do. You may be poor, you may go hungry, you may lose your car, you may have to move into a shabby place to live, but you will totally live. And at the end of your days you will bless your life because you have done what you came here to do. Otherwise, you will live your life as a prostitute, you will do things only for a reason, to please other people, and you will never have lived...

— EKR

Raw, adjective: 6. ignorant, inexperienced, or untrained: a raw recruit.

2011-12-21T06:42:00.000-08:00

This is a very good article on relationship.

Sounds boring, right? Ugh. Shoot me in the face, already.

But, truly. One of the greatest teachings that the study of Buddhist and yogic thought has wrought in my own life — a life that had quite proudly always relied upon that stubborn Simon and Garfunkel-esque notion of being a rock and an island — is the understanding that we really only exist in relationship. Our realities are contingent upon the realities around us that construct our lives, our patterns, our foundations, our networks, our experiences. And just as every aspect of our lives arises as a result of that interconnection, so too can we never quite wholly step back from that interwoven reality.

Sucks, eh? We're stuck with the messy and the rich and the complicated and the divine.

So we sure as hell'd better try to figure out how to operate kindly and compassionately and authentically and vulnerably in that relationship, eh?

We're talking relationships on a broad scale here. Your relationship with your mailman, the clerk at Whole Foods, the stranger on the internet whose article you diss, Henry David Thoreau and the way his 150-year-old writing still makes your heart stop, that one co-worker you always secretly want to punch, your lovable but annoying little brother, your adoring but stupid and fat old cat, the bus driver whose name you don't know but who picks you up every day at 8:05 on the dot, your houseplants who rely on you not to suck at watering them, the field worker in Costa Rica who picks the strawberries you buy on the shelf at Safeway. You get my drift.

That's relationship. All of it. Not just what we think of when we say the "R" word.

I grew up watching a lot of women be super-needy. And I've spent a lot of years as the aloof bartender standing behind a granite slab pretending not to listen but constantly overhearing women a few cocktails in getting all weepy and needy and desperate for the imagined completion of a stereotypical heteronormative relationship. And I've gotta say, I'm still not a fan of the uber-neediness of a lot of the chicks my age. I think that's why I've mostly hung out with and identified more as a dude myself all these years. (Bullheadedly independent, that is. And determined to not be the normative female, wholly defined by her relationships.)

But then you meet Buddhism, and Process theology, with its emphasis on all beings emerging in process with one another, and eco-feminist Christian theology, which is all about co-creation and bringing about the divine through relationality, and you go: oh, hey. Cool. Maybe relationship doesn't have to look the way we've always imagined it must. Maybe healthy relationships don't have to be needy.

When you shift your mindset to that bhakti notion of offering, of asking yourself, "What can I give?", living in relationship — whether it's with your mailman or your teacher or your beloved — becomes less about getting, and more about simply being present for someone else. And, well, that's pretty damn liberating.

So get in there:

To open yourself up to need, longing, dependency, and reliance on others means opening yourself to the truth that none of us can do this on our own. We really do need each other, just as we need parents and teachers. We need all those people in our lives who make us feel so uncertain. Our practice is not about finally getting to a place where we are going to escape all that but about creating a container that allows us to be more and more human, to feel more and more. ...

We learn to keep our relationships and support systems in good repair because we admit to ourselves how much we need them. We take care of others for our own sake as well as theirs. We begin to see that all our relationships are part of a broad spectrum of interconnectedness, and we respect not only the most intimate or most longed-for of our relationships but also all the relationships we have — from the most personal to the most public — which together are always defining who we are and what we need in order to become fully ourselves.

A yoga practice teaches us, slowly, over the course of the years, to soften, to unfurl, to open up, without fear. So if yoga is union, and our relationships create our reality, then, dude: get connected. Nothing fancy. It's really just the practice of seeing the humanity, the Krishna, the suffering in the person across the dinner table, or across the road, or across the hall. Pretty simple stuff, if you ask me. No islands necessary.

No Gain (Tricycle)

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-12-20T08:09:00.001-08:00

Raw, adjective: 8. brutally harsh or unfair: a raw deal

2011-12-19T16:53:00.001-08:00

I squeezed in a Bikram class just now, and as per usual lately, the 90-minute moving meditation turned into more of 90-minute planning session-slash-article-brainstorm. I guess a little auto-pilot's to be expected when you've done the same 26 postures every day for 8 years. Oy. (No wonder freestyle vinyasa keeps me more in the moment. Three cheers for Urban Flow. But I digress.)

So while I was standing there in the 4th Natarajasana of the day, I got to thinking. About how the holidays really are in full swing now, no going back, and how this year I feel particularly, weirdly jolly. Yeah. Weird. Life is good and rich and full, bursting at the seams most places, and most days I feel wildly on fire for the work I'm blessed to do, and most evenings and mornings, in the wee quiet moments between people and places, I often find myself so overwhelmed by the number of folks who I want to love, and love well, that I can't quite even breathe. And on top of all that jolly goodness, the backbends are coming back, and the hamstrings are waaaaay happy, and the fridge is full of melons and grapefruits and kale and hummus, and the sun sets beyond my window at 5 o'clock on the rare evenings when I'm lucky to be home in that twilight to knock out a few words. And I still have dental insurance, and a full set of teeth, and an old trumpet that's waiting to be picked up again, and a rad black tarantula scarf that keeps me warm on nippy San Francisco nights, and my post-Thailand faux-malaria has just about been cured.

And that crabby neighbor? He doesn't yell anymore. He just plays bluegrass. Which I can totally get down with.

So, yeah. Pretty damn jolly.

Weird.

Weird because some recent Christmases, well, they've struggled to be so.

Grief changes things, you know? It doesn't matter who you lose, or when, but once you do suffer the kind of blow that strikes and lingers for awhile, well, the holidays just aren't ever quite the same. We grieve, all of us, of course, for lost memories and lost homes and broken relationships and broken china and shattered dreams and shattered femurs. We grieve in so many ways. And — speaking from my one experience of only having lost my father, which I know is pretty lucky, relative to some — I find that the suffering of losing a parent shadows the holidays in ways that folks who haven't been there, or felt that loss, can't quite — to no fault of their own — understand.

It's been nearly 6 years now since that first Christmas without my father, and I tell the story of that most pathetic Yule to anybody I meet who's also struggling through their first Christmas sans, whether that's sans parent or partner or child. The loss, the absence, the strange empty void; it's the same no matter the particular situation.

And although all relationships are difficult and damaged and laden with layers, to be sure, and although I hesitate to romanticize the extent of the suffering we all feel at one time or another, a part of me — the part of me that sat on the sofa that Christmas 2005 alone and wept, and watched the Yule Log burn on Comcast and listened to bad 1973 versions of Little Drummer Boy playing in the background, and wept a little more, and then called my siblings across the country and commiserated about how much the holiday sucked, and then hung up and heated up some frozen lasagna in the microwave and ate it out of the plastic box, and then wept a little more, and then filled up my coffee mug with cheap red wine and chugged a little of that, and then turned up the Yule Log on the TV and wept a little more — well, that pathetic part of me will always remember: remember what it's like to feel like you're the only one alone, the only one feeling complicated and confused and melancholy and maybe a little bitter and maybe a lot depressed on Christmas Day, of all jolly holidays.

We make such great, loving, warm space for celebration and gaiety this time of year. And that's so important, especially here in the shortest, darkest days of the winter, to look to the light and remind ourselves that sun and spring and life will return. And I love the twinkly lights of solstice celebrations for reminding us of hope, and laughter, and vitality. But these years later, the grief having softened into more of a wistful half-smiling memory of days long gone, the sharp sorrow having melted into an adult understanding of the constantly changing nature of things, the ways in which every sweet memory inevitably churns on into impermanence and nostalgia and new traditions and a letting go of the old, now more than ever I feel a sense of dharma, of duty, to hold the kind of space for folks who still rest in that fresh pain, that deep suffering, the kind that feels impossible to pull oneself out of, the kind that feels like a heavy weeping fearful body curled up on a blue sofa just trying to get through, just trying to remember how to breathe.

It matters to me as a yoga teacher, the honoring that universal human experience of suffering. That's why, especially these days, I try to give mention, even just a little lip service, to the possibility that folks on the mat are feeling things a little more complicated than just excitement and anticipation. We grow up and the holidays grow around us; they change; the ostensibly simple branches of that O Tannenbaum Christmas tree wrap and wrestle and convolute, and sometimes we feel stuck, suffocated by the apparent ease and joy of the people around us.

It's really just about making space. I find that as soon as you open that relief valve, just release the pressure a bit by allowing for adult feelings beyond the black and white, folks can rest, they can soften, they can know it's ok, it's normal, it's human to feel twisty and gnarled and dried-up and numb.

That twisting, that numbness, it's all a part of the process. We'll all know it at one point or another, for sure; some of us were just graced with that life-changing knowledge a little sooner than others. I remember resenting so much the early loss, the fact that I was only 23 when my Pops was diagnosed, and 26 when he died. And even now, I see friends who have family homes to retreat to over the holidays, friends who look to parents who are yet young and present and thriving and able to share in their own adult lives, and my stomach drops. I look at my sweet niece and know she'll never know a Christmas with her grandfather. And my heart melts for her lack, in the same way it aches for the lack, the absence, the deadness, that so many people dear to me right now are braving silently, thinking they're alone, not realizing they're surrounded by others who are trudging through the exact same unfamiliar waters.

Last night I sat down at my computer after a long, well-lived-in day, and I saw there news that the kind, philanthropic, beloved-by-many father of my friend J had just died. My heart sank. I sat there and felt her certain sorrow, felt it coming on here in this most joyous week of the year, and I knew right there in that breath how drastically her experience of the holidays would be changed for the rest of her life. And I wanted with everything in me to reach out to her, to hold her close, to tell her she wasn't alone. But I didn't have a way.

So this morning, when I turned around at the studio, minutes away from teaching, and saw her walk in, my chest cracked open with the kind of love I can only feel for people who I know are so swept up in suffering that they can do nothing else but numbly move through the world. I looked at her and hugged her close and wanted so badly to relieve her pain, and I couldn't, none of us could, and so I made a dumb joke about weeping through Bikram classes back in the day and set her up with some Kleenex and we barreled through class.

She was remarkable. Powerful. Present. Willing to sit with the sorrow, the numbness, the shock, the grief, the loss, and be in it. All the while holding Vasisthasana like a badass in the process.

(This in contrast to those of us who just decided to numb it away with frozen lasagna and cheap red wine. Just sayin'.)

I can only smile. I can only smile, lovingly, at that former self who knew no other way to sit with the suffering, the grief in the midst of so much gaiety. And if there's any gift I could give to the beloveds (too many this year, so many; is this what happens as you grow older?) who are sitting with the same sorrow, trying to make sense of holidays that don't feel particularly holy or bright or alive, it's that yogic permission to just be. To just sit, to let the feelings blow by like clouds in the sky, and to remember, to always remember: they will pass. This depth of grief will pass. This blackness will pass.

One day you'll feel joyful again; not fake-joyful, or joyful-for-someone-else's sake, or joyful-because-you-just-poured-two-shots-of-bourbon-in-your-morning-coffee, but joyful, really truly grounded-in-the-awareness-of-the-transience-of-life-joyful, and this new normal will not hurt so much, and this indescribably devastating shift will feel ok.

And it will be your teacher. Your lasagna-eating, cheap red wine-drinking, Yule Log-watching teacher.

And it will lend you grace.

Love and light to so many of you who are sitting with the Shiva that is loss,
destruction, uncertainty, and change right now. You're so close to my heart.
Know that you are not alone in the depths. Know that they will pass.
As all things do.

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2011-12-19T13:10:00.001-08:00

Ever since the stuck-in-a-Nebraska-blizzard-with-no-tequila debacle of two years ago, I've been more than content to park my weenie California-girl ass here in 50-degrees-and-sunny San Francisco for the holidays. This year is no exception. (Well, that and the fact that I just returned from a two-week escape to the tropics makes it a helluva lot easier, too.)

So it's my turn to stick around and hold down the fort, teach a few extra classes, sneak in a little ice skating down in Union Square, and linger over a few long dinners with friends in a deserted City by the Bay. And that suits me just fine.

But I know a lot of y'all are just preparing to pack up the woolen sweaters and head East to hunker down for the holidays in the cold. And we've all known and dreaded that particular brand of crazy that comes from being good old-fashioned stuck: stuck in a house with loony relatives, too much fruitcake, and not enough beer; stuck in an airport terminal with delayed flights that just keep getting pushed further and further back; stuck in a barren prairie blizzard that's literally socked you in with snow, unable to leave the house, even to get the mail.

And those moments, my friends? Those are when the real yoga comes into play.

Because, damn, if it isn't easy to talk about joy and bliss and peace and compassion when you're sitting on the mat in a sunlit studio in San Francisco, your practice sandwiched lovingly between a breakfast date and a coffee rendezvous — to which you wear, naturally, flip-flops and a light parka, because, well, it's December in California, babydoll. Rainbows and unicorns for everyone!

It's another story completely when you're stuck in that snowed-in basement, surrounded by old National Geographics and momentos of your awkward middle school years, or trapped at your Uncle Judd's annual holiday hunting extravaganza, talking politics with your favorite, um, "differently-inclined" relatives, or, worst case scenario, braving the crabby crowds at the airport as you're reminded, once again, by ice storms and power outages and unpredictable Nor'easters, of how very little control we really do have.

My bhakti sister and colleague Jennifer Jarrett just suffered through that very experience, and she's written a smart, honest, authentic piece on what it means to really sit down with the prospect of staring a 3-hour airport delay in the face, trying to make friends with it in the far corner of Terminal C, and falling back on the yoga, the meditation, the awareness, the noticing, in those inconvenient moments wherein it'd be much easier to slam a few cocktails and get angry and march around, yelling at the powerless flight attendants.

We've all been there. I've spent years resorting to the vodka martinis and the futile marching around, usually in some dingy airport in Pennsylvania or Texas. It didn't ever get me very far — the vodka OR the marching. So here's another option from a very self-aware Jennifer:

This layover was different. I was tired and just over it. The holiday spirit was all around me, but I was feeling every part of bah humbug. I knew I needed to do something to shake it up and shake myself out of this mood. I needed to move my whole body and I needed to move forwards and backwards and side to side, and, more importantly, I needed to really breathe. I needed to get out of the frenzy of frenetic holiday travelers, to quiet the sharp sounds of overhead announcements and to restore a bit of equanimity to my body and my mind. I needed to hit the reset button.

So, I found a relatively quiet place in the Denver airport, took off my shoes and started to practice. I thought I would just move through a few sun salutations, but the next thing I knew it was 45 minutes later and I had completed a pretty comprehensive practice. I even did bakasana! Did people stare? Indeed, they did. Did moments of insecurity creep in? For sure. Did it really matter? Not at all. Because when I was finished, I felt lighter, yet more grounded and stable. The creakiness and crankiness that can sometimes accompany me in travel were replaced with a sense of fluidity, suppleness and freedom. I was calm, relaxed and actually felt joyful. Simply stated, I felt better.

Simply stated, I was better. I was able to return to the chaos of the world around me a better version of myself.

I love that. How many of us really turn into better versions of ourselves when we're faced with this kind of delay, or a freak blizzard, or even — gulp — having to just sit with our own families? Many of us — present company included, as my siblings will lovingly vouch — turn into the ugliest, least graceful, most whiny, most monstrous 14-year-old versions of ourselves in these kinds of moments.

Thanks, Jennifer, for the reminder that, even in those darkest, most frustrating, most powerless moments, we have a choice. We can choose. To just notice. To move. To breathe. To open. To bow forward in that most simple, classic, elegant, liberating salute to the sun.

And that's enough.

Airport Asana: Sun Salutations in Terminal C (MindBodyGreen)

Raw, adjective: 2. not having undergone processes of preparing, dressing, finishing, refining, or manufacture: raw cotton.

2011-12-19T07:08:00.001-08:00

Powerful take on the whole lululemon "Who is John Galt?" marketing campaign from teacher and yoga philosopher Michael Stone. Especially strong points circa 3:30 and beyond. Watch.

CTV lululemon interview from Centre of Gravity on Vimeo.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-12-18T07:36:00.001-08:00

I'm teaching at Urban Flow a lot in the next week. And just couldn't be happier about that.

So come already, yeah? My heart beats for this place and the people who make it pulse. You can feel that vibe, just walking in the door. We'll be holding it down:

Monday Dec 19th 9am
Tuesday Dec 20th 4:30pm
Wednesday Dec 21st 9am
Thursday Dec 22nd 9am
Thursday Dec 22nd 4:30pm
Friday Dec 23rd 9am

See you on the mat, lovers.

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2011-12-17T07:12:00.000-08:00

Nebraskans: I'm coming for you!!!

Save the dates: Jan 21-22nd.

And start hydrating now.
You're gonna need it.

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-12-16T17:04:00.000-08:00

Music matters. We know this.

The rhythm of a strong asana practice mirrors the rhythm of a heartbeat, a metronome, the breath. So what better way to bid sayonara to the old year and ring in the new than by jamming out and getting your sweat on for a good cause?

Join me at Flying Yoga for a special New Year's Eve Candlelight Jam session, Sat night Dec. 31st. It's donation-based, which means: hey, cool, pay what you can. We'll start at 5, just after twilight, when the studio's gotten all twinkly. We'll rock and sweat and breathe and jam and wring out the last year, bhakti-style, on behalf of a few kids who deserve to rock, too, and then send you out the door in time to get your party on, or to go home and crochet.

Either way, you win.

And so do the aspiring rocker grrls at Bay Area Girls Rock Camp. Because we're going to donate the profits to them. How can you not love these little goddesses?

So come on out. Because, really, what's more countercultural than saying:

1. You are not your car. You are not your salary. You are not your clothes. You are not your Hanumanasana.
2. Drop the masks. Be dangerously real.
3. Question reality. Question the scripts. Question your patterns. Question your mind.
4. You're brand new in every breath, every day, every practice.
5. Hey, you already have everything you need.

That's yoga. That's anti-establishment. That's rock. So bring your passion and your breath, wear some black sequins, get ready to wave adios to 2011, throw in a little head-banging and a lot of chaturangas, and there you go.

See you on the 31st.

Flying Yoga
Bay Area Girls Rock Camp
Rachel Meyer Yoga
Official Facebook Invitation

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-12-16T08:17:00.001-08:00

Save your New Year's Eve. You're
spending it with me.

Details to come.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-12-15T06:29:00.001-08:00

I'm teaching a free class today at
the Women's Building.

Take refuge in a dose of simple stillness.
Nothing fancy. Just the breath.

230pm — 3543 18th St (at Valencia)

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2011-12-13T08:59:00.000-08:00

Pulling a favorite cold December post out of the archives.

In the midst of all the glitter, do you sometimes feel obligated to be jolly? Garrison Keillor offers a hilarious shout-out to letting yourself be real.

Authenticity rocks. Especially in those moments wherein we feel we're "supposed" to feel (and thus behave) one way or the other. Just because we're celebrating a season of light and tinsel and halls decked with boughs of holly doesn't mean you've gotta pack away the melancholy and the blasé that can be just as much a part of being alive, day to day.

Just watch the feelings, all of them. The joy and the celebration and the bittersweet sadness that can sometimes creep in, too, when you're marking holidays for the first time in someone's absence, or miles away from the people you love, or sitting in front of the TV watching the Yule Log burn, or standing in line at Macy's behind sixteen tired and crabby people waiting for your gifts to get wrapped.

Step back, watch them, smile at how human they are, know they'll pass by like clouds in the barren winter prairie sky, and then? Just come back to the breath. It's a yuletide meditation, yo.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-12-13T05:39:00.001-08:00

I find my work constantly returning to this theme of yoga in the vernacular: "folk" yoga, one might say; what yoga (and mindfulness, and Buddhism, and progressive Christianity, and all of it) looks like off the mat, in the dirt, grounded in the day-to-day, the ostensibly mundane.

This interview with Korean Zen Master Samu Sunim beautifully articulates some of the reasons for that.

Here's a blurb:

We need to talk about a balance. Frankly, I think Asian monastics probably spend too much time sitting in meditation looking inward, and not enough time outdoors. They have to go out, as Shakyamuni did, and find out how people are living in society. But in the West, it’s the opposite problem. People spend all their time in the outer world. They’ve been successful in business, in their professional lives, but they have no relief from the stress of their lives. They need to sit down and settle the body and mind, instead of always running around feeling agitated inside.
....
I think we have to talk in terms of high Buddhism and folk Buddhism. I think we need both. When I say high Buddhism, I mean monastic Buddhism; I mean monks and nuns living a protected life in a monastery so that they can devote themselves entirely to spiritual cultivation in order to ensure dharma transmission. But we need what I would call “folk” Buddhism as well — people who go out, as bodhisattvas, into the marketplace, actively involving themselves with people. Those of us who are doing high Buddhism have to understand that we are not the only ones who are capable of transmitting the dharma. We have to understand the transmission of Buddha-dharma in a wider sense.

Man, do I hear him on the "Westerners needing a bit of inward emphasis" bit. And this contrast behind "high" Buddhism and "folk" Buddhism? Yes. Yes. That's where the craft of living well really comes into play: the being the bodhisattva in the marketplace, on the street corner, in the checkout line at Walgreens, on the bus, as an office drone, at the grocery store.

Opportunities for practice are waiting in each of those moments. This folk yoga, this engaged Buddhism? It's about transcending the idea that legit practice is relegated to the cushion or the mat. That's so old-school, dude.

Let it spill out into every breath, every step, every minute, every hour. Ok?

Buddha in the Market (Tricyle)

Raw, adjective: 2. not having undergone processes of preparing, dressing, finishing, refining, or manufacture: raw cotton.

2011-12-12T17:34:00.000-08:00

So many exciting projects burbling
here at Chez Rach.

My mind's whirring, 24/7.

Here's a hint. And that pic at left?
That's a hint, too.
Stay tuned.

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2011-12-11T14:42:00.000-08:00

I'm teaching mornings at Urban Flow this week.

Join me Monday and Wednesday at 9am
for some all levels action,
mmmkay, babes?

Raw, adjective: 8. brutally harsh or unfair: a raw deal

2011-12-11T08:30:00.000-08:00

Love this new post from Susan Piver.

Do you ever feel like your meditation or yoga practice is an escape? Like, hey, there are six thousand things you should be doing instead, and there's that grossly-overdue Inbox, and there's the mountain of laundry, and there's the filthy shower, and there's that uncomfortable conversation with so-and-so that you've been putting off and you really should just take care of it right now in spite of how tough it will be, but instead, oh gosh, if I leave now, I can just barely make the 6:15 class!, so you run, because once you get to the studio and silence your phone and unroll your mat it's all about turning off the mind and everything being ok just as it is, and so maybe for those few minutes of the day you can just escape from all the stuff that needs to be dealt with and finished up and grappled with and the like?

I can sure relate to that. Especially the part of the post that references the reader's Midwestern Protestant work ethic, which makes sitting down and doing nothing seem selfish, silly, lazy, wrong.

Oh, hell yeah.

Q: I often find that when I am getting ready to meditate or meditating, I feel like it is an “escape” and that I am avoiding “real work.” I suspect this comes from my Midwestern protestant work ethic upbringing. How common is that and what are good ways to let it go?

A: Thank you for this question. I’m sure others can relate to it, myself included. We are all so busy and engaged with important and/or necessary work. It can be tempting to think of meditation as self-indulgent, a waste of time, or escapist.

I could come up with a whole line of reasoning backed up by scientific research to prove that meditation is good for you, good for those around you, and could be more accurately described as the “practice of no-escape” rather than the opposite. But this isn’t really the point. Once we get in a debate with our practice, there will always be a good opposing argument, no matter what side you start out representing. So, rather than trying to establish a fool-proof rationale, you could simply label all of this “thinking” and come back to your breath.

As you know (or will soon discover), meditation is about resting attention on breath and when it strays, bringing it back. Whether it strays into thoughts that are vicious, brilliant, or dull is irrelevant. When you notice that you are caught up in thought while meditating, you simply (and gently) let that thought go and simply (and gently) come back to your breath.

So when you sit down to practice and the thought arises, “I am avoiding my real work right now,” let that thought go and come back to the breath. When the thought arises, “this practice runs counter to my work ethic and is an escape from my real responsibilities” you could let that go too, and come back to breath. Similarly, when the thought arises, “this is great, I am meditating anyway and I really, really see how meditation can support my work ethic” or, “work ethic, shmwork ethic, meditation is good for me and I’m going to do it!” please let those thoughts go as well and come back to breath.

When in doubt, let go. And come back.

Thanks, Susan.

There've definitely been moments in my life — usually times of great change and uncertainty, like when my father was dying, or I was writing (meaning: not writing) my masters thesis, or confronting a cancer scare, or dealing with difficult decisions that seemed to have no good possible eventual resolution — when I've run to the studio as a balm, as an escape, because it was the only place that I knew would offer even momentary relief, that quiet dark refuge that wouldn't ask me to grapple, or work, or deal. And in talking with friends over the years, I know that I'm not alone in doing so.

And, honestly, you know what? That's ok. That's really ok.

Sometimes I find we take refuge in the mat or the meditation cushion and we're even aware that in so doing we're avoiding dealing with all the difficult stuff of life that begs our attention. The first step is really even just becoming aware of that tendency, and approaching that realization with gentleness and compassion, instead of flogging ourselves for being escapist and lazy. Once you can face your escape hatch with a certain amount of love and grace, even gratitude and a sense of self-deprecating humor, it's a lot easier to tiptoe back toward those sources of confusion and uncertainty, armed with the reason, the patience and the peace that comes from the very practice to which we escape — Protestant work ethic be damned.

And, ironically, what I've come to realize, anyway, is that this granting ourselves even just a few minutes of stillness can oftentimes allow us to become even more productive in the end, because we're rested, we're grounded, we're fed, we're balanced. So everybody wins. Even John Calvin and that never-ending drive to achieve.

Achieve stillness. There's a start.

Raw, adjective: 6. ignorant, inexperienced, or untrained: a raw recruit.

2011-12-08T06:14:00.000-08:00

I'm so happy to be returning to Oakwood to teach another Master Class this weekend. Please join me this Saturday afternoon the 10th, 1:30pm, for a core extravaganza.

Here's a little more on December's theme:

A strong core is vital to a healthy body, on and off the mat. Mid-section strength around the spinal column supports long-term, whole-body health, especially as we age.

This month, join me for a vigorous vinyasa practice emphasizing a variety of core strengtheners, and watch your practice evolve. We'll play with a few arm balances along the way, and offer tips for building a stronger core, from thigh to shoulder, too.

Can you say Tittibhasana?!?

See you Saturday, doves.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-12-07T14:26:00.000-08:00

I'm a bit behind the times on the latest yoga dish, having been very busy of late drinking out of coconuts and sleeping on the beach. Ahem.

But there are a couple of hot topics that've been buzzing around the yoga-sphere these last few weeks, and if you're at all interested in the stuff beyond what happens on the mat, you owe yourselves a few minutes with these controversial stories:

1. The whole lululemon Ayn Rand "Who is John Galt?" marketing campaign hubbub. We've got all kinds of drama thanks to lulu's vague reference to Rand's Atlas Shrugged, which is, incidentally, a tome pretty steeped in notions of free market individualism — the kind of ideals some of us might argue are not particularly yogic, in terms of the denial of interrelation and whatnot. Here's a little background from the NY Times:

Lululemon Athletica, the retailer of yoga pants and hoodies, has long decorated shopping bags with slogans that appear to have been lifted from self-help books. But this month its bags have asked a question that some may find more provocative: “Who is John Galt?”

The question is the opening line of “Atlas Shrugged,” the novel by Ayn Rand that was published in 1957. Followers of Rand’s free market philosophy, which promotes the idea of individuals living for their self-interest and dismisses altruism, sometimes use the question to signal their allegiance.

As a shameless commie myself, you can imagine how I feel about the whole thing. It's quite troubling. Read up on it here at the NYT and at Yoga Dork, too. I could write a book. I will resist.

2. You've heard of the Yoga Alliance, right? It's that [very vague] umbrella-style accreditation association that's supposedly going to wrangle the wild, woolly world of yoga-teaching into something that looks like a systematized structure.

YA gets mixed reviews from both teachers and studios. Aspiring teachers complete their 200-hour training, thinking it'll give them a sheen of professional legitimacy once they can follow their name up with RYT ("Registered Yoga Teacher"). I've done it myself. Rachel Meyer, RYT. Doesn't mean a whole lot, though, really.

You see, the argument from prominent teachers like Bryan Kest and Baron Baptiste, who've distanced their training programs from Yoga Alliance affiliation in the past few years, is that the accreditation is so vague and loosely-enforced that it effectively means, well, nothing. And the steep annual dues the applicants pay for those three letters? No one really knows where that money goes, or if it accomplishes anything productive.

I've decided not to renew mine. No stress. I don't think those three letters will make me any better a teacher. And while the Yoga Alliance's intentions toward standardization seem honorable, it's such a vastly complicated undertaking to try to streamline such different traditions in this multifaceted profession, which involves playing the roles of country pastor, personal trainer, and motivational speaker, often all at once.

Recovering Yogi just featured a great deconstruction of this whole certification dilemma. Check it out. The article proffers that eternal question: what makes for a good yoga teacher? A certain number of hours spent in chakra contemplation? A helluva lot of anatomy knowledge at the expense of philosophy? Sweet-ass pecs and a killer tush? Who's to say? I say, go; read; talk amongst yourselves.

Here's a little teaser for you. Laura Riggs writes:

I have worked with many wonderful teachers who have opted to stay as far away from YA as possible and they are, in most cases, more qualified to guide a yoga class (or lead a teacher training) than many of the teachers currently listed in the YA registry. Reason being: YA lacks sufficient internal structure to monitor and hold the registered teachers and schools accountable in order to uphold the standards they have allegedly established. Furthermore, these so-called standards do not give any weight or bearing toward the qualifications actually needed to guide a yoga class in a knowledgeable, empowering, safe and ethical manner.

Whew. Gotcha.

3. Then, finally, my old boy Mr. B is at it again. What are we gonna do with him? Such a hot mess. More legal drama to do with branding and commodification and sequence-copyrighting and making a buck, I'm sad to say. Now the old guy's suing Yoga to the People (a.k.a. super well-intentioned donation-based model that originated in NYC and now has outposts here in SF and Berkeley, as well) for infringing upon his intellectual property.

Bikram's lawyer says YTTP is using Mr. B's own copyrighted sequencing and passing it off as the company's own:

“This 26-pose sequence already has a copyright....It’s like a series of dance steps; like the choreography in a musical. And musicals are copyrighted."

But Greg Gumucio, founder of YTTP, counters that

"This issue is much bigger than Bikram the man, much bigger than Bikram Yoga,” he wrote on his blog YogaTruth.org. “It is much larger than myself or Yoga to the People. This is about whether yoga asanas and the sequencing of asanas that are part of Traditional Knowledge will remain in the public domain for everyone to use, for everyone to teach, and for everyone to practice.”

Oy. Money and intellectual property and copyrighting and ancient history and all of it. For a practice that's supposed to be all about cutting out the drama in life, we've sure got a lot of it, eh? I blame the profit factor. Note that common branding/marketing theme in each of the above showdowns.

How to gracefully combine spirit and business, ethics and capitalism? You've got me. We'll keep practicing. One breath at a time. That's about all we can do. Well, that and drink. Heavily.

Lululemon Athletica Combines Ayn Rand and Yoga (NYT)
RYT, E-RYT, or RYS? BFD! (Recovering Yogi)
Bikram Sues Yoga to the People (Yoga Journal)

Raw, adjective: 5. crude in quality or character; not tempered or refined by art or taste: raw humor.

2011-12-07T08:56:00.001-08:00

If something is too hard to do, then it's not worth doing. You just stick that guitar in the closet next to your shortwave radio, your karate outfit and your unicycle and we'll go inside and watch TV.

— Homer Simpson

(Made me laauuuuuugh. Keep practicing, folks. Just keep practicing. Pick up the damn guitar, roll out that untouched mat, pump up that flat tire, just dust it all off. Stop thinking so much, and just put one foot in front of the other, even when it sucks. Because, you know, someday? It won't. Promise.)

Raw, idiom: 14. in the raw, a. in the natural, uncultivated, or unrefined state: nature in the raw.

2011-12-06T10:21:00.000-08:00

And there's your action shot, kids.

An honor to share in their big moment in some small way. And on the beach, in the shadow of limestone cliffs, no less.

Grateful.

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2011-12-06T05:38:00.000-08:00

Home, darlings, home.

I stepped off the plane late last night to find a twinkly, Christmas card-worthy San Francisco, and the 50-degree temperature difference from the last time I'd breathed fresh air on the other side of the world felt oh-so-right.

Regular teaching schedule is in order, so I'll see you tonight at 4:30, Urban Flow, or at 7:45, Flying Yoga, if the East Bay's more your style. I've missed you.

Raw, adjective: 8. brutally harsh or unfair: a raw deal

2011-12-04T16:10:00.000-08:00

Other religions suggest there may be a miracle, or you may go to heaven. But it is strangely comforting to hear from Buddha’s teaching that there is no such thing. This is what it is. This is reality. The Buddha’s teaching says that hope is just the flip side of fear, and fear the flip side of hope. The best thing is just to stay awake and watch it, watch yourself, and feel everything as it is right now.

— Kaz Suzuki,
"A Caregiver's Story"

I read this raw, sad story this morning in the rain while putting off the imminent need to pack for the airport.

I've been dreading the return to reality. (That, of course, implies that this is not "reality." Which is a common and flawed assumption for most of us who escape to a slower pace and warmer climes, I suppose. Still.)

But a sobering reality of another sort hit last night when, late in the evening, I received word through my younger brother that a dear, old friend of the family — a young German woman about my age, whose pastor husband had worked closely for my father when he was dying, and whose serious, cherubic 2-year-old daughter Magdalena brought much light and laughter to the somber, death-gripped hospice bed in the living room that year — was killed, unbeknownst to us, several months ago. Collision with a truck in Germany. Death on impact. She went quickly, leaving an injured Thomas and their now four young children behind.

I felt an unexpected severity of grief, a loss of appetite for all things vital on hearing the news.

This reminder of veritable impermanence, of the fact that, yes, life (and death) are really not "fair," and that's how it is, in spite of every resistance to that truth, shook me at a time when I was feeling selfishly wistful about having to leave the island and head back to "reality."

(How lucky we are to have a reality to return to!)

I will think of Ulrike as a caregiver, ever, she in her quiet unassuming way, and I will have such gratitude, always, for the joy she and her family wrought to my own family in a moment of great sadness. And my heart hurts for the family she's left behind, a family for whom the days are and will no doubt continue to be a struggle.

The thing with caregiving, as Kaz Suzuki describes so poignantly above, is that it's a closed circle kind of phenomenon. We give, knowing we'll need to be given to; we care, knowing we'll need to be cared for. I wish I could better care for Thomas and his children, long out of touch now somewhere in Germany; I wish I could offer them the comfort they offered to us, these years ago, now in their own moment of suffering. And I am reminded of the sick grace of terminal illnesses like HIV and cancer, a grace which comes in the ability to plan for death, to expect it, to say the things we want to say before it's too late.

"Raymond was composed strongly. A big-boned, masculine, athletic guy. And when everything else deteriorated, I think his heart kept on pumping. I’d help him put his legs up, and I would touch his belly. I’d help him breathe, help him watch his breath. I would hold his belly and breathe with him. Being aware of breathing had an immediate effect for him, a calming effect. But I would hear my own internal voice say, Am I going to be like this some day? Who is going to take care of me when I get sick? I felt my own fear and terror. But it helped me to see this, to see my own panic rather than be captured by it. I had never watched my breath or his own so intensely before — I don’t think I can reproduce that. That was the deepest meditation I’ve ever experienced."

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-12-04T07:46:00.000-08:00

This makes my heart swell.

*

Lama Gyurme. More here.

Raw, idiom: 14. in the raw, a. in the natural, uncultivated, or unrefined state: nature in the raw.

2011-12-04T07:04:00.001-08:00

The butterfly counts not months but
moments and has time enough.

— Rabindranath Tagore

(Moments. Yes.)

Raw, adjective: 2. not having undergone processes of preparing, dressing, finishing, refining, or manufacture: raw cotton.

2011-12-04T05:24:00.000-08:00

Undone.

We talk a lot about "getting undone." Undoing has always been one of my favorite definitions of yoga, and sure enough, it gets a fair amount of lip service in the yoga world.

But what does that really look like?

Your shoelaces come undone, usually accidentally. Your bra comes undone, possibly deliberately. The handle on your fabric grocery bag comes undone while you're carrying 2 melons and 6 kombuchas, definitely not deliberately. (And then you try not to come emotionally undone when your 2 melons and 6 kombuchas roll down the street.) There's even a novel by that name: She's Come Undone. I've not read it, but back in the day it was a NY Times best-seller and chosen for Oprah's Book Club and everything, which implies some narrative mixture of mental illness and tragedy and redemption, wouldn't you guess?

So coming undone is a bad thing, but it's a good thing, but maybe sometimes it's both....so what the hell?

The woman in yellow led me up a twisting rock staircase, past hot tubs and leafy hideaways and one of the more stunning views of the ocean I've seen in some time. After I'd trudged up the hill, pretending not to be out of breath, she led me into a room at the top of the staircase, a warm one, specially heated, and promptly laid me out on my belly, slathered hot coconut oil on my back, and started pounding out my shoulders like a construction worker taking a jackhammer to cement.

About thirty seconds in, the woman — her name was Pop — groped her hands around my right shoulder blade, and then froze for a second. The muscles there were so knotted up, she started laughing. I didn't have to ask what was so funny. I knew, too well.

Then she slid her hands to the left shoulder blade, felt around a bit, and started laughing again.

"Same," she giggled.

And then she turned the jackhammer up full throttle.

Granthis.

Granthis are knots. They're psychic knots, they're emotional knots, they're the subtle energy kind of knots that block the free movement of prana through the 72,000 energy channels — nadis — of the body. You've likely heard of the sushumna nadi, that central energy line through which the chakras run. Well, you've got ida and pingala, too — corresponding with the left and right sides, and if you want to get all binary up in this, the feminine and masculine — and somewhere in there, a few tens of thousands more.

The goal of Kundalini yoga is to pierce these nadis. (Stick with me here, I know). Because when you're stuck, you're stuck. When you feel heavy and lethargic and sluggish, zero life force, that general sense of emotional or bodily malaise, chances are you've got some powerful business going on in your granthis.

Most scholars say you've got three major granthis, running along the sushumna: the Brahma (at the base chakra), the Vishnu (at the heart chakra), and the Rudra (behind the third eye). Makes sense to me. But I've long found this knot imagery useful, far beyond those three agreed-upon main stations along the line.

We develop psychic knots over time. It's not like you have a bad break-up or your cat kicks the bucket and suddenly Shazaam! you've got a magic new granthi in your forearm. No, these puppies grow in the myriads of times we repeat, we repress, we power through, we move under or over something in our lives that's a challenge, a source of melancholy, a source of pain, a source of fear. They harden, slowly, repeatedly, like big ol' invisible rubber band balls, one rubber band at a time, blocking the easy flow of prana through our bodies.

Still with me? I know, it sounds kind of woo-woo.

But seriously. Think about it.

Granthis can be related to samskaras, for sure — those old habits that wear deep grooves into our behavioral patterns, such that after awhile it's so hard not to automatically snap at someone when they piss you off, or to stop downing a bottle of wine every night in order to fall asleep, or to resist diving into a pint of Ben and Jerry's to avoid feeling the disappointment of being looked over for that promotion yet again.

We hit "restart" to become conscious of some of those samskaras, and to maybe find a way to undo the many self-created granthis in our lives. I think of the change in my own life when I cut out gluten. The difference was palpable, in my energy, my relationships, my health, and my disposition. I suddenly felt unblocked, as if all the knots that had challenged my ability to be happy and productive and social and energized had just quickly dissolved like cubes of raw brown sugar in hot water.

I feel dissolved in that same way now, here, this dark, gloomy Sunday evening in Koh Samui, as the smoke rises over the mountains to my right and the wet, muggy night sets in. Having been pounded by Pop and her thumbs of steel, I am broken-in, undone, unraveled, as though the pain and the struggle of every Chaturanga and every hard decision and every loss that I've ever stored in my shoulders has been dissipated, cracked open, released, and fresh life force is streaming through.

We tie ourselves into knots. I see it happen in front of my face, amongst my dearest friends and family. Our minds do the knitting, weaving our lives into intricate fabrics of fears and projections and worries and hypothetical realities. And when slowly, gently, over the years we learn to gradually dissociate with that tightening mind, we better manage to soften, and eventually, if we really work at it, to avoid knotting up in the first place.

But sometimes we need help. Sometimes we need Pop with the hands of a construction worker, or we need a week sans sugar and meat and dairy (I suspect this might be true for many of us), or we need some time sans people, or alarm clocks, or responsibilities, to help us get there, to ease us into that unleashed, unblocked state.

The result? That vaunted undoing. That shedding of skins, that unlearning how to be tense and uptight and self-righteous and fearful. We become more childlike, more trusting, less wound up.

Where are your knots? What heartache are you storing in your hip, and what lost ambition have you lodged in your right calf? What failed relationship are you carrying around knotted up in your belly? And what fear of the future is tangled up in that space just behind your brow?

Start to unravel. The practice teaches us how, you know: we bind in Utthita Parvsakonasana to remind ourselves that we have the power to tie ourselves in chains, to tangle ourselves in knots, and the even greater power to unlock those chains, to undo those same knots.

I always compare the undone feeling to that lightning-fast speed when you reboot your computer after it's been cluttered with open windows and busy applications for one too many days and that whirly-gig colored ball just spins and spins and spins. We open up, restart. New energy flushes in. Revived.

There's no "doing" involved. That's what's so damn hard for many of us, I imagine. And that's why we practice just letting ourselves be there, ready, waiting, trusting in Pop or Pattabhi Jois or what-have-you, resting in that breathless, coconut-oil-slathered state of repose. There's your radical undoing. There's your first step toward flowing.

And then? There's your prana.

Raw, adjective: 1. uncooked, as articles of food: a raw carrot.

2011-12-03T21:27:00.000-08:00

In spite of all the tropical distractions, I've been tuned in enough to catch wind of the unexpected closure of Cafe Gratitude (and her slightly-earthier, much more hip younger sister, Gracias Madre).

On hearing the news, my Facebook feed exploded with dramatic exclamations of dismay and disbelief. (This is not surprising, given that I have a lot of hippie yoga friends who try to eat well.) And yet, it's somehow not shocking at all. Hard to say who or what's at fault here. As much as the place has been a refuge of freshness and vitality and good intentions for me and my beloveds for years now, it's also laden with some heavier baggage.

Despite my, erm, gratitude for Cafe Gratitude (it's been well-documented around these parts in the past, here and here, for instance), I've always been weirdly suspicious of their Landmark affiliations. And I wouldn't be surprised if some of the shady cult aspects of that influence are at play here, too. It's disappointing all-around.

But, here in vegan heaven, I've been thinking a lot about Cafe Grat and the remarkable, truly countercultural kinds of offerings they prepare, and how rare it is to walk into a restaurant and feel at once free to enjoy whatever you'd like (most vegetarians can relate to that sense of limitation, no?) and certain that you're channeling your money into the kind of establishment that operates on a slightly enlightened (or making an effort to be enlightened) plane. So it's sad to see it go, if only because the loss really puts a crimp in my regular dates with KRW and crew.

I'm on the final day now of my stay here at Kamalaya [wistful], and eating here has been much like living in a 24/7 paradise island version of Cafe Gratitude (with better, faster, less cheesy and invasive service, I might add). The food is incredible: fresh and green and light and (for the most part) vegan, and so unbelievably full of prana. It's the way I'd like to eat all the time, every day, if I had my druthers:

Fresh fruits for breakfast. Strong coffee (natch). Roasted and sprouted nuts. Olive oil and ginger and garlic. Wok-steamed vegetables with Thai herbal sauces and Indian cabbage and pumpkin curry and zucchini pasta. And on and on and on.

Every evening means starting dinner with the kind of excellent freshly-squeezed vegetable juices that I haven't had time to make since grad school, when I spent hours finding reasons not to write my thesis. (I did a lot of juicing then, needless to say. Juicing and playing piano.) Spinach and kale and parsley and red cabbage and beets and carrots and lime and pineapple and broccoli, juiced. Perfection.

I studied up a lot on juicing when my Pops got cancer, and anyone who's read anything on juicing knows that it's the way to go for the maximum in nutrition with the minimum in digestive effort. That's one of the many habits I'd like to pack up and take home with me when I leave.

This kind of soul work, the project of eating well, so tied to the body, yes, lies at the heart of our mission with Bhakti Kitchen. It's not restrictive, it's not proscriptive, it's not joyless. It leaves plenty of space for flexibility, for being human, for eating the blue-cheese-stuffed olive in your martini or that huge slab of birthday cake. It's just this: we believe that eating well can change one's experience of being in a body, that eating well has a direct causal relationship to living well. Simple.

I've seen it already in just this week, in the difference in my own skin and mind and body and sleep patterns and sense of well-being. And I have no doubt that this easy manifestation of my ideal eating habits — ahimsa-driven, high raw, vegan, lightly processed, fresh, and locally sourced — has set a tone for the weeks to come, has shaken me out of the more prana-depleting patterns that come from living a hectic, nomadic urban life, and has reminded me of how easy it is to feel well, to consciously create wellness in and of our own choices, 3+ times a day.

Wanky-sounding, I know. But it's a sentiment that's been reinforced these past days, too, in all the Jivamukti and bhakti and philosophical and theological emphases on compassion, ahimsa, living lightly on the earth and in harmony with the lives that interweave often unknowingly with our own. Click a few of those links above. This one in particular feels especially hep to what I'm feeling today, swimming in green smoothies and fresh pineapple and sauteéd morning glory and the like.

Just choose. Decide to live well, in a spirit of ahimsa, with mindful intent. In every bite.

That said, you just might wanna hustle over to Cafe Gratitude before they shutter. I know I'll be there a lot in the weeks to come. That raw chocolate hazelnut mousse pie? To die for. And don't miss the coconut cream pie, either. Or the Tiramisu, come to think of it.

*

Vegetarianism preserves lives, health, peace, the ecology, creates a more equitable distribution of resources, helps to feed the hungry, encourages nonviolence for the animal and human members of the planet, and is a powerful aid for the spiritual transformation of the body, emotions, mind, and spirit.

— Gabriel Cousens, Conscious Eating

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2011-12-03T15:56:00.000-08:00

To understand how prayer works, consider the sun, which shines everywhere without hesitation or hindrance. Like God or Buddha, it continuously radiates all its power, warmth, and light without differentiation. When the earth turns, it appears to us that the sun no longer shines. But that has nothing to do with the sun; it’s due to our own position on the shadow side of the earth. If we inhabit a deep, dark mine shaft, it’s not the sun’s fault that we feel cold. Or if we live on the earth’s surface but keep our eyes closed, it’s not the sun’s fault that we don’t see light. The sun’s blessings are all-pervasive, whether we are open to them or not. Through prayer, we come out of the mine shaft, open our eyes, become receptive to enlightened presence, the omnipotent love and compassion that exist for all beings.

— Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche,
"Prayer"

I think of the Gayatri Mantra this morning now, reading this as the sun rises in the East, and of the power of pouring oneself out, in that self-emptying kind of way. We look to the light.

Om bhur bhuvah svah
tat-savitur varenyam
bhargo devasya dhimahi
dhiyo yo nah pracodayat

Raw, adjective: 6. ignorant, inexperienced, or untrained: a raw recruit.

2011-12-02T21:25:00.000-08:00

So, y'all know how I feel about core work.

It's funny; since writing that rant, I've had such inspired, challenging, authentic, and yes, often-times humbling conversations with folks about abs and yoga and sweating and mindfulness and the like. And while I realize that I managed to piss a few people off with that piece, the whole experience has also taught me a lot: about how important it is to speak truth, even when your voice shakes, about the danger of trying to define what yoga is and what it is not, and about making black and white generalizations. And about how sometimes when you speak your mind, you end up realizing you should've made room for a few escape clauses.

Like, for instance, since then, sometimes I really get the urge to teach crunches, and I feel like I can't, cuz that'd make me a liar. And a hypocrite. And that'd be bad. And what if somebody came to my class expressly because they didn't wanna do abs, because they thought it was an ab-free safe zone? Who am I to violate that false advertising, baby?

But then I take a really great ass-kickin' class and I walk out of the studio shattered and I laugh and I sweat and I curse and I crack open along the way, and I realize, hey, maybe all abs aren't so evil after all. As long as they're taught (and practiced) with a yogic, mindful attention, and a sense of humor, and the kind of intention that makes them more about meditation, about connecting the breath, and not so much about getting a six-pack or burning 500 calories, then sure, we can make friends with them, right? (And maybe you should stop projecting your old shit onto something new and let your enemy become your friend, mmmkay, Rach?)

That in mind, I decided to try to make amends with core work, to repair some of the damage to our hanging-by-a-thread intimate relationship. We go way back, you know, even if ours used to be kind of an abusive affair. Because secretly, sometimes ab work feels really good, in that masochistic, sadistic kind of way. And, as so many readers pointed out, a strong core is super central to a strong body and a safe practice.

So I ordered Ana Forrest's book Fierce Medicine with a mind turned toward studying up on all that solid Forrest-style core work, as so many friends and colleagues have recommended. And I practiced a lot, a lot, of Navasanas and forearm planks and Vasisthasana variations. And I pulled out a few of Rusty's old audio CDs so I could get a good dose of core strengthening whilst on the road.

And then last night, lingering over a starlit dinner, green juice and Indian cabbage and bok choy from ginger-shallot heaven having been hungrily downed, I noticed that this morning's 7:30 class was Pilates.

It's strange; I've been kind of unconsciously avoiding the group wellness classes here at Kamalaya. Not because there's anything wrong with them. I mean, they're beyond lovely.

They're all held in this most-beautiful treehouse yoga pavilion in the sky, overlooking the Gulf, where geckos shimmy across the floor and the ceiling while you're lying there in Ardha Bhekasana and you hear birdsong twittering between Ujjayi breaths and feel the humidity in the air steaming up your joints and it's generally a better place to practice asana than anywhere else you could possibly even imagine.

It's just, I've always been a lone ranger type, a kind of desert solitaire, especially when it comes to working out. Never did understand it in college when my girlfriends would buddy up to go to the gym. I was always like: dude, cut the socializing, this is not cocktail hour, this is workout time!! Didn't wanna be bothered with small talk and chatter about pedicures and reality TV while I was getting my treadmill on. So I usually hauled my ass up to the fitness center or the swimming pool in the wee hours of the morning, while all of the other undergrads were sleeping off their 2 a.m. pizza and Natty Light hangovers, and squeezed in a few miles or a few laps on my own. It was a meditation, for sure, even though I didn't realize it at the time.

(On top of that, I'm just stubborn and bossy, and don't like to be told what to do.)

But I've been trying to recapture that beginner's mind again, you know, that sense of always being a student, always being open to new methodologies, new verbiage, new ways of doing, outside of my own comfortable rut. There's so much I have yet to learn.

So, in that spirit, the first morning here, I hit up a private tai chi lesson there in that peaceful yoga pavilion, an hour after sunrise, and it was fab, if a little more suited for your Chinese grandma in Washington Square Park than for your average early-thirty-something wanting to get her ass kicked. I felt calm and gentle and present when it was done, and was shocked by how difficult those little movements came to be after a certain amount of repetition, and how sore my muscles were from those simple variations.

And then I rolled up for a Hatha Yoga class after that, thinking, Ok, it's cool, no expectations, I'll slink in with a beginner's mind and be patient and just connect my breath. And there were lots of beginners, lots of sweet, confused-looking, adorable yoga newbies. I tried so hard to be patient, to remember what it was like to be brand new and so completely overwhelmed. But when 30 minutes into class we were just getting to Cat/Cow, it was all I could do not to jump out of my skin. Talk about a teacher. This fiery, impatient, bull-headed, aggro pitta was getting her cosmic smackdown.

(It's not a coincidence that I can't sit through Yin Yoga classes very well, either. They're such a teeth-gritting teacher for me. The kind of teacher that looks like a Catholic nun who slaps you on the wrist with a ruler when you fall asleep in class. No es bueno.)

I held in as long as I could, trying not to be a jerk, and then finally slipped out when we hit Bhujangasana toward the end of class. I zipped home and threw down about 16 rounds of heat-building sun salutations on my own mat. And felt a lot better.

Since then, I've been kind of doing my own thing, yoga-wise. Stealing up to the yoga pavilion around noon, getting my requisite sweat on. They never schedule group fitness classes then because it's too damn hot and humid in the middle of the day. Which makes it a perfect practice opportunity for this heat-seeking whore. Two hours later, after moving through the Rachel-Meyer-Ashtanga-Bhakti-Bikram-Jivamukti Primary Series, I am wrung out, shattered, sweaty as hell, and happy as a clam. I sit on the beach for a few hours and read and pretend to write, and then I haul up to the lap pool, which is like something out of Greek mythology, so stunningly serene and lush and jungle-y and beyond expectation, and knock out 20 laps of freestyle and breaststroke and sidestroke, and then my ass is suitably kicked.

And then to the steam cavern I go. Also known as: bliss in a cave.

Anyway. More than you wanted to know about my Kamalaya exercise regimen. (I am not good at sitting still, or taking savasana. Obvs.)

Point of all that is, in between sun salutations and sidestrokes I've been reading all this brilliant philosophy about attachment and aversion and how living well, living soulfully, living authentically, means learning to love that which most challenges us. And how in order to make friends with your enemies, your fears, your resistances, your most dreaded life experiences, you've gotta move through them.

Which brings me to: core work.

Aversion established. So in the interest of moving through this aforementioned resistance, in trying to make friends with this age-old bully, I rolled out of bed early this morning, drank some Nescafe, worked for a bit, threw on my cutest yoga skirt (it helps, duh) and marched up to the yoga pavilion at 7:29 like a woman on a mission. I was going to make friends with this Pilates shit, already.

So. Um. I tried.

It started slowly. We laid there on our backs, breathing.

Ok. Pranayama. I can do this.

Find the yoga in this, Rach.

It doesn't have to be just a workout.

You can turn this into a meditation.

The hour that ensued was an hour of tiny micro-movements, the kind of secret stealth killers that look simple and painless and boring and blah until you do them 27 times over and over and keep your legs in the air at 90 degrees for thirty minutes without putting them down. We laid there on our backs, knees in the air (open, close, open, close), over and over, looking like a bunch of dead bugs.

The lady to my left was a dead ringer for Jane Lynch. I've seen her here and there around the resort the last few days, and every time I see her, I think ohmigod, the Glee lady's here! But it's not her.

It was helpfully distracting.

We rolled onto our right sides and did more variations on leg-lifting, up and down and forward and back, wash, rinse, repeat. I was beginning to sense a theme. I thought to myself, between exhales, Jane Lynch's twin sister is looking at my ass, and she can see how bored I am, and she's wondering why that weird chick in the blue is breathing like Darth Vader in and out through her nose.

(What can I say? I thought some Ujjayi might help things.)

I tried to bring my attention back to my breath, and tried to watch my mind. It was, uh, entertaining. It kept asking the universe, God, the cosmos, the geckos scurrying along the ceiling up above: where is the JOY? God, I missed the joy. I missed the exhilaration of flipping my Dog and whipping straight into Warrior 2. I missed the drama of diving down into a deep Chaturanga from a proud Warrior 1. I missed the heart-opening sweeping shattering expansive knock-me-on-my-ass yoga-asana that I know and love.

This was like Salambhasana for repressed WASPy ladies from Nantucket.

I'd never done so many disciplined micro-movements in my life.

It kicked my ass. I'm not good at micro, or at discipline. I used up my discipline quota circa 1996. I know this. I've resigned myself to that reality. But the fact remained, there I was, reclining on my back for an hour straight, lifting my pelvis, tilting, lowering, lifting, tilting, lowering.

Talk about moving through your aversion. I wanted to blast through it. I wanted to blow a hole in the middle of it. I wanted rhythm and pulsation and the kind of driving heartbeat that fuels an Ashtanga practice or a bhakti kirtan or a Janet Jackson dance routine. I wanted the music and the heart-openers and the sweat and the huffing and the joy, baby, joy.

Then we rolled onto our left sides and did more leg lifting. Forward, back, up, down, again, again, again. Jane Lynch was lying there in my sightline, sprawled out reclining on her long lithe left arm like a Titian odalisque, her head resting elegantly on her bicep while her other leg busted ass.

It felt like such a tease. A reverse Pilates mullet of sorts. Party in the front, business in the back.

Again, my impatient Id hollered out: where is the JOY??

You have to work a little harder to find it in Pilates, eh. And maybe that's the point. Maybe the hard work is not the big expansive cardio-busting heart-cracking moves, but it's in the being patient with the smallness, the micro-contractions, the control, the discipline. I know that's true, and I knew it lying there like Venus of Urbino, too, even though I didn't want to admit it just yet.

(I especially didn't want to admit that my ass was getting really damn sore from all those leg lifts.)

Do you find it's easier to lasso the monkey mind when you're in a class versus practicing on your own? So you can focus your drishti on the teacher's words, their directions, and get a little further from the thinking mind? I find that's true for me. No matter how focused I am on my drishti, when I'm practicing solo, my mind can wander to that conversation or this dude or that possible article or that weather forecast or that memory of March 1988. You know how it goes when that drunken monkey swings across the branches of your Vrksasana. It's so hard to bring the attention back to the breath.

So I've been turning to Sharon Gannon and David Life's recommended mantra a lot lately. In their book, they recommend internally repeating "Let" on the inhales and "Go" on the exhales. It's an awesome tactic. The mantra really works. It stills the mind. And most of us have plenty that we could afford to let go of, so every time you use it, you can apply it to a different source of heaviness or stagnation in your life.

I kept trying to do that this time around, to stop my whining, chattering, irritable, impatient monkey mind. I tried to match every inhale (lift the leg!) with "Let" and every exhale (lower the leg!) with "Go." It worked for a little bit, but then the internal mantra kept morphing into

This (inhale)

Blows (exhale)

Core work? Baby steps. We'll get there. I promise, soon we'll be BFFs. Or at least friends with benefits and no awkward breakfasts.

But for now, Pilates? I think I'll stick with the yoga.

Don't take it personally.

It's not you. It's me.

Raw, idiom: 14. in the raw, a. in the natural, uncultivated, or unrefined state: nature in the raw.

2011-12-02T07:13:00.000-08:00

"Last forever!" Who hasn't prayed that prayer? You were lucky to get it in the first place. The present is a freely given canvas. That it is constantly being ripped apart and washed downstream goes without saying.

— Annie Dillard,
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Raw, adjective: 10. not diluted, as alcoholic spirits: raw whiskey.

2011-12-02T01:08:00.000-08:00

Love.

One fabulous sister-in-law, one radiant bride-to-be, and one sweaty officiant, toasting the wedding to come, a week ago Thursday night in Railay.

I'm about six shades more tan than that already.

(Yipes. Where's that sunblock again?)

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-12-01T17:21:00.001-08:00

I sat down to write just a blurb this morning before breakfast, and couldn't stop. Care of the Soul is rocking my world. Now, to the mango and some strong coffee. Good morning from a cloudy, thick Koh Samui.

Loving Thomas Moore and the ways in which he understands living soulfully as at once ethereal art, that which is the "craft of life," and a pragmatic, day-to-day, of-the-earth practice:

My life work is an attempt to ground the pure, visionary spirit in the imperfect, intoxicating sensuousness of worldly life....

It takes a broad vision to know that a piece of the sky and a chunk of the earth lie lodged in the heart of every human being, and that if we are going to care for that heart we will have to know the sky and the earth as well as human behavior.

He's a gangster, that Moore; a renegade. He owns, and embraces, the shadows. And he's got a sense for the wild, the deviant, the non-conformist.

Check it:

As we get to know the soul and fearlessly consider its oddities and the many different ways it shows itself among individuals, we may develop a taste for the perverse. We may come to appreciate its quirks and deviances. Indeed, we may eventually come to realize that individuality is born in the eccentricities and unexpected shadow tendencies of the soul, moreso than in normality and conformity.

Be still my anti-establishment heart. There is so much beautiful overlap here with Hinduism and ecofeminist theologies and Beat literature and yoga philosophy and queer theologies and Buddhism and mysticism and Transcendentalism and body theologies and panentheism and poetry and process theology, my head wants to explode. Scribbling in margins like there's no tomorrow.

Have you been ignoring your dirt in favor of the sky? The mundane, the run-of-the-mill, the unsexy reality of being alive in a body, day in and day out? The grind, the stuff that you try to get through until the holidays, until vacation rolls around, until you get out of school, until you meet the right person or get the right job or get the right body?

Don't.

Dig your hands into the soil: yes, this soil, this very mucky muddy sludgy stuff that doesn't feel as clear as you'd like. Roll around in it a bit. See the light, the truth, that rests therein. And know that therein, too, lies as much the real stuff of life as in the cameo moments: the sunsets and the weddings and the graduations and the births and the unadulterated successes, those rare flashes when you feel you've got your shit together.

I was walking by the water lilies yesterday, growing down by the glimmering, shimmering, so-beautiful-that-it-catches-in-my-throat infinity pool streaming out toward the sand, and without thought, that old unattributed saying came to mind:

May we live like the lotus, at home in the muddy water.

Yes. Earth and sky. All of it, at once, rooted deep in the dark, murky, muddy stuff of life, growing up toward the sun, even — especially — when it's hard to catch a ray through the shadows. All lodged in that beating heart of yours.

Raw, idiom: 14. in the raw, a. in the natural, uncultivated, or unrefined state: nature in the raw.

2011-11-30T20:01:00.000-08:00

Morning meditation, a la Seurat

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-11-29T17:15:00.000-08:00

Wednesday morning here.

I don't really have words. Is that weird?

My life has been all words these last few days, well, written words separated by vast silences, and yet, as I sit to write, I got nothin'.

Strange.

I'm not interested in sharing some bland, clichéd travelogue, or some idyllic, peachy-keen version of this life that I have been living for these few days on the opposite side of the world. It's 8am and I'm perched on my balcony in black pajamas and there's the water and there's the frangipani and there's the lemongrass and that is the status, really, here at this "wellness sanctuary" on the southeast corner of the island of Koh Samui.

I almost left. Thought I couldn't hack it. Was convinced I was in the wrong place.

It's paradise, you know? Languid, tropical, sunset-over-the-beach-tinted paradise.

But I wanted to run away.

I've got a little Marla Singer in me, you know? I mean, she even came along on the trip. And this dark, serious, urbanite me; well, she felt a little out of place, in the same way that when I cross the bay to uber-progressive, uber-green, uber-politically correct Berkeley, I feel an urgent need to shoot some tequila and wear big sunglasses and a black leather jacket.

So, I arrived Sunday afternoon, well, moving into dusk, and Kamalaya was so beautiful, yes, and easy and lovely and green and perfect and all of those things you'd expect a place like this to be. A sweet young Thai woman in yellow showed me around, took me to my room, and it was light and summery and clean and fresh and earthily pristine. Naturally the first thing my eyeballs googled was the coffee pot. No such thing. A hot water heater, yes, and elegant herbal elixirs and green-friendly glass-bottled water and lemongrass oil and organic insect repellent, you name it: but no coffee.

I about flipped my lid.

Well, internally, that is. Didn't wanna freak the nice Thai lady out.

Ohmigod what have I done, I'm stuck here in hippie yoga teacher heaven on a hill overlooking the ocean but there's NO COFFEE because these people are all weird detox slaves and now it's almost dark and how will I get up in the morning and how will I ever get any writing done and how DARE these people tell me I can't drink COFFEE and and I am so sick of the oppressive yoga/wellness industry telling me what is OK and what is NOT and this is BULLSHIT and fuck this shit and I'm packing up my shit and leaving and moving to Le Meridien down the street which is chi-chi and has a sweet-ass bar and lots of vodka and most definitely, most DEFINITELY has coffee so that I won't be denied like some oppressive FASCIST REGIME.

The mind. The mind is so much the arbiter of our experience.

Lesson #1: attachment.

(What are you attached to, Rachie? What do you NEED? What do you refuse to let go of?)

Ok. Detach, Rach. So I breathed and nodded thank you and goodbye to the lady and put my head below my heart and tried to chill out and told myself, it's not about the coffee, it's ok, it's all good, Rach, you can just go for a nice sunny walk tomorrow and pick up some Nescafe and then I googled "mini-mart" and sure enough, sweet jesus yes, Google Maps picked up a mini-mart 7.92m away, so I knew I could hook it up in the morning and be just fine after all.

The world would not crumble into pieces as I sat trapped in a detox sanctuary on an utopic hillside overlooking the Gulf of Thailand.

Meanwhile, on checking in, the soft-spoken lady at reception had told me I was booked for a 4:35 appointment at the Wellness Sanctuary (yes, that's what it's called) for a wellness consultation of sorts; you know, the kind where they weigh you and ask about your health history and what do you want out of this time here and how do you feel about acupuncture or an Indian head massage, that kind of thing.

I had cringed on the inside at the thought, not wanting to deal. This lush, tranquil, marble-strewn retreat is really quite stunning, and I ended up here because it offers that reclusive stillness merged with natural beauty, the kind of literal "retreat" that would allow me space and time to write, unbothered, alone. But it's also the kind of resort that offers a "detox programme" of the sort that many Brits and Euros are fond of, moreso than I've seen yet in the States, and so sure enough, the place is full of folks detoxing and trying to lose weight and change their lives and create new habits by sloughing off their old.

That's cool; I can be down with that. Shift old samskaras, create new ones, in a space that's oh-so-willing to facilitate that kind of hard life work. Go team.

But the good ol' mind ran rampant again, sitting there in this airy treehouse sanctuary awaiting my appointment. I was furious, I was irritable (maybe it was the lack of coffee?), I didn't want to have to sit and wait for an appointment with the nice Aussie lady, I wanted to hightail it out of there and run down the street and buy me some vodka, already!

(If you'd have seen a thought-bubble over my head in those moments, ostensibly simple and relaxed, placidly sipping an iced mulberry tea overlooking the ocean, you'd have thought I was the Unabomber.)

It was not pretty.

I started writing frantically, scrawling deep heavy lashes into my unsuspecting notebook, about how this detox shit is bullshit and I'm not here to lose weight and I just want to write and drink coffee and do some asana and read by the beach, ok?, and fuck this oppressive detox shit and the wellness industry that has co-opted people's insecurities and turned them into yet one more opportunity to make a buck and prioritize vanity and emphasize the gaze of the Other and endorse the cult of the body that channels so many people's life energies into trying to cling to a former bodily state that is meant to be constantly changing because impermanence is the nature of all things and change is the only constant!! To hell with the body fascists!! I will not sanction their navel-gazing myths of salvation via bodily transformation!! That is a false soteriology and one that is increasingly commodified by pop culture, and I will not be one more cog in the machine of redemptive faux-religious body mythologies!!

Ohhhhhh, watching the mind.

Naturally, the sweet Aussie wellness consultant lady was lovely, and so kind, and I told her I wasn't really interested in any of this "detox programme" stuff, that I just wanted to read and write and eat greens and drink carrot juice and be quiet, and she was beautiful, and hooked me up with some delish menus and advice on colonics (yes, another story) and softly sent me on my way.

Looking back these few days later, of course, I can't help but chuckle and see how that afternoon was such a teacher. Even in the midst of it, I knew, watching-the-thoughts, meditation-style, that it would be a guru, that I was not those chattering thoughts, not this racing angry dark urbanite craving caffeine and feeling oppressed by the lack thereof.

But boy, in that moment, did it feel stuck.

The thing is, they're all teachers. The lack of coffee and the awkward obligatory wellness consultation and the quiet dark nights and the crescent moon in the sky as I looked up during dinner last night; they're all teachers. We chant the Guru Brahma chant at the beginning and end of practice to remind ourselves of this: to find the teacher ("guru," literally "that which brings us from darkness to light") in all we do and are.

Have you felt this stuckness before?

This sense of being so very much in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and just wanting to flee?

I've felt it. In double pigeon. At dinner parties. In certain conversations. In moments that felt so very wrong, and my heart wanted me to flee, and my mind spun, and my breath caught in my throat, and yet, whether it was my choice or another's, I was forced to stay, to sit with it, to be there in it, and to know, even though it felt oh-so-permanent, this discomfort, that it would pass.

That's yoga.

And then, so often, looking back I've realized that even in that heart-racing, breathless moment, I was exactly where I needed to be.

That's yoga, too.

I remember feeling it that first evening, years ago now, that I ever trained with my remarkable, loving, oh-so-wise teacher Rusty. I'd joined a group of strangers there in North Beach for a Bhakti Flow teacher training, and I didn't know anyone, and they all hugged a lot, and I felt quiet and weak and naive, and hung out along the back wall, and I thought to myself, my god, I am so in the wrong place; I am dark and serious and I suck at Vasisthasana and I don't know any of these chants and I am an academic not a lovey yoga teacher and what the hell have I gotten myself into and that's it, I'm leaving now, forget it.

And then a few minutes later we sat in a circle and said one word each about how we were feeling — I remember saying "wondering," and that was a very nice, very edited version of what I was really feeling — and then Rusty looked around the circle at us, all 45 or so of us, in the eyes, and said:

Trust.
Trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
Trust that you are in the right place.

So I tried. And I exhaled there, then, for the first time maybe all day.

And I kept exhaling. And I kept practicing. Even though I still didn't know what the hell I was doing. And this guru of mine, this teacher that was the experience of being thrown into an unknown situation with a bunch of strangers who hugged and talked about love a lot, kept me there, and showed me the power of staying, and in the years since that teacher has wrought so much beauty and transformation in my life, such rich relationship and even richer study, the devotion, the certainty, that comes of finding one's true dharma, one's true place.

All because I stayed. Because Rusty encouraged us to. Even though I didn't want to.

Because I thought it was wrong.
Because I thought I was wrong.

God bless Rusty Wells for saying that, in that moment. It kept me. And it keeps me still.

I am thinking a lot about teachers these days. Gratitude for my own teacher, gratitude for my many teachers throughout the years, gratitude for the teacher that is this life we're born into (Guru Brahma), this life we continue to lead (Guru Vishnu), and the teacher who shows up in the form of change and destruction, chaos and uncertainty (Guru Devo Maheshwara). Some of these teachers are so obvious — and others are so hard to see, mired as they are in shadow and tumult.

And yet, always and ever, we dedicate all efforts up to those very teachers: Tasmai Shri Gurave Namaha. Especially the uncomfortable ones.

Hours deep in study with David and Sharon's book have left my mind whirling with thoughts of tapas (discipline) and svadhyaya (self-study) and ishvara pranidhana (offering all efforts to the Divine). And that triad of kriyas (techniques for spiritual development) feels right, and true, and particularly germane to these few days of stillness and writing.

Tapas. Austerities, discipline. Maybe my tapas is learning to live without the coffee. Or maybe it's the walking down the hill in 90-degree heat to buy Nescafe from the mini-mart down the street, and the mad sunburn that resulted.

(All is well in the world. See pic below.)

Svadhyaya. Self-study. The being forced to sit with oneself, in the quiet, racing mind and churning heart, and watch it. To pause, to stop the rushing and stop the working and just be right here, observing, gently.

(Sounds a lot like meditation to me.)

Ishvara Pranidhana. Surrender. Offering all efforts away. Doing what we do not for ego, or for striving, or for clinging, but for the sake of doing it, for the joy of the work, not with any goal in mind, but rather in the service of whatever strikes you as divine.

(Or, in Christian circles: Soli Deo Gloria. All for the glory of God. Same thing.)

Trust. Trust that you are in the right place. As Rusty often says, trust that every step you have ever taken has been bringing you to this very place, this moment, this life. Trust that you are exactly where you're meant to be — coffee or no.

I've been remembering this, over and over, and finding such exhalation, such release, such comfort in that reminder.

Nescafe to the rescue.
Jivamukti to the rescue.
Marla Singer to the rescue.
Eka pada rajakapotasana to the rescue.
Gary Snyder and Alan Watts to the rescue.
Humid tropical mornings blooming into blaring sunny afternoons melting into languid island twilights to the rescue.

Last night I found the Kamalaya steam cavern. It's a wee little space tucked into the hillside overlooking the Gulf. The air inside is wet and thick, hot as Hades, 42 degrees C, sweaty and audibly sizzling with steam. My Bikram-loving joints went bazooka for it. I walked in, grinned (felt like home!), sat down, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and folded forward in a 5-minute Paschimottanasana, right there in that 107-degree heat, and knew I was in the right place after all.

My hamstrings knew, too.

Guru Brahma Guru Vishnu
Guru Devo Maheshwara
Guru Sakshath Parambrahma,

Tasmai Shri Gurave Namaha

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-11-29T05:02:00.000-08:00

All mystical writing really is instructions. It is not an attempt to describe the universe, to describe God, or to describe other realities. Every mystic knows that cannot possibly be done. The word mysticism, from the Greek muo, means silence, mum's the word, shut up. (I should talk...)

That's yoga. Shut up...shut up and listen.

— Alan Watts

Raw, idiom: 14. in the raw, a. in the natural, uncultivated, or unrefined state: nature in the raw.

2011-11-28T17:40:00.000-08:00

I feel like I'm living in a Frida Kahlo painting.

Koh Samui, Tuesday morning, 8:44am.

Sunburned and quiet and carrying David Life and Sharon Gannon wherever I go. Thinking of gurus and Om and seva and words and the ways in which the yoga really is one more expression of the arts. Loving the Jivamukti perspective on incorporating music, dance, poetry — and yes, politics — into the practice.

Grateful for sun and sky and space.

Raw, adjective: 2. not having undergone processes of preparing, dressing, finishing, refining, or manufacture: raw cotton.

2011-11-27T21:29:00.001-08:00

Found.

Koh Samui, Thailand.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-11-25T16:38:00.001-08:00

We done had a wedding.

Torrential tropical downpour turned into a glimmering sunset ceremony, just in time. Neruda, Frost, the like. Bats en route to cocktails in the cave. Poi spinners into the wee hours at the little dive bar at the end of the beach. Frangipani and lemongrass everywhere you turn.

And now, to the jungle.

I hear word of monkeys.

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-11-24T16:19:00.000-08:00

Up early writing the last of Derek and Jinny's wedding liturgy as the sun rises
over Railay Beach.

What a muse.

Raw, adjective: 2. not having undergone processes of preparing, dressing, finishing, refining, or manufacture: raw cotton.

2011-11-23T13:56:00.001-08:00

Five a.m. here in Bangkok, and I woke at four ready to rock.

I suppose you could call that jet lag, but honestly, I've not felt even a twinge. For as much as the media created drama about the conditions here in BKK, it's been only easy. And now this morning I'll wrap up my wee initial urban jaunt and trade it for sun and sand, as I fly to Krabi and then longtail boat on to Railay for the wedding tomorrow.

Not feeling much of a coherent thought structure this morn, which seems fitting for this city, which is so much action, so much life, on so many levels: skytrain, sidewalk, river, skyscraper, life on top of life, over and over. So we'll go for some stream of consciousness and call it good.

Loving the urbanity. The anonymity. The not wearing any makeup, the not having a phone (sweet jesus, yes), the not needing to operate according to any particular timeline. How unusual and strangely unfamiliar and beautifully unhooked. It took awhile to get used to the fact that there was nowhere I needed to be, nothing I needed to do. It's been some time since I've felt that deliciously unhinged sense of freedom. And now it feels still the tiniest bit strange and, even moreso, vastly liberating.

I've hit up a few studios, in pursuit of all things yoga. It's lovely to have an attitude of curiosity with little expectation; particularly after spending 24 hours in-flight (24 relatively painless hours, I might add, in spite of the cramped bod — thanks to Cathay Pacific and their fabulous raw vegan in-flight meals, I felt hydrated, light and full of prana, despite the long haul), it was just such a relief to move and twist and invert and yes, chaturanga. My first evening in the city I hit up Absolute Yoga Bangkok, which is a bright, vibrant, vital, huge space centered smack in the middle of a downtown shopping mall near Chit Lom. Absolute offers a range of classes, mostly Bikram-inspired, and since walking around here in the heat and the humidity is essentially the equivalent of a daylong Bikram class, I decided to pass on the 26 postures and opt for a vinyasa class instead. After sitting for so long, the idea of endless chaturangas at a nice rhythmic pace was pretty attractive.

So I found the studio, arrived early for class and settled in, to find that yes, I stuck out like a sore thumb (Teach looked at me and said: "You new here?" and naturally it turned out he'd done a stint in San Francisco and so knew many of my peers in the yoga world). He then proceeded to teach what was essentially the Ashtanga primary series with a few switch-ups in a melange of Thai, Sanskrit, and a little English thrown in for my benefit. It was so humbling. I felt like such a beginner. And was reminded of the power of the practice itself, and its inherent rhythm, as the 5-breath cycles and the stillness and the jump-backs and the series itself unfolded such that my wondering mind could slow, and in spite of the utter lack of linguistic understanding, get lost in the trans-cultural beauty and power of the practice. Such a testimony for the importance of tradition.

Yesterday morning broke early and after a last-minute Skype date with my fabulous colleague Andrea (modern technology, what!??), I hit the road. It was a big day, and one that started with the simplicity of just watching the city wake up. I've been staying at a ridiculously posh hotel down Sukhumvit Road. Because of the flooding fears, it seems like many of the hotels are not anywhere near capacity, even though it's the start of high season, so I was able to secure a most fabulous last-minute reservation at this 5-star boutique hotel during my quick layover in Hong Kong. It's funky and hip, self-consciously so, and full of stuffed tigers and sexy pop art and blue lights and the below-mentioned rooftop pool, and I kind of love it for its crassness and unapologetic outrageousness alone.

The place is based really within walking distance of much, so as per my usual MO in a new city, I immediately just started wandering. Your feet will show you everything if you just trust, you know?

So yesterday morning's early stroll took me to another vinyasa class, this time at Yoga Elements, another studio high in the sky overlooking Bangkok, situated on the 23rd floor of the Vanissa Building. The space was all spirit in the way that Absolute was all style, and I felt very much at home there in the midst of the Ganeshas and the Natarajs and the like. The practice was hamstring-oriented; I've never done more vertical splits in one class. Shane, the sweet, funny teacher, managed to work in a lot of upper-body work, too, killing it on the handstands and the pincha mayurasanas, and closing with some simple pranayama work that left me settled and silent there in that sanctuary in the sky. This class was taught in English, and I was struck by how powerfully cross-cultural the practice has come to be, no matter the language.

In the same way that, growing up, any church sanctuary or cathedral felt like home, now I find that no matter the city, no matter the language, any yoga studio, any mat, feels like home. And that is a gift.

After class, my stretched-out hamstrings and I headed straight for the river, and with it, the Grand Palace and Wat Arun and Wat Pho and all of the beauty that implies. There's evidence of the floods to be found everywhere, for sure, and many shops are offering discounts to people who have suffered loss from the flooding, but everything otherwise seems to be very much business-as-usual. I spent the better part of the day down there along the river, enjoying the gilt and the history but preferring, actually, the side streets and the tiny vendors and the shops tucked away down narrow alleys where the water was still rushing in past the piers.

I'm learning: I like spare, bleak beauty better than the ostentatious. The old royal buildings were lovely, yes, but I felt strangely unsettled and crowded and breathless in seeing them, out of my element, and only felt myself again when I could escape to the streets and get lost in people and simplicity and dirt and laughter and the rush of the day-to-day. That's so much more what feels real here: the slipping into the local crowds, the watching the commuters on the train and the teenagers headed for the mall, the listening to the mish-mash of languages in this diverse city, the seeing the impoverished children on the street and wondering what their lives will look like in ten or twenty years, the smelling the endless scents wafting up from any street corner.

It is good to be quiet, and just listen. I have missed this.

It is good to get out of my own story. To disappear into a crowd where I am not a yoga teacher or a writer or a sister or a friend but am rather just a body, sans stories, breathing new air and seeing new sights and getting lost in this very moment, unattached, nomadic, of the elements.

Signing off now for this morning. It's time to pack for Krabi, to squeeze in a quick practice before breakfast — I've been living on fruit, you know: papaya and guava and pineapple like there's no tomorrow — to drink my coffee, and then to head for the airport. I'll finish writing the liturgy for tomorrow's wedding ceremony on the beach, and then head to Railay via longtail boat to settle in for the evening. Bangkok's rush and anonymity have been palatable, I think, largely because of knowing that around the corner lies lush greenery and stillness and remote beauty, full of people I love. I am grateful to have a dose of both in these very few days.

It's Thanksgiving here, even though it's not yet for you all in the States for several hours yet. I'm grateful for you. I'm grateful that you're reading. I'm grateful for breathing new air, and for walking under new skies, and for sanctuary. And I'm grateful for the reminder, implicit as it is in so much travel, of how very small we are.

In that smallness, I send love.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-11-23T02:40:00.003-08:00

Chivalry, Buddhist-style.

Spotted this today on the Silom train, en route to kick it with the reclining Buddha, Wat Arun, the Grand Palace, and the like. Cracked a huge grin.

Love.

Raw, adjective: 10. not diluted, as alcoholic spirits: raw whiskey.

2011-11-21T23:30:00.000-08:00

Bangkok. Tuesday afternoon, 3:30.

Rooftop pool. Sunny, 91F. Then vinyasa at 7, up the (busy, bustling, motorcycle-filled) street, to move this sat-on-a-plane-for-24-hours body around.

If you insist.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-11-20T07:35:00.001-08:00

You know you're a yoga nerd when your
beach reading looks like this.

Hellooooo, Thailand.

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-11-20T06:14:00.000-08:00

Loving this morning meditation from Sylvia Boorstein:

Everything that is true about anything is true about breath: it's impermanent; it arises and it passes away. Yet if you didn't breathe, you would become uncomfortable; so then you would take in a big inhalation and feel comfortable again. But if you hold onto the breath, it's no longer comfortable, so you have to breathe out again. All the time shifting, shifting. Uncomfortableness is continually arising. We see that everything keeps changing.

Body as Body (Tricycle)

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-11-19T07:34:00.001-08:00

Current temp in Bangkok: 91 and humid.

Sounds a lot like flyingYoga.

Two final classes before I skip town: today at 430 and tomorrow at 1045. Devotion in motion. Come on down.

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2011-11-18T13:38:00.000-08:00

Early morning walk through the Tenderloin
with Pradeep to practice with Rusty
at Urban Flow.

My favorite Friday ritual.

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-11-18T07:53:00.000-08:00

You were once wild here. Don’t let them tame you.

— Isadora Duncan

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-11-18T07:37:00.000-08:00

My philosopher friend (and general cool dude) Gary has written a beautiful book illuminating Patanjali's Sutras. My copy arrived the other day, and I'm just crazy about it.

Here's what Gary has to say about it:

The Yoga Sutras are one of the most important works on yoga philosophy and many teachers emphasize the importance of studying the Sutras. However, many books on the Sutras are highly academic and make the study of the Sutras tedious rather than a delight and an inspiration. Our new book provides a new and inviting approach to studying and living the Yoga Sutras. Each Sutra contains the Sanskrit text, a plain-English translation, imagery and commentary. These innovations illuminate the heart of the Sutras and bring them to life.

Zip on over to LilaLabs to order your own. I am blessed to be surrounded by so many talented and thoughtful folks. The sangha that has grown out of my yoga philosophy studies at CIIS several years ago has wrought such beauty in my life.

Yesterday I met with another friend and colleague from the program, Jennifer, who's planning her own empowered, prana-filled yoga creation (still-gestating, but stay tuned for more on that in the weeks to come). We had coffee with Gary's book, and I left abuzz — and not from the caffeine.

There's so much good writing and reading and thinking and teaching to be doing. Sometimes I'm quite overwhelmed with how much of it I want to do.

One word at a time...one step at a time...one breath at a time.

Raw, noun: 13. unrefined sugar, oil, etc.

2011-11-18T07:15:00.001-08:00

I wrote a wee feature on my friends over at The Kitchen Yogi Cookie Cutter Collection for this month's Yoga Journal.

Theirs is a labor of love.

Please support this sweet melding of art and asana by whipping up a few edible Bakasanas of your own.

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-11-17T06:23:00.001-08:00

Simplicity from Susan Piver in my Inbox this morning; perfect simplicity.

Gentleness toward yourself allows you to see your own basic goodness.

Seeing it, you see it in others.

Seeing it in others, you can be kind.

Kindness can heal our world.

Meditation is the practice of gentleness.

You do the math.

Makes everything seem quite easy, doesn't it?

The key to me seems that second line. The remarkable shift in learning, through meditation and yoga and mindfulness practices and the like, to be non-judgmental, spacious, and kind — when your mind runs to yesterday or last year, or you fall out of Natarajasana for the 17th time, or you once again get lost in fears about what might happen tomorrow — translates to the same ability to be non-judgmental, spacious and kind with the people around you.

And wow, if that doesn't just change a helluva lot about being alive in the world.

Be gentle.

Raw, adjective: 6. ignorant, inexperienced, or untrained: a raw recruit.

2011-11-16T11:32:00.000-08:00

Enjoying a particularly nerdy morning, thanks to social media. I've come fairly late to Twitter, but damn, this morning, it's kind of rocking my world.

Post-modernism! Smart cynical writer-yogis! Impermanence! And a deliciously achy body!

And all before lunch. Now that's a good day.

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-11-16T07:51:00.001-08:00

What are you up to Sunday evening?

Join us in Point Reyes
at MC Yogi's studio for his incredible wife
Amanda Giacomini's art opening.

She's rad.

www.amandagiacomini.com

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-11-16T07:39:00.000-08:00

The love of our neighbor in all its fullness simply means being able to say, "What are you going through?"

— Simone Weil

(Also known as compassion, my loves. Other-direction.
Why we learn to be still and just listen.
Karuna. Bhakti.
Yes.)

Raw, adjective: 6. ignorant, inexperienced, or untrained: a raw recruit.

2011-11-15T08:07:00.000-08:00

Kathryn Budig will be teaching at Urban Flow this weekend. She's so good.

Are you coming?

Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated: raw data.

2011-11-14T10:36:00.001-08:00

This is my last full week of classes until
I return from Thailand in December.

Please join me on the mat
through Sunday morning!

Raw, adjective: 10. not diluted, as alcoholic spirits: raw whiskey.

2011-11-14T09:48:00.000-08:00

Celebrated a beloved dance company and toasted a sweet forthcoming bebe and shared a raw Thanksgiving and savored a visit from an old friend from Brooklyn and oh, taught five classes, all in the course of 36 hours.

It was a big weekend.

Feeling blessed. And glad to be quiet.

Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.

2011-11-13T07:30:00.000-08:00

I prefer winter and fall, when you can feel the bone structure of the landscape — the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show.

— Andrew Wyeth, painter

(Yes, yes, yes.)

Raw, adjective: 2. not having undergone processes of preparing, dressing, finishing, refining, or manufacture: raw cotton.

2011-11-12T07:56:00.001-08:00

Hamstrings. You love 'em, you hate 'em, you take 'em for granted until they tear — and then they never let you forget.

Join me today at Oakwood for our monthly master class emphasizing all things hamstring, 130pm. Or just meet me afterward at flyingYoga for a second dose. 430, we streeeeeetch it out.

Raw, adjective: 8. brutally harsh or unfair: a raw deal

2011-11-11T14:10:00.000-08:00

Powerful, passionate letter in support of the Occupy movements over at occupysamsara.org, a Buddhist-inspired website that seeks to “create a powerful network of mind/body teachers who want to bring their wisdom and practices to the benefit of this powerful historical moment."

Thanks to Michael Stone and Ethan Nichtern, two of my favorite contemporary Buddhist thinkers, for standing behind this marriage of compassion and action, and for teaching that mindfulness and yoga practices do not necessarily — and should not — just stay on the mat, disengaged, escapist.

We take care of ourselves on the mat (or the cushion) so we can better take care of one another. We train our minds in meditation so that we can better respond with reason, compassion and balance when the world around us is out of whack. The world is our mat. So we practice here, now, as the 99%, with an eye toward wholeness.

An Open Letter from Buddhist and Yoga Teachers
and Leaders in Support of the Occupy Movement

As teachers and leaders of communities that promote the development of compassion and mindfulness, we are writing to express our solidarity with the Occupy movement now active in over 1,900 cities worldwide.

We are particularly inspired by the nonviolent tactics of this movement, its methods of self-governance, and its emergent communities founded in open communication (general assemblies, the human microphone, the inclusion of diverse voices, etc). These encampments are fertile ground for seeing our inherent wisdom and our capacity for awakening. We encourage all teachers, leaders, sanghas and communities that pursue awakening to join with these inspiring activists, if they have not already done so, in working to end the extreme inequalities of wealth and power that cause so much suffering and devastation for human society and for the ecosystems of Earth.

This movement has given voice to a near-universal frustration with the economic and political disenfranchisement of so many. It offers a needed counterbalance to a system that saps the life energy of the overwhelming majority –– the so-called 99% –– generating vast profits for a tiny handful, without maximizing the true potential for widespread wealth creation in our society. While our practice challenges us to cultivate compassion for 100% of human beings without villifying an “enemy,” our practice also calls on us to confront a system that causes such clear harm and imbalance.

We share in the thoughtful calls to address massive unemployment, climate change, the erosion of social safety nets, decaying infrastructures, social and education programs, and workers’ wages, rights, and benefits.

Moreover, the current legal structure of large corporations compels individuals to act with shortsighted greed, acts for which they are not held personally accountable. If we aren’t encouraged to act with awareness of our connection to the seven billion humans who share our global community, the social fabric of our society is torn apart by legalized acts of selfishness and fear. These acts are performed in human society, by nonhuman entities, oddly granted the legal and political status of people, which have no ability to adequately perceive or react to the negative repercussions of their choices. The whole planet pays the price.

Most importantly, we believe that individual awakening and collective transformation are inseparable. For members of spiritual communities, mindfulness of the situation before us demands that we engage fully in the culture and society we inhabit. We do not view our own path as merely an individualistic pursuit of sanity and health, and we believe it would be irresponsible of us to teach students of mind/body disciplines that they can develop their practice in isolation from the society in which they live. We are inspired by the creative and intellectual work of the Occupy movement as an essential voice in facilitating a more compassionate and ecologically grounded basis for practice.

The Occupy movement has re-ignited our belief that it’s truly possible to build a culture of non-harm, honesty and respect for all creatures. We recognize our human failings and know that we’ll fail ten thousand times in our efforts to awaken. We now vow to bring our practices and methods of teaching more into alignment with our deepest values.

The structural greed, anger and delusion that characterize our current system are incompatible with our obligations to future generations and our most cherished values of interdependence, creativity, and compassion. We call on teachers and practitioners from all traditions of mind/body awakening to join in actively transforming these structures.

Signed,
Ethan Nichtern, Shastri, New York
Shôken Michael Stone, Toronto

I just signed it. You?

Raw, adjective: 6. ignorant, inexperienced, or untrained: a raw recruit.

2011-11-11T08:05:00.000-08:00

Who says yoga's for chicks? This inspires me.

Break ton Neck from Alex Yde on Vimeo.

Raw, adjective: 6. ignorant, inexperienced, or untrained: a raw recruit.

2011-11-11T07:50:00.001-08:00

Chakra talk doesn't have to be all New Age woo-woo, baby.

Check it: my yogi sister Lisa Munger Yoga is writing a great series on the chakras for MindBodyGreen, and her first in the series, highlighting the Root Chakra, is pretty killer. Excellent down-to-earth tips with a really solid home practice. An opportunity to really get grounded.

It's pretty powerful; as I first read the piece this morning and walked through the photos of Lisa's home practice, asana by asana, I could really feel the slowing-down, the grounding, the rooting, in each posture, even there in my body in that very moment. These asanas are some of my favorites, especially for autumn, when the chill in the air and the dryness in the wind can make everything feel light and flimsy and uncertain. The Sukhasanas and the Vira As and the Parsvottanasanas help that so much.

(You know what else helps? Legwarmers. For real.)

Finding Your Base: Working With the Root Chakra (MindBodyGreen)

Raw, adjective: 7. brutally or grossly frank: a raw portrayal of human passions.

2011-11-10T14:09:00.000-08:00

I want to live the rest of my life, however long or short, with as much sweetness as I can decently manage, loving all the people I love, and doing as much as I can of the work I still have to do. I am going to write fire until it comes out of my ears, my eyes, my noseholes — everywhere. Until it's every breath I breathe. I'm going to go out like a fucking meteor!

— Audre Lorde

(And she did.)