Tuesday, July 30, 2013

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

I'm teaching some special classes in Point Reyes this week. Join me at Yoga Toes Studio:

Tomorrow morning, Weds. 9:30am Gentle Flow
Tomorrow evening, Weds. 6pm Vinyasa
Saturday, August 3rd, 10am Vinyasa
Monday, August 5th, 6pm Vinyasa
Wednesday, August 7th 6pm Vinyasa

Monday, July 29, 2013

The historical Jesus meets Fox News. Pour yourselves a cocktail. It ain't pretty.

Monday morning, and I've got God on the brain.

Jesus coming out of every corner.

Trying to remain calm. But almost — really, almost — triggered to throw my hat back into the (theological) ring and throw a few punches.

'Cause, really? OOOF.

Witness: this Fox News interview with Reza Aslan, (brilliant, seriously-academically-pedigreed) author of Zealot, a new book about the historical Jesus.

A rather awkward exchange occurred on Fox News' "Spirited Debate" program Friday, with religion correspondent Lauren Green somewhat incredulous that Muslim scholar Reza Aslan could write a book about Jesus Christ.
Aslan's book, "Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth," pieces together gospel and many historical sources to paint a picture of Jesus and the time in which he lived.
"You're a Muslim, so why did you write a book about the founder of Christianity?" Green asks at the beginning of the interview.
"Well, to be clear, I am a scholar of religions with four degrees, including one in the New Testament, and fluency in biblical Greek, who has been studying the origins of Christianity for two decades," Aslan says, "who also just happens to be a Muslim."
This wouldn't be the only time Aslan had to remind the host he was a religious scholar and an academic. As a professor of religion, Aslan says, "that's what I do for a living, actually."
Later in the interview, Green likens his writing on the topic to having a "Democrat write a book about why Reagan wasn't a good Republican. That just doesn't work."
"It would be like a Democrat with a Ph.D. in Reagan who has been studying his life and history for two decades writing a book about Reagan," responds Aslan.

Ok. Now. Deep breaths.

If that evidence of mass-media Islamophobia wasn't enough to make you already slam your laptop shut and mix a morning cocktail, then hang with me here. There's an upside.

Contrast, now, this "fair and balanced" interview by former beauty queen and piano player "religious expert" Lauren Green with that conducted by John Oliver, who's rocking it as substitute-host for Jon Stewart over on Comedy Central right now.

Oliver featured a 3-part interview with Aslan just two weeks ago, and it's awesome. Watch the two extended online-exclusives after the first one. That's where it really gets good.

The irony is that Fox's embarrassing interview has meant great exposure for Aslan's book. It's getting a ton of media coverage. Which is, of course, fabulous.

This on the heels of Pope Francis's pretty remarkable statement over the weekend that he'll not be judging gays. Because that's not what a Christian should do.

("If someone is gay and he searches for the Lord and has good will, who am I to judge?")

Shazaaaam! That's my boy.

Way to go, Frank. Baby steps forward.

And while we're on the churchy-church bit: check out this excellent piece from CNN's Belief Blog on Why Millennials Are Leaving The Church. Head nods all around as I read. Oh heck, I'll just post a big chunk here, and you'll see why:

Why Millennials Are Leaving The Church
by Rachel Held Evans
At 32, I barely qualify as a millennial.
I wrote my first essay with a pen and paper, but by the time I graduated from college, I owned a cell phone and used Google as a verb.
I still remember the home phone numbers of my old high school friends, but don’t ask me to recite my husband’s without checking my contacts first.
I own mix tapes that include selections from Nirvana and Pearl Jam, but I’ve never planned a trip without Travelocity.
Despite having one foot in Generation X, I tend to identify most strongly with the attitudes and the ethos of the millennial generation, and because of this, I’m often asked to speak to my fellow evangelical leaders about why millennials are leaving the church.
Armed with the latest surveys, along with personal testimonies from friends and readers, I explain how young adults perceive evangelical Christianity to be too political, too exclusive, old-fashioned, unconcerned with social justice and hostile to lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people.
I point to research that shows young evangelicals often feel they have to choose between their intellectual integrity and their faith, between science and Christianity, between compassion and holiness.
I talk about how the evangelical obsession with sex can make Christian living seem like little more than sticking to a list of rules, and how millennials long for faith communities in which they are safe asking tough questions and wrestling with doubt.
Invariably, after I’ve finished my presentation and opened the floor to questions, a pastor raises his hand and says, “So what you’re saying is we need hipper worship bands. …”
And I proceed to bang my head against the podium.
Time and again, the assumption among Christian leaders, and evangelical leaders in particular, is that the key to drawing twenty-somethings back to church is simply to make a few style updates edgier music, more casual services, a coffee shop in the fellowship hall, a pastor who wears skinny jeans, an updated Web site that includes online giving.
But here’s the thing: Having been advertised to our whole lives, we millennials have highly sensitive BS meters, and we’re not easily impressed with consumerism or performances.
In fact, I would argue that church-as-performance is just one more thing driving us away from the church, and evangelicalism in particular.
Many of us, myself included, are finding ourselves increasingly drawn to high church traditions Catholicism, Eastern Orthodoxy, the Episcopal Church, etc. precisely because the ancient forms of liturgy seem so unpretentious, so unconcerned with being “cool,” and we find that refreshingly authentic.
What millennials really want from the church is not a change in style but a change in substance.
We want an end to the culture wars. We want a truce between science and faith. We want to be known for what we stand for, not what we are against.
We want to ask questions that don’t have predetermined answers.
We want churches that emphasize an allegiance to the kingdom of God over an allegiance to a single political party or a single nation.
We want our LGBT friends to feel truly welcome in our faith communities.
We want to be challenged to live lives of holiness, not only when it comes to sex, but also when it comes to living simply, caring for the poor and oppressed, pursuing reconciliation, engaging in creation care and becoming peacemakers.
You can’t hand us a latte and then go about business as usual and expect us to stick around. We’re not leaving the church because we don’t find the cool factor there; we’re leaving the church because we don’t find Jesus there.
Like every generation before ours and every generation after, deep down, we long for Jesus.
Now these trends are obviously true not only for millennials but also for many folks from other generations. Whenever I write about this topic, I hear from forty-somethings and grandmothers, Generation Xers and retirees, who send me messages in all caps that read “ME TOO!” So I don’t want to portray the divide as wider than it is.
But I would encourage church leaders eager to win millennials back to sit down and really talk with them about what they’re looking for and what they would like to contribute to a faith community.
Their answers might surprise you.
Rachel Held Evans is the author of "Evolving in Monkey Town" and "A Year of Biblical Womanhood." She blogs at rachelheldevans.com. The views expressed in this column belong to Rachel Held Evans.

AMEN sister, on all accounts! Especially on the coming full-circle back to high liturgical traditions because of their seeming unpretentiousness and authenticity. Amens, all around.

Bottom line: conservatism does not equal Christianity. Conservatism is gonna be the death of Christianity, unless folks can start to figure out RULL quickly that hate speech, abolishing civil rights, taking everything frigging LITERALLY, and protecting the interests of the big over the small and the powerful over the weak is simply





Who are you worshiping? And what?

Finally, in some good (great) news: my yogi sister Katie Silcox has a balm for all of these wounds. Please read this piece from her blog: "How Real Deal Christians Schooled This Yogini on Love and Forgiveness". It'll give you heart — and hope.

Here's a blurb....

Yoga-mat-carrying-chics could learn something from bible-carrying chics. I should know. I got schooled by some sassy, suit-wearing lady-preachers this past year when I moved back down south to Virginia, land of the notorious Bible Belt.
A few months back I had a big ole’ fat case of the poor-me’s. A mind gremlin had actually wrapped her slimy webbed palms around my head and heart. She was ruthless, loudly blaring things into my heart space that made me wanna’ give up on my dreams and get in bed with a box of Chex-mix and a block of cheese.
Luckily, my mama (Vera) was around to pull me out of funk-city, dragging me kicking and screaming to a bible study. The last time I had been to bible class I was wearing MC-hammer pants, braiding friendship bracelets and listing to Toni Braxton. Needless to say, I was less than thrilled at the prospect of revisiting that awkward time of my embodiment.
“I demand it,” she said. “You are coming with me to my ‘little’ bible study.”
My mom always calls it her “little” bible study. Its as if by adding a diminutive qualifier to the whole charade she can somehow fool all the other non-Christians into overlooking what clearly proved to be a Jesusy-Tantrik, Christ-Worshipin’, Lady-Witch gathering, complete with scented oils, speaking in tongues and the laying of hands.
Little, my ass. There is nothing little about my mamas bible study. Not only are most of the women buxom and juicy, but the unapologetic spiritual dexterity and prayer-filled dedication of these Jesus-loving ladies made me wonder if we yogini gals had a few things to learn from them.
Let me explain….

Read the whole thing. You'll be glad you did.

And that's all the God-tawk I can muster on this cool, foggy Monday morning. Grateful for a new intellectual hero in Reza Aslan, that's for sure, and for knowing there are intelligent folks like Reza and Rachel and Katie who are unabashedly saying what needs to be said. Time for this one to head out for a hike and march off some of this steam.

Deep breaths, y'all. God is good. God is love. The rest is just, well, chatter.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

August Book Club Selection: "Yoga Bitch"

Our August book club selection will be Yoga Bitch: One Woman's Quest To Conquer Skepticism, Cynicism, and Cigarettes On The Path To Enlightenment, by Suzanne Morrison. We'll meet on Monday, August 12th at 7pm at OMpower Cycling & Yoga.

I had the pleasure of popping in to one of Morrison's book readings here in SF a few years ago when Yoga Bitch came out. She's rad. Very down-to-earth, very likeable. And the book is a great summer beach read. After starting just yesterday, I'm already 100 pages in — and really digging it.

Grab a copy and join us. You'll be glad you did.

Monday, July 22, 2013

Monday morning, awaiting a Royal Baby.

Good morning to you.

Monday, being quiet.

Monday, waiting for a Royal Baby to appear any moment now across the pond.

I'm conflicted by how fascinated I am by this whole charade. And am certain that if I lived in Britain I'd be one of those bitter anti-monarchists. Surely, no doubt. But right now, here, I am refreshing People.com just as much as anybody else to find out what Will and Kate decide to name this new spawn of theirs. Sad, but true.

Summer is in full swing.

I've not been on the blog much of late. 

Life has been very full in its own many unexpected and totally expected ways. And that means very little time spent on the computer, at all, really. It means watching the light change as the sun sets over Tomales Bay. It means grilling corn in its husk at twilight. It means pulling out my old silver trumpet and greasing the slides and oiling the valves and seeing the rust and feeling the sadness that is knowing impermanence and hearing how my once-crystal-clear bright tone has aged into a furry clumsy one after all those years. It's feeling the simultaneous familiarity in the bones (my fingers still remember ever single note, crazy) and the sorrow of knowing that everything comes and goes.

Including your strong old trumpet lip.

I played piano last night while the Mister stretched. We have this sweet new yoga-slash-music studio now, you know. And I sang an old song I hadn't sung since Toni and Jim's wedding in 2004. I sang Whistle Down The Wind from a show I saw in London waaaay back in 1998. I sang Almost Blue and felt sweetly happy to not relate to its lyrics anymore. I played Misty and Not A Day Goes By and my bones dripped so heavily with memories of playing piano for hours to avoid having to write my Masters thesis. (Grad school was such a hard time in my life. I will be quite content to never ever ever register for any scholarly institutional experience ever again.) I played and felt pleasantly surprised that the notes hadn't yet left my fingers.

Life lends little blessings when you don't necessarily expect them.

We've been hiking. A lot. Every morning, nearly. It's a godsend. An escape.

I decided I'm tired of yoga teachers trying to be preachers. I know I am guilty of this to an extent myself. But I figure I get some street cred here, between being a preacher's kid AND doing a Masters in Systematic Theology.

Maybe that's why it irks me so much.

But I saw all these pics coming out of Wanderlust Festival over the weekend and found myself more irritated with every one. Mala beads are the new rosary beads. Stretchy yoga gear is the new vestment. Long wild curly hair is the new Pope's hat. Coconut water is the new communion wine.

I realize that the yoga studio has effectively replaced the church as a gathering place, as a center of worship, these days. I get that, sure.

But, still.

I'm kind of over it. I wish people would step back and slow down and stop pushing the heavy-handed preachy stuff. ("Ok, everybody put one hand on your heart and the other on someone else's back and let's pretend we're all uber-connected and everything's gravy.") It feels too syrupy to me. Too contrived, too nursery-school.

Silence does the same job, and better, with less sugar.

Just get us on the mat and cue the breaths already. It doesn't get any more sacred than that.

I am drawn to the breath. I am drawn to the rhythm of the practice. I am drawn to the asana itself. I am drawn to the stillness at the end of the exhalation, when everything is empty. I don't think we honor the wisdom of the practice enough when we assume that we need to stuff it with sugary fillers and New Age marshmallows and perpetual self-portraits on waterfalls overlooking the mountains.

The practice is plenty strong without all that stuff.

And I guess the learning for me, at least, is that I will continue to attend classes with the increasingly-rare teachers I know and admire who are real and down-to-earth and light and laughing and wise. And I will continue to stay away from the festival culture and the sap-soaked teachers who are so caught up in being self-ordained yoga-scene preachers that they forget that we already have everything we need here, theology-wise, ATHA.

Today is Guru Purnima, the day of the year in which we take an extra extra deeeeeeep bow to all teachers, all gurus, all beings (and events) in our lives who lead us from darkness into light.

We sing this chant nearly every day in class, not because we have to, but because I find it's just so damn relevant. Every single day, every single thing we're experiencing: it's our teacher. That time you pulled your hamstring and couldn't walk for 2 weeks? Yep, that was your teacher. It taught you to slow down and be ok, to get less attached to your movement or your hamstring or your practice.

That time you were SOOOOO in love and he totally blew you off, didn't even see you? Yep, that was your teacher, too. And that time your boss lit into you at work in front of your colleagues and you felt about as tiny and powerless as a mouse? Yep, that was your teacher, too.

You get my drift. Teachers all around us. In person-form and in event-form, in experience-form and in broken-toe form.

And once we can look toward our lives as just one big motherfucking experience of being a perpetual student, rolling with the punches gets a whole lot easier.

This morning I'm giving quiet thanks to the beings in my life who have been great teachers: the folks like Rusty Wells and Laura Camp and Jennifer Kartiganer, all of whom have taught me what it means to be ethical, kind, thoughtful, yoga studio owners and friends. I'm giving thanks for all of you who unroll the mat and stay, who are brave enough to chant and sweat and stretch. I'm giving thanks for this body, which continually reminds me that I am not in control, and that I am aging, and that all things come and go. I'm giving thanks for the losses of the last few weeks; the two beloved friends who are no longer here in body, the two who quietly stepped away, unbeknownst to me, both in the span of a week.

Feeling tender.

She's gone. Died two Sundays ago.

These 4 1/2 years later. 

The phone rings on a Monday afternoon. It's a woman I do not know. Her best friend, Susan.

She'll be buried in Oklahoma.

He's alone now. I can't imagine how he'll go on.

She inspired me so.

That I might one day be half the woman she was.
You want the backstory? It's here, below. I wrote this in the wee hours of one Wednesday night, 4 years ago, listening to Sondheim, too aware.

And now the circle has closed.

Feeling tender.

Wednesday, March 25th, 2009


Bar-tender. Tenderloin. Unexpected tenderness from a newly-married, sentimental Letterman. "Tenderly" (the Nat King Cole version, please). A surreptitiously tender glance from across the room. Copland's "The TenderLand." Tender calves and splinted shins from running hills again in spite of all the evidence against it. Tender skin of overripe pears on the kitchen counter. Garden-tender, heart-tender, extender. Tending the fold, tending to business, tending to procrastinate. Tender spots on the body, ripe for acupuncture; less tender, post-needles. Laughingly tender bromance hilarity from Rudd & Segel (see it!). Tender new shoots fighting their way out of the crumbly spring soil, tender skin sunburned from too much time in this young sun, soft wood of a cafe table tenderized by years of scrawls spills mugs slammed angrily down on its exposed and vulnerable surface. Tenderizing meat on the deli counter.  F. Scott Fitzgerald's haunting Tender is the Night. Tender bruise on the hip, tending toward morningtide. Sternum cracking open in camel, in the wake of a good backbend (ergh, too-tender lower back) and all that anahata energy (unstruck) rushes out

just in time

then there is N sitting across the bar from you in someone else's hair (eyes welling, yours) where she is staring down the barrel of the gun of the heretofore-unknown but creepingly menacing advanced ovarian cancer (there is so much suffering in the world), and the heart tends to swell and the hand instinctively reaches across the bar to clasp the one it shouldn't clasp because of a too-tender immune system weakened by chemo (careful, so fragile), this now-delicate little bird across the great chasm (damn bar) pretending at levity, swimming in tender looks from the man at her side whose physical size belies the softness inside, betrayed by the weary eyes you'd not yet seen before that day

the haunting sorrow of knowing this is how she will die
now it is just when
no longer how

Sondheim's "Johanna" on repeat (the tenderest of songs sung by the tenderest of tenors written by the tenderest of composers) here in this quiet catch of silence

tender chamomile and valerian steeping, slowing the restless heart at eventide
tender hours spent in darkness
sans sleep
(the fallacy is in believing there is ever any separation in the world)
feeling her premature loss
her wounds still open, those tender hollow spaces that once held the potential for new life 
riddled absent sick removed 

same grief echoed the other day
Plath family suicides repeated (repeated, repeated) once again
fisheries, Alaska, a son, this time
(what fools to think we are separate from one another!)
the aching sorrow of the last remaining
still putting one foot in front of the other
tending toward solitude
tending toward sunset
tending toward late afternoon sunshine flaming out in the south bay window

tending the plants
tending the weeds
tending the aphids
tending the heart
[tenderheart ~ karuna ~ compassion]

Tender is the Night, fiction but not ("Night the beloved"). March, tender like a lamb, rolling out like a lion? Tender twilight, soft cerulean sky. Tending the prana, tending to grace. Tending the tendency to tend too much.

tenderize the meat
soften the heart
smooth the edges
explode the center

open it up crack it there break the lobster shells scrape out the sweet tender meat roll it around on your tongue

fracture the sternum

the spaces
in between

read a line the other day that has not yet left the mind; the author writes that she rejoices she has a heart big enough to break over and over and over again, and i think of that, and break and fill and break again, and tenderness swoons inside


ten·der [ten-der] adjective, -er, -est, verb

1. soft or delicate in substance; not hard or tough: a tender steak.
2. weak or delicate in constitution; not strong or hardy.
3. (of plants) unable to withstand freezing temperatures.
4. young or immature: children of tender age.
5. delicate or soft in quality: tender blue.
6. delicate, soft, or gentle: the tender touch of her hand.
7. easily moved to sympathy or compassion; kind: a tender heart.
8. affectionate or loving; sentimental or amatory: a tender glance.
9. considerate or careful; chary or reluctant (usually fol. by of).
10. acutely or painfully sensitive: a tender bruise.
11. easily distressed; readily made uneasy: a tender conscience.
12. yielding readily to force or pressure; easily broken; fragile.
13. of a delicate or ticklish nature; requiring careful or tactful handling: a tender subject.
14. Nautical. crank2 (def. 1).
–verb (used with object)
15. to make tender.
16. Archaic. to regard or treat tenderly.

Origin: 1175–1225; ME, var. of tendre

Thursday, July 11, 2013

The In-between State

This really moved me today.

The In-between State, by Pema Chodron. Can you relate?

The secret of Zen is just two words: not always so. —Shunryu Suzuki Roshi
It takes some training to equate complete letting go with comfort. But in fact, "nothing to hold on to" is the root of happiness. There's a sense of freedom when we accept that we're not in control. Pointing ourselves toward what we would most like to avoid makes our barriers and shields permeable.
This may lead to a don't-know-what-to-do kind of feeling, a sense of being caught in-between. On the one hand, we're completely fed up with seeking comfort from what we can eat, drink, smoke, or couple with. We're also fed up with beliefs, ideas, and "isms" of all kinds. But on the other hand, we wish it were true that outer comfort could bring lasting happiness.

This in-between state is where the warrior spends a lot of time growing up. We'd give anything to have the comfort we used to get from eating a pizza or watching a video. However, even though those things can be pleasurable, we've seen that eating a pizza or watching a video is a feeble match for our suffering. We notice this especially when things are falling apart. If we've just learned that we have cancer, eating a pizza doesn't do much to cheer us up. If someone we love has just died or walked out, the outer places we go to for comfort feel feeble and ephemeral.

We are told about the pain of chasing after pleasure and the futility of running from pain. We hear also about the joy of awakening, of realizing our interconnectedness, of trusting the openness of our hearts and minds. But we aren't told all that much about this state of being in-between, no longer able to get our old comfort from the our side but not yet dwelling in a continual sense of equanimity and warmth.

Anxiety, heartbreak, and tenderness mark the in-between state. It's the kind of place we usually want to avoid. The challenge is to stay in the middle rather than buy into struggle and complaint. The challenge is to let it soften us rather than make us more rigid and afraid. Becoming intimate with the queasy feeling of being in the middle of nowhere only makes our hearts more tender. When we are brave enough to stay in the middle, compassion arises spontaneously. By not knowing, not hoping to know, and not acting like we know what's happening, we begin to access our inner strength.

Yet it seems reasonable to want some kind of relief. If we can make the situation right or wrong, if we can pin it down in any way, then we are on familiar ground. But something has shaken up our habitual patterns and frequently they no longer work. Staying with volatile energy gradually becomes more comfortable than acting it out or repressing it. This open-ended tender place is called bodhichitta. Staying with it is what heals. It allows us to let go of our self-importance. It's how the warrior learns to love.

This is exactly how we're training every time we sit in meditation. We see what comes up, acknowledge that with kindness, and let go. Thoughts and emotions rise and fall. Some are more convincing than. others. Habitually we are so uncomfortable with that churned-up feeling that we'd do anything to make it go away. Instead we kindly encourage ourselves to stay with our agitated energy by returning to the breath. This is the basic training in maitri that we need to just keep going forward, to just keep opening our heart.

Dwelling in the in-between state requires learning to contain the paradox of something's being both right and wrong, of someone's being strong and loving and also angry, uptight, and stingy. In that painful moment when we don't live up to our own standards, do we condemn ourselves or truly appreciate the paradox of being human? Can we forgive ourselves and stay in touch with our good and tender heart? When someone pushes our buttons, do we set our to make the person wrong? Or do we repress our reaction with "I'm supposed to be loving. How could I hold this negative thought?" Our practice is to stay with the uneasiness and not solidify into a view. We can meditate, do tonglen, or simply look at the open sky—anything that encourages us to stay on the brink and not solidify into a view.

When we find ourselves in a place of discomfort and fear, when we're in a dispute, when the doctor says we need tests to see what's wrong, we'll find that we want to blame, to take sides, to stand our ground. We feel we must have some resolution. We want to hold our familiar view. For the warrior, "right" is as extreme a view as "wrong." They both block our innate wisdom. When we stand at the crossroads, not knowing which way to go, we abide in prajnaparamita. The crossroads is an important place in the training of a warrior. It's where our solid views begin to dissolve.
Holding the paradox is not something any of us will suddenly be able to do. That's why we're encouraged to spend our whole lives training with uncertainty, ambiguity, insecurity. To stay in the middle prepares us to meet the unknown without fear; it prepares us to face both our life and our death. The in-between state—where moment by moment the warrior finds himself learning to let go—is the perfect training ground. It really doesn't matter if we feel depressed about that or inspired. There is absolutely no way to do this just right. That's why compassion and maitri, along with courage, are vital: they give us the resources to be genuine about where we are, but at the same time to know that we are always in transition, that the only time is now, and that the future is completely unpredictable and open.

As we continue to train, we evolve beyond the little me who continually seeks zones of comfort. We gradually discover that we are big enough to hold something that is neither lie nor truth, neither pure nor impure, neither bad nor good. But first we have to appreciate the richness of the groundless state and hang in there.

It's important to hear about this in-between state. Otherwise we think the warrior's journey is one way or the other; either we're all caught up or we're free. The fact is that we spend a long time in the middle. This juicy spot is a fruitful place to be. Resting here completely—steadfastly experiencing the clarity of the present moment—is called enlightenment. ▼

Thank you to Tricycle Magazine for the morning light.

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

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

Happy long holiday weekend!

I've never been much for patriotism, but sure can get behind celebrating In(ter)dependence Day. May your weekend be peaceful and light, free from suffering and full of grace. And barbecues. And spiked lemonade.

Here's my holiday teaching schedule for the next few days:
  • Thursday, July 4th: 12pm at Urban Flow
  • Friday, July 5th: 9am at Urban Flow (subbing for Rusty)
  • Saturday, July 6th: 10am at Yoga Toes Studio in Point Reyes (subbing for MC Yogi)
  • Sunday, July 7th: 10:45am at Flying Yoga (in the brand-spankin' new Annex)

Hope to see you on the mat in between picnics and fireworks.

Much love.