Sunday, July 31, 2011

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

There isn’t anything except your own life that can be used as ground for your spiritual practice. Spiritual practice is your life, twenty-four hours a day.

~ Pema Chodron

Saturday, July 30, 2011

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

Big mad gratitude to for featuring my Mr. B piece today.

What a fabulous surprise to add to an already fabulous weekend here at Wanderlust. Check it out -- and read the full Recovering Yogi version here.

Friday, July 29, 2011

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

Reason #72 why I dig being here at Wanderlust:

You're just walking along, doing your thing, trying to comfort your low back after getting your backbending ass handed to you by John Friend, and then you glance to your right, and who do you see, chillin' in one bigass chair rocking the green socks whilst being interviewed by a lady with one huge camera?

Jai Uttal. He of the beautiful voice and the even more beautiful harmonium.

Chant your heart out, mister.

Raw, adjective: 4. painfully open, as a sore or wound.

Day 2: Wanderlust Festival

Taking a quick breather here over the lunch hour after a blisteringly sunny morning on the mat.

(This pic was taken during Janet Stone's class yesterday afternoon. I'm hiding in the back there, tired, quiet, grounded. Can you find me, Where's Waldo-style?)

Today I'm practicing with three teachers I've been hungry to learn more about. Rod Stryker started the day off with bandha talk. The asana was simple and the focus was on building that energy container, really learning how to channel prana. It was a perfect way to ease back into my body and my breath after yesterday's six hours on the mat. I'm intrigued by Rod. Must learn more.

Then it was a hop and a skip over to the Anusara Pavilion to finally take a master class with John Friend. Really stoked to experience him firsthand after having read (and heard) so much about him. Didn't disappoint. It was 90 minutes' of diving straight into backbends, which was interesting in and of itself; usually we spend that first hour just building the kind of heat and flexibility to finally move into deep backbends, rather than kicking things off right away with a little Eka Pada and a lotta Dwi Pada. My low back is a little raw now, but the class was worth it for people-watching alone; lots of famous faces there trying to soak up some "inner brightness" and "melting" and "spiraling" and all of that other Anusara lingo that's still relatively new to my ears. Not to mention the sun beaming down on my back there in Down Dog.

Sat and soaked up a little Garth Stevenson bass down in the Kula Village -- fantastic -- and then caught a quick Speakeasy talk by Maty Ezraty, which focused on balancing the "business" of yoga with spirituality. Given my interest in commodification and my, erm, lack of interest in anything entrepreneurial, it was instructive. Running a yoga studio is no easy undertaking.

Now a moment in the shade before heading out to rock it with Vinnie Marino, vinyasa-style. Can't wait. And then, MC Yogi tonight.

Ten thousand notes being scribbled in my little blue notebook as I pop out of Down Dog now and then to keep a record in the midst of these various moving meditations. The rational Type-A academic in me is loving this "being a student" thing. I'm finding myself gravitating toward the back row in most classes, eager to blend in, to observe, to take it all in -- not just the teachers themselves, but the students as well, the way they breathe, the way they move, the ways they react when they think no one's looking.

It's a great opportunity to practice that most basic of yogic skills: just paying attention.

Much more to detail re: Seane Corn (remarkable -- I'd like to be her, truly), Jonny Kest (sing-a-long to Sweet Caroline while in Utkatasana, naturally), Janet Stone (to the accompaniment of killer live music, and a body humbled by tired quads and confused hamstrings), and so much more. It will come.

For now, must get back out in the sun. So rare (and fantastic) for this SF girl to savor a July day sans fog or cold. Tahoe, you rock my asana off.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

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

Day 1: Wanderlust Festival

Here. Happy. Quite simply so.

Easy early morning drive up to Tahoe (notwithstanding the 2 hours of sleep; rest will come, no doubt, some other time this weekend), sun rising to the East, still wearing last night's makeup. It will sweat off soon. Parked and unloaded and all kinds of settled in, ready to meet the day.

The sun's ridiculous.

We're planted right smack dab in the middle of Squaw Village, overlooking the fountain with the best balcony a girl could hope for. The Village is still very much waking up; sleepy-eyed yogis are dribbling in, mats in hand, but things are still fairly quiet. That will change.

Today's agenda: a sweaty vinyasa with Jonny Kest under the big blue sky, detox flow with Seane Corn (can't wait), and finally a five elements vinyasa with Janet Stone. I've not practiced with either Jonny nor Seane, and am interested in learning more about Janet's approach to incorporating the elements into her vinyasa. Unbelievably stoked to just be a student for a few days, to really just soak it all up.

Already running into dear and familiar faces every time I turn a corner. This is the pleasure and the delight of being here at Squaw. One big family spandex-clad family reunion.

I hope to be sore by day's end.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

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

Fired up to hit the road bright and early tomorrow morning en route to Wanderlust Festival in Lake Tahoe. It'll be a weekend of what they call "an epic 4-day yoga throwdown" -- and I can't wait.

Last year I dipped my toe in the water, and this year it's all the way, baby: music, nature, yoga, meditation, all of it. So stay tuned for regular updates, both here and on my yoga page. I'll be posting photos, sharing the latest news, reporting in from classes with rockstars like John Friend and Kathryn Budig, and generally rubbing it in that I'm in sunny Squaw and you're, um, not.

Ok, not really.

I'm sure you'll have just as much fun at home this weekend as I will doing Bakasana on a mountaintop with thousands of sweaty tan yogis wearing tight clothes drinking wine and Kombucha. I mean, what?

See you on the mountain, babes.

Monday, July 25, 2011

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

Susan Piver writes a brief little piece on the importance of sadness for I love this:
What if I told you that the way to change the world was not to be bold, resolute, brilliant, or even compassionate? What if I told you that the way to change the world was to be sad?

It sounds so improbable. When we think of those who have taught us the most about meaningful change, we think of people who are very, very brave, say, Martin Luther King, Mahatma Gandhi, the Dalai Lama. Unwavering. Deep. Devoted to others and willing to die for what they believe, quite literally.

How do you get to be such a person?

Well, I have no idea, but I would put money on the idea that the ground, path, and fruition of their lives is sadness.

When you look out at this world, what you see will make you very, very sad. This is good. You are seeing clearly. Genuine sadness gives rise, spontaneously, naturally, completely, to the wish—no, the longing—to be of benefit to others. When your wish to help is rooted in love (i.e. sadness), it is effective. There is no question.

But because it is so uncomfortable, we immediately want to turn sadness into what we imagine will hurt less: anger, hopelessness, helplessness. When the wish to help is rooted in anger, it will only create more confusion. And of course, when we feel hopeless or helpless, we take refuge in non-action, which also creates confusion.

Meditation teaches you to relax with the discomfort of sadness and stay with it, not turn it into something else. At this point, you can lay claim to your brand of helpful activity (whether it takes the form of activism, leadership, charitable work, making art, prayer, and/or simple, basic kindness to all).
I have a feeling that many of us have found direction in our lives -- that one thing that feels like dharma, like passion, like what we're "meant to do" (or what Piver calls "your brand of helpful activity") -- because of our own particular sorrows. I love how she connects the activism of folks like Gandhi and MLK, Jr with their own roots in sadness. Rather than setting their suffering aside as a forethought to their later work, it becomes the very engine, the fuel, that makes it all possible.

Even now, here, seeing and knowing (and loving) the work that I do on a daily basis, this yoga stuff, that writing stuff, I know it's rooted deeply in those very own sorrows of my life. And I feel so intimately the ways in which those sadnesses over the years have transformed themselves, flamed into the fires that keep me hungry to do this work, knowing what I know, having felt what I've felt, and knowing how very universal those sorrows are. And perhaps that's why I see such great truth in this tiny little piece. And I'm grateful to writers like Piver who say it out loud, who acknowledge in particular that bliss and devotion, direction and joy, are so often rooted in sorrow.

How can you channel your own sorrows into the kind of passionate work that's life-giving and love-creating? What are you waiting for?

The Importance of Sadness (

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

There is nothing as refreshing as to forget oneself.

~ Harada Sekkei Roshi

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

A most incredible weekend, with the most incredible views.

We practiced here (yes, right there, at left) on the Point Lawn Saturday morning before the wedding, and it was all sun and wind and ocean air. Orcas Island is lush and quiet, rustic and rural. What an absolute difference from the fast-paced, uber-connected life I live here in San Francisco. Everyone seems to know everyone, the pace is about three notches slower than in the city, and your cell phone can suck it, because it won't be getting any action out there in the land of zero service bars.

Absolutely refreshing. And a good reminder of the ways in which we can always be more present: breathing through hikes along Cascade Falls, listening to the sound of the seaplanes landing as we lie in savasana, and even very simply being quite present in conversation as the sun sets over a crackling bonfire and you catch up with long-lost old friends sans distraction from pinging phone. Yesss.

Friday, July 22, 2011

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

I'll be practicing my Ujjayi breath on a tiny seaplane to Orcas Island today. (You know it's a puddle-jumper when the reservationist asks you how much you weigh. Oy.)

Dear old friend Fitzy and his beautiful bride Ingen are getting married tomorrow, and we'll be yoga-ing on the Point Lawn in the morning before the ceremony tomorrow eve. Looking forward to a few quick days of catching up with old Delaware music friends in Pacific Standard Time, knocking out some long-delayed writing, having limited cell phone service (yesss!), and breathing in the big Northern sky and the hum of the ocean outside my window.

Please visit the fantastic Alicia Maness for my regular weekend classes at Flying Yoga and Glow Yoga & Wellness. Back on the mat Monday at noon!

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

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

Super fired up to have a new article out over at RecoveringYogi.

I've long admired RY's fire, their spirit, their sass, and their ability to call out the bullshit in the yoga world as this ancient (and beloved) practice turns into more and more of an industry. So I'm over the moon to finally have a chance to add my little voice to theirs.

Head over to My Sweaty Love Affair With Mr. B for a little on ego, sweat, practice and the kind of illicit love affairs that we hide from our friends. I'm stoked to have found a place that welcomes the kind of gritty, honest, sometimes-uncomfortable dialogue about what yoga really is, and whether expensive pants or photo shoots really need to be a part of that.

Namaste, babydolls.

Monday, July 18, 2011

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

We write to expose the unexposed. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping that one door shut. But the writer's job is to see what's behind it, to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words -- not just into any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues.

~ Anne Lamott

Raw, adjective: 8. brutally harsh or unfair: a raw deal; receiving raw treatment from his friends.

Do you have creaky knees or an achy heart?

Does the pain in your left shoulder keep you from peeling open into Trikonasana, or does the damage from that ankle fracture ten years ago still haunt you when you try to rise up into Warrior 3?

Whether it's lingering pain of the physical or emotional kind doesn't matter so much. Either way, check out this powerful meditation on lovingkindness and pain from Vipassana teacher Gavin Harrison, who's been living with HIV since the late 1980s, and knows a thing or two about reconciling pain. Tricycle: The Buddhist Review featured this practice over the weekend, and I found it so powerful, so refreshingly friendly to the kind of pain that sets into the body -- or the spirit -- and won't seem to let up.

Harrison writes: "Pain is an intrinsic part of being born in a physical body, as the Buddha has taught. In reality, aging and sickness begin the moment we enter the world. Yet we are conditioned to ward off all pain. We are unwilling to allow the pain simply to happen."

There's something that feels quite radical about the idea of ceasing to struggle with pain, and just learning to, well, make friends with it. So settle into your most uncomfortable Hero or Double Pigeon pose, and then give this a try.

A Guided Meditation: Bringing Lovingkindness and Compassion into Areas of Pain
* Allow your eyes to close gently.
* Center attention on the breathing.
* Move awareness now to a part of the body where there is pain and discomfort.
* Rest there.
* Be aware of any sensations that might be there.
* Allow whatever you find to be okay.
* No fight.
* No struggle.
* Be with the truth, with acceptance.
* Continue attending to the breath for a while. If possible, breathe into and through the pain, as if this were actually the place where the breath enters and leaves the body.
* Direct the following phrases quietly to the area of pain (or use your own meaningful phrases). Allow the words to echo within you.

"I welcome you into my heart." "I accept you."
"I care about this pain."
"I hold you deep in my heart."
"I accept what is happening right now." "May I be free from fear."
"May I be happy, just where I am."
"May I be peaceful with what is happening."

* You may lay your hands gently on the area of discomfort.
* Allow feelings of lovingkindness and compassion to flow through the body. If there are no feelings of compassion, that is okay, also.
* Continue repeating the phrases.
* End by returning to the breathing for a while.
Working With Pain (Tricycle: The Buddhist Review)

Sunday, July 17, 2011

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

Here's your most recent playlist, including last night's class at Flying Yoga. Happy listening.

Live High, Jason Mraz
Over Time, Lucinda Williams
Hari Krishna, Masood Ali Khan
In For the Night (Buddha Edit), The Moontrane Conductors
Rosada Flor, J Boogie's Dubtronic Science
Cape Porcupine, Achillea
Le Booty Cinematique, J Boogie's Dubtronic Science
Evaporate feat. Nica Brooke, Rocket Empire
I Wanna Be Like You, The Correspondents
Krishna Love (Rasa Lila Remix), MC Yogi
Om Triambakam (Sean Dinsmore), Deva Premal
Straight Blue, Rocket Empire feat. Marian Music
You Already Know (Featuring Kathryn Williams), Bombay Bicycle Club
(The Only) Dark in the Light, Rithma
The Lonely Spider, Lhasa De Sela
Blue Mind, Alexi Murdoch
If You Want Me, Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova
Remind Us, Over The Rhine
Broken Ambers, Gil Tamazyan
Map Point Baby (The Hue Remix), Rithma
Simmer Down Jammie, Rocket Empire
Golden Nectar, J Boogie's Dubtronic Science
Soul On Fire, Soulstice

Monday, July 11, 2011

Sunday, July 10, 2011

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

I don't know exactly what a panic attack is supposed to feel like, but if it means your heart races and your breath catches and you kind of want to take your cart and send it flying and run back to your car and and flee that Big Box hell to head straight home to your urban sanctuary, then I think I may have had one yesterday in the housewares aisle at Target.

It's a year now since the Summer of Shiva, those few months in which I packed up my childhood homes in Nebraska and Florida and said goodbye to most of the relics from my pre-drinking-age life. And it only took 15 months, but last week I finally even dug into the trunk I'd shipped from Orlando after March's unexpected, frantic goodbye to the Ocala house. It had been sitting, untouched, in my closet here in San Francisco all that time. I'd told myself I'd get to unpacking it when I was ready. And, well, friends, needless to say, "ready" took awhile.

But on a caffeine-fueled Thursday afternoon last week, I finally sat down with that heavy beast and emptied it out, memories and laughter and tears and all. And those gloves you see me wearing there in the photo above left? They're now resting, unwashed, crusty with sweat and dirt and grime, on top of my fireplace mantle, next to the overgrown pothos and the Georgia O'Keeffe book. And that Nebraska plate I'm holding? It's squeezed on a bookshelf next to a few manuals on teaching yoga, an orange pashmina and my wee tambourine.

There are a few other little salvaged relics, here and there, tucked around my Lower Nob Hill flat: a brown coffee cup from circa 1984, a few spices to add to my baking collection, some unused superglue tubes, a frying pan. But other than that, the big things -- the trees, the scents, the memory of the way my voice used to echo in the cathedral ceiling of that Florida house? Those memories, those losses, have been sneaking up on me more often lately, and I wonder if they're still there; if the willow in the backyard in Lincoln is still bowing in the tumultuous prairie wind, if the fire ants are still as rabid on the concrete in Ocala where I used to do my Bikram series in the midday heat, if the garden's run ragged or if the new owners have decided to plant something after all.

It's funny how you find flashes of those losses flitting in and out of your consciousness, just when you think you've sucked it up and moved on and "let go" and all of those other things you're supposed to do when a house or a job or a person leaves your life. And I suppose part of the simultaneous blessing and curse of loss is that hints, scents, of those former realities somehow still manage to surprise us, tease us, when we least expect it.

I taught yesterday, two classes in the East Bay, and after a sweaty few hours of hips and shoulders and Ganesha and breath, I stopped by the big box chain stores in Emeryville on my way back into SF to pick up a few things I'd been needing. Living sans-car in the city, you learn to take advantage of those rare times behind the wheel to run the errands you usually just ignore, even when it means having to suck up your anti-consumption ethics and brave the shopping hordes for a few jaw-clenched minutes.

So I parked my zippy little Zipcar there at the brand new Target, a sleeping giant planted in the midst of the Home Depots and the Radio Shacks and the Best Buys and the Michaels, stepped out into the concrete parking lot, and found myself rushed back into a weird sense of bodily knowing that associated that experience, that place, with suburbanity, with those brief hot weekends over the last ten years spent in Lincoln and in Ocala, buying doorknobs and bathroom fixtures and curtain rods and bedskirts and the like.

(Not gonna lie: it kind of freaked me out. I wanted, urgently, to hop back in my car and speed back over the Bridge and drink black coffee and throw back a Fernet and escape into urbanity and all of the dark/smart/intellectual/subversive aspects of that life that I associate with not having usual access to big box stores and easy free parking and the like. But I breathed. And watched it. And told myself it was an, um, opportunity to practice not reacting.)

I've been really lucky, in having had the experience of building the Ocala house literally from the ground up, to have had my own taste of the simultaneous domestic heaven and hell that is building and outfitting a home. And while now, here in my little urban flat, I savor my ability to live as simply as possible, to really whittle down my wants and buy only what I truly need -- one set of towels, two sets of sheets, the same red plush chair bought from the Goodwill around the corner 8 years ago, my houseplants, one pot, a few wine glasses, nothing more -- there I was, pushing a shopping cart around Target, clad in my still-sweaty yoga clothes, feeling the strange juxtaposition of my simple, minimalist one-bedroom-flat-in-the-City life intermingled with this cart-pushing, suburban-house-owning, decorating, baking, sanding, varnishing, lawn-cutting domesticated version of myself, shopping for sink fixtures and towels and cutlery and the like.

And, folks: it was weird. It was really fucking weird.

I wanted a cocktail. Right there in the bedding aisle. Vodka, on the rocks.

I wanted to sit down, right there, to park my ass on the bottom shelf next to the Euro shams and the bedskirts, to sip a little Belvedere, and watch my thoughts, watch this strange reaction, watch this bizarro meeting of past and present lives all taking place in a few breaths between sheets and down-alternative comforters.

I wound up pushing that damn shopping cart around and around Target in some kind of befuddled daze, silenced and driven into anxiety by the sensory overload of so much Stuff To Buy, and I was so glad to live in a small writer's flat in the middle of the City that doesn't allow for decorating 3,000 square feet of domesticity, and I was so overwhelmed by the project that is filling a home with Color-Coordinated Stuff, and I was so sad to remember my body, this body, these eyes, that nose, breathing in all of those sights in Home Depots and Targets and Lowe's in Florida and in Nebraska, making a home in very different places, in very different ways, at very different times of my life, and it was all I could do to throw a few things in my cart, those few little "necessities" I'd set out to pick up quickly in the first place, and stumble my way to some kind of check-out line at the front of the store, where plenty of other folks were standing irritably in line waiting to pay for their trash cans and raw beef and kitchen soap and baby carriers,

and I wondered, how can they not be having some kind of profound revelation right now about time and life and loss and change?

and don't they realize that it's pointless to buy any of this crap, because it will just pass, it will just fade away, or get lost to the break-up, or wind up dirty and ripped, or be replaced for a new shinier version, or get buried in the soot from the big earthquake around the corner when we all die and fall into the crevices as the earth under California shudders and cracks open?

[no melodrama here, folks]

or is it just me, and I'm a little woo-woo after too many hours in the hot studio with not enough to eat, and once I get back across the Bridge with some Thai take-out in my belly and my Zipcar contentedly returned to its parking space on California and Polk, it'll all go away?

But then this morning I woke up, quiet, having slept, and slept well, on a belly full of aforementioned Thai take-out, to find this awareness of loss, and change, and houses, and letting go, still ripe in my consciousness, and sure enough, well, then Tricycle came through with this perfect, thoughtful, sorrowful, real piece on practicing with loss, and impermanence, and how to find some way to sit with the loss that is such a sobering thread of reality in our lives:

At one time or another, everyone loses something. We lose loved ones. We lose our health. We lose our glasses. We lose our memories. We lose our money. We lose our keys. We lose our socks. We lose life itself. We have to come to terms with this reality. Sooner or later, all is lost; we just don’t always know when it will happen.

Loss is a fact of life. Impermanence is everywhere we look. We are all going to suffer our losses. How we deal with these losses is what makes all the difference. For it is not what happens to us that determines our character, our experience, our karma, and our destiny, but how we relate to what happens.

Realistically, since we will all suffer many losses, we need better, more evolved and astute ways of approaching sorrow and emotional pain. We need to be more conscious about the ways our losses can help us become wiser and more spiritually evolved; we also need to be more sensitive to and aware of other people’s pain and suffering.

Different forms of universal wisdom may tell us to “shake it off,” “get over it,” “offer it up to God,” “learn and grow from it,” or that “time heals all wounds” and “what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” To somebody who is suffering from a profound loss, these words can sound superficial and shallow; they can even be infuriating.

But none of this alters the fact that we need to find more enlightened ways of approaching loss. There are so many different modes of suffering and dissatisfaction arising out of the various troubles and travails that afflict us. How can we appropriately respond to loss, failure, illness, death, tragedies, calamities, injustice, betrayal, shock, trauma, abuse, grief, and life’s most hurtful wounds? Can we do so with wisdom? Our sorrows provide us with the lessons we most need to learn.

Compare the intensity of losing a tennis game with that of losing a child. Think about the difference between losing a job, a mate, a house, or a parent. Think about what it means to lose innocence, trust, faith, or belief. Some varieties of loss are momentary, while others are more lasting and not necessarily to be swiftly released and forgotten. Some losses, like bankruptcy, unemployment, or eviction are serious, but they can eventually be put behind us. But others, like the loss of family members, mates, and young children, can be so brutal that we may never really get over what we have known and experienced; nor do we need to. The deep pain we continue to experience reminds us of our love and keeps our hearts open. We discover, often to our amazement and relief, that love is greater than time and place and even greater than death. We discover that we can hold our lost loves in our hearts even as we slowly open to new love.

With every breath, the old moment is lost, a new moment arrives. This is something Buddhist meditators know. We breathe in and we breathe out. In so doing, we abide in the ever-changing moment. We learn to welcome and accept this entire process. We exhale, and we let go of the old moment. It is lost to us. In so doing, we let go of the person we used to be. We inhale and breathe in the moment that is becoming. We repeat the process. This is meditation. This is renewal. It is also life.

Teachings on the nature of loss and change are the most basic and essential to seekers on the Buddhist path. However, most traditional Buddhist teachers don’t call it loss or change; they call it impermanence. Buddhist teachings remind us not to run away from our thoughts and feelings about the losses in our lives, but instead to become intimately aware of the gritty facticity of life.

There's more. Read the article, check out the meditation on impermanence that follows it, and then promise yourself that the next time you see a yoga-skirt-clad chick having a slight panic attack over her housewares in the checkout line at Target, you'll reach over, tap her on the shoulder, say, "Hey babes, I get it: I lost a house (or a job, or my health, or my tight abs, or my Paschimottanasana, or the love of my life, or my socks, or my Swiss Army Knife) once, too, and it made me a little sad, but then I remembered that everything comes and goes, and although the house/lover/Swiss Army Knife is long gone, I've still got the stolen doorknob or the memory of the scent of his deodorant or the scars from where I accidentally cut myself to remind me."

That kind of awareness, that compassion, that shared loss grounded in community, in non-separation, that recognition that impermanence is a reality that darkens and graces all our lives, in every moment, every rising and falling breath, is what keeps us real, keeps us grounded in the moment, helps us to realize that yes, this house, this body, this love, this life will pass -- often before we're ready for it to do so, for sure -- and knowing that, we love it more now, we live in it more deeply, we savor it all the more. And we don't bother clinging to the matching sheet sets or the perfect sofa pillows or the shiny bathroom fixtures, because although we know they might bring us great joy or pleasure or peace right now, or even some shining illusion of security, we know, too, that at the end of the day, just as our bodies, our health, our flexibility will pass, so too will our pots and our pans and our gleaming sets of matching china.

And that's why we don't save grandmother's wedding china for special occasions. We use it for breakfast, for those Sunday morning omelets dripping with grease and cheese and pajamas, with the morning paper sprawled out all over the place, and NPR on in the background, and heads heavy with the ache of too much wine the night before, because -- why wait?

This moment will pass. This morning will pass. The china will pass. So we live in it, with it, here, now, inhaling, exhaling, enough.

Practicing With Loss (Tricycle: The Buddhist Review)

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

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

Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect?
Let me keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still
and learning to be

~ poet Mary Oliver,

Saturday, July 2, 2011

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

New article out now!

Thanks to and Elephant Yoga for publishing my little holiday weekend piece on life, love, a late-afternoon conversation at the bar, and what the hell yoga has to do with all that. Take a few minutes and give it a read.

It's a balmy morning here in the City by the Bay, and I'm content to be ensconced in this ghost town of a city while the masses flee to Tahoe and the Pacific Ocean. Enjoy your long, hot holiday weekend, and try to do a little reading between barbecues and ballgames. Summer rocks.

Yoga: Looking Past Your Own Schnoz (elephant journal)