Tag: commitment

21 Day Challenge – Day 18 – W(h)iney

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Opening a wine bottle with a corkscrew in a restaurant

I like a glass of wine every now and then. Maybe two.

This is no crime.

Last night was such a night. Although I have to admit I didn’t really feel like having wine. My mind had to work really hard to convince my body to get up and open a bottle, which it did. Interesting. I had less than two full glasses, felt fine and was in bed asleep by 11 pm.

No harm.

I awoke around the usual time, somewhere between 6-7, got up, tripped over dogs on my way to the kitchen and commenced the usual routine. Made coffee, did some blog surfing, liked a few posts on Facebook, then though about breakfast before the gym.

I left around 9:30. Rowan was calling. It was raining pretty steadily but I wanted to row, so I left.

After a brief warm up I sauntered around the twisted steel and padded playground looking for the back and bicep machines my trainer had recommended. Each one was being used. I wasted a little time going to the bathroom, fixed my hair, straightened my shirt and checked out the weight machine situation once again. Still occupied.

I glanced over at Rowan. He was alone. I took it as a sign from the universe that I was to spend my time with Rowan today.

The first 500 meters were brutal. Not taxing as in sprinting a mile, but uncomfortable, achy. I was still somewhat sore from the preceding days but it wasn’t that, there was something else stuck.

Then it dawned on me. Could it be the wine? Just those two glasses? Probably. Any food or drink affects the functioning of the body. Good and bad.

I pushed harder, I wanted to rid my system of whatever was lingering.

I went on to row 5000 meters as repentance and also because I can’t seem to stop. A friend came and sat on the machine next to me to chat and still I didn’t stop. It might be a problem. But it feels like a really good problem to have.

The moral of the story? I have a choice now. I have always had a choice. I suppose what I mean to say is now I have a reason to consider my choices more thoughtfully. I have more fortification behind not having a glass of wine. But should I choose to imbibe, I know what to expect.

Romancing the Comma

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Today’s Daily Post asks us to consider punctuation. To do that, I must also consider words. And I love words.  I love to read them, write them, and type them. I love to ingest them, rolling them around on my tongue, feeling their edges, tasting their sweetness, pain or bitterness. Swallowing them, feeling them.

Words have tremendous power, whole laws have been created to protect words and protect against words. But unless a sentence is well crafted, unless it is properly punctuated, words can become listless.

In our technology driven society, we have lost some of the formality of punctuation. Sentences are fragmented, even reduced to a few letters. Emphasis is indicated by a plethora of exclamation marks or all caps.

A part of me likes the shorthand, it’s concise and quick. But the part of me that romanticizes language is already starting to mourn the loss of an art form.

In my own writing, I overuse commas, listing things a lot. I’m still shaky on the use of semi-colons, but brave enough to insert them where it feels right. I favor dashes over parentheses, and I’ve been known to employ the … Exclamation marks rarely make their way onto the page unless it’s in dialog or a really strong point I’m trying to make. But overall I’m a huge fan of proper punctuation.

Punctuation slows the reader down, allowing them to observe their thoughts about what they’re reading; enchanting them with their own imagination. It’s the magic of the written word to evoke so many emotions that keeps me reading and for that, we need good old fashioned punctuation.

21 Day Body Love Challenge – Watch Your Back

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woman back

I don’t have a lot to say about my back. It’s strong, lightly decorated and it likes to stretch and twist. Just for fun we’ll throw shoulders into the mix. They’re more talkative than the back.

When I was in high school I was on the drill team. As such, I was required to go to band camp – yes it’s true. It was a blast! I can still recall the overwhelming minty scent of Ben Gay. As dancers and flag wavers our part in camp was extremely physical. We worked out, stretched and held positions a long time.

Part of our training was standing still. Easy now, not so much at 16 and 17, there was just so much to gossip about, who had time to stand still? I vividly recall taking the position of a statue with a flag in a long line of girls doing the same. I was holding a rather large, but not too heavy, flag, right in front of my nose, looking past it. My hands were neatly stacked, elbows out. I looked like a Marine, in cute white cowboy boots.

Heat began to build in my shoulders, then my back. I couldn’t move. It felt like hours, but I’m sure was just a few moments. My back was telling me all sorts of stories, hatching escape plans, getting more and more pissed off. Finally it broke me. Internally shaking with an unfamiliar rage, a single tear slid from eyes, down my cheek. I would not crack.

Another tear followed. I was in excruciating pain and had no idea why. I was just standing. I couldn’t take it anymore. I telepathically begged one of the drill sergeants to either let us out of this pose or notice my obvious distress and offer me his kind words. For the record, drill sergeants cannot be reached telepathically.

We were finally released. Once I let go of the flag or even moved it, the stress was gone. And along with it the pain, but I was worried I would have to endure this again and surely that would not be fair. I spoke to someone who was very sympathetic and told me that if I didn’t think I could handle being a Colonialette, there were other girls who could.

I soldiered on and made it through with just a tear or two more and a seething distaste for authority.

Back home, I suggested to my mother that I might be dying and she should take me to the doctor for extensive tests. She complied. There was nothing. Nothing visible on an x-ray or through a thorough examination. But my doctor was clever, he knew not all ailments, real or perceived, had their origins in the body. He asked a few questions about my life. Everything was fine, I said. No worries at school or with friends, I said. Parents are a mess and maybe splitting up, but that’s normal, I said. Now he had something to work with.

Whatever stress I was feeling because of my crumbling home life was showing up in my body. It could have popped up anywhere, it just happened to have the opportunity to build in my shoulders and back.

To this day, I have a spot in the center of my back, right behind my heart that holds emotional tension. It presents itself as a muscle spasm or a shortness of breath. Sometimes when I’m talking I can barely finish a sentence because I have run out of air. When I twist and stretch it releases. When I twist and stretch everyday it’s gone. For the time being.

I have long come to terms with the fate of my parents. As the oldest of two, much older, nearly 9 years, I had to carry the weight of the situation. My mother, who had always been a little meek, beaten down I suspect by years of being the butt of sarcastic, biting humor from my father, wanted to leave but felt powerless to do so. I encouraged her. I was 16. This is not an ideal place for a teenager to find herself. So I stored anything I was unable to deal with at the time in my body.

We all do this. Emotions get stored.

As much as I sometimes fight my yoga practice, preferring instead to think about, and talk about, and write about yoga; it is the one thing that moves the cells around just enough so that one or two at a time can fall to the floor. It takes me out of my head and into my body so that I can clear the emotional debris, which, are you listening, clears the mental cobwebs, allowing me more quality playtime in my head! It’s a win-win for the whole package.

I guess I had more to say about my back than I thought. Funny thing, writing, sometimes just scribbling out a word or two opens doors that have been left ajar for a long time.

The moral of the story? Watch your back. And your hips. And your shoulders. Watch your body parts, some of that “pain” is emotional. Bank on it. Oh, yeah, and do some yoga!

“Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.” – Maya Angelou

 

21 Day Body Love Challenge – ‘Gam’orous

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“Darling, the legs aren’t so beautiful, I just know what to do with them.” Marlene Dietrich

I love my ankles, calves and shins. I include shins because of the three, my shins have taken the biggest beating and survived to tell great stories.

There are two body parts I know my father was very particular about on a woman. Oh, come on, it’s my dad! They were thin, delicate ankles and a long, graceful neck. In short, he would have been very happy with a swan. I never really understood the ankle thing, I mean, they’re pretty utilitarian, a juncture between the miraculous feet and, well, everything else. But then I met a woman who referred to hers as cankles. This would be the clever term for thick ankles denoting that her very calves have melted into her ankles.

To me, she looked like she had ankles. In her view, she had suffered through high school and college, hiding her ankles beneath long pants and socks. She had lost weight to the point of starvation, yet her cankles mocked her, diminishing nary a centimeter. Finally one day she realized she had the exact same legs as her mother and her two older sisters. They were all married, all happy and seemed to be oblivious to their plight. She realized that ankles were ankles and from that day forward she dressed like everyone else, shamelessly parading around in shorts and sandals, unafraid and unapologetic. Her confidence in her perceived flawed body part spilled into other areas of her life and she became the CEO of a large corporation, married a wonderful man and had three gorgeous children.

Gives me hope for my relationship with my thighs.

My own ankles have served me well. Scarred and bruised, they have never cracked under pressure. Never broken, never sprained. They have been twisted without damage while learning new dance steps, they have been stretched under me while attempting new yoga postures, and they have kicked many a soccer ball downfield, and they have always remained steadfastly true and stayed right where they were meant to be.

As a competitive swimmer for a minute and a half, a track star for 20 seconds  and a dancer for a few years, my calves developed quite lovely on their own. Not too big, not too thin, just right. Then one day, I moved away from the city to live in a faraway land called Florida, without a car. In this magical land nothing was close to anything else and walking would take days and melting was a possibility. Public transportation had not yet been invented where I was living so, instead, I procured a bicycle and set about to get around on two wheels. The byproduct of this was massive calfage. Bodacious bricks. They were quite a sight to behold and once I recognized them as my own,  I was a little proud. Today they are much softer and a lot less dangerous.

My shins on the other hand have seen some combat. As a soccer player for the better part of my childhood, shin guards could only do so much to prevent bruises and lumps and bumps. They took a beating. Being active outside of soccer left my shins defenseless as I ran around, climbed trees and overall had a blatant disregard for safety. On one particular occasion I wanted to share my gift of grace with a friend by showing her how adept I was at doing a walk-over in my living room. You know, gymnastics.

The handstand was flawless, straight up in the air, then as I began to narrate the walk over part something went terribly wrong. Instead of languidly placing my feet over onto the floor into a spectacular backbend, I crash landed into the coffee table. My entire shin scraped down the edge of the table removing most of the skin from the bone. But we were 15 so we laughed and laughed as I held my shin and secretly cried inside. It took many long minutes for it to even bleed. It was that deep. To this day I proudly wear not only the scar, but also the dent to my shin bone that resulted from my over-inflated sense of confidence.

All in all the lower half of my legs are keepers; they’ve been involved in all the hijinks and travel my feet have instigated. Every now and then one of my calves will cramp just to let me know it’s still there and maybe needs a little attention. So I take it to a yoga class and stretch it or to the gym or most recently I took both of them up, then down over 200 steps in a lighthouse. They were very chatty about that the next day.

Body parts speak but we’re usually too busy crafting stories with our mind about other more pressing matters such as hairstyles and deadlines. More importantly we are speaking to our body parts all the time; usually unconsciously and mostly negatively. Or we ignore them all together.  Every day as you rush through your morning or bedtime routine, stop and take a little extra time to massage oil or lotion into all your parts, cooing and sharing sweet nothings with them.  Each time you catch yourself berating your thighs or upper arms consider instead how valuable they are to your very existence. They’ll love your for it and they’ll respond in kind.

I have a great affinity for my calves and shins as they are the only part of my leg that usually sees daylight. My thighs often misbehave so I seldom let them out, but from the tops of my calves to the tips of my toes all is copasetic.

21 Day Body Love Challenge – Happy Feet

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“Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.” – Khalil Gibran

I love my feet.

As I look at my bare feet I see evidence of a life lived outdoors. Currently I have two faint thin stripes that indicate where my flip flops should be, my toes are a happy pink, my heels rough and hard despite many pedicures and there are two tiny pale ovals on each foot at the base of third and fourth toes. These elicit some of the best memories.

As a child, I was a fish. Ocean, lake, river, creek, bathtub or pool, water was my habitat. Once in, good luck getting me out. That 10 minute break each hour at the public swimming pool to allow adults time to swim was probably designed because of me. I just didn’t see the point of leaving the water. I did summersaults, handstands, walked on my hands, kick turns, cannonballs, dove, jumped, splashed and, on occasion, swam. While completing these amazing feats of agility I often scraped my feet on the rough floor of the pool – they weren’t so smooth back then – removing the first layer of skin on the joints of my toes and on the tops of my feet. And because I never got out of the water, I’d do it over and over and over again. Then come back the next day and continue the process. It never hurt, not even a little.

A bit older, but none the wiser, I was wading in a freezing cold creek in Virginia sans shoes, of course. My foot slipped on a mossy rock and landed on a broken bottle. It didn’t hurt, my feet were numb, but I knew something was amiss. I limp-walked my way over to my mom without ever looking at my foot, blindly leaving a trail of blood along the way. As I presented her with my foot and the question, “Is there something in it?” she gasped then quickly recovered pretending it wasn’t a big deal, but we should probably have someone look at it. Like a doctor. In a hospital. A steamy hot older man, probably 16 or 17, was summoned and I was whisked away like a princess in a fairy tale to my pumpkin that resembled a Pontiac LaMans a little too closely. All aglow I lay down in the back seat with my foot elevated as I waved so long to my handsome prince. Today, I am now the proud owner of a thick scar on the bottom of my right foot which always produces concern, then questions during reflexology.

The take-away was not to exercise caution when in nature with unbound feet, but rather; being rescued by handsome prince was everything Disney had promised.

My toes have always been long and thin, even when the rest of me was anything but. And I love them for that. They have been shoved in many pointy shoes with heels high and low, set aloft on ridiculous platforms, allowed to wiggle huddled in clogs and pressed against the sides of running shoes, but they are happiest when they are free. In general my feet have resisted captivity since I was very young, preferring instead to endure the occasional bee sting and extra tetanus booster.

My feet have taken me all the way around Central Park in New York. They’ve walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and down past the twin towers, both when they were there and they were not. They’ve walked through deserts and streets in India, played in the crystal clear water of Jamaica and the Virgin Islands and walked along the Thames in London. They’ve been barefoot on the beaches of Rhode Island, Cape Cod, Long Island, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, nearly the entire coastline of Florida and much of California.

There’s almost nowhere these feet won’t go and for that I love them. I love their courage and tenacity. I love their ability to tip toe, walk and even run. I love how they love to dance. And I love that they hit the floor every morning awaiting instructions, ready to go wherever I ask them to.

Thank you, feet, you’re the best.

And it’s not just my feet that are awesome. It’s yours too. A full one quarter of all the bones in the body are in the feet and ankles. 33 joints and more than 100 muscles, tendons and ligaments. Feet provide the body with support. If you’ve ever hurt your foot you know it can throw the entire body off kilter. Hips out of alignment, back pain, even headaches can befall the owner of unhappy feet.

Energetically the feet are related to the root chakra; our home of security and stability, our foundation. Makes sense.

Feet  even play a role in history and religion. Recently Pope Francis shocked the world by washing the feet of inmates at a juvenile detention center. It is a great show of humility and service to wash another’s feet. In the yoga tradition, kissing or touching the feet of the guru symbolizes bowing, not necessarily to the physical guru in front of you, but rather the guru within.

Today, honor your feet. Massage them, get a pedicure, thank them. Stick them in the sand or mud or on a plush carpet of soft grass or a real plush carpet. Appreciate them and all they’ve been through with you and because of you.

Your feet are always there for you, ready and waiting to carry you forward. Where will they take you today?

“I still have my feet on the ground, I just wear better shoes.” – Oprah Winfrey

 

 

 

21 Day Challenge – Day 8 – Recommitment

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pinkish buddha IMG_1726

It’s been one week since I issued and embarked on my 21 Day Challenge. One week down, 2 to go. A few noteworthy things are happening.

This isn’t a challenge with a prize at the end. It’s not measurable in a quantifiable way. There are tasks to be completed each day that help keep me on track and that’s imperative. With a high level distraction and procrastination risk factor, I need touch points, things I can check off.

The purpose of this challenge though is to remove obstacles by adding in good practices: yoga, yoga nidra, writing, photography, etc. One is removing distraction while the other is moving in the direction I have identified as my path. Both are necessary.

Without an end game, is it really a challenge? I am working on breaking old unhelpful habit patterns and creating a new way of being. So yes, it’s super challenging. Maybe especially because there is no real quantifiable goal. My hope is these tasks, that right now are the challenge, become woven into the fabric of each day, like brushing my teeth and making the bed.

In one of Stephen Covey’s books, he says, “Begin with the end in mind,” referring to the endgame. You want $1,000. That’s your goal. That’s the end. Now work backwards and create your strategy to achieve that goal.

If I have no real goal in mind other than changing habits, how do I work backwards from that? So I have created one identifiable goal to work with that is in alignment with my intention and aided by the tasks I have set forth in my challenge. This will add a richness and satisfaction in the doing aspect of each task.

The second thing that I’ve come to realize is some of the tasks I’ve assigned myself are becoming ‘the thing to get checked off.’ I think this is a natural resistance from the ego. “Ok, we’ve played around with the ‘new lifestyle thing’ long enough, let’s get back to the way things were.” It makes a very convincing argument. Staying stuck is so easy. And if I look at it as if I am just allowing, then it feels very yogic. Forgivable.

But that’s a familiar trap. This time though I see the trigger before getting caught in the net. Instead of letting go of the challenge or forgiving myself for missing something I need to lean into it. Be completely 100% present in each task I undertake. The challenge then becomes the challenge. Sticking with it.

There is a time when action is called for, of course. In the Amrit style of yoga there are two halves of each posture; first and second half. The first half is doing the posture, making it happen; the second half is coming out of the posture, standing still with the eyes closed and feeling – letting it happen. Both are valuable, especially together.

Life is like that. Action must come first. Make it happen. Get things in motion, and then let it move forward in whatever direction and form it takes.

A few months ago I got the itch to travel again and I selected Ireland as the next big trip I want to take. That is an action. The decision. I looked online at tours, airfare, and different towns in Ireland that might interest me. I begin to get excited. I am in action, on my way.

Then I get an email from a Swami I have worked with before. She has put together a Sacred India tour that starts February 16. I love India. All the places on the tour are towns I have never been to. It looks amazing. I’m going to India in February.

Maybe I’ll still go to Ireland later next year, maybe I won’t. I took the action which allowed me to get into the mind space to travel, which was the ultimate goal, and an opportunity arose. I made the decision to travel. I allowed India become a possibility.

My challenge has not changed – the tasks have not – but a quantifiable goal has emerged that along with my intention can keep me focused on the work in the present moment. Everything I do right now affects the next moment and the next and the next. Every thought I think, every action I take is creating my future. I must choose wisely.

[Photo: Playing around inside today. While the Buddha is beautiful in his natural color, playing around with him in photoshop made him more reflective of my mood today: Vibrant!]

 

21 Day Challenge – Day 3 – Wrap Up

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Egret IMG_1426

Day 3. Is this really even a challenge? It’s amazing to me what a clear intention, a shift in perception and support from amazing strong women can do.

I have immersed myself in the Facebook group that sprang to life, because of that first blog, like it’s my job. It is so difficult to describe this group and what happens there without using words like enchanted and magical.

All I have to do is think about the openness and readiness with which people share their vulnerabilities and unconditional love and tears of gratitude well up.

This was not at all what I expected to be writing about day after day during this challenge. I thought I’d struggle for clever ways to say I took a yoga class and went to the gym. I had no idea I was going to fall in love.

I keep using the word support, but not one of us has asked another how their 21 day challenge is going. Many are sharing but I haven’t really noticed references back to their specific challenges. It’s bigger than that now. It’s a mini-movement. It’s a commitment to upliftment in others and in so doing we are made lighter and brighter. It is through sharing our light that our own grows stronger.

That’s the support. It is non-specific yet to the point. It is being there. It is holding space. And, dare I say it? It is magical.

For the record I have effortlessly met all my daily goals. It’s no longer an option. It is my responsibility.  Keep the lamp lit. Share it.

[Photo: As I was about to leave the house this morning, running late already, Larry, my husband called to let me know there were “tons of white birds” at the pond in front of the police station. So naturally I had to go. (Sorry Darlene 🙂 They were flying back and forth like they were playing red rover. Try as I might I couldn’t quite capture them in flight without a little blur. Maybe they’ll be there tomorrow…]