Surrender, not in the sense of giving up or not giving a damn, but surrender as accepting what is, as it is, here and now. Surrender doesn't come to me as an easy thing to do, I like being in control and I like pretending I have a handle on the future. With my recent trip to Iowa on my mind, to visit my partner's family, I consider surrender an as ally to practice. I make the most out of the situation in which I find myself. I surrender to the fact that I am being served coleslaw from a plastic tub with an ingredient list on the side the length of my forearm, and I want to be a good guest. I surrender to the fact that my hamstrings are tight and when I bend forward I can't reach my nose to my shin, and I want to be able to go there. I accept these as present fact and make the best of what I have been dealt, now, at this time. Having the qualities of openness, ease and fluidity, I make "yes" the context for surrender—"yes" to what is as it is here and now.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
For James
The fine print of life is that no one ever tells you that it
also includes death.
No one mentions that the cycle of life includes the dark
part, the part when the sun goes down and the daemons come out; and no one ever
really wants to listen when the heart stops and the brains stops and the
breath ceases to come.
They don’t want to talk about that.
The thing about the
light is that it’s taken for granted and when we go to sleep at night, we
expect that it will be there in the morning, but what if I woke up and there
was no light?
The thing about the dark is that it’s unknown and the usual way I
use my senses won't get me by—I have to use something else to see in the
black—I must learn to see with my ears and my fingers and my heart.
The thing
about talking about the light and the dark is that seeing these black flecks on
white paper makes me think that the rest of life is not like this, but here it
is, when I get it down and look at it, everything becomes a little more clear,
a little more comprehensible.
One more thing about the light is that it can
only be had because of the dark. It takes two to Tango, the light and the darkness. And yet, if there was only light, I also wouldn't be able to see because there would be no outline
of shapes to form my body into a language to tell you that I love you.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Dry mouth
Because I like starting sentences with the word
"because," and I enjoy watching people squirm. Because I know you
because I know me. Because each time I sit down to write, I tell myself,
"You can do better," so I stop. Because what we most need to learn is
often the most uncomfortable. Because I'm blessed, not lucky. Because she loves
him and he doesn't know what a good thing he's got. Because if we can't tell
the truth, then what else is there to say? Because if you're willing to
"get off it" you might just learn something worthwhile. Because I can
and you can and we will, no matter what, continue to do what we do. Don’t fuck
it up, not even because you can; although sometimes I’d like to. I’d like to
just disappear because I can, but that’s not the point. I’m not sure when the
point is but I do know what it’s not, and why. Because today is the day after
my birthday. Because I’m 25 now and not getting any younger and the only thing
left for me to do is practice what I have been taught. Because practicing is the
essence of what is, and what is the reality of the situation whether I like it
or not. Because I’m blonde. Because I’m a women. I know you because I know me,
and I know me because I pay attention. PAY ATTENTION! And be grateful. And
don’t kill, and stop whining, and remember to just be kind because that girl
sitting in front of me has way more
to overcome in her life than I do. How do I know? I told you already pay attention. Because if it weren’t for
words I’d be at a loss, and because of words I’m also at a loss. Because I try
too hard to make you like me. Because I could really care less what they
thought of me, at least in this town. Because I’m through with pleasing other
people. Because my life is about God. Because I dress up for the Divine. Because
I want something much more than a cappuccino, but damn, that sounds good right
now. Because love is all you need and the voices in your head are probably
lying. Because the body is capable of so much and those men in white collared
shirts—do they iron their shirts or do their wives? Does it matter? Because
that fact is I could go on, and on, but I won’t. Because it’s all been said before
in different languages. Parce que. Porque. لأن.
Fordi. Sest. Επειδή. Mar gheall ar. Deoarece. Vì.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
This is for Thursday
When there’re so many voices in my head but no one’s
listening because it’s raining like the tears coming down my face. I scream at
the roof of my car because it’s the only thing that will take what I have to
say without getting hurt or trying to fix
it. Don’t fix it because I’m not broken, just need a moment to let it out.
Get me out of the whirlpool of emotion. It’s a black hold, a thing that’s
gravity to too big to even fathom and in the end it doesn’t matter because it’s
not about me anyhow. There’s no sense in crying dear, because it’s just makes
your makeup smeary and your eyes puffy. Nothing ever leaked from laughing so
laugh away at the hilarity of all that is real and not real. It’s not over ‘til
it’s over and even then it’s not really over because nothing ever dies and if
nothing ever dies did it ever begin? Has your life yet begun?
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
In Charge of Celebrations
Today is International Two Glasses On The Arm Of The Couch Day.
Why?
Because I declare it so.
This means that I have three options: one with smoothie, one with ginger tea, or to have nothing at all.
I choose both!
What do you declare today?
Why?
Because I declare it so.
This means that I have three options: one with smoothie, one with ginger tea, or to have nothing at all.
I choose both!
What do you declare today?
Friday, July 27, 2012
In Honor of My Mother
When asked to write about my mother, objective:
I, Shinay Tredeau, am presenting to the witnesses present, my uncensored observations of my mother, Rabia Tredeau (formerly Jean Mary Tredeau), and my relationship with here. I intend no judgement on her life.
Physical: 5'2", round face, prominent cheek bones, freckles, greying brown hair. Brown eyes, soft skin, big toes that turn in like mine.
I've never asked my mother if she wanted kids, yet I do know that neither my sister nor I were "planned."
My mother sacrificed her personal life for my sister and I.
I cannot begin to know what challenges my mother encountered raising children in community. I do know she sacrificed her relationship with her own mother and sisters to offer me and my sister an opportunity for a different kind of life.
M mother has fought battles for me, she has yelled and cajoled on my behlaf.
She has lied and coerced and gotten pretty damn fierce in order to serve her children.
I remember my mom yelling, "Calm the energy down!" as I tried to nap in the next room from where the older kids were rough-housing.
Sometimes I take my mothers live for granted.
I have said things to intentionally hurt my mom, knowing her so well I know what will hurt the most.
My mom's defense is to turn and run away from uncomfortable situations.
She cries easily.
She likes to laugh loud and when we're in the movie theaters together we can be heard clear back to the last row of seats.
She told me once that she used to practice smiling.
My mom tends to shy away from things that don't "feel" good.
My mom loves children and sweet things.
She never learned to cook very well.
My mother used to call me her Little Imp, her mischievous child.
We used to fight a lot; I remember yelling so loud the police came. This embarrassed her a lot and secretly pleased me to know I'd made her uncomfortable.
At 24, I feel like I could tell my mom anything and she wouldn't judge me.
I know that by doing things which I love to do, this influences my mother, it makes her proud to know she has brought someone so bright into this world.
My mother calls me fearless, and I know this quality she admires.
I am still learning not to take my mother's negative moods personally (or positive moods for that matter).
I remember the day I started to relate to my mother as another human being independent from only "my mom."
The only time I ever saw disappointment on my mother's face over/regarding something I'd done is when I lied to her in high school. In that moment, I disrespected her Trust, her wisdom, and her Divine nature.
I think my mother is one of the most beautiful people I know.
My mother doesn't life, but tends to fabricate stories.
I can now say "no" to my mother without her taking it personally.
There was one time in my life when I was sure my mom and dad were going to separate. Now I know that if they do, it's not my fault.
I think my mom likes my boyfriend because he reminds her of my father when my father was young. I like that.
My father has never hit my mom.
My mother has never hit my father, although she slaps him with her words and he sits there, like a rock, taking it until the storm of her emotions pass. He knows it's not his job to change her.
When my parents hug it is so tender and sweet.
I've come to know strength and independence from my mother—she is not attached to my father—their love knows no bounds.
My mother is extremely insecure.
My mother loves children I know I've said this already, but it's worth repeating).
I've learned to love the man in my life like my mother loves my father; strongly, with passion, independent of needing them by my side all the time, trusting them, trusting my heart to lead me in the right directions.
Often all I have to do is think about my mom and 30 seconds later she'll call me up on the telephone.
I am proud of my mother when she lets go of her fear and speaks her mind.
My mother disappointed me when she got out of the care when I was three-yers-old, and left me, my sister and my father waiting in the car in the gas station parking lot.
I am most critical of my mother when I know she's being small, being afraid, and not being bright.
She is most critical of me when I am impulsive and don't think things through.
I can most rely on my mother for unconditional love no matter where I am on the planet.
She can most rely on me for my honest and sincere opinion. I am also pretty good at telling her stories that makes here laugh and sometime cry (in a good way).
I am in denial about my mother getting older.
I don't want to think about taking care of her in old age. I dread the day of her death, and I'd rather not think about it... AND I'm beginning to realize the great eminence and inevitability of it. C'est la vie.
I tend to get angry and run away, just like my mother. I also tend to worry, just like her, although not as much.
I know I am capable of loving like my mother.
My mother keeps the check book and the cash.
I think I'll do the same.
My mother didn't change her last name.
I think I'll do that same.
My mothers isn't afraid to talk about sex, encouraged me, in fact, to have more of it!
My mother likes creamy, rich food, and told me once she likes the way carbs taste in her mouth.
We like to take walks together.
My mother likes to spend time alone.
I can tell my mother is content when she gets a mood of stillness and quiet ease about her accompanied by a serene look on her face—fulfillment. I sense this in her because it is in me too.
My mother likes to be eccentric and silly. This used to drive me crazy and embarrass the hell out of me. Now when we go out, we'll dress up for each other, her in her sparkly shoes, me in flashy pumps and we'll both wear scarves. Drinking wine or tea or whenever the occasion calls for, well talk and laugh rally loud not caring who hears or who minds.
My mother's most valuable legacy to me is her strong teeth, her ability to Trust the Divine Process, to love unconditionally, to listen to nature and children, and love her husband even over great physical distances.
Her most troublesome legacy is varicose veins, sensitive skin, and a hot temper.
I have created healing in my relationship with my mother by honoring our differences and accepting our similarities; by honoring her as a human being, as a woman, as a friend independent from being only my mother.
I have learned to trust her wisdom and ask for her objective guidance. (She likes to be used as most elders so).
I know that no matter the physical distance, her and I we are connected. I call her love into my being. In fact, just this afternoon I got a voicemail from her. When I called her back 18 seconds later, she said, "I just tried to call you."
"I know," I replied, "and I was trying to call you at the same time."
I, Shinay Tredeau, am presenting to the witnesses present, my uncensored observations of my mother, Rabia Tredeau (formerly Jean Mary Tredeau), and my relationship with here. I intend no judgement on her life.
Physical: 5'2", round face, prominent cheek bones, freckles, greying brown hair. Brown eyes, soft skin, big toes that turn in like mine.
I've never asked my mother if she wanted kids, yet I do know that neither my sister nor I were "planned."
My mother sacrificed her personal life for my sister and I.
I cannot begin to know what challenges my mother encountered raising children in community. I do know she sacrificed her relationship with her own mother and sisters to offer me and my sister an opportunity for a different kind of life.
M mother has fought battles for me, she has yelled and cajoled on my behlaf.
She has lied and coerced and gotten pretty damn fierce in order to serve her children.
I remember my mom yelling, "Calm the energy down!" as I tried to nap in the next room from where the older kids were rough-housing.
Sometimes I take my mothers live for granted.
I have said things to intentionally hurt my mom, knowing her so well I know what will hurt the most.
My mom's defense is to turn and run away from uncomfortable situations.
She cries easily.
She likes to laugh loud and when we're in the movie theaters together we can be heard clear back to the last row of seats.
She told me once that she used to practice smiling.
My mom tends to shy away from things that don't "feel" good.
My mom loves children and sweet things.
She never learned to cook very well.
My mother used to call me her Little Imp, her mischievous child.
We used to fight a lot; I remember yelling so loud the police came. This embarrassed her a lot and secretly pleased me to know I'd made her uncomfortable.
At 24, I feel like I could tell my mom anything and she wouldn't judge me.
I know that by doing things which I love to do, this influences my mother, it makes her proud to know she has brought someone so bright into this world.
My mother calls me fearless, and I know this quality she admires.
I am still learning not to take my mother's negative moods personally (or positive moods for that matter).
I remember the day I started to relate to my mother as another human being independent from only "my mom."
The only time I ever saw disappointment on my mother's face over/regarding something I'd done is when I lied to her in high school. In that moment, I disrespected her Trust, her wisdom, and her Divine nature.
I think my mother is one of the most beautiful people I know.
My mother doesn't life, but tends to fabricate stories.
I can now say "no" to my mother without her taking it personally.
There was one time in my life when I was sure my mom and dad were going to separate. Now I know that if they do, it's not my fault.
I think my mom likes my boyfriend because he reminds her of my father when my father was young. I like that.
My father has never hit my mom.
My mother has never hit my father, although she slaps him with her words and he sits there, like a rock, taking it until the storm of her emotions pass. He knows it's not his job to change her.
When my parents hug it is so tender and sweet.
I've come to know strength and independence from my mother—she is not attached to my father—their love knows no bounds.
My mother is extremely insecure.
My mother loves children I know I've said this already, but it's worth repeating).
I've learned to love the man in my life like my mother loves my father; strongly, with passion, independent of needing them by my side all the time, trusting them, trusting my heart to lead me in the right directions.
Often all I have to do is think about my mom and 30 seconds later she'll call me up on the telephone.
I am proud of my mother when she lets go of her fear and speaks her mind.
My mother disappointed me when she got out of the care when I was three-yers-old, and left me, my sister and my father waiting in the car in the gas station parking lot.
I am most critical of my mother when I know she's being small, being afraid, and not being bright.
She is most critical of me when I am impulsive and don't think things through.
I can most rely on my mother for unconditional love no matter where I am on the planet.
She can most rely on me for my honest and sincere opinion. I am also pretty good at telling her stories that makes here laugh and sometime cry (in a good way).
I am in denial about my mother getting older.
I don't want to think about taking care of her in old age. I dread the day of her death, and I'd rather not think about it... AND I'm beginning to realize the great eminence and inevitability of it. C'est la vie.
I tend to get angry and run away, just like my mother. I also tend to worry, just like her, although not as much.
I know I am capable of loving like my mother.
My mother keeps the check book and the cash.
I think I'll do the same.
My mother didn't change her last name.
I think I'll do that same.
My mothers isn't afraid to talk about sex, encouraged me, in fact, to have more of it!
My mother likes creamy, rich food, and told me once she likes the way carbs taste in her mouth.
We like to take walks together.
My mother likes to spend time alone.
I can tell my mother is content when she gets a mood of stillness and quiet ease about her accompanied by a serene look on her face—fulfillment. I sense this in her because it is in me too.
My mother likes to be eccentric and silly. This used to drive me crazy and embarrass the hell out of me. Now when we go out, we'll dress up for each other, her in her sparkly shoes, me in flashy pumps and we'll both wear scarves. Drinking wine or tea or whenever the occasion calls for, well talk and laugh rally loud not caring who hears or who minds.
My mother's most valuable legacy to me is her strong teeth, her ability to Trust the Divine Process, to love unconditionally, to listen to nature and children, and love her husband even over great physical distances.
Her most troublesome legacy is varicose veins, sensitive skin, and a hot temper.
I have created healing in my relationship with my mother by honoring our differences and accepting our similarities; by honoring her as a human being, as a woman, as a friend independent from being only my mother.
I have learned to trust her wisdom and ask for her objective guidance. (She likes to be used as most elders so).
I know that no matter the physical distance, her and I we are connected. I call her love into my being. In fact, just this afternoon I got a voicemail from her. When I called her back 18 seconds later, she said, "I just tried to call you."
"I know," I replied, "and I was trying to call you at the same time."
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Orange to Avignon
Oh Geeze!
So, I haven’t been writing. It’s like this, and a little
like that, and well, I just haven’t done it. I’ve either eaten too much cheese,
or got high on lavender, or just can’t keep my eyes open to write down what’s really
been happening.
My days are filled with the delight of a child not my own.
Who has accepted me into her world in a way I never thought was possible.
Living in community with close friends is a privilege and a blessing that comes
in all forms. Keep in mind that “Ram does everything for the best.” Whatever that means, you meaning making
machines. And I don’t want no superficial conversations so let’s get Real
and lay our hearts out on the table.
Tart with corgette and goat cheese.
Tabouli salad made with quinoa, corgette, tomato, onion,
grated carrot, and a little sel de mere.
Potatoes of the red variety cooked for 30 minutes and then
left in the pot with the lid on but the heat off for an hour (because we forgot
about them). Serve with butter and sel de mere.
Try mint tea with raw sugar instead of honey.
Ask for help and forgiveness although some people don’t take
apologies as anything, they need action.
I like to be listened to.
If I’ve forgotten my manners or how to breathe, I simply
have to start someplace, and authentically telling someone I love them is a
good place to start.
I love you.
Today we went to Orange and Avignon.
Sur le pont d'Avignon
L'on y danse, l'on y danse
Sur le pont d'Avignon
L'on y danse tous en rond
L'on y danse, l'on y danse
Sur le pont d'Avignon
L'on y danse tous en rond
Walked through the Pope’s room in the old chapel, with blue
and gold fresco on the walls. Held my breath. Climbed a tower in the Pope’s
chapel this afternoon and felt like Rapunzel, just with shorter hair.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
The French. There's something about the way the like their cheese, their bread, their wine, and their art. I just don't have the vocabulary or the patience, at midnight, to try and describe it all with eloquence and and reverie so I'll leave you with the taste of an this evening, and outing to an artist's exhibition of original art to benefit a local charity:
"Magda, what kind of shoes are you going to wear this evening?" I called to my friend from the bottom of the stairs.
"High hells!" She tell me.
Okay, I think, I will too. Every girl gets a better idea about the kind of evening by the kind of shoes one wears. I run back upstairs and slip on my grey pumps I "borrowed" from a friend before I left the states. I say borrowed because she doesn't actually know I have them, until now.
We load into the car, three adults and one baby a year and a half old. On the 30 minute drive we try and keep her awake by playing music and clapping, tapping on the roof and singing songs. If she naps now she won't go to sleep until far too late—the things I'm learning about being a parent is incredible.
We arrive. We know it's the spot because people are pouring out into the side walk. The place is an open garage next to a restaurant in the train station district. Funky red and black eclectic decor yields an artsy crowd and I feel I can fit in amongst this type. Cigarette smoke makes my nose tingle and perfume spices the evening air. After observing from the street for a while, we push our way through the crowd and see our friends at the back. Making our way around to where they stand we find a corner in the crowded room to try homemade patte, quiche, torte, and for dessert, a French specialty, a cherry cake made with whole cherries. The wine was free and so was the live music with a great brass section. There's nothing that looks better on stage than a good saxophone player.
The best part about the evening was that each artist had several smaller renditions of their larger works for sale for 10euros each. Even though I didn't get my hands on an original, I'm inspired to have an opening for all of my artist friend back home. Look out Prescott, Arizona because you don't know what's comin' your way!
"Magda, what kind of shoes are you going to wear this evening?" I called to my friend from the bottom of the stairs.
"High hells!" She tell me.
Okay, I think, I will too. Every girl gets a better idea about the kind of evening by the kind of shoes one wears. I run back upstairs and slip on my grey pumps I "borrowed" from a friend before I left the states. I say borrowed because she doesn't actually know I have them, until now.
We load into the car, three adults and one baby a year and a half old. On the 30 minute drive we try and keep her awake by playing music and clapping, tapping on the roof and singing songs. If she naps now she won't go to sleep until far too late—the things I'm learning about being a parent is incredible.
We arrive. We know it's the spot because people are pouring out into the side walk. The place is an open garage next to a restaurant in the train station district. Funky red and black eclectic decor yields an artsy crowd and I feel I can fit in amongst this type. Cigarette smoke makes my nose tingle and perfume spices the evening air. After observing from the street for a while, we push our way through the crowd and see our friends at the back. Making our way around to where they stand we find a corner in the crowded room to try homemade patte, quiche, torte, and for dessert, a French specialty, a cherry cake made with whole cherries. The wine was free and so was the live music with a great brass section. There's nothing that looks better on stage than a good saxophone player.
The best part about the evening was that each artist had several smaller renditions of their larger works for sale for 10euros each. Even though I didn't get my hands on an original, I'm inspired to have an opening for all of my artist friend back home. Look out Prescott, Arizona because you don't know what's comin' your way!
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
6 eggs, separated and whites beaten until firm.
12 ounces (340 g) bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped and melted in double boiler.
12 tablespoons (6 ounces, 170 g) unsalted butter cubed, to add to the chocolate after removed from heat.
1/4 cup sugar, half added to egg yolks and half to egg whites after being beaten. Then beat eggs again.
1/3 cup (80 ml) rum or other liquor.
9" pan, greased.
Preheat oven to 325ºF (165ºC), bake for 40-45 minutes, and you'll get something that looks like this and tastes like you wouldn't believe. Serve with fresh strawberries and or water melon and eat for dinner!
12 ounces (340 g) bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped and melted in double boiler.
12 tablespoons (6 ounces, 170 g) unsalted butter cubed, to add to the chocolate after removed from heat.
1/4 cup sugar, half added to egg yolks and half to egg whites after being beaten. Then beat eggs again.
1/3 cup (80 ml) rum or other liquor.
9" pan, greased.
Preheat oven to 325ºF (165ºC), bake for 40-45 minutes, and you'll get something that looks like this and tastes like you wouldn't believe. Serve with fresh strawberries and or water melon and eat for dinner!
Sunday, April 15, 2012
On Closure
I’ve been working with the concept of closure. It started with my writing professors—one of them keeps telling me I’m sloppy with my ending, I need to pay closer attention, and finish strong, I can’t just leave my readers hanging without hope or something to hold onto, to transition them away. (My words)
I’ve been thinking lately though, that closure is not finite, for me nothing really ends. There are periods of transition, sure, but ending, finish, final, closure—there always seems to be something that leads into the next thing. My yoga teacher says, “Finish one thing the way you want to start the next.” I’m not sure I know how to do this.
But I do know that death is the only real closure I get in this lifetime. It’s not something to be feared or to worry about; the notion of death is simply a transition time, for the next thing, moving forward.
After a glass of wine with mom the other evening, and having our conversation lead to God and death and children as it does occasionally, she helped me to realize that perhaps the karma we incur in this life is not really for later in this life, or even in the next “life,” but rather it’s a protective force in the times of transition between life and death. It’s in the bardo that we need our karmic points the most. The Tibetan word, bardo, literally means interval or gap—I came to the conclusion that it’s important to gain merit (good karma) in order to fend off lingering daemons we may encounter during this period of transition, this gap called death.
I do not want any daemons from this life in the next, that’s why this closure must start with paying off my library fines. $19.57.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
March 29th
Heading West on I-40 towards the Grand Canyon—
In pairs they pulled the dawn behind them, wings stretched out. In pairs they flew, bringing the light over the tree tops. Some would call them ordinary but they are a rarified bird indeed; Saturn’s emissary coupling in the predawn glow. “The glow,” she said, “can sometimes be seen, depending on where you stand, on the Western tips before the sun is seen in the sky... don’t miss it.”
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Modern Times
I looked up from where I was seated on the curb of the parking lot in late morning writing about God or goat cheese to see a motorcycle pull into the space in front of me. Leather jacket, green cargo pants and—uh, wait a minute, a yoga mat and glass jar full of water? He takes off his helmet and saunters across the tarmac; peach fuzz for hair and purple sticky mat under one arm. I’m impressed. Leave it to the “least likely” to change the world.
Devil in the Desert
I saw the Devil last night walking on the side of the highway.
Strait from hell in a red dress ripped to shreds over blue jeans
with hair like Khali. She whore a black hoodie—a cape to shroud
her tendrils. The headlights of my car lit the back of her like a spot
light as this Creature came to life, slouching toward Black Canyon City.
Perhaps she has a date with God,
for when I could no longer see her with the head lights,
my eyes trailed back to find her in my rearview; arms flailing, feet stomping
she tore at that black sweatshirt like she meant to tear it off but to no avail,
I still could not see her face. She was mad as hell and I shuddered as I trained my gaze back to the red taillights and double yellow lines of the highway ahead.
I’m sure it was the Devil. And if that was the devil than God can’t be too far off…
Thursday, February 16, 2012
On the essence of being close
“Your daughter’s here, did you know that?”
“No, where?!”
“She’s probably hiding from you.”
I hear my mother’s laughter from behind me and turn so see her laughing with John our bartender/baristar/waiter/coveted sweetie behind the counter.
My mother, in all her grey haired glory has read my mind once again. All morning I was hoping that if I stayed in the café long enough she’d show up and we could chat. (The joys of a small town: there’re only a few descent places to find yourself on a late Thursday morning.) She did it again—listened intently to the voices in her head (from me of course) telling her to go to the café to meet her daughter, buy a salad, and let me eat half. Perfect timing.
After eating all her red onions and confessing that I miss being a kid, she said to me, “We’re role models you and I, examples of what’s possible (on our good days) in a mother-daughter relationship. This is something that John has probably never experienced but is witnessing through us.”
We hold hands and lean towards one another across the table as she says this. I like the feeling of knowing my mother as a friend, as a wise elder, a warm embrace, soft hands that are always ready for mine.
I look at her bright eyes and know that she is my mirror. I see myself reflected back.
This is for you mom; you are my inspiration and my heart connection to love.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Day 5 of The School of Yoga Immersion Part I in Tucson, Arizona:
Today we spoke of Practice or Abhyasa. As Patanjali put it:
Practice is
1. Repetitious, without interruption
2. Continual, over a long period of time
3. Reverence, devotion
After a day of asana (where I held handstand in the middle of the room for THREE WHOLE SECONDS thank you very much) I find myself sitting in a café on 4th Avenue, Bob Dylan in my ears, left hand curled around hot Earl Grey with milk and honey, in the middle of the desert. It’s dusk and the sun low in the sky sets the mountains and the tops of the stoplights on fire. There’s a haze over the city, obscuring the light, like I’m peering though a screen door. There’s a certain kind of crustiness to the people down here. They’ve been weathered by the sun and the dry heat. Their exteriors are rougher, more scaly like most desert creatures. I mean this in the best sense—their hearts are soft and yearn to connect with water, with truth, with a smile from a passerby on the street. The necessity is here and The School of Yoga has something to fulfill this necessity.
It’s January 22 and a tiny fake Christmas tree in the corner, with balls too big for it’s britches—I mean branches—watches over a semi-serious breakup happening at the table in front of it. A young Cary Elwes (The Princess Bride) is studiously casting side-ways glances at me, and texting while occasionally reading the textbook in front of him. Curly hair capped by a green beanie, has his back to me; white t-shirt tight around his latissimus dorsi. Another, she’s curled around a book in the corner to my right. Another, they stare at separate computer screens trying to tame the sexual tension, pretending to be interested in whatever their blue screens are displaying. And another, they order at the counter, she plays with her hair, and he glances at the adds taped to the register casually uninterested. They pay separately. Another, he walks in, grey Converse, khaki pants, green hoodie, I can’t see his face. There are so many. Her blue shell earrings stare at me like big round eyes from across the room.
It’s dark outside now, and the older one with white hair, fingers flying over keyboard, shows no signs of leaving. Here we are, you, me, us, them, us, we, we are all the same—human, fleshy, emotional, blobs of what? (Don’t answer that question,) instead, ask yourself, as Mary Oliver said, “What will you do with this one wild and precious life?”
I want to have the conversation of what matters to you. Laughter, I wan to laugh more. I want to stop being afraid to cry in public. I want to be able to tell people how my day is really going, and say Yes without holding back.
What do you want?
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Honesty
Honesty requires ruthless self-honesty. As one of my teachers told me, “You must be willing to tell the truth about myself no matter how bad it makes me look,” and this means no holding back, no half-truths, no clouds, no shading of the facts. From this moment forward I will pretend that I have the Lair, Lair curse (or “wish” depending on how you look at it) and for one day, to start with, I cannot tell a lie. Not to myself, not to anyone else. Now where to begin…? As my mother always tells me, “Just jump right in,” and so, as my Brenda Ueland said, “Start with something true.”
I love beets. Not like, or enjoy occasionally, no, I love beets—as in, would marry them if I could. Okay, maybe that’s taking it a little too far, but really, I love them.
Okay, try harder Shinay; I am in love. I am in love with 7 billion people, and one in particular.
Closer, but… well, here’s the thing, I doubt that what I have to say is even relevant to what other people want to read. So I’ll just start tell you about my day, because that’s what bloggers do, right…? Blab—I mean blog—on about their day.
For the first time in the eight years that I have been practicing yoga, today I was able to touch my knees to the ground in Baddha Konasana. WOW!
Thank you Christina Sell and Darren Rhodes for your support of each of your dedicated students. I appreciate what these two have to offer. Profundity with clarity, and skilful means, what a day.
This is a breakthrough for me because I have a big fat story that “my hips are too tight” therefore I can’t… blah, blah, blah. But I did it and shot that Story dead!
That’s the truth for tonight and more to come!
Feeling gratitude in my heart.
I am so lucky. We are all so blessed.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Contemplating AIM, and this is what I get
Damp creosote and barbeque chicken.
The evening air is chilly and stars are not as bright here as they are at home in the high desert.
The air is a bit thicker and my breath sticks in my chest.
Pleiades hangs above me and the faint cluster of sisters once again makes their presence known in my life.
No matter which way I turn, I see them, these tiny dancers in the sky…
My heart aches to me near those warm bodies of love.
Can distance really create a deeper bond?
My incessant mind chatters on.
I tilt my chin at the night sky and repeat the name of god softly under my breath.
How easily distracted I am when the number on the houses grasp my attention and twirl it about in repetition of numbers and vowel sounds.
I clench the fist of my right mind, squeezing tight to the lessons I have learned because if not now, when will I ever learn?
A barking dog breaks the silence and I turn my feet to cross the street away from the ruckus.
I get caught up in trepidations of the dark.
Goosebumps prick my skin and I shiver despite my many layers of clothing.
I train my mind off superficial data becoming acutely aware of my feet in flip flops on a Thursday evening in January.
I’m here to serve—there is no other purpose.
Cultivating strength of body and strength of mind.
The capacity to deal with shitty circumstances and shitty people.
The willingness to keep going when I feel like quitting.
The necessity for commitment and endurance.
Thank you for this, this opportunity to grow.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
patience |ˈpā sh əns|noun1 the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, trouble, or suffering without getting angry or upset : patience is something one cultivates, it is not inherent... or is it?
As I think about what is important to me in my life, it's not about the number of people who read my blog or comment on my Facebook or send me texts throughout the day (although my ego definitely appreciates it) the thing that gets me out of bed is an overwhelming sensation of gratitude each morning when I open my eyes. I experience the presence of a force that is holding my heart and carrying me along this path of life more strongly than any Earthly metal; it is more compassionate than any Jesus and more radiant than the summer sun. But the troubling weight that slides my hand over to the snooze button (four times) willing the dawn to go away is the I inside myself that is unsure how to repay this extraordinary benediction. For the first time in my life I am in touch with the source of Grace in my life and all I can do is wave tiny lights and burn incense in front of faded pictures and bronze statues.
I ask myself, is this enough?
And the answer that keeps arising is, just trust.
trust |trəst|
noun
1 firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone or something: students must trust their teachers | radical reliance on the guru is another way to say, “I trust you with my life.”
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
bliscipline |ˈblisəplin|
noun
1 the practice of training one’s mind and physical body to a code of behavior, using repetition over a long period of time in a manner that uplifts the spirits and creates a clearing for love: want to meet for a beer? No thank you, I’m working on my bliscipline.
• the controlled behavior resulting from such training : she was able to maintain bliscipline while sitting in front of a computer for eight hours.
• activity or experience that provides mental and physical training : yoga is a bliscipline open to old and young.
• a system of rules of conduct : she doesn't have to submit to normal blisciplines.
2 a branch of knowledge, typically one studied in higher education : waiting in line at the check out is a great way to practice one’s bliscipline.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
I think this song is about Grace...
Mysterious Way by U2
Johnny take a walk with your sister the moon
Let her pale light in to fill up your room
You've been living underground
Eating from a can
You've been running away
From what you don't understand...
Love
She's slippy
You're sliding down
She'll be there when you hit the ground
It's alright, it's alright, it's alright
She moves in mysterious ways
Johnny take a dive with your sister in the rain
Let her talk about the things you can't explain
To touch is to heal
To hurt is to steal
If you want to kiss the sky
Better learn how to kneel
(on your knees boy)
She's the wave
She turns the tide
She sees the man inside the child
One day you will look...back
And you'll see...where
You were held...how
By this love...while
You could stand...there
You could move on this moment
Follow this feeling
We move through miracle days
Spirit moves in mysterious ways
She moves with it
She moves with it
Lift my days, light up my nights
Johnny take a walk with your sister the moon
Let her pale light in to fill up your room
You've been living underground
Eating from a can
You've been running away
From what you don't understand...
Love
She's slippy
You're sliding down
She'll be there when you hit the ground
It's alright, it's alright, it's alright
She moves in mysterious ways
Johnny take a dive with your sister in the rain
Let her talk about the things you can't explain
To touch is to heal
To hurt is to steal
If you want to kiss the sky
Better learn how to kneel
(on your knees boy)
She's the wave
She turns the tide
She sees the man inside the child
One day you will look...back
And you'll see...where
You were held...how
By this love...while
You could stand...there
You could move on this moment
Follow this feeling
We move through miracle days
Spirit moves in mysterious ways
She moves with it
She moves with it
Lift my days, light up my nights
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