I love this, I hate that, one minute this, one minute the other. So much on my swinging monkey mind.
Drove across the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco to teach this morning at 6:30am (in the dark, pouring, flooding rain, yes). First big rain of the season, and I felt it on the drive. One of the scarier commutes I've experienced. Hands at 10 and 2 the whole time, baby.
Big day, this one. Giants playoff tonight at 5pm, here at home, to decide the pennant (c'mon, Cain). Final presidential debate tonight at 6pm (Barry, please don't blow it). Rusty's first class back from retreat in Mexico (sweet ass-kicking twilight vinyasa, here I come). And, with the aforementioned morning rain, the true onset of winter here, too (hello, yin season; we've missed you).
Haven't had a moment to practice more than a quick 10 minutes here or there for the last week. Seriously. Blows my mind to see the causal relationship between my inability to get in my body once a day and the corresponding Outrageous Crabbiness Level that results. I don't know how sedentary folks don't go crazy out of their minds. Call it attachment to asana, say what you will; I'm just sayin', a girl's gotta have a few deep breaths sans planning or working or teaching or driving or packing or moving or what have you, or watch out, world. Beee-otch central.
So, yeah — moving. Whoa mama.
As of October 31st, I'll be out of my sweet little Lower Nob Hill garden flat for good. Making the move in with my mister a few miles up Highway 1 along the coast. It's a lovely shift, this, and means roughly more
quiet evenings at home
space to play piano sans upset neighbors
books on tape
sunlit yoga mats
did I mention driving
rad West Marin types
parking travailsYou get the picture. Lots of changes. But, for the most part, good life-giving changes, right? (I mean, life marches on, you know. That's the way of everything, anyway, always flowing. And who wants to stay stuck in a rut just because it feels familiar? And when the rent for that rut is so friggin' astronomically high?)
expensive rent (glory hallelujah!)
foggy wanders up and over Nob Hill
construction on the street in front of my home
cable car clanging (sad but true)
MUNI (adios, unreliable bus system!)
easy access to ethnic food
easy access to hot yoga
opportunities to catch up with my girls
need for quarters
But it's been a particularly wild week or so, though, what with teaching a few extra classes last week on top of the usual schedule, preparing and rocking the bhakti workshop with some of the coolest cats around (woot!), trying to squeeze in some dear folks' anniversary and housewarming parties here and one of my best friend's modern dance shows there, having my big sis in town from the East Coast for a hot minute, and, oh yes, digging through years of old crap and packing up a whole goddamned apartment and figuring out what the hell to do with all the shit I haven't sorted through in a decade. And revisiting old selves in the process, whether I am ready to do that or not.
Is my irritation showing up?
Let's just say I'm definitely having as much fun right now as this lady on the left is. Though I am also definitely wearing better shoes. And definitely more sweaty. And highly caffeinated.
Talk about an opportunity to practice staying calm and balanced in the midst of chaos. My body aches, I haven't had time to do a legit 90 minute practice in a week, the mister and I have both been sick for two weeks on and off, I feel like a terrible friend for my inability to be 16 places at once, I'm trying to figure out how to get my sis here from Sacramento without driving 6 hours in one day, and the house has a long way to go before it's ready to be cleaned, the keys handed in, and this new chapter officially begun.
I've been needing a good exhale all day. You can tell. It's hard to show up for oneself when there are so many other people you want to show up for. Back in grad school, I remember our various advisors talking to the Masters of Divinity students about the importance of "self-care," especially for folks in service positions like the ministry, nursing, psychotherapy, and yes, teaching, and secretly internally rolling my eyes at this annoying self-indulgent hippie-California notion. I scoffed, digging deep into that salt-of-the-earth prairie spirit that says "Suck it up, get over your affluent First World problems, and deal with it, buddy! You have a great life and nothing to complain about! Can you say plumbing and electricity and a roof over your head??!?"
But, I tell ya what. There's some truth there. You can't show up for anyone else unless you show up for yourself first. Basics, kids. We're not talking expensive spa days and shit. We're talking:
More than 4 hours of sleep a night.I've oft wondered if it's fate for us chicks to go a little bit crazy once we have a kid or two. (Seen a lot of that myself, anecdotal evidence, you know, just sayin'.) And what I'm realizing is: a good way to prevent that middle-aged-lady-resentful-bitter-crazy thing that I see more of than I'd like to admit is to actually take care of yourself first. The crazy resentful part blooms when you go too long without sleep or food or breath or sweat or quiet. Period. Ya gotta have it. Or say sayonara to having any energy left to be present for anyone else.
Legit time to work out and/or practice, if that's your thing.
Quiet. Stillness. A measure of solitude for grounding (maybe that means meditation or music or reading to you).
That said, I'm gonna eat something, shower, and get to packing.
Love from the lush little courtyard that will be mine for the next 9 days. If you find a whole lotta silence on the blog front in the next week, you can trust I'm up to my ears in boxes and bedframes and dust.
(It'll pass. As all things do. Equilibrium, here I come. And, by the by, how blessed am I to have a home?! With someone I love!?!)
Oh, and please appreciate this too-cute picture of these too-cute ladies who I hope and pray-to-sweet-baby-Jesus will not be moving house anytime soon.