Sunday, August 21, 2016

Washing The Dishes, Waiting For Death

I wrote this new piece for Tricycle: The Buddhist Review. (Feels kind of like a bucket-list publication for me, as I've long read and respected their work.)

It might be helpful for anyone who loves someone who's terminally ill (oh hey, that'd be all of us). Or for anyone with a mind that's busy thinking, planning, or worrying.

The first time I really “got” meditation, I was standing at my kitchen sink washing dishes.

My father was dying. Cancer.

Hospice bed in the living room-style cancer.

I’d flown back to Nebraska to see him one last time, to hold his hand, say goodbye.

Now, the haunting question of when.

I was 26, living in a 100-year-old flat in San Francisco, bartending my way through grad school, subsisting on coffee and cocktails. Standing there at the sink, I could hear the young couple upstairs vacuuming, the Chinese family across the alley clattering pans, and the cable car clanging one block over on California Street.

My mind was obsessively circling the drain.

When would Dad die? Where would I be? Walking out of class? Trudging up Nob Hill? Shaking a martini? Tomorrow? Next week? I should buy a black suit. I should book a flight. I should cover my shifts. But no. That’s so morbid. He’s still here. But when? How am I supposed to prepare for this? How am I supposed to think about anything else?

You can read the full article here.

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

This Is Us.

Meet YoYoYogi.

These folks, led by the kind, grounded, and lighthearted Alex and Terri Cole, are just the best. Here's a glimpse into what we do there, and why it's such a warm, welcoming place.

I am delighted to be teaching history and philosophy as a faculty member for the 200hr and 500hr trainings this fall. We have an interest meeting coming up tonight at 6pm if you'd like to learn more.

August 8th Playlist

Heya friends.

I had a few requests for last night's playlist. You can find the majority of it here. (Apologies for the crummy screen shot. My iTunes isn't syncing today.)

("The Greater Silence" is by Bombay Dub Orchestra. And that dreamy savasana song was Ingram Marshall's "Entrada: At The River" from his Evensongs album.)

Happy listening.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

The word "Namaste" is overexposed. Played out. But here's why we need it.

My new article is published today on Yoga Trade.

I've been having a hard time writing about yoga lately. It feels crass and trite given everything going down in the world. Here, some thoughts on that overexposed word "Namaste," and why the hell we need it now, more than ever.

(Thanks to Kerri Kelly for inspiring.)

The word “Namaste” is pretty played out these days, isn’t it?

You can find it everywhere: on yoga mats, on bumper stickers, on water bottles. You can buy a “Namaste In Bed” t-shirt on Amazon. You can pick up Namaste bracelets and handbags and trucker hats on Etsy. You can dig into Namaste-brand gluten-free pizza crust and chicken noodle soup. You can walk into Namaste-branded pilates studios and wellness centers.

(Not to mention the hilarious yoga-world-skewering web series Namaste, Bitches.)

The word itself has taken on a certain cultural significance. It’s become a brand, recognizable even to someone who’s never stepped foot on a yoga mat.

Buddhist teacher Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche called this phenomenon spiritual materialism. Spiritual materialism occurs when a spiritual concept or practice is turned into a product for the purpose of making money. It’s rooted in the idea that you can buy and sell spiritual qualities like peace, grace, or transcendence.

Namastizzle, baby.

There’s no going back now.


I’m having a hard time writing about yoga lately.

There’s such a cruel juxtaposition of things going on in the world.

It’s summer yoga festival season. My FB feed is packed with photos of half-naked tan bendy people decorated with henna tattoos and patterned leggings doing yoga poses on mountains everywhere I look. And they are having so much FUN and sweating and chanting and living and doing their thang, you know? And I’ve been there and done that myself, and oh man yes, is it so fun. Right on, people! Namaste! Jai Ma!

But those yogis-gone-wild posts are bookended with videos of awful shootings in Baton Rouge and Minneapolis and Dallas and heartbreaking massacres on the French Riviera and hand-wringing from the Republican National Convention in Cleveland, where fiery speakers are calling for gun rights and white supremacists are offering prayers.

How are we supposed to even reconcile the two?

It feels crass, doesn’t it? To share happy-pretty-shiny yoga pictures on Instagram when the world feels like it is, quite literally, devolving into chaos?

I’ve only got one word...

You can read the whole thing here.

Monday, July 25, 2016

In Which This Bernie Gal Says: Sigh, Ok.

 I know I've been an outspoken Bernie Bro. (Since we Sanders voters are all white hetero bros, right? Ahem).

But, can I tell ya? I am really feelin' the DNC right now. Really, lemme say it, excited. Not just because Boyz II Men just sang Motown Philly. Not just because there have been more people of color onstage in the last few hours than in last week's entire RNC. And not just because there's a stellar line-up of speakers this week that pretty much makes me want to camp out in front of my TV with a notepad, nodding, til Thursday night.

But because last week's faux-patriotic Drumpf shitshow reminded me how important it is that we all come together to ensure that this demagogue doesn't get elected. There are smart, passionate folks out there right now like Elizabeth Warren and Robert Reich who also find their hearts more aligned with Sanders' policies. But they GET how important it is that Drumpf not be elected. I mean, the prospects are terrifying. Not just for us, but for our kids.

I think Jill Stein is great and my political stances certainly align more with hers than with Hillary's. Yes, she's more progressive. But she's not going to win. And if I vote for her, that's one more chance Drumpf does. So for the sake of the Supreme Court ALONE, we need to ensure HRC gets elected.

From there, we elect progressives down ballot. We ensure that Bernie continues to lead a movement (and maybe a new party) of New Progressives for folks like us who don't see our leftist values reflected in the current Democratic Party. And we keep chipping away at the establishment bullshit that allowed folks like Debbie Wasserman Schultz to rig the primaries.

Not that I know what I'm talking about. Not that I am a political pundit! Unless perpetually scrolling Twitter in search of more #DemsInPhilly news makes me such. I am a yogi. A student. A human. A mother. And I am looking forward to hearing what the mothers of Eric Garner and Trayvon Martin and Michelle Obama and Joe Biden and Cory Booker and President Obama and yup, even Bill and Chelsea Clinton have to say before the big final HRC speech Thursday night.

Sometimes you gotta know when to let go. That's yoga, right? Don't get attached? Bernie's telling us as much.

I feel sad. But I listen to folks like Gavin Newsom and Elizabeth Warren speak, and I feel a little more hopeful. At least this party affirms LGBTQ rights and religious diversity and the right to choose. It's far preferable to the alternative.

So let's watch. See what happens. Over the course of the last 9 months, I have felt fired up and demoralized and excited and disappointed. But right now I am just grateful there is an alternative to Drumpf, even if a far-from-perfect one. Now we just need to make sure she gets elected.

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Poker Chips, Meet Yoga

Hey friends.

First of all, I hope you dig my new fashion inspiration. Gonna be wearing that yellow ensemble on the right tonight to teach.

In all seriousness, I've been doing a lot of thinking and reading and listening lately. There's some really intelligent and thoughtful dialogue in the professional yoga world right now about hands-on adjustments: whether we should actually be adjusting people (since many yoga teachers are not trained bodyworkers), what the purpose is, and how adjustments feel for folks with a history of trauma (which, according to some statistics, is 1 in 4 women — whoa, right?!).

Do the math. That means in your average class of 32 people, you've got 8 or so who might be super-triggered by a seemingly-innocuous adjustment — and that's not even counting men! (I don't have the statistics in front of me right now, but they are sobering, and that's just the reported cases. Glad to dig them up for you if you'd like more info.).

Needless to say, we've come a long way from the days when Pattabhi Jois and BKS Iyengar would just crank students into poses, whether their bodies were ready to go there or not. There's a ton of fantastic cultural commentary coming from folks like Matthew Remski in the wake of the recent Jivamukti scandal (and the many other yoga-world sexual harassment scandals which have preceded that one), much more nuanced than I could ever write. So I encourage you to follow what he's saying, and to stay engaged in the evolving conversation.

In just my own anecdotal research, I've discovered tons of hot and cold opinions about adjustments. A lot of people say "Ohmigod, I love them!" Which I totally get. Because usually I do, too. There is nothing like a great forward fold assist to get you just a little further than you realized you could go...especially when you're a bendy person who doesn't feel much in some of those poses by yourself.

So, yes, I usually love them too. That is, unless they feel creepy, or inappropriate, or I don't really know what the teacher's trying to get me to do, or I just ate a huge lunch and I kind of want to be left alone, or I'm having a challenging practice and really want some space, or if I'm not sure if the teacher is really qualified to be giving assists, or if my knee hurts, or I'm pregnant, or injured....

You get the drift. For every person who's told me they loooooove adjustments, there's another who says "Hell no, get out of my space, unless I know you, or you've been my teacher for years, or you ask me ahead of time, and I give you permission." Which I totally understand, too.

I have very distinct memories of being adjusted in Downward Dog some 7 or 8 years ago. I wasn't prepared for anyone to touch me, didn't know the assistants, and was already feeling contracted and anxious on a rough day. The minute the assistant (a wonderful, warm, well-meaning woman) touched my low back, I felt my whole body tense up. I tightened. I retracted. I got angry. I wanted to shove her away, shake her off, scream at her to leave me alone.

But of course I couldn't do that. I just got even quieter, turned even more inward, and stayed tense until she finally moved on to the next person.

Then again, there was that class at Yoga Tree Castro back in 2009. I was hiding in the back row doing my thing. Debbie Mobley (then a stranger, later a dear friend and colleague) came up and adjusted me in Happy Baby. She smiled and made a nice comment and I felt warm and welcome and seen, in the midst of a roomful of sweaty strangers. It made me want to come back.

So, you see? Adjustments are such a shitshow of possibilities. And what I'm learning, the more I listen to senior teachers like Jason Crandell and read nuanced commentary by folks like Matthew Remski, is that maybe the best thing to do right now is step back a bit. It's not enough to just offer folks the ability to say "Thanks, but no thanks." Many people might not feel comfortable doing that in a class setting between vinyasas anyway — especially folks who might not have a strong self-care voice due to past traumas.

Let's be frank here: I have been witness to inappropriate adjustments myself. I have heard too many stories, seen the aftermath of too many invasive and presumptuous adjustments that left students afraid to return to a studio, or a particular teacher. And, honestly? Even the kind of adjustments that left students feeling sexually harassed.

And that's flat-out wrong.

So for the time being, meet my new yoga assistant: poker chips. This cheesy little turquoise OM bag will come with me every time I teach a class, and you can find it on the stereo by my iPod. All you have to do if you want to be left alone is grab one, place it on the top of your mat, and I will happily give you tons of space. Whether it's a matter of being injured or being hungover or just wanting to be alone in your practice, I'm so glad to honor that.

I am grateful to my teacher Rusty Wells and the staff at Urban Flow, who first devised this "No Thanks, No Touch" chip back when we were teaching there. In classes that could sometimes swell to 175 students, it was an easy, elegant way to communicate that desire to just be left alone, for whatever reason. I spent years assisting Rusty and MC Yogi there at Urban Flow, and will always be grateful for those hundreds of hours of hands-on time that offered me an unmatched opportunity to be quietly with people's bodies, in all their sweaty, stretchy glory. And I am glad to be able to share some of that learning with students now.

My sister Mariah and I are in the process of developing a curriculum for trauma-sensitive trainings for yoga teachers. She's a dance/movement therapist who's got a terrific amount of knowledge to share about somatics, embodied trauma, and empowering students to observe and adjust their own bodies. I look forward to sharing more of this with you in the weeks to come. 

Thanks and love to you. See you on the mat. With or without a poker chip.

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Guru Purnima

Thank you, teachers. Thank you, life. Thank you, tired aging body. Thank you, grey hair. Thank you, vibrant toddler. Thank you, loud truck outside my window while I'm trying to write. Thank you, every single relationship. Thank you, every single success and every single regret. Thank you, every piece of chocolate cake. Thank you, Donald Trump. Thank you, Hillary Clinton. Thank you for being my teachers. Thank you for teaching me yoga.

Happy Guru Purnima to you.

Tuesday, July 5, 2016

Get Lost, Start Over: Why Yoga Starts When Things Fall Apart

I wrote this new piece for Yoga Trade. It's a flashback to my first yoga class back in 2003...and that time a few weeks ago when my car died in the middle of the road.

In other words: why the yoga starts when things fall apart.

Delighted to be a regular contributor over at Yoga Trade. Look for more in the months to come.

Get Lost, Start Over: Why Yoga Starts When Things Fall Apart

It’s a cool, grey Saturday morning in Portland.


I’m on the road, cruising along about 45 mph, pleasantly caffeinated, smoothie in hand, headed to teach my 8:15am class.

Life is calm and quiet and good. (The caffeine helps).

Good, that is, until, out of nowhere, smack in the middle of the road, surrounded by other metal deathboxes zooming along at 45 mph, my car just dies.

Shuts off. Loses all power. Sayonara, baby.

The dashboard lights flash once, ominously, and then they die, too. All of them.

Holy shit. What’s going on?! What am I gonna do?!

I shift the weirdly-energyless car into neutral. There’s a parking lot just a few hundred feet ahead to my right, if I can just manage to get there. Deliberately, clenchedly, I steer that lifeless monstrosity of glass and leather and steel into the parking lot, shove it awkwardly into Park, sit for a breathless moment hoping nothing explodes, and turn the ignition off.

Exhaling, I think to myself:

This is why we do yoga.

Read the rest here.

Thursday, June 16, 2016

Thoughts On Orlando + Next Week's California Retreat

Just sent out my newsletter, including thoughts on Orlando + next week's California yoga retreat. You can find it here.

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

I'm not going to vote for a moderate war hawk just because she has a vagina. That's not how feminism works.

Screenshot via CNN

Ok, can I say something? 

It's not PC and it's not safe and it's not pretty. But I am so tired of keeping my mouth shut and trying not to piss anyone off. Trying to be some neutral soft-spoken yoga teacher without opinions. I can't do it.

Just last night, the mainstream media (led by the AP) suddenly, magically, decided that Hillary Clinton had "clinched the Democratic nomination." What a coincidence! The night before the YUGE California primary (+ 5 others), and on the basis of "surveyed" superdelegate counts: votes which won't even be cast until July 25th. Now every major news site is leading off with triumphant stories about how Hillary's the one and she's breaking the glass ceiling and hooray, ladies, we did it! And all the Twitter feminists-of-a-certain-age are celebrating this supposed lady-victory and wishing their mothers could be here for this moment.

Here's the thing: I'm a feminist. I did undergraduate and graduate degrees in feminist theory. I read and write and live and breathe feminism. I raise my son feminist.

Bernie's principles are more feminist. Period. 

You don't vote for a woman just because she's a woman. You vote for her because her principles inspire you. You vote for her because her ethics and integrity and track record leave you certain, deep down, that she'll do the right thing.

I'm not going to vote for a moderate war hawk who was against gay marriage until 2013 just because she has a vagina. That's not how feminism works.

Feminism means fighting climate change and ending the death penalty and paying for college and providing universal health care and supporting gay marriage and fighting against segregation and inspiring grassroots progressives and independents of every age and race and class in service of the 99%.

You know what's NOT feminist? The Iraq War. Fracking. The death penalty. Getting funded by Time Warner and JP Morgan Chase and Citigroup. Giving $225k speeches to Wall Street and refusing to release the transcripts. Calling young black men "super-predators". Opposing gay marriage until it's politically expedient.

I will vote for Hillary in November if I have to. Maybe. I will begrudgingly support the lesser of two evils, a candidate bought and paid for by big money.

But now?! Now, when I have a choice?! Now, I'm voting for an old man from Vermont. Not because he's a man. Because he's a feminist. And because his progressive vision calls for the kind of political revolution we so desperately need.

So, my California peeps, and everyone else: even though the media tells you it's already over: VOTE. Today. Get out there. Do it. This primary race is not an anointment. It's not a coronation. And if the voice of the people will be heard, it's up to each of us to make it happen.


Thursday, June 2, 2016

20 Things I'm Really Thinking At The Children's Museum

 I wrote this little ditty for It has nothing to do with yoga. :)

My toddler son and I spend a lot of time at the children's museum. It's an oasis — that rare place where a rambling, fired-up little guy can run freely, a sanctuary of rounded corners and rubbery surfaces where I can sit down and exhale for a minute or two without worrying that he's going to dart into the street or careen down a staircase.

But every time we go, I find myself stealthily scoping out the other mothers (or fathers or nannies or grandparents) and wondering what they're thinking. Are they, too, relieved and exhausted and under-showered and over-caffeinated? Do they look at me and see a cool, calm mama?

If only they knew...

1. Why doesn't the cafe serve wine?
2. My kid is cuter than yours.
3. Where’s the Purell?
4. These tiny potties and sinks are brilliant engineering.
5. If I had a dollar for every kid named Carter, Ava, Miles or Sophia, I could buy this place.
Read the rest here.

Tuesday, May 31, 2016

5 Things Fight Club — Yes, Fight Club — Taught Me About Yoga

One of my favorite things about yoga is that you can find teachers and texts in all kinds of unexpected places: movies, politics, basketball, you name it. Thanks to Yoga International for picking up my essay about how a bruised and sweaty Brad Pitt taught me yoga.

5 Things Fight Club — Yes, Fight Club — Taught Me About Yoga

Take a look at any mainstream yoga rag, and you might think "yoga" means skinny white ladies lounging around in stretchy pants, talking about probiotics. But yoga is so much more.

Yoga's smart. Yoga's radical. Yoga's counter-cultural.

Yes, really.

The modern yoga scene is at a tipping point. Commodification and “Instagramification” have transformed this profound meditative practice into a trendy, upper-middle-class fitness craze.

It's time for populist, philosophy-loving yogis to reclaim yoga from its widespread assimilation as a sanitized, fashion-driven workout. Believe it or not, the philosophical tradition's got much wisdom to offer regarding the messy, sweaty, sacred/profane reality of being alive. Which brings us to...Fight Club. Yep, you heard me right.

You can read the whole thing here.

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

What Death Taught Me About Living Fully

I wrote this new piece for Yoga International. It's dear to my heart.

"On a pristine Sunday evening in late spring, we memorialized the life of my old friend Greg.

It was a perfectly Aloha party, an anti-funeral on the rooftop deck of a restaurant under the Bay Bridge, complete with Hawaiian shirts and rollicking toasts and great seafood. The weather even behaved on behalf of the celebration: no fog in sight.
At the request of Greg’s friends and family, I’d agreed to officiate the memorial.

This left me anxious as hell.

The morning of the service, I woke up with an unnameable knot in my belly. The pressure to sum up a beloved friend’s life in a few brief words completely trumps the pressure of doing, well, pretty much anything else...."

Grateful for yoga's ongoing reminder to relax into authenticity, and to savor the shadows along with the sun.

You can read the whole thing here.

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Four Months, Awake

Mamalode published this piece I wrote when my little guy was just 4 months old. I am delighted to be a part of their May theme: ‪#‎cherish. Such a good reminder to cherish every moment, both the wonderful and the challenging. We don't get this life forever.

Here's a blurb:

Four Months, Awake

He's fallen asleep, finally, finally.
His teething mouth is clamped onto the Ergo strap.
Is he breathing?
I check.  
Yes, phew, breathing.
I am so tired. He is so tired.
He's been up every hour the last two nights.
Out of the blue, after settling into a nice pattern of sleeping for 6-7 hour chunks, followed by a quick 3am feeding, then cuddling in the big bed til 7am. It had become a lovely routine.
We took it for granted.
He hates to nap. He needs to nap.
I need for him to nap. Desperately.
Those naps save me.

Read the full piece here.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

When A Zen Yoga Teacher Gets Real About Postpartum Depression

I wrote this for today's Washington Post. It's deeply personal, and pretty scary to publish. But it's a piece that's been writing itself on my heart for a long time now. And the personal is political. So if it makes even one woman feel less alone, then it was worth it.

My son was born on my birthday.

February 22: George Washington’s birthday. Drew Barrymore’s birthday. And mine.

My phone pinged with Facebook notifications as I stood over the hospital trash bin and retched. Three times I emptied my stomach of the apples and peanut butter my husband had lovingly sliced a few hours before. Once into the trash can. Again. And then again into the birthing tub laced with lavender essential oils.

Fiercely feminist, I’d always been ambivalent about having children. I’d watched my peers spawn with nary a twinge of jealousy, content with my books and my yoga. I told myself, “If it happens: great. If it doesn’t: great.”

On our first date, I teased my future husband, Robb, that I’d likely go the way of Sylvia Plath, making the kids sandwiches and sticking my head in the oven.

Six months later, drinking champagne on a pier overlooking Tomales Bay, we were engaged.

A year later, I was pregnant. Robb promised parenthood would make me a better yoga teacher. I rolled my eyes and took a swig of my chai, wishing it were vodka.

He was right. Motherhood has made me a much better yoga teacher.

But I was unprepared for the shattering.

Read the rest here.

Sunday, April 24, 2016

Finding Your Dharma In A Bookstore

Later this afternoon, I'll be teaching a History of Yoga workshop for the YoYoYogi teacher training.

For the last week or so, I've been up into the wee hours each night nerding out on Indra Devi and the Bhagavad Gita and more Marilyn Monroe asana pictures than you knew existed. I should be so tired from not sleeping, but I'm not — the exact opposite, in fact: I feel fired up and jazzed to have an excuse to spend time and energy on all this philosophy and history.

When I first moved to San Francisco in August 2003 (and started practicing yoga for the first time 2 weeks later), I didn't know a soul. I was a bookish introvert quite happy to be quietly surrounded by books and music and art. So I spent all my evenings and weekends trolling around SF's iconic bookstores reading geeky yoga philosophy books. There weren't many at the time, but I'd dig out the dishy ones and plop on the floor in City Lights in North Beach or Barnes and Noble overlooking Union Square and lose foggy hours to those texts.

They lit up my mind and stoked my heart and changed my life.

I certainly never sat down to read those books thinking I'd ever have a career in them. That didn't even seem possible. I just did it because they made me hungry for more. They made me feel connected to something deeper. And they made sense of the world in a holistic, intelligent way I'd only ever imagined possible.

So I kept reading. And 13 years later, I get paid to do what I'd do for free, for fun, for the sheer love of it: talk about yoga philosophy!

You can major in Business and decide you're going to be an accountant. You can go to law school and set a clear career path. But if you, like so many of us, wonder what your life's purpose (or dharma) really is, ask yourself: if I could wander into a bookstore and just get lost for a few hours, what would I read first? Which section would I make a beeline for? Where could I disappear and only come up for air hours later, not realizing any time had passed?

That's your heart. That's your passion. THAT'S what wants to be your life's work.

Trust it. Keep reading. You never know where it might take you.

Monday, April 18, 2016

Holy Crap.

Holy crap. Front page of HuffPost Women. Chillin' with Monica Lewinsky. :)

Thanks so much for reading, and relating, y'all. This was one of those pieces that I almost didn't post. Too intimate. My heart raced for a good hour or so after publishing. (Those heart-racers are usually the ones that people end up relating to most. Never fails.)

I always say that good writing should make us feel less alone. The act of writing is blessedly (wonderfully) solitary. The sharing of said writing is incredibly intimate and vulnerable, like sharing a piece of one's innermost self. It's usually, erm, terrifying.

So I am ever and always grateful to anyone who takes the time to read. Thank you.

Friday, April 15, 2016

Spring Newsletter

Just sent out my Spring newsletter. I rarely send these anymore because too much email. If you want to subscribe, there's a button top left. Cheers.

Thursday, April 14, 2016


Yesterday my family and I went to the library, hiked a state park, mailed a letter, and waved to a fire truck. ‪#‎ThanksSocialism‬ ‪#‎FeelTheBern‬

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

An Insider's Guide To The Definition Of Yoga

Thanks to BeYogi for publishing my latest, An Insider's Guide to the Definition of Yoga:

"And there, right there, in the messy middle of all of it — this is where the yoga starts.

It starts when the breath gets ragged. When you’re not sure why but your chest tightens up, your jaw is suddenly stone, and your mind races. Suddenly you’re worthless and you’ve accomplished nothing and what are you doing with your life anyway, silly?"

You can find the whole thing here.

Yoga Philosophy For Dummies

Delighted to teach a Yoga Philosophy For Dummies workshop at YoYoYogi next month. Open to all, whether you know anything about yoga or not. I promise it won't be woo-woo.

Sign up here.

Monday, April 11, 2016

When I'm An Old Lady, I'll Be Glad I Took This Picture

This is a selfie.

I talk a lot of shit about selfies. Have for a long time. You know, that they're narcissistic and precious and self-conscious and misguided and pretty much the downfall of the yoga world these days. All about "The Gaze," all about "being seen" rather than just "being." The practice lost to the performance. No small thing.

But, shit. That's a goddamned selfie.

And you know what?

I fucking love it.

Do you know how people take yoga selfies? There's not a single graceful thing about it.

That effortless Handstand-on-the-beach? She took 62 shots of that and they were all sandy and shitty. That relaxed Pigeon in the park? He ran back and forth to the camera 17 times before he could actually get into the pose in time. That Natarajasana on the mountain top? She about lost her shit and fell into the Grand Canyon.

I had to prop my iPhone up on a wooden stool and stack a children's book on top of the stool and then a Vitamix pitcher on top of that, and lean the iPhone precariously against the blender. My kid was napping and he'd already been asleep for two hours and was due to wake up any second and my husband was at the gym and it was just me and the afternoon light and my stupid smartphone there for a few rushed minutes. I'd just finished an hour's practice listening to Elizabeth Gilbert and Brene Brown and Cheryl Strayed and was feeling open and strong and unraveled and said to myself, Ahhhhh, fuck it,

I want to take a goddamned picture of this healthy strong bendy resilient 37-year-old body of mine.

So I propped up the shit and turned on the light and set the timer for 10-second-delay and hurriedly softly carefully pushed the button on the precariously-blender-supported iPhone and ran over and dropped on my butt on the wood and took some goddamned selfies.

And most of them suck. Most of them have a foot cut out or a knuckle missing or a hideous slant. Or my thighs groan like hamhocks or my red cheeks glow even in the shit lighting.

But you know what?

One or two, I fucking love. They make me feel fierce and flexible and strong. And, ok, I'll say it: beautiful. They make me feel beautiful.

We are not supposed to say that out loud.

We are not supposed to admit that.

But I will.

When you call yourself beautiful, and really mean it, you are no longer prey to their not-enoughness.

You are no longer at someone else's mercy.
You are no longer living in externally-imposed lack.
You are no longer a slave to the capitalist-misogynistic beauty industry.
Because you no longer need their approval.
And you no longer need to buy their shit.
And you have no desire for $95 pants.
Or $27 mascara.
So you win.

And goddamn, if that isn't liberating.

My first childhood dance teacher just died. Nevorah, she of the long legs and the fishnets and the high-heeled tap shoes and the vague resemblance to a 63-year-old Lucille Ball. (At least in my 5-year-old mind's eye, that is.)

She who hoofed it out with us up on the second floor of a dusty wooden studio there in Brookings, South Dakota, Nevorah and my sister and me, tapping it out to the Beach Boys and Me and My Shadow and god knows what else.

You don't realize the huge impact you can have. Even then, I looked at her and thought: I want to be like this woman. I want to move through life like this tall elegant creature. I want to be able to kick my nose when I'm 63.

Talk about motivation. I think of her still.

She ended up an elderly woman with a broken hip and a dancing spirit. (As we all do, if we're lucky.) And she surely had no idea what an impact she made on a shy little South Dakota girl.

And I realize, even now, that one day I'll be the one in the recliner with the oxygen machine and the twinkly eyes and the broken hip.

So I'll take the damn selfie, in the body that still bends, wearing three-year-old hand-me-down leggings from a teacher-friend and an old black shirt from Target, make-up all sweated off, heels cracked.

And I'll look at that photo and feel like a fucking queen. Regal, all size-8-and-not-size-0 of her. And I'll raise a glass to what she has been through, and that size-0 does not equal joy, and that picnics and books and coconut milk chai teas do, and the baby that body has grown and birthed, and the cupcakes she's eaten and the broccoli she's cooked and the stairs she's climbed and the house she's built and the dirt she's tilled and the lawns she's mowed and the airport floors those hips have slept on and the wooden floors those bare feet have danced on and the crow's feet those eyes have earned and the pots of coffee she's chugged and the grey hairs coming in and the tired eyes who've not slept for two years and the cracked heels and the stubbed toes and the despair and the delight and all of it right there in that body

right there!

resilient as fuck


selfie, my ass.

There is no-self. (Haven't you heard?) Anatta, no-self, that idea that we exist only in relationship, that our notions of permanent selves are ever in co-creation, ever fluid. It's a Buddhist thing. But it's also process theology, and ecofeminist theology, and yoga.

And as soon as you drop the notion that you are this particular form, life gets so much easier. Once you were an infant. Now, you're not. Once you were a kindergartener in a duck tutu and tap shoes. Now, you're not. Some day, if you're lucky, you'll be elderly. Now, you're not. Follow me?

I always give a private nod to this reminder at the end of every class. Right as folks are rolling back up into their seats for the final OM, I lead them through one last oh-so-simple head circle, rolling their heads first slowly to the right, and then reversing, circling to the left.

I do it for me, selfishly, that one day if the only yoga-asana my body can manage to do is a simple neck roll, I might remember that it's holy, and it's real, and good, and life-giving, and that I've been practicing for that moment all my life.

I do it for you, too, that even if you don't realize it, you might one day give yourself the same grace, if your body will no longer let you stand on your hands or fly into Hanumanasana.

You are not "you." You are not your selfies. You are not your twists or your arm balances or your vertical splits. You are just this moment. This Sunday-afternoon squeezed-in selfie before the iPhone fell to the floor and the kid woke up and the husband got home and the light changed.

Isn't that a relief?

Thursday, April 7, 2016

New Article: 7 Tips For Teaching A Kick-Ass Vinyasa Class

I wrote this new piece for Yoga International, published today. I've long respected their work, and am thrilled to contribute to this thoughtful, intelligent magazine.

Pretty much my personal teaching philosophy, right here.

A little preview:
Let’s be honest: there are tons of vinyasa classes out there these days.

What can you do to ensure yours is terrific? What are the essentials for designing a really solid class, beyond the basics (like safe sequencing, cueing the breath, and making sure no one passes out)? And how can you make your class the kind of can’t-miss experience that keeps students coming back for more?

Here are seven keys:

1. Be yourself.

Don't get your "yoga-voice" on. I've taken classes from a number of rad, funny, cool yoga teacher friends who, once they step in front of a class, totally lose their personalities and become yoga automatons. Don't be afraid to be real—to speak in your normal tone, like you would in everyday conversation, and maybe even (gasp!) swear once or twice (if that’s normally how you’d talk). People are more relaxed in the presence of a confident leader, and your students will feel at home when you’re at ease. That said…

2. Don't talk too much. For real.

This is the feedback I hear most often from students who have negative class experiences. Have you ever taken a class where the teacher's so eager to fill all the silent spaces that they jabber the whole way through? Honor the introverted, meditative nature of the practice. Nonstop chatter makes it really tough to settle into a meditative flow, and it can be, quite frankly, invasive, unhelpful, and really annoying. So step back. Don't feel like you need to explain everything you've ever learned about a pose or a philosophical topic in the span of five breaths. Offer the basic instructions necessary, count out a few breaths as you go along, and then STFU. Your students will thank you.

3. Keep a nice rhythmic pace, as though you’re playing an instrument.

And I don't mean choreographing your routines to the Skrillex song playing in the background. Let your vinyasa pulse like a heartbeat.
There's much more. Read the whole thing here.

Monday, April 4, 2016

June 26th Yoga + Hiking Retreat

Yes, we're doing it again! 

I'll be back in Northern California the last weekend of June, and summer should be bustin' out all over. Looking forward to sharing another yoga + hiking retreat with you. It's a great chance to get a dose of sky, bust out an old-school vinyasa, luxuriate in a long meditation, and ramble together over sunburned conversation in the woods. 

So please do join us.  

What: Day-long Point Reyes Yoga + Hiking Retreat  

When: Sunday, June 26th, 12-5ish pm  

Where: Toby’s Feed Barn, located at 11250 California Hwy 1, Point Reyes Station, CA. (About an hour northwest of SF and Oakland.) Drive up anytime Sunday morning to enjoy Point Reyes Station. Make your way to YogaToes Studio (MC Yogi and Amanda Giacomini's home studio) between 12-12:15pm for check-in and brief hellos. We’ll share a full vinyasa + meditation practice, take a quick break to change and refuel, and then head out for a 2-3 hour hike in the wilds of Inverness and Point Reyes National Seashore.  

What To Bring: yoga mat, water bottle, solid hiking shoes, sunblock, rain gear (if it’s wet), and comfortable clothes. Wear layers, as temps can drop when the fog rolls in.  

Registration: $50 covers a 2-hr hike and a 2-hr yoga/meditation class. Link is below! (Studio space is limited to 35, so it will definitely fill up.)  

Questions: Email me at 


Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Are You Afraid To Sing OM?

are you afraid to sing OM?

don't be


OM is

the song of your breath
the hum of your heartbeat
the thrum of your lungs
the whistle of the wind in your ears
the scurry of the squirrel in the tree across the street
the golfer whacking the ball out on the green
the garbage man dumping beer bottles with a CRASH
the timer on the oven telling you the fries are done

it's Kanye and Kim (ok, North and Saint, too)
it's Woody and Buzz (you've got a friend, you do)
it's Bernie and Donald (yes, even Ted and Hillary, too)

the familiar hush of your mother's voice
the low rumble of your father's lullaby
the lilt of your son's sing-song toddler voice
the holler of his wails when you stop him from coloring on the walls
the ache of your muscles aging
the groan of your bones heaving
the creak of your hips and the wrinkle of your eyes
the realizing
you are your mother now, too, and she, hers

It's OM
the vinyasa that is your life
the dance that is birth + death

not something to be afraid of
your voice especially
even though you think you're not a singer, i know
and that one time in 3rd grade they told you to lip-sync the words
so you didn't ruin the song

and you haven't sung since

f*ck that


OM is you
your quiet breath when you're alone and still and realize
this won't always be

so you sing

in spite of yourself
the harmonies delight

Saturday, March 26, 2016


I can't stop thinking about the #BirdieSanders thing yesterday. It was totally yoga.

Did you see how light and open everybody got when it happened? Not to mention Bernie's childlike, wise response: super-present, just smiling quietly, watching, appreciating. It was like everybody in that huge dome just dropped their masks and let go.

And it was spontaneous. Unplanned. A rare uncrafted moment in a political world shellacked with premeditated words and catch-phrases and selves. The present moment flitted in. Literally. And it took everyone off guard.

Feels so good to have a dose of levity inserted into the hatred and malevolence and fear that have characterized this election. Thanks, little finch. You brought a world of good, just by doing your thang.


Friday, March 25, 2016

Two Hospitals, Three Yoga Studios

Today is Good Friday.

I'm home, working in the office, hearing the pound-pound-pound of footsteps upstairs as the little guy runs around with Tessa, blowing bubbles and littering crumbs and toppling block towers up above.

Good Friday always makes me a little quiet and reflective. Comes with the territory. Certainly helps that the skies here in Portland are naturally grey. Suits the mood, eh? Plenty of time for pastels and sunshine come Easter morning.

I stumbled across this piece from three years ago today — three years ago, exactly, Good Friday — and the passage of time crashed over me like a wave.

Brand-new baby Logan is now three. Dear old Greg is now gone, three years. Life looks so different. And not at all.

It churns on.

Friday, March 29, 2013

What a strange 24 hours it's been.

I spent yesterday in two hospitals and three yoga studios. It was a day bizarrely bookended by all kinds of life cycle shit.

And I mean "shit" in the most reverent, awestruck, sacred kind of way.

* * *

My dear old college friends Aaron and Courtney had a baby Wednesday night. Court's a rockstar and the baby slipped out like a kid on a waterslide. We got the heads-up that she was about to bust a move into delivery around 3pm. By 7, little Logan Page had arrived.

She's a damn purty little girl. (Way to go, team.)

I spent Thursday morning in an excited rush of gathering: getting my stuff together for teaching, wrapping up some bubbles and Cowgirl Creamery cheese for the new mama, and heading into the City a little early. Taught a sweaty noon class at Urban Flow and then hustled over to the hospital to meet the little lady.

She was what, about 18 hours old by the time I met her? And a sweet little kitten in every way, 7 pounds of quietude and warmth and cuddles.

After about 45 minutes, I zoomed back to the studio for a meeting, headed to OMpower to teach, discovered the melée of Giants/Athletics fans that had overtaken the 'hood for an exhibition game, and had just settled back into my car to head to Oakland when I got a phone call.

It was to be a Maundy Thursday bookended by hospital visits: one to a wee newborn babe, the other to say goodbye to an old friend who was on his way out of this world.

* * *

G had a stroke last Friday night. He's young, and healthy, and mad-fit; the kind of guy who climbs mountains and does triathlons and all that. He went out to dinner that evening to celebrate his daughter's 13th birthday, came home, and his brain crumbled. The firetrucks were out front by 2:30am.

I stopped at the hospital to see him on Sunday afternoon. He was more coherent than I expected, slurring a bit, yes, but recognized me and tried to make a few patched-together jokes. The words didn't come easily. He fell asleep mid-conversation, and the ICU nurses hustled us out so he could rest.

Monday night brought an emergency 7-hour brain surgery. They shaved off part of his spinal cord and cut out part of his brain to reduce the cranial swelling. Tuesday, he remained in a medically-induced coma. Wednesday night the neurosurgeons predicted that he had an 89% chance of full recovery.

Thursday afternoon he was braindead.

I found a voicemail waiting when I left the studio at 6:30pm.

Knew in my gut things weren't well. Got the word from our mutual friend E that there had been a series of strokes the night before, and G's brain could no longer wake his body up. The breath was gone. The brain was swelling again. The family had all been at the hospital saying goodbye since late afternoon, and the doctors would pull the plug later that night. I could likely stop by to see G one last time if I got there before midnight or so.

And that was it.

I did fine on the phone, kept it together, asked how E was holding up (they were long-time best friends, he and G, the kind that go to Vegas and Fiji together and stand up for one another in their weddings), and hung up the phone.

Sat stunned for a few minutes, disbelieving, numb.

Called the Mister and fell apart. Tears.

Speaking those words: "Ohmygod, honey: G is braindead" took everything to a whole new level. I understood. It was real. He'd just had a birthday two weeks ago. And now he was gone.

I wept my way across the Bay Bridge on my way to Oakland, windows rolled down, cold wind in my face, inching along in late rush hour traffic. I contemplated calling the studio manager to see if someone might be able to step in to teach for me. Figured there was no way I could get through class. But it was 7:15 already, and another teacher would need to be there in fifteen minutes. No way. Totally impossible.

So I sucked it up and said, "Rach, get it together. You have to get through this. Be present; find equanimity. This is your yoga." The Mister had already suggested that I dedicate my class to G. There seemed no better way to honor him than to dive into a place of sweat and breath and being absolutely one-hundred-percent fully alive.

I parked the car, wiped my eyes, put on some new mascara, blew my nose, and headed in.

There were 35 beautiful living breathing loving creatures in there waiting to get their yoga on. I knew as soon as I walked in: I had done the right thing.

* * *

There are few classes in which I remember being so fully present, so completely aware of the rich joyful heartbreaking cycle of life. I'd just come from squeezing a less-than-day-old baby, and after class I'd be driving straight to the hospital to say goodbye to my old friend.

In the meantime: sun salutations.

What a mind-fuck. What a grace. What a bookend of a day.

Guru Brahma, Guru Vishnu, and Guru Devo Maheshwara all wrapped into one.

This body we're born into; the life we live, day-to-day, in the wretched and the exquisite; the moments of chaos, of destruction, of dissolution, of loss. The moment she takes her first gasp of air after 9 months in the womb. The moment you get the call that he's braindead, when two days earlier he'd just emailed you, "Thanks for the birthday wishes and let's connect soon!"

Guru Sakshath, Parambrahma: the God that is nearby, within, here, and the God that is beyond all this, vast, formless and supreme.

I felt each and every one of those sparks of divinity, there in that room.

I felt so aware of the breath, the ruach, the spirit, that literal life force — call it prana or the Holy Spirit or qi or what-have-you — pulsing around me, walking up and down the studio floor calling out instructions, literally surrounded by, enveloped in breath; the urgent, rhythmic, conscious, musical soundtrack, that heat-building, nervous-system-calming, life-transforming Ujjayi ocean wave rising, falling, victorious, triumphant, alive.

I thought of Logan's little soft kitten breath there in my arms 5 hours before, whispering, delicate, oh-so-fragile, just barely begun.

I thought of G's heavy, labored, machine-driven breath 2 hours later as I stood next to him at the hospital bed holding his warm pulsing hand, listening to the machines beeping at my right, his swollen tongue pushing out of his mouth.

I looked down and saw the hospital band on his wrist with his name and birthdate: 3/18/51.

And I thought of the same plastic band on Logan's wrist, not even a day old: 3/27/13.

And I felt my own living breathing body sitting there cross-legged in the midst of a sweaty room of yogis, wrapping up a day swaddled in so much mind-blowing life and death, so much Brahma and Vishnu and Shiva, Shiva, Shiva.

We give good lip service to Shiva, we yoga teachers. We talk about learning to stay cool and calm and equanimous in those moments of our lives when everything falls apart. We preach about cultivating peace and softness and gentleness in the midst of pain.

And then there you are standing next to the man whom you once knew and who will tomorrow be a corpse, and you think of his 13-year-old daughter, whose life will never be the same, and you wonder if she'll be ok, and you know she will, because she's scrappy, and beloved, and strong, and you will all come together and teach her to surf and teach her to love and teach her to cry and remind her that she is not alone.

I sat on the floor in the middle of the room last night after savasana as all of the students had curled their knees into their chests and rolled over into the fetal position ready to close out the practice. I saw them there, vulnerable, soft, child-like, open, brand-new, and I thought of the way we move through the entire life cycle in the course of just one practice: hitting the mat strong, present, fully alive in the breath; we work our way up to that peak pose, the backbend or the Scorpion or the Kurmasana or whatever it might be; we slow down, melt into forward folds, slip into a seated meditation, watching the breath, watching the breath, and then softly, OM shanti shanti shanti, lengthening into Corpse Pose, savasana, a literal little death.

Letting it all go.

Practicing for later, for the day it will be us.

It's Good Friday. It's a day when I would've thought a lot about death anyway. Holy Week always was and will remain a sacred time for me, a quiet few days wherein I draw close to my family and remember, remember, walking the path of Maundy Thursday into Good Friday into Holy Saturday into the joy of Easter Sunday. It's a time when I feel the loss of my father all over again, and remember his fearlessness, his joy, in stepping into death these almost 8 years ago now. It's a time when spring's busting out all over and I'm reminded of the perpetual cycles of our lives, the way there will always be new babies, and they, too, will age, and one day find grey hairs popping up and wrinkles folding in.

And I think about the suffering in my midst.

I think about the way we resist it. Or fail to speak it, out of fear, out of loneliness.

I think about the ones who are aching to get pregnant and can't. I think about the ones who are struggling to parent, to keep it together on no sleep and too-few hugs and a too-small salary. I think about the ones who are grappling with old age; I think about G's 85-year-old mother with her red eyes last night who had to drive in from Grass Valley to bid goodbye to her baby; and I think about wee little Logan Page, who is all brightness, all lightness, all fresh hope, new beginnings, clean slates. How much eager hope her parents have for her life. And how the cycles of life keep churning, whether we give them permission to do so or not.

All of life is holy ground.

Be in it.

Be in it all the way, balls-out, fearless, open, honest, relaxed.

I sat there in the midst of all those sweaty bodies last night at the end of class, after a day of one hospital, three classes, and another hospital yet to come, and I felt the stillness of just being with what is. We sat in meditation and I offered my practice, my class, my teaching to G, that my breath, my song, might lend him peace, might remind him that he matters. And I felt the oneness of the breath as we hollered out that final OM, heard the echo hang in the silence, and knew I was right where I should be.

That we're all right where we should be.

Let your practice crack you open. We don't know how long it is until it's our turn. We don't know how many breaths we have left.

Be in it.

Be in it all the way.

The Anti-preneur Manifesto

Bless Adbusters for this.  One big holy YES for speaking truth.

I don’t want to be a designer, a marketer, an illustrator, a brander, a social media consultant, a multi-platform guru, an interface wizard, a writer of copy, a technological assistant, an applicator, an aesthetic king, a notable user, a profit-maximizer, a bottom-line analyzer, a meme generator, a hit tracker, a re-poster, a sponsored blogger, a starred commentator, an online retailer, a viral relayer, a handle, a font or a page. I don’t want to be linked in, tuned in, ‘liked’, incorporated, listed or programmed. 
I don’t want to be a brand, a representative, an ambassador, a bestseller or a chart-topper. I don’t want to be a human resource or part of your human capital.

I don’t want to be an entrepreneur of myself.

Don’t listen to the founders, the employers, the newspapers, the pundits, the editors, the forecasters, the researchers, the branders, the career counselors, the prime minister, the job market, Michel Foucault or your haughty brother in finance – there’s something else!

I want to be a lover, a teacher, a wanderer, an assembler of words, a sculptor of immaterial, a maker of instruments, a Socratic philosopher and an erratic muse. I want to be a community center, a piece of art, a wonky cursive script and an old-growth tree! I want to be a disrupter, a creator, an apocalyptic visionary, a master of reconfiguration, 
a hypocritical parent, an illegal download and a choose-your-own-adventure! I want to be a renegade agitator! 
A licker of ice cream! An organizer of mischief! A released charge! A double jump on the trampoline! A wayward youth! A volunteer! A partner.

I want to be a curator of myself, an anti-preneur, a person.

Unlimited availabilities. No followers required. Only friends.

Saturday, March 12, 2016

How Bernie Sanders Taught Me Yoga

I wrote this little riff on why Bernie Sanders is my favorite yoga teacher late Thursday night. Delighted to have it published on Yoga Dork today.

Please give it a read. This one's been stewing around in my head and my heart for awhile now and I am so glad to have it out in the world ahead of Tuesday's big primaries.

How Bernie Sanders Taught Me Yoga

I’m a yoga teacher. It’s a weird time to be a yoga teacher.

Ted Cruz is hollering at Donald Trump to “breathe, Donald; breathe.” Marco Rubio’s jabbing him about doing yoga onstage at debates. And both are selling yoga products on their campaign websites.

Since watching that Republican debate, I can’t tell my students to breathe without feeling uncomfortable, like Ted Cruz in leggings and a ponytail.

Some of my colleagues are ignoring the election completely. They think politics is crass, negative, not spiritually relevant. They’d rather be in the studio meditating or chanting loving prayers toward all the candidates. That’s super nice, too, and I’m totally on board with sending some peace and ease to all of those folks, even the ones who make my blood boil, because damn, this election season is a bitch.

But I’m hooked. Hardcore. Can’t get enough.

I rush home after teaching to catch the tail-end of the debates. I spend Saturday nights in front of the TV cringe-watching Donald Trump’s bizarro meandering victory speeches. I troll Twitter in the wee hours of the morning for the latest analysis on who’s projected to win Ohio and Florida.

I haven’t felt this politically invested in years.

I am a progressive Democrat. I am also a lifelong feminist and will support Hillary Clinton tooth-and-nail, should she end up as the Democratic nominee. At first I figured she’d be my candidate all the way. I mean, go first woman President! and all. And who’s more qualified, right?

But, very quickly, very easily, Bernie won me over. His authenticity, his passion, his commitment to economic justice? Well, geez: he’s a total yogi.

Here’s why:

Read the rest over at Yoga Dork.

(And a big thanks to YD for having the guts to go political! Yoga is politics. Politics is yoga. End of story.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

The One You Feed

I just celebrated my birthday the other day, and can I tell you what?

It was so fun.

Felt connected and loved and alive. Went out to a hip twinkly restaurant and drank bubbly and ate good food with people I love and wore homemade birthday crowns and baked chocolate cake and licked the frosting bowl with my kid.

(You know, compared to even ten years ago, in those ancient pre-Facebook days, this newfangled technology thing lends a whole new lovely and strangely-intimate-but-not energy to birthdays. All day long, I discovered sweet little messages from long-distance friends from so many different eras of my life, and felt touched and sentimental and open and light.)

It was kinda great.

Back in my twenties, when I was studying a lot of social theory and everything was socially constructed and nothing had meaning so why don't we all just give up already, I went through a long phase of being too cool for birthdays. They were depressing opportunities to get cynical and drink heavily; reminders of all that I felt I hadn't yet accomplished, ticking existentialist time-bombs warning me that I was one year closer to death without having any real achievements to my name.

But then two years ago my son was born on my birthday (crazy, yes; that's another story), and since then, late February is kind of like Second Christmas in our house. Big parties and lots of celebrating and wrapping paper and snail mail and candles and so much sparkle. It's certainly more fun with a little guy running around lifting his sippy cup and yelling "Cheers!"

As I imagine they do for most of us, birthdays always make me think about big topics like Life and Meaning and What's My Purpose and How can I seriously be 37 years old because isn't that someone's mom or mine or my elementary school teacher's age, but definitely not me? And isn't that awfully close to forty? And decidedly middle-aged? 

But then I think: damn, girl. You're still alive. You can still tie your shoes. You can still walk down the street. You can even still do the splits. You've birthed a baby and written a masters thesis and paid your taxes every year since college and you're really doing ok. Even if you're not President of the United States or a multimillionaire tech entrepreneur or Mother Teresa.

It's all about how you look at it, right? 

Birthdays changed for me after my father died at age 58.

I was only 23 when he got sick, and 26 when he died. It was hard to feel hopeful about my ever seeing retirement age. I wondered how anyone could be so foolish as to count on living to see her grandchildren, or what the point was of funneling money into an IRA if you were never going to get to use it.

A sobering revelation hit when I turned 29. I realized that, had I been my father, my life would already be half over. That we never know how many years we get. That, no matter how many chia seeds and kale salads we consume, we can't count on 80 years, or 90, or more. So I should savor these birthdays, these wide-open new years, and never be ashamed as the number grew higher and more wrinkly and grey-haired.

Because some people don't get the pleasure of seeing middle-age.

So now, these days, 37 feels like a gift, a grace, something I want to shout from the rooftops, like, hey, look what I got! Look what I did! Look what I get to wake up to and celebrate!

Holy amazing remarkable 37.

It makes me think of the Gayatri Mantra, a beloved devotional chant sung for thousands of years by Hindus, bowing to the morning sun. The Gayatri Mantra reminds us to look to the light, to meditate upon that luminescence, to turn our faces to that in our lives which is graceful and bright and life-giving.

Now, I have always been deeply suspicious of positive thinking movements a la The Secret. They make me throw up in my mouth. I can't bear the cheery forced positivity of much of the New Age and yoga worlds. My heart beats for sad music and melancholy literature and the real stuff of suffering. This shadow-side feels honest to me, human; rich.

But I also know that you've got to feed your good wolf.

Have you heard this parable before? It's so good.

Ahhhhh! Yes. The one you feed.

Lately, when I practice at home, I'll dial up a philosophy podcast to keep my mind focused and sharp and to prevent it from wandering and ruminating on politics and where I'll move after Trump wins the election and appoints Judge Judy to the Supreme Court and strikes down the Bill of Rights.

I discovered this one several months ago and have been really digging it. The One You Feed explores the parable of the two wolves. The creator-slash-host strikes me as down-to-earth and equally suspicious of simplistic positive thinking. But he also embraces and highlights many fantastic and multi-disciplinary techniques for feeding your good wolf.

I highly recommend his diverse array of interviews. They usually range from 40 minutes to an hour in length, and feature a wonderfully interesting variety of thinkers, activists, philosophers, entrepreneurs, coaches, writers, and more.

Here are a few personal favorites:
  • Rainn Wilson (aka Dwight from The Office)
  • Lodro Rinzler, Buddhist author and meditation teacher
  • Sharon Salzberg, Buddhist author and meditation teacher
  • Rich Roll, vegan endurance athlete
  • Lama Surya Das, Buddhist teacher
  • Susan Piver, Buddhist teacher and writer
  • Glennon Doyle Melton, writer and creator of Momastery
  • Monk Yunrou, Taoist teacher
  • Maria Popova, creator of Brain Pickings
  • Kino MacGregor, Ashtanga yogi and teacher
  • Dan Harris, ABC News anchor and meditator
  • Noah Levine, Buddhist teacher, author, and founder of Against The Stream

Give it a listen. Whether you're someone who has a little downtime in the car during your commute, or at the gym on the treadmill, or at home nursing a baby, or at work procrastinating, or up early to walk your dog, there's always a little time to build in an opportunity to feed your good wolf.