I was reading about the infamous "methane blob" hovering high in the skies over my beloved town of Durango and decided I had to do something about it. My temperment leans more towards Edward Abbey than Bernie Sanders, but a degree in Political Science and four years of working with an environmental protection group has taught me that the keyboard is far more effective than the monkey wrench in the long run. So I went looking for who was involved in trying to suck that gas out of the sky and discovered the website for San Juan Citizens Alliance. They have a short, informative section on the blob, where it is, where it came from and what NASA and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration has to say about it, and what you and I, as concerned citizens of the planet earth can do about it. You can take a look at this for yourself here: https://salsa4.salsalabs.com/o/51166/p/salsa/donation/common/public/?donate_page_KEY=9406&okay=true
The four corners may seem a long way away but the methane is not just in the four corners. Methane is a green house gas and it's currently eating away at our atmosphere, all for want of the oil & gas industry keeping their equipment maintained and up to date. Unfortunately, they don't want to bother with it, because, they're crazy and greedy, so we have to persuade them. By creating federal and state laws. But first, we have to persuade the government to persuade them. What to do? The easiest and most effective thing you can do is use the form letter right there on the San Juan Citizens Alliance site, slightly adapted to not only voice your own concerns in your own voice, but also to distinguish your submission so it carries more weight than the typical form letter, though even a form letter with your signature is better than no signature at all. Do what you want, but, golly, sure would be nice if you could do something, right? Reminder: Go to the website above for the easy peazy form letter.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Thursday, October 20, 2016
The Durango Rant
A few weeks ago, I went down and had a banner weekend. I saw all kinds of people I love, and they all expressed great love for me. Everywhere I went there was warmth and beauty. I wanted to go home. I wanted to go home so badly I envisioned my family happily tip toeing around a thousand foot shack just for the joy of breathing in that clean mountain air and snuggling in that odd little community. Especially after I returned to Erie, Colorado where the number of social invitations, not counting trunk parties, can practically be counted on one hand...in three years. Either the people in Erie are really busy, or they just don't know what to do with me. I've had parties and when I have them, almost everybody comes, so I'm not completely unlikable, but still...going back to a town where I've established zero real roots, coming back from a town where everyone seemed to love me seemed like a big flag. I asked Darren to call his old employer and see if the door was still open. It is. Urgently.
But then something happened over the last month or so. I became okay with the loneliness because of all the cool things living between the cities has to offer. Denver and Boulder vibrate, and I don't mean that in a vortex-y kind of way. There are constantly interesting things happening and I suddenly didn't mind doing them alone. I actually embraced it. A bluebelt in Taekwondo, the mental strength of surviving and thriving in embryonic waters where most people drown and the physical strength gained from having hobbies that are physically demanding have given me the confidence to go almost anywhere at any time without fear. And after trying to cultivate friendships for three years and having my efforts go unmet, I had to wrestle with the ole is it me or is it them and I've concluded it's them. There's nothing wrong with them. I don't mean that. We're just different kinds of people with different kinds of interests. When outlining the list of dinner party guests, it might be difficult to figure out where to put me. Good or bad, I've never really had a very good social censor. I'll say damn near anything that comes to mind. You just never know what that might be, and if I'm in a bad mood, well, those two characteristics just don't mesh well. I think you have to be a little bit odd yourself to really feel comfortable around me. In that regard, it's probably my loss, missing out on some pretty sweet people. I've tried to tamp it down a bit but when I do, I just feel so inauthentic. So fake. And for some reason, that's worse to me than loneliness. In Durango, no offense me dearies, but their all pretty much oddballs so I don't really stand out. Durango has a bunch of Peter Pan, Never-Wanna-Grow-Ups. And I love them for it.
And what does Erie have? Well, it's the place between the two vibrating cities. I have a house that I absolutely adore with really cool neighbors in an awesome neighborhood, just a few blocks from an award winning school full of people my daughter loves. New neighbors have moved in and not only is the whole neighborhood gaga for these kind folks but they have three of the sweetest children and my daughter loves them. She finally has friends down the street she can run and giggle with. Any night of the week, I can find something cool to do, although I usually end up doing whatever it is alone. It's a great place to launch my writing career, with plenty of bookstores and cultural events. My husband has a great job with a great company working for good people, though the workload is a bit much and he can't make it to many of Nila's special events, but they are a far better company than a lot of other firms and treat their people pretty well. We can ALWAYS find something new and cool to do as a family and we have a couple of parent night out events we can use when Darren and I want a date. Durango has zero. We'd have to find a baby sitter. That's scary and scarce. We're becoming less daunted by long drives to the places we love but sometimes the traffic to get out of here is unbelievable. I'd like to have a place where i can have chickens and bees and that might be difficult of score around Boulder. I thought this semi-public (if anyone actually read it) rant might help me clarify where my heart truly lies...but damn't. Still going back and forth and it's time for me to wrap this up. If anyone reads this, please feel free to throw in your two cents.
Thursday, October 6, 2016
10.6.2016 Writing Workout from Pinker's Sense of Style
Crisis conditions are escalating between the United States of America and Russia, or so one Facebook friend tells me. I'd like to dismiss it as a knee-jerk alarmist flinging out a hyperlink to a ratings-hungry "news" site who's source may have no more basis than imagination and extrapolation, except that the source is near unimpeachable. He's quirky, but, dammit, he's also smart. Really smart. Like more than most of the people on the planet. Except me, of course ;).
And he's an accuracy stickler. He's corrected me more than once when I've had my own outraged, knee-jerk, link-flinging-without-fact-checking moments of weakness. So, unfortunately, where I could just scan right passed most alarmist's posts from biased sources such as military.com or occupydemocrats.com, I knew I had to read passed the headline.
What I read, made me wonder about every moment of my days that squander precious time and energy on reading ingredient labels (except for wheat--no need to suffer immediately), comparing sales prices, saving every penny possible for a future that I might not need to worry too much about. Then again I might.
The Cold War, the war that was a mental anguish of wondering when, oh when, would the Russians strike and char our bones or the bones of someone we loved, was not so long ago, But one of its lessons may still prevail: The war of mental anguish were years that kept adults and children alike fretfully awake and chronically frightened. And then, through no efforts of our own as individual citizens, but doubtlessly at enormous effort by some frazzled diplomat, the gossamer monster just slowly faded away to be replaced with the next fear that could capture the national attention.
I don't remember what that was,
But now, here we are in 2016 and the malevolent specter of nuclear attack from Russia rises up to frighten a new generation of Americans. For those of us who lived during the Cold War, even if only the tail end, the fright is probably not as powerful. We've heard this all before. We fretted, we cried, we prayed, and nothing ever happened, but we wasted a good many nights lying awake, terrified. Jumping at storm sirens.
But what of the new generation of youngsters who've reached the 'age of reason' but might not have covered The Cold War in their history classes (which, sadly, is more likely than it should be)? They've got to be scared to death. I'm scared enough myself to put at least one end-of-the-world pebble in my store of decision scale pebbles. The world seems mad. But here's the thing. It always has. And right this moment the world is the absolute best it's ever been. There is more freedom, more equality, and less war and crime than there ever has been in recorded history. If we can face down this latest fear-mongering, be it a legitimate cause or not, with a few more tweaks, we may be on the verge of a really cool future.
Crisis conditions are escalating between the United States of America and Russia, or so one Facebook friend tells me. I'd like to dismiss it as a knee-jerk alarmist flinging out a hyperlink to a ratings-hungry "news" site who's source may have no more basis than imagination and extrapolation, except that the source is near unimpeachable. He's quirky, but, dammit, he's also smart. Really smart. Like more than most of the people on the planet. Except me, of course ;).
And he's an accuracy stickler. He's corrected me more than once when I've had my own outraged, knee-jerk, link-flinging-without-fact-checking moments of weakness. So, unfortunately, where I could just scan right passed most alarmist's posts from biased sources such as military.com or occupydemocrats.com, I knew I had to read passed the headline.
What I read, made me wonder about every moment of my days that squander precious time and energy on reading ingredient labels (except for wheat--no need to suffer immediately), comparing sales prices, saving every penny possible for a future that I might not need to worry too much about. Then again I might.
The Cold War, the war that was a mental anguish of wondering when, oh when, would the Russians strike and char our bones or the bones of someone we loved, was not so long ago, But one of its lessons may still prevail: The war of mental anguish were years that kept adults and children alike fretfully awake and chronically frightened. And then, through no efforts of our own as individual citizens, but doubtlessly at enormous effort by some frazzled diplomat, the gossamer monster just slowly faded away to be replaced with the next fear that could capture the national attention.
I don't remember what that was,
But now, here we are in 2016 and the malevolent specter of nuclear attack from Russia rises up to frighten a new generation of Americans. For those of us who lived during the Cold War, even if only the tail end, the fright is probably not as powerful. We've heard this all before. We fretted, we cried, we prayed, and nothing ever happened, but we wasted a good many nights lying awake, terrified. Jumping at storm sirens.
But what of the new generation of youngsters who've reached the 'age of reason' but might not have covered The Cold War in their history classes (which, sadly, is more likely than it should be)? They've got to be scared to death. I'm scared enough myself to put at least one end-of-the-world pebble in my store of decision scale pebbles. The world seems mad. But here's the thing. It always has. And right this moment the world is the absolute best it's ever been. There is more freedom, more equality, and less war and crime than there ever has been in recorded history. If we can face down this latest fear-mongering, be it a legitimate cause or not, with a few more tweaks, we may be on the verge of a really cool future.
Saturday, September 24, 2016
Stream of Conscious Saturday Ramble
I thought the title would be a good way to warn you off if you were expecting to read anything cohesive. This probably won't be. This blog is sort of like my sweaty, smelly workout room with scuffed up walls and strewn with random pieces of exercise paraphenalia that probably needs wiping down, but won't be. I like it messy in here. I like the high risk that someone might actually see this or one of the other posts and discover my many imperfections. Why? I'm not really sure. It could be the adolescent in me that never grew past her need to rebel against something or someone. perhaps a part of me that wants to flaunt my imperfections to the world and dare you to call me on it...or to love me in spite of them. Or the semi-public space (I have no idea if anyone ever actually reads this) is stimulating in a way a writer needs to be occasionally stimulated. There's a lot of alone time as a writer. Maybe I'm trying to connect to the world. I'm as baffled by me as anybody.
This morning I woke up with my very first thought being, "I did it." One of my childhood dreams was to grow up and write books. That's not the end of the dream, there's more. But this morning I woke up and said to myself, "I did it. I actually wrote a book. And it's a good one." When looking forward to this day over the years, half of them wondering if I could ever really do it, I thought that when and if I accomplished this monumental goal I'd be ecstatic. Not necessarily in the vein of "I'll be happy when...." but you know, at least feel like jumping up and down, popping open a bottle of champagne happy. But that's not how I feel. I feel very calm. Weirdly calm. Part of me wonders if I've truly integrated this new event or if it just hasn't hit me yet. Another part wonders if, with everything I've been through in my life, with over a dozen near death experiences, if in this momentous occasion excitement isn't the emotion, that for this, maybe there's a reaction longer lasting, ultimately more fulfilling, but as a lifelong adrenaline junkie, I'm having trouble feeling it. I'm pleased, it's not that I feel nothing, but for a lifelong achievement? My reaction is sort of bizarre, don't you think? Maybe I just realize my work isn't over yet. The other part of that childhood dream was to write books that helped people, especially people with similar backgrounds to me and, of course, to one day see one of my books on the best seller list. Maybe that's what I'm saving up for. Okay. It's waffle time.
I thought the title would be a good way to warn you off if you were expecting to read anything cohesive. This probably won't be. This blog is sort of like my sweaty, smelly workout room with scuffed up walls and strewn with random pieces of exercise paraphenalia that probably needs wiping down, but won't be. I like it messy in here. I like the high risk that someone might actually see this or one of the other posts and discover my many imperfections. Why? I'm not really sure. It could be the adolescent in me that never grew past her need to rebel against something or someone. perhaps a part of me that wants to flaunt my imperfections to the world and dare you to call me on it...or to love me in spite of them. Or the semi-public space (I have no idea if anyone ever actually reads this) is stimulating in a way a writer needs to be occasionally stimulated. There's a lot of alone time as a writer. Maybe I'm trying to connect to the world. I'm as baffled by me as anybody.
This morning I woke up with my very first thought being, "I did it." One of my childhood dreams was to grow up and write books. That's not the end of the dream, there's more. But this morning I woke up and said to myself, "I did it. I actually wrote a book. And it's a good one." When looking forward to this day over the years, half of them wondering if I could ever really do it, I thought that when and if I accomplished this monumental goal I'd be ecstatic. Not necessarily in the vein of "I'll be happy when...." but you know, at least feel like jumping up and down, popping open a bottle of champagne happy. But that's not how I feel. I feel very calm. Weirdly calm. Part of me wonders if I've truly integrated this new event or if it just hasn't hit me yet. Another part wonders if, with everything I've been through in my life, with over a dozen near death experiences, if in this momentous occasion excitement isn't the emotion, that for this, maybe there's a reaction longer lasting, ultimately more fulfilling, but as a lifelong adrenaline junkie, I'm having trouble feeling it. I'm pleased, it's not that I feel nothing, but for a lifelong achievement? My reaction is sort of bizarre, don't you think? Maybe I just realize my work isn't over yet. The other part of that childhood dream was to write books that helped people, especially people with similar backgrounds to me and, of course, to one day see one of my books on the best seller list. Maybe that's what I'm saving up for. Okay. It's waffle time.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Just Can't Stop Being Southern
It seems as I move into my second decade on this side of the Mason-Dixon line, I seem to unconsciously be gaining Southern traits instead of shedding them. For example, I just got myself a coon hound. Yep, and that totally wasn't on purpose and given what I've since learned, probably wouldn't have been my first choice for suburban living, but there it is. I thought about taking him back,but he really hasn't given me any good reason. Sure he's had some indoor accidents but only two so far and these were liquid not substance. Otherwise, he's been shockingly easy. He picks up something to chew, I say, "No!" and he drops it and walks away. I even managed to teach him how to sit and stay within the first 24 hours we had him. And he adores me, following me all over the house and watching every move I make with those intelligent copper eyes of his. What's more important is that Darren likes him, liked him right off the bat, and what's even more important is that Nila loves him...Especially after we watched the movie, Hachi, for family movie night, which is a sob-inducing movie about a man and his dog and the lengths the dog went for love of his master. I think the movie layered fantasy onto the reality of having a dog. This one doesn't even fetch. So far, we can't figure out how he likes to play.
Mainly he likes to lie around, preferably in my lap, and gently chew my arm. It may be because he just got neutered a few days ago and I have no idea how that would effect a dog nor for how long. Who knows, once fully recovered he may have more play in him than even Nila can handle. Fingers crossed that some of this gentle, sleepy little gentleman remains.
His ideal life, at least for the plott hound side of him--we have no idea what the rest of him is--includes tracking and hunting large animals. I'm pleased as punch if that's the case, but so far his reactions to other dogs are less than courageous. He tucks his tail, growls and backs away, but to be fair, he's still a puppy and he just got his little balls chopped off. When I'm feeling poorly sometimes my reaction to anything scary is to cower, too. Who knows who he'll be. What's so Southern about getting a dog, you ask? Well, again, he's not just a dog. He's a Coon-Hound! And he's not just a Coon-Hound, he's a Plott Coon Hound which is one of the few breeds of American Hound Dog and this particular breed originated in the hill country of North Carolina. Now as I say this next sentence, I want you to imagine that I'm saying it with a slow, soft Southern drawl: He's a coon hound from North Carolina. Can't get more Southern than that.
And speaking of Southern accents, mine seems to be coming back. When I first came to Colorado, I was teased about my Southern accent by nearly everyone and this bothered me considerably, especially when it was in a setting like a college debate about a subject for which I felt strongly, argued hard and what I thought logically, but the logic was lost in the Southern accent. Dolly Parton is all anyone heard. Instead of hearing my points, they heard a sweet, twangy Southern accent and they'd chuckle at how cute was the fuss I was making. You may say, quite kindly I'm sure, that perhaps those points I so painstakingly made weren't quite as logical as i'd hoped they'd be and that may have been the reason for the chuckles, and I have to admit, there was a part of me that feared the same. Or perhaps it was the Southern accent combined with my 18 year old, 95 lb., 5 foot 3 frame capped with two big blue eyes and a crazy amount of curly blond hair. But then I pulled a pygmalion. I wrestled my accent and slowly began reshaping the way I pronounced words until I could argue points in something that hearkened Boston more than Dixie and something miraculous happened. Suddenly, what I said seemed to start having merit and instead of looks of amusement when I argued, people actually putting on their thinking faces and considered what I had to say. Even my grades went up! Now I did cut my hair and started dressing a bit more grown up, too, so I have to concede that there may have been an overall metamorphosis aimed at being taken more seriously, but nonetheless, what had changed wasn't my mind or my beliefs. Only my appearance had changed.
Recently we moved from the Southern Rockies to the Northern Rockies, and something seems to have triggered almost a regression, though I hope not. I hope it's more of a drive for full authenticity, but accent seems to be making a comeback...And I'm letting my hair go a little wild again. Yet, my intelligence, I hope, has grown. As I struggle to elbow my way into graduate school I've actually considered a more serious haircut and to trample that Southern accent back down, but the idea kind of pisses me off, at the same time.
Back when I was 18 and struggling to survive in the world, revamping my persona for the sake of better school grades and life-sustaining jobs was definitely the right call, but what of now? This article doesn't have a conclusion. It was done stream of conscious style, as are all of these entries. It's what I use this blog for, what i call High Stakes Blogging, because I don't rewrite anything and it's actually out there in the event that anyone ever reads it. Somehow I feel this public exhibitionism spurs a more satisfying writing experience. At any rate, this is the time allotted for writing today. If you'll excuse me, now I have to go home and take my dog for a walk.
It seems as I move into my second decade on this side of the Mason-Dixon line, I seem to unconsciously be gaining Southern traits instead of shedding them. For example, I just got myself a coon hound. Yep, and that totally wasn't on purpose and given what I've since learned, probably wouldn't have been my first choice for suburban living, but there it is. I thought about taking him back,but he really hasn't given me any good reason. Sure he's had some indoor accidents but only two so far and these were liquid not substance. Otherwise, he's been shockingly easy. He picks up something to chew, I say, "No!" and he drops it and walks away. I even managed to teach him how to sit and stay within the first 24 hours we had him. And he adores me, following me all over the house and watching every move I make with those intelligent copper eyes of his. What's more important is that Darren likes him, liked him right off the bat, and what's even more important is that Nila loves him...Especially after we watched the movie, Hachi, for family movie night, which is a sob-inducing movie about a man and his dog and the lengths the dog went for love of his master. I think the movie layered fantasy onto the reality of having a dog. This one doesn't even fetch. So far, we can't figure out how he likes to play.
Mainly he likes to lie around, preferably in my lap, and gently chew my arm. It may be because he just got neutered a few days ago and I have no idea how that would effect a dog nor for how long. Who knows, once fully recovered he may have more play in him than even Nila can handle. Fingers crossed that some of this gentle, sleepy little gentleman remains.
His ideal life, at least for the plott hound side of him--we have no idea what the rest of him is--includes tracking and hunting large animals. I'm pleased as punch if that's the case, but so far his reactions to other dogs are less than courageous. He tucks his tail, growls and backs away, but to be fair, he's still a puppy and he just got his little balls chopped off. When I'm feeling poorly sometimes my reaction to anything scary is to cower, too. Who knows who he'll be. What's so Southern about getting a dog, you ask? Well, again, he's not just a dog. He's a Coon-Hound! And he's not just a Coon-Hound, he's a Plott Coon Hound which is one of the few breeds of American Hound Dog and this particular breed originated in the hill country of North Carolina. Now as I say this next sentence, I want you to imagine that I'm saying it with a slow, soft Southern drawl: He's a coon hound from North Carolina. Can't get more Southern than that.
And speaking of Southern accents, mine seems to be coming back. When I first came to Colorado, I was teased about my Southern accent by nearly everyone and this bothered me considerably, especially when it was in a setting like a college debate about a subject for which I felt strongly, argued hard and what I thought logically, but the logic was lost in the Southern accent. Dolly Parton is all anyone heard. Instead of hearing my points, they heard a sweet, twangy Southern accent and they'd chuckle at how cute was the fuss I was making. You may say, quite kindly I'm sure, that perhaps those points I so painstakingly made weren't quite as logical as i'd hoped they'd be and that may have been the reason for the chuckles, and I have to admit, there was a part of me that feared the same. Or perhaps it was the Southern accent combined with my 18 year old, 95 lb., 5 foot 3 frame capped with two big blue eyes and a crazy amount of curly blond hair. But then I pulled a pygmalion. I wrestled my accent and slowly began reshaping the way I pronounced words until I could argue points in something that hearkened Boston more than Dixie and something miraculous happened. Suddenly, what I said seemed to start having merit and instead of looks of amusement when I argued, people actually putting on their thinking faces and considered what I had to say. Even my grades went up! Now I did cut my hair and started dressing a bit more grown up, too, so I have to concede that there may have been an overall metamorphosis aimed at being taken more seriously, but nonetheless, what had changed wasn't my mind or my beliefs. Only my appearance had changed.
Recently we moved from the Southern Rockies to the Northern Rockies, and something seems to have triggered almost a regression, though I hope not. I hope it's more of a drive for full authenticity, but accent seems to be making a comeback...And I'm letting my hair go a little wild again. Yet, my intelligence, I hope, has grown. As I struggle to elbow my way into graduate school I've actually considered a more serious haircut and to trample that Southern accent back down, but the idea kind of pisses me off, at the same time.
Back when I was 18 and struggling to survive in the world, revamping my persona for the sake of better school grades and life-sustaining jobs was definitely the right call, but what of now? This article doesn't have a conclusion. It was done stream of conscious style, as are all of these entries. It's what I use this blog for, what i call High Stakes Blogging, because I don't rewrite anything and it's actually out there in the event that anyone ever reads it. Somehow I feel this public exhibitionism spurs a more satisfying writing experience. At any rate, this is the time allotted for writing today. If you'll excuse me, now I have to go home and take my dog for a walk.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Back to the Vinyasa
So Nila and I have reached an accord. She's sitting on the couch a few feet away watching the Berenstein Bears while I rat-tat-tat on my exercise routine over here.
I've been wanting to stream-o' about something I've been experiencing as of late in my yoga. I could start a few years ago when I went for my training and certification at Shoshoni. In addition to practicing six hours of yoga a day, we also practiced 2 hours of meditation a day. Towards the end of my certification, I began to experience this sort of internal 'wa-wa' feeling, as if there were an energetic line inside of me that moved in undulating waves, sometimes forward and backward, sometimes side to side. I was told by my teachers to pay no attention to it and not be distracted from the meditation. So several years later, yet several months past I was meditating and had that sensation but it felt much more intense as if my physical body was moving like a metronome and when I cracked open my eyes I was shocked to see that I was, quite physically, and quite extremely moving my upper body like a metronome. I did a little research and talked to a few people but I really didn't get any answers that felt right, or resonated with me. Course there was all kind of stuff online about Kundalini yoga, but I don't practice Kundalini yoga, nor do I subscribe to all of those beliefs. It didn't happen on such an extreme level again so I let it go
Last week, I was doing my own yoga session and just following my instincts when I came out of a wheel pose, shaking and feeling both scared and on the verge of tears. It wasn't that I'd done anything bad for my body, I didn't over do anything. So I decided to just lie on my back and breathe into my belly until the sensations passed. What happened next was even more surprising. I had what is best described as a flashback. It was the memory of my 13th birthday when my parents got divorced and I was on our front porch while my mother screamed at my father to leave, not allowing him or my sister to talk to me. the image of my mother, father and sister was still blurry, but what I saw clearly were the pebbles in the front porch, the dirt in the garden. I realized that that memory was of a pivotal time, and what I feel is that it is part of a healing process.
On the one hand I want to get to the healing as fast as possible, while internally, I know, that's not how it works. Yoga can't be used that way. All of the gifts I have received through yoga were not gifts that could have been sought, but ones that came as a side effect of practice. Since I have the belief that no religion or spirituality on the planet really has everything all figure out, that includes even my beloved yoga, though I actually tend to regard yoga as almost more science. So I don't altogether understand what is happening or how and it's almost frustrating realizing that I may never have the answers, may not fully understand. Yet I believe I'll have no problem accepting these mystery gifts, either.
that's it for today. I don't think I can let Nila sit there watching t.v. anylonger. The fingers have moved far more rapid than in a normal story construction and that's what needed to happen. This vinayasa is complete.
I've been wanting to stream-o' about something I've been experiencing as of late in my yoga. I could start a few years ago when I went for my training and certification at Shoshoni. In addition to practicing six hours of yoga a day, we also practiced 2 hours of meditation a day. Towards the end of my certification, I began to experience this sort of internal 'wa-wa' feeling, as if there were an energetic line inside of me that moved in undulating waves, sometimes forward and backward, sometimes side to side. I was told by my teachers to pay no attention to it and not be distracted from the meditation. So several years later, yet several months past I was meditating and had that sensation but it felt much more intense as if my physical body was moving like a metronome and when I cracked open my eyes I was shocked to see that I was, quite physically, and quite extremely moving my upper body like a metronome. I did a little research and talked to a few people but I really didn't get any answers that felt right, or resonated with me. Course there was all kind of stuff online about Kundalini yoga, but I don't practice Kundalini yoga, nor do I subscribe to all of those beliefs. It didn't happen on such an extreme level again so I let it go
Last week, I was doing my own yoga session and just following my instincts when I came out of a wheel pose, shaking and feeling both scared and on the verge of tears. It wasn't that I'd done anything bad for my body, I didn't over do anything. So I decided to just lie on my back and breathe into my belly until the sensations passed. What happened next was even more surprising. I had what is best described as a flashback. It was the memory of my 13th birthday when my parents got divorced and I was on our front porch while my mother screamed at my father to leave, not allowing him or my sister to talk to me. the image of my mother, father and sister was still blurry, but what I saw clearly were the pebbles in the front porch, the dirt in the garden. I realized that that memory was of a pivotal time, and what I feel is that it is part of a healing process.
On the one hand I want to get to the healing as fast as possible, while internally, I know, that's not how it works. Yoga can't be used that way. All of the gifts I have received through yoga were not gifts that could have been sought, but ones that came as a side effect of practice. Since I have the belief that no religion or spirituality on the planet really has everything all figure out, that includes even my beloved yoga, though I actually tend to regard yoga as almost more science. So I don't altogether understand what is happening or how and it's almost frustrating realizing that I may never have the answers, may not fully understand. Yet I believe I'll have no problem accepting these mystery gifts, either.
that's it for today. I don't think I can let Nila sit there watching t.v. anylonger. The fingers have moved far more rapid than in a normal story construction and that's what needed to happen. This vinayasa is complete.
Verbal Vinyasa
I've found that every now and then I have to dance on this page, and dance without steps or much direction. If I spend all of my writing time in the construction of a story or working on a project, then it's like building up only the big muscles while letting the smaller, yet vital support muscles atrophy. I try to use a journal, too, but I've noticed that using only a pen and paper to do stream of consciousness sets me free on paper when I've got writer's block, but then I have to transcribe whatever I wrote onto the computer and that takes something more precious and rare than a good massage: TIME. These day's I can't afford extra steps on anything, so I'm bellying back up to the blog bar this afternoon while my sweet angel naps upstairs for quite possibly only another 10 minutes. So something I've been wanting to stream of consciousness about...unbelievable, she just woke up. Maybe I can play bad parent and plop her in front of a movie. Those of you without kids shriek, "Not the television as babysitter!" Those of you with kids sigh, "I hear ya."
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