Tag: India

Going Places

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Man

The page – or in this case, the blinking cursor – is calling me back. I’m not sure what exactly it’s asking for yet, but I’m open and making myself available.

Mostly it seems to be inquiring about travel.

In the middle of reading another inspiring non-fiction book on self-mastery, the question was posed … really the author demanded, that I finish reading the current sentence then go sit with myself somewhere and write down my dreams. All the crazy, seemingly unattainable ones, the ones that make me shudder with excitement, fear or anxiety, the simple ones – like having a place for everything in my house, I mean super simple – and any rogue thought that happens to pop into my head that might be a thread that leads somewhere magical.

On it. Aside from discussing consciousness with Christians, yogis and atheists alike, dreaming is my favorite!

Travel writing.

That’s what the Universe handed me on a slightly smudgy, obviously dented, silver platter. Gifts from the Universe often have to make a few trips around the sun before I’m ready to receive them. This one may frisbee back out yet before it sits beside me each day.

And I had to really study those two words because I don’t think they mean what they seem to say. I believe, in my case, they are meant as two separate commands that intersect.

Here’s how I see it:

Travel is my blood type, a plane ticket, a new passport stamp? Those are transfusions. When I don’t get to go places (by which I mean, when I believe there is something more important than wandering like laundry or running my businesses) I get sick. It’s not a normal sick, I’m rarely that. I get bitchy and itchy. I grumble a lot like an old man who wishes those idiot boxes were never invented and what the hell is a sofrita anyway, what’s wrong with meat and potatoes? That guy. The only antidote is travel. I’ve tried other medicines; wine, chocolate, yoga, they only take me so far.

Writing too has been my constant companion my entire life. Mountains of journals sit heaving in my closet, eyes rolling when they find out they’re not so special. Each one has the same list of how I want to structure my day and all that I would like to accomplish. Day after day. They get bored, my journals. I hear them yawn, audibly breathe the sigh of disappointment when I start rolling out a new plan. But when I start to describe the view from my hotel room that includes a black-faced monkey and the Ganges they start to perk up. They’re totally fine with packing lists for European treks and they especially like when I confess how a place has revealed something about me to me.

And there are blogs, once organized, now somewhat willy nilly, and mostly lately covered in cobwebs and neglect. It helps me, the writing. The publishing is scary, but it’s part of the process too.

Travel. Writing. Travel writing. These will likely never be the kind of stories picked up by Afar or Conde Nast Traveler. I’m not likely to tell you where to eat or what not to miss or what time to be at the Vatican, and which gate so you can bypass the line. But I will tell you how standing on the banks of the Ganges made me cry tears of connection to everything and while sipping red wine at a vineyard overlooking the Mediterranean in Lucca, Italy on the most perfect day ever, I was so overwhelmed with gratitude for this life I couldn’t speak.

I will share the humility I have gained by talking to a man who had no home and no shoes but smiled nonetheless and even gave the dog sharing his tarp the piece of bread I offered him. How he had enough. He was happy. He gave up everything and now whatever he needs comes to him. I will tell you that that is true abundance and I may even give you a hint of yoga philosophy lesson on the tenet of Aparigraha or non-attachment. Mostly because it’s a reminder and lesson to me.

The more I tell you, the more I learn about me.

Travel. Writing. They are symbiotic in my world. They need each other. One does not describe the other. When I look at them I can see them each on the bulbous sides of an infinity symbol.  Traveling opens me up and reveals the dark corners that need to be energetically vacuumed out, as well as the covered bits of light yearning to shine and share.

Traveling is manna to me. Writing is how I process and share my experiences.

So this is my big, anxious, hairy, exciting dream. I mean, a well-organized house is also still on the list, but it just doesn’t curl my toes like going places.

What’s your dream?

Biyee, Bee-ach

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There was a time when I would scoff at the notion of a whole year being bad. I would internally roll my eyes and externally offer Pollyanna platitudes on the unlikelihood that a whole year could be bad. “A year is just time,” I’d say as I would tilt my head just so and bat my eyelashes. “Time is neutral.”

That is true. And time, like everything else, is made good, bad or neutral by our perceptions.

My perception is 2017 is crap. There. I said it. Pollyanna is withering in the corner like a forgotten houseplant. However, with a little water and sunshine, she’ll be back. She’s tenacious. She is simply incubating, hibernating. I feel she has big plans.

To review, you may recall I came out guns blazing for the GIANT PURGE. I started the year counting all my things, tossing bags of things away, taking multiple trunk loads of things to charities and selling some other things. I was disgusted with everything I had accumulated and equally proud of my recent ‘stuff’ enlightenment.

Then a phone call at the end of January shifted everything. My mother was found unconscious in her home and had been transported to a hospital. She had had a massive brain bleed from which she could not and would not recover. Her passing was peaceful, but sudden. Her death likely caused by the medication meant to keep her alive. A known side effect.

Death is a known side effect of life, after all.

While trying to manage my grief – that’s a joke by the way, grief has its own agenda – I was also now tasked with managing her service and her stuff. She was on the edge of hoarding. She did not buy useless trinkets and appliances she would not use, but fabrics, yarn, beads, and crafting supplies she had big plans for. She owned hundreds of books (as do I) and had stacks of magazines that doubled as end tables. Baskets full of crystals, motivational and affirmation cards, CDs and sticky notes everywhere.  Now it was all mine. A two-bedroom apartment two hours away full of her stuff and some family memories. And her life.

Was this a cosmic joke? I decide to purge and now I have an additional whole house to deal with?  It wasn’t so funny. I would learn in the 11 months to follow that the Universe has a very wicked sense of irony. But it’s all for my growth, right?

To summarize:

  • A mentally ill cheeto gets sworn in as president and my mother checks out.
  • It is left to me to sort, keep, purge and organize her stuff, her service and my own grief
  • A planned trip to India to take others began with a hotel fire in Delhi. Like the hotel I was in.
  • Larry (the hubs) begins suffering from serious insomnia. It gets much worse.
  • Bills for my mother are still pouring in. I don’t have to pay them. I can ignore them. Only I can’t. There seems to be some sort of urgency to them.
  • There are countless doctor’s appointments, reiki and acupuncture for Larry that I have to schedule and drive him to because he is tired and dizzy. Nothing seems to be working.
  • My anniversary is forgotten. And I angrily don’t care.
  • He’s out of work. Short-term disability. A planned trip to Europe is looking threatened in the face of his malaise. I assemble a team of helpers and decide to leave. I need to leave. I have not had any space to myself for months and I’m at a breaking point.
  • While in Berlin we hear news of a little disturbance in the Atlantic named Irma. Shit. I did not return until two days after she marched across my state. There was quite a bit of physical and mental clean-up to contend with. I felt I had to make amends for not being there.
  • Anxiety is a new side effect of the insomnia. More doctor’s appointments, less sleep.
  • Thanksgiving is at risk, the holidays are becoming more stressful.
  • Christmas parties become the impetus for arguments and ramped up anxiety, decorations are delayed and the Christmas Spirit is hiding somewhere in the attic. I have gained 15 pounds in the last four months.

Instead of releasing all my stuff to create more space, both physical and mental, I was given more. More actual things to go through, more situations to navigate, more challenges.

Be careful what you wish for.

But here’s the thing: there is always beauty and magic. One year can be defining, it can be difficult. One incident in the year cannot define it. The beating down every time I got back up, the ground shifting underneath me as soon as I felt stable – that can define a year. But more importantly it can define me.

Growth is messy and hard. It sucks. Can I just say that? I’m in the business of growth and self-development and it sucks. And it’s necessary. And it’s beautiful.

Here’s the other side:

  • I am reminded of my abundance by the things I have in my home. I am grateful for all of it even as I release it.
  • The loss of my mother brings with it the love and appreciation of so many whose lives were touched by her. I am able to be with her things and in her home and to take as long as I need thanks to an understanding landlord on her end and amazing business partners and friends on mine.
  • I get to go back to my spiritual home with my friend Karin, and actually take new people to share it. I meet a Vedic astrologer named Mustang Jack who told me what I already knew but was afraid to embrace. I get to see my Indian friends and be soothed by the rush of the healing waters of the Ganges.
  • After India my journey continued with Karin to Spain where we drank delicious wine, watched flamenco dancers and took trains to amazing places.
  • A little overnight trip for my birthday took the hubs and I to a remote island with white sandy beaches where we sat silently together to witness a stunning sunset.
  • The insomnia and whatever else was going on created space and opportunity for real, honest and meaningful conversations between Larry and I.
  • I boarded a plane to Switzerland alone and spent three glorious, healing days finding my own way through two cities and wandering along riverbanks before joining a friend.
  • My friend Sarah met me in Zurich and we traveled to Berlin, Prague, Salzburg and Munich taking in the culture, architecture and food. I got to see the Fred and Ginger building live and in person!
  • My brother booked a flight to come for Christmas.
  • People are coming out of the woodwork that have suffered through insomnia or anxiety or both to offer support and advice to Larry. He’s not alone.
  • Friendsgiving. Amazing food, awesome friends, laughter and intimate conversations under warm low light
  • My brother, niece and son were all here for the holidays. We drank a lot, ate a lot and played reindeer games.

All in all it was just a year. The waves were higher, the water more turbulent. But stormy skies make way for the best sunsets. I learned more about myself through these challenges and some of it was not pretty. At all. But I believe I did purge. I was able to peel away some of the layers of pretense and armor.

I didn’t often ask for help, mostly space, but everyone I considered a friend offered so much support and love and even those I didn’t know that well became little lights in the darkness through their kindnesses.

It was just a year. It’s all perspective.

As I write this on January 1, 2018, it is raining, cold and windy. That feels somehow appropriate. Cleansing. Preparing for the journey ahead that will be this year.

 

All in the Family

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One of the side effects of minimizing social media was to be time to work on THE BOOK. In truth there are a few books battling it out in my brain, but the one I have made the most progress on was my intended.

The India Book.

A lot of it has been written. Well, a lot has been written, whether it makes it into the mythic book or not will depend largely on my friends who honestly read and comment, a paid editor and my mood.

This was the plan until yesterday when I made the decision to pick up a memoir I had started reading some time ago – before I realized my world was not under my control – and now I am questioning where to put those writing hours.

The book is Confessions of a Sociopath by M.E. Thomas. The cover promises a chilling, gripping, and thoughtful read and it does not disappoint. I am fascinated with Ms. Thomas’ self- assessment (and later professional diagnosis) of sociopath and what that means. Her stories of childhood, adulthood, her professional career as an attorney and volunteer Sunday school teacher and her dispassionate, yet raw and honest depiction of these things has me rapt. But more than the actual details of her life and her postulation that sociopathy is a cocktail of genetics and environment, I am deeply in love with her command of language and writing ability.

So much so, that I’m leaning away from India and closer to the “memoir” I accidentally started a few year ago.

By the way, I now understand why it takes some writers 10 years to complete a book. It’s not that they get up every morning and work from 9-5 pounding out prose and researching characters and methods of murder; it’s that they can’t stop editing and complaining and changing their minds. I’m guessing.

Perhaps writing a new chapter for the memoir will lead me back to India.

Telling the stories no one wants told. This single sentence keeps showing up in the front of my mind like a wall street ticker on an Apple product release day. Telling the stories no one wants told…Telling the stories no one wants told…

Sleeping with cousins, inappropriate touching, being slapped down the stairs into labor at nearly nine months pregnant, affairs, illegitimate children, alcoholism, murder, serial marriages, deceit, war, strength, undying love, suffering, living on a boat, living out of a car, killed in the line of duty. It’s all in my family.

It’s all part of my story.

 

Island of Excellence

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I have been successful at creating and sustaining two morning habits (if you don’t count coffee). Journaling and reading.

The reading is non-fiction, usually something about writing, or the yoga philosophy. This morning it was both. And this time the messages were the same. That is to say my interpretation of them, while interrupted by a weather delay, was the same.

First, from Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg:

“Rather than following rules, have a friendliness toward existence… If you are kind you will naturally be doing the right thing… Don’t be a goody-two-shoes, just to be a goody-two-shoes, it’s not based on any reality.”

Permission.

As I was carefully inserting my Ganesh postcard from India between chapters, then placing the book on the short stack on the end table with the big wooden Buddha beside my sofa, to pick up the other book, I noticed a strange quality to the light outside. Yesterday the sky had announced itself by turning pink; this morning it seemed to be shyly hiding behind dusty glass.

Fog! I love fog!

Abandoning the second book for now, I grabbed my beloved iPhone – vowing as I made my way to the front door NOT to react to the red circles on the upper right hand corners of all my social media icons – and went in search of fog. It was so thick I could feel it on the surface of my eyeballs, like that first look underwater in a lake.

I looked down the street in one direction for a mystical shot – too many parked cars – then the other. Out to the main road I headed. I stood in my two sizes too big man’s t-shirt and baggy shorts with my hair in a scrunchy from the 90s, sans make-up or pride and pointed my phone down the curving main boulevard lined with oak trees heavy with moisture and black iron unlit street lamps.

After about 27 shots of basically the same thing I was approached by a man walking purposefully across his side yard directly at me. When I noticed him I turned in his direction. “You taking pictures of the house?” he demanded. “No, the fog,” I managed with a smile and a finger pointing down the street, as if the fog was hovering only there. Muttering as he turned to go back into his house, “Ok, cause I was gonna say.” What? You were gonna say what? Don’t?

I stood in place and lifted my phone with much less enthusiasm, to demonstrate that it was not pointed toward his home but indeed where that fog was living, just in case he went back to the same window through which he spied my suspicious activity in the first place.

It rattled me a little. I do not cope well with being accused of wrong doing. I am a rule follower. I want to be a rebel and in some respects I suppose my behavior and beliefs could be considered outsider, but mostly I’m a law-abiding good girl.

Perhaps this fear of misbehavior was a seed planted as a teenager.

While working at a clothing store in the mall I was accused of stealing clothes. I was shaken. I would never. I had made the mistake of placing my own clothes in a bag from the store and attempting to leave. I explained that my boyfriend was picking me up to go out and I had brought a change of clothes from home. They were from the Spiegel Catalog, I said with great pride. She said okay, but she never really believed me. Never apologized. And that left a mark on my goody-two-shoes permanent record.

I want to make sure all these mistrusting people know I’m telling the truth. But of course I cannot control what anyone thinks of me and in fact their thoughts and opinions of me are really none of my business, but rather a reflection of who they are.

Letting it go – the photo thing – I returned to my perch on the corner of my sofa, next to the big wooden Buddha and opened the Yoga Sutra book I have been studying. And found this:

From The Secret of the Yoga Sutra: Samadhi Pada by Pandit Rajmani Tigunait, PhD

“To be born as a human is the greatest achievement, and to die without knowing the essence of life is the greatest loss. The immense wisdom and power buried in our body and mind is clear evidence that nothing is beyond our reach… Our boundless intelligence and power of discernment give us access to the infinitely vast universe inside us and outside us. Nothing is impossible for us. We are extraordinary beings – individual islands of excellence.”

An individual island of excellence would probably not be so concerned with the fear and anxiety of others projected onto them. Compassionate, yes.

An individual island of excellence would move on, break a few rules, write the story that no one wants told, eat left-over cheesecake for breakfast. Ok, that last one maybe not really excellent.

It’s about breaking the rules for good, not for the sake of being contrary. So many of us follow rules that don’t even really exist. We do something because someone once told us to or told us never to and it stuck. They aren’t laws or even policies. It’s a very weak box constructed of shoulds and shouldn’ts that provides the illusion of safety and conformity.

Einstein’s greatest contribution to me personally was his edict to: “Question everything.”

Good advice. One question could collapse that whole silly box. Without walls it’s much easier to be an island of excellence.

On Restriction

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I am putting myself on restriction, just short of a social media fast. I have promised myself I would take the month of May off from social media. Realizing I use certain streams for my business, I adjusted the terms and conditions of my imaginary contract to grant me limited access to Facebook only for the purposes of promoting events for the yoga studio.

My name is Allison and I am a Facebook video addict. I mean, come on: sloths, otters, motivational up-and-comers, forward thinkers, Ted talks?! And what about all those baby pictures, alpacas, silly chickens and people who need me?

But it has to stop. For now. I find myself losing up to 3 hours a day.

What I could do with those 3 hours! What could I do?

The time wasted in the morning could be spent on my yoga mat or wandering the early morning streets of my neighborhood hunting critters big and small. My mid-morning/early afternoon stretch could be spent writing and my evening hour could be spent in actual conversation or reading something inspirational. Or honestly watching recorded shows with my full attention. Do I even like these shows enough to watch them without distraction? I’ll let you know.

So, May is Blog-a-Day month for me. WordPress is a form of social media, it’s true, but it somehow seems more noble. And I can’t seem to stop myself from snapping photos of magical Florida nature or, full disclosure, my cat (oh my, I’ve become such a cliché) so I will still utilize Instagram.

But neither of these platforms seem to demand as much of my time as the book of face. I will post my blogs to FB in some of the groups I belong to and even my feed on occasion, and I will share my Instagram captures with FB as well. But I will not be drawn in by that tiny red circle glaring at me from the corner of the F square on my phone, declaring how many people love me and are anxiously awaiting my attention and reply.

We’ll see how it goes.

I really, I mean honestly, want to finish writing my book on India. So, some of my found time will be spent jittery and disheveled in the corners of coffee shops nearby. And on days under 90 degrees, perhaps on my back patio, where I will no doubt be distracted by the fauna flitting and skittering about in my back yard.

I also have two houses stuffed into one right now and would love to continue purging and organizing that back to one manageable space. This is the year of the purge for me.

It is day one, but I am hopeful I can create this shift and come June, if I’ve behaved, I may just allow myself access to the wonders of Facebook again.

For now, you can find me on Instagram @allisonswanderland. Or at one of my two blogs: www.allisonswanderland.com – for stories of nature, travel and talking animals or this one, www.enchantedlife.blog for musings on all things that make life magical like: minimalism, zero waste, food stuffs and philosophy.

I know I’m assuming you care, it’s okay if you don’t. But I’d love to hear from you in the comments on the blogs or Instagram. Or even Facebook, just don’t expect a response until June 1.

To the Mattresses

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My husband and I have been sleeping on the same mattress for about 15 years. Way longer than we should according to mattress makers, but then you kind of have to consider the source. Do they recommend switching out every 8 years for their own profitability or is your back really their concern? I’ll let you noodle over that one.

In either case, it was time for a new one.

We thought something a little firmer would be good. Neither one of us has been sleeping all that great, but we’re also both “at that age” when sleep does not come as quickly or as soundly as in those shimmering days of our youth. He was convinced firmer would be the answer. I have slept on what I believe to be straw and concrete in my Indian travels and it was some of the best sleep I’ve ever had. In retrospect that may have had more to do with exhaustion + jet lag, nevertheless, firm sounded okay with me.

We went to our favorite mattress store – yes, we have one – The Original Mattress Factory, and laid on all 7 models of innerspring beds. No foam for us (I am a furnace when I sleep as it is), nothing adjustable (that’s what pillows are for), just good old fashioned springs and padding.

We were currently in possession of the second softest mattress and for some unknown reason we opted for the second firmest this time.

It was a rack. A torture device from the Spanish Inquisition. It was the floor, only a little higher.

The next day we made the immediate decision to swap out. I pined for my old mattress. It was a pillow top and it fairly hugged me when I laid down. It said, “Here, rest, read a book, I’ll take care of you.” This new guy? He said, “Lay down, shut up, don’t move.” He was much nicer in the store.

So we went back.

Why is Original Mattress Factory my favorite mattress store?

  1. There are no pushy sales people, there are no deals ‘just for you, just for today.’
  2. They have an agreeable exchange policy. You have a year to decide if you love your new mattress. If you don’t, exchange it for something else. Pay the difference if the new one is more and 20% of the original price.
  3. The delivery and set up guys are the nicest most respectful and efficient delivery people I’ve ever encountered.
  4. They recycle their mattresses. They do not sell used. The Mustard Seed takes the mattresses apart and sells off the parts to make money. This matters to me.
  5. They will send you an email every three months to remind you to flip your mattress, because honestly who remembers?
  6. AND, if I wanted to, I could walk through the door at the back of the showroom and watch them make mattresses.

There are some great mattresses and mattress stores out there. This one just feels good to me. There are also quite a few eco-friendly options now. Many memory foam mattresses are now made with plant-based materials. All natural mattresses can be found with mostly cotton fibers. And there are still plenty of old-fashioned innerspring mattresses available with environmentally friendly materials.

Sleep is so important, more and more research is being done and whole books are being published about the benefits of a good night’s rest. Choosing a mattress is key and not always easy.

To all the mattress stores out there, a suggestion: Put each style of mattress in its own room with a door, schedule 30-minute time slots for each room so that people can spend time –  without feeling like awkward fully clothed porn stars in the middle of a showroom – on their potential 8+ year sleep mate. Ok, so maybe make the doors thin so there’s no hanky panky.

Our mattress story has a happy ending: we purchased the same model we had before. The sweet talker. Order (and sleep) has been restored.

It’s Written in Hindu, in the Stars

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A few months ago, I had my Vedic Astrology chart done. It was infinitely entertaining and confusing. In spite of that, I learned a few things about myself that may explain some of my behaviors. But isn’t that how these always go? We fit our story into the fortune to create a reason from which we gain insight.

In addition, I have been writing my book on India (for four years now, but just recently with for real earnestness) and a few of my traits are being revealed to me here as well.

Stay with me, this all relates to the purging food organizational structure trying to find peace phase I’ve been going through the past 50 years or so.

In the astrology chart it shows that my ruling deity is Yama. He is the god of death. This excited me. What I have learned in this journey is death of anything makes room for new beginnings, new life. The death of an idea, a habit, yes, even a person, creates space. I do not wish to end the lives of others, I do however like to complete things. Moment to moment our inhale dies to the exhale, day dies to night and is reborn 12 hours later. The birth of a child is the death of the pregnancy. One year dies to the next and so on.

This chart also proclaims my dharma (the thing I was born to do) as “carrying things away.” This too, made sense. My favorite creature on the whole planet is the vulture – nature’s humble janitor. THEY CARRY THINGS AWAY. Stuff we don’t want, dead stuff, so we don’t have to deal with it. It’s noble.

The writing has revealed my tendency to live my life in fragmented sentences. Grammatically this would look like … To be continued, more to come, stay tuned. Which is completely counter to carrying things away or ending them.

Balance? Harmony? Insanity?

I rush. I cram too much stuff in. I’m learning to let go of a few things on my schedule.  I’m better at prioritizing. But there’s still a lot I don’t complete.

I noticed this as I was writing about an experience in the desert of India when I was on safari with a group. We were at a park looking for interesting animals and such. When I felt we had seen everything there was to see, I was ready to go. The yoga guru I was traveling with, chose that exact moment to lay down on the hard cracked earth, knees bent, hands folded on his belly. What? Why? C’mon! I walked back to the jeep like a spoiled child denied a treat.

The pouting lasted about 10 minutes. I walked back out to where he was and stood there willing him to hop up, clap his hands and say, “let’s go.” Instead he waxed poetic about all that he could see. For about 20 more minutes. I surrendered – mostly because I didn’t have a choice. When we finally did make it back to our jeeps to leave, the sky turned a brilliant orange. The setting ball of fire filtered through unseen pollution created a magical show for us. That we would have missed had my Vulcan mind meld worked.

I’m great at beginnings. I am an ideator, an instigator, a starter. Initiation is my wheelhouse. Implementation so-so. Completion? Let’s just call that an area of opportunity.

This purging, ordering, organizing, cataloging seems like a reaction to this fragmentation and a fulfillment of my dharma all at once. I am carrying away the stuff I no longer need. Or want. The physical and the energetic – if you believe in that hokum – are being distributed among friends, thrift stores and ebay.

It’s another project started that I intend to see through.

It seems the less stuff I have the more space there will be to complete those sentences. To sit still and notice. To be where I am when I am.

To stay for the sunset.

 

 

21 Day Challenge – Day 12 – My Dosha Made Me Do It

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I promised at the beginning of this mini-odyssey that I would address the ancient science of Ayurveda. Ayurveda tells us we should consume no more than 3 meals a day. No snacks. The body needs time to digest each meal before consuming the next. We should only eat when we are hungry. This keeps the digestive fires, known as agni, stoked so the digestive tract works according to plan.

It is a science as old as yoga itself and equally complex. There is so much to know that I couldn’t tell you even all I know, which is a fraction, in an entire book.

I can tell you there are three body constitutions known as doshas. You are born with your dosha and it never changes. You likely have all three body constitutions resident within you to varying degrees and at times they become out of balance. Ayurveda is the science of bringing everything into balance. Over and over again.

Here’s the quick and dirty on the doshas:

Vata: (pronounced Vah-Tah) is associated with Winter. Vata types are typically very small or very tall with a small frame. They are usually thin, but may not be if they’re out of balance. Their personalities are airy and light and they sometimes need help getting grounded. Out of balance they can be very scattered and even forget to eat. (I have no Vata in me.)

Pitta: (pronounced Pit-Ah) is associated with Summer. Pitta is your Type A personality. Their frame is average, height average and weight usually average. They make strong athletes and can become obsessed with exercise or competition. They are get-it-done people sometimes to their detriment. When balanced they are focused and in charge. (Here’s where you’ll find me most of the time.)

Kapha: (pronounced Kah-Fah) is associated with Spring. Everybody loves a Kapha. They are grounded and calm. Kapha body type is usually bigger, not necessarily overweight, but it is easy for them to gain weight. Athletically, they are your long distance runners or swimmers. They have great endurance when they are balanced. Out of balance they can be lazy, overweight and even depressed. (And meet the side of me that convinces the pitta part of me to relax, sit on the couch and have a piece of chocolate.)

I am a Pitta/Kapha. They are nearly equal, pitta edging kapha out by a hair. Herein we find all my challenges. Pitta plans and is focused. We’re gonna get stuff done. Kapha saunters in and says, “What’s your hurry? Let’s look out the window and ponder all this activity for a moment.”

They fight it out. Kapha’s pretty convincing. But Pitta has been going to the gym so she’s gaining strength and able to resist the enticements of Kapha.

If this science interests you, I highly recommend you investigate it for yourself. There are many books on the topic. Deepak Chopra is one of the most familiar. He often uses the Sanskrit words for things so it can be a little daunting.

If you can get past that, or if you’re comfortable with another language, go for it. If you think it might be frustrating for you, my favorite Ayurveda author is Dr. John Douillard. He worked with Deepak for many years. His approach is completely western and easily understood. The 3 Season Diet is the book I like.

It is a vast, vast topic. If you can locate an Ayurveda practitioner in your area, they can tell you your dosha and help you find balance and decipher this healing art whose name literally translates to Science of Life.

 

21 Day Challenge – Day 2 – Yoga a go go

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There is nothing quite like yoga to tell you what’s going on in your body. Even the gentlest class can reveal secret tight places and hidden tension.

Today I did a level I/II hatha class, it’s one of my favorites. The postures are familiar but not always easy and the pace is just right for my attention span.

However doing side plank the day after working out the back and arms – or back and bi’s as us gym rats call it – may not be so wise.  My arms felt like paint inside the mixer-upper thing at Home Depot. I found a muscle I didn’t know existed and still can’t seem to locate on any diagram. I believe it is an unchartered area of my tricep. It’s unhappy with its newly awakened state.

Although I own a yoga studio, have taught for over five years and have practiced longer than that, yoga and I still have some stuff to work out. I am in love with the philosophy and could talk spirituality all day, but the asana portion, the postures, they challenge me on so many levels.

There are eight limbs in yoga, only one of them, the third one, is about postures. The rest include a code of conduct in how to be in the world, breathwork, and a few on various forms of meditation. They are all necessary. Even the postures.

It’s not that they’re too difficult, although there are many I cannot do, it’s the pace, the holding. I like to move. I love to dance. I like to walk and swim and ride bikes. Standing still with my arms extended and one knee deeply bent for a few breaths has my mind wandering, chattering, disagreeing with the whole notion that this is necessary.

And it’s that reason alone, that it is. I have to become at peace with where I am. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Yoga does that. I can curse the teacher for making me hold a posture, making up stories about how it’s wrong, this particular posture should never be held this long, someone’s going to hurt themselves, and what’s with the breathing? Stop reminding me to breathe.

And then we’re done.

I am standing still, lost in sensation in my body, swimming blissfully in the energy just released from holding that godforsaken posture.

I am open, my mind is quiet (temporarily, but still) and I am at ease. Yoga is stilling the fluctuations of the mind. It is quieting the mental chatter by giving the body a little tension – in the best possible way – and moving the thoughts out of the head into the muscles, then out all together.

It just works.

Even though I know this, even though I will be back the next day or two, or on my mat at home, I will suffer the same process.

And in the end I will be grateful for it. Again and again.

[Photo credit: Allison L. Andersen. Taken in Daman, India. She’s facing the Arabian Sea as she does her variation of saluting the sun.]

 

Witches Brew

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Daily Prompt: Captain Picard was into Earl Grey tea; mention the Dude and we think: White Russians. What’s your signature beverage – and how did it achieve that status?

I wish I could tell you I’m never seen without my trusty water bottle or a bucket of green juice, but I can’t in good conscience.

Instead I can be caught with any number of liquids.

In the morning, it’s my own personal brew. A blend of dark and  lighter roast coffees from exotic origins.  The hot magma sends tendrils of steam upward, tickling my olfactory senses  and I begin to swoon. A dash of cinnamon, a teaspoon “or so” of organic raw sugar and a plop of organic half and half complete the alchemy.

I breathe deeply once  with the cup cradled in both hands, its precious contents at the ready. On that first intake I can feel the blood in my veins beginning to warm, animating the cells in my body, sparking the flint in my brain, cranking the gears to life. It’s necessary, medicine really. And there might be more than one cup.

Around lunch time I usually reach for that quintessential southern delicacy known as ‘Sweetea.’ On occasion water. On rare occasions. Not really very often at all.

In the evening, f I am going to imbibe, and often I am, it’s going to be a Pinot Noir. Deciding to have a glass of wine sends a message to the brain creating an internal environment to relax. A Mona Lisa smile begins to tug at the corners of my mouth as I twist the cork out of the bottle. That ‘pop’ signals my salivary glands to prepare for that first hint of bitterness. Yet I wait, I give the bottle a few minutes to acclimate, then I pour. This too requires a few moments.

It’s foreplay.

At that first sip my taste buds spring to life. I can feel the dark liquid slide down my throat and spread like warm fingers throughout my torso, hugging me. I sigh, lean back, take another sip then set the glass down as the day’s edges begin to soften.

When I’m in India I can’t get enough Chai. Jamaica, Sorrell tea and ok, Red Stripe. Whole Foods, Green Dream. Hindu temple, mango lassi. I don’t drink soda or nearly enough water. I get far too many calories from my liquids and entirely too much pleasure.

If I had to let go of any of these, for just a little while I hope, I could. Everything but the coffee, just one cup. Like I said, it’s medicine.