My first experience with yoga was when I was in the fourth grade. My mom was taking a weekly yoga class at the town's recreation center. I knew absolutely nothing about yoga -- or what people even did while at yoga -- aside from the fact that sometimes people sat cross-legged with their eyes closed and their thumb and index fingers touching (and somehow this was "meditation"). I decided to try said "meditation" during school while my teacher was passing out a test (because I had heard somewhere that meditation can help you focus and I really, really wanted an A on that test).
As you can imagine, a 10-year-old with her eyes closed, thumb and index fingers touching and legs crossed awkwardly under her desk caught the attention of everyone in the class. The classroom reactions was split pretty much down the middle: half had no idea what I was doing and the other half thought I was trying to talk to the dead. I had absolutely no answers to give them, so instead I got red in the face until the teacher asked everyone to quiet down and start their test.
For the record, I have absolutely no memory of how I did on that test.
My mom eventually traded in yoga for Jazzercise and I didn't have any additional experience with yoga until I was in college. There's a joke that there's a time and a place for everything, and that time/place is college. I knew that the university's gym offered yoga classes, but the idea of being in a yoga class for a solid hour -- sometimes even an hour and a half -- seemed absurdly daunting. I mean, for crying at loud: I wasn't even in the gym for an hour.
But I wanted to try it out for the same reason why I wanted to try sushi and go abroad for a semester: I had never done it before and I wanted to see what the big fuss was about. So I decided to go online and find a few ten- and twenty-minute classes on YouTube. I was lucky enough to find a few yoga instructors who had a very, well, approachable approach to yoga. This would eventually evolve into me taking a wide variety of classes, from power yoga to kripalu and back again. I was trying to figure out what I should be getting out of yoga: was I supposed to experience enlightenment during savasana? Am I failure if I fidget instead? Is this just a nice workout and stretch? At what point do my heels actually come down and my back actually straightens while in down dog?
It took a few years and a lot of messing around at home on my own yoga mat before I realized quite possibly the most important thing to realize with yoga: yoga is exactly what you make of it and exactly what you need it to be.
Are you going to yoga class because you need something to balance out a stressful day? Awesome. Are you going to yoga class because all your friends are doing it and you're curious as to what it's about? Great. Are you doing this yoga sequence purely to warm up your muscles and joints to prevent injury? Have at it. No judgements, no assumptions.
Do you need yoga to be a mental experience, a spiritual experience, a physical experience, or some combination of the three? Whatever you need it to be, it is.
My goal as a yoga instructor is to produce that same amount of warmth and approachability that so many "YouTube Yogis" would put forth. I want to welcome in the person who, in the fourth grade, thought yoga was a way to talk to the dead. I want the person who rolls their eyes at the idea of chakras and I want the person who genuinely wonders if "opening her heart chakra" will help her feel better about an issue at hand. I want those with perfect ujjayi breath and I want those who panic over the idea of constricting the back of their throat. I want to make my classes approachable and fun and open enough that students can take whatever they need to take from the class.
I remember going on a YouTube video and seeing this novel-length comment about how this particular video was a fraud because the instructor didn't emphasize ujjayi breath and how it's not "real yoga" unless you are doing ujjayi breath. And I couldn't help but think of all the people who typically get turned away and turned off from yoga because of guys like that. Guys who treat yoga like this exclusive club, ready and willing to berate those who fall short of the requirements, letting you know what "real" yoga is or isn't.
As a yoga instructor, I hope I can be a counterbalance to that. I hope that, bare minimum, I can show people that yoga is exactly what you need it to be, the same way the poses are exactly what you need it to be through the variations and modifications (or through doing a completely different move instead). I want to foster growth, but never force it.
Yoga is exactly what you make of it, and exactly what you need it to be. And that will differ from day to day, hour to hour, even pose by pose. And there's nothing wrong with needing something different or something that is off the beaten path. Acceptance, understanding, and growth. If nothing else, that's what I want to have in my class.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Day 237 of 365: Off the Grid
It's the little things that remind you how good you have it. Or used to have it.
Take, for instance, a dishwasher, or a washer/dryer in the same unit as you. My husband's first apartment -- deep in the heart ofSlummerville Somerville -- had no dishwasher. You realize just how awesome it is -- just how much work you are relieved of -- when you have a dishwasher. Our Nashua apartment had no washer/dryer in the unit and we had to trug our stuff out to the "community room" to wash our clothes. Even though we were maybe 10 steps from said "community room", it was still a chore to end all chores, making us opine about our apartment on the North Shore, even though it was grossly overpriced.
Living in a small town means, more likely than not, your home is barely on the grid. And by that, I mean the only thing that the town really supplies directly to you is electricity. In the city/dense suburbs, everything comes in through an intricate set of pipes. When you're out in the woods so to speak, laying that pipe makes no sense. The ROI is next to zero. So instead, we get our water from a well, we get our heat from a tank, and we have a septic system. And, since most garbage disposals are not septic-system-friendly, we went the first 6+ months of homeownership without one.
You forget just how good it is to have a garbage disposal in your sink until you are sans disposal. Suddenly, you're emptying out the strainer every damn day. You cringe when you make rice or quinoa because you know that means an extra strainer-cleaning.
We used some of our tax-return money to invest in a septic-system-friendly disposal. My husband expertly installed it and, as of last night, we are back to being civilized people. I diced up potatoes as part of dinner yesterday and tossed the bruised ends into the sink, just on principle alone.
Even though living away from central pipeline comes with its own set of disadvantages (like we can't run the dishwasher and washing machine at the same time, lest we overflow our septic system), I absolutely love it. Maybe it's because part of me eyes modern civilization, knowing full well that all this shit could collapse at any second. Maybe I just like being self-sufficient. But I like having my house be almost entirely off the grid. If I could (and we had the money for it), we'd have solar panels on our roof (potentially removing the need for city-delivered electricity). In fact, while I wistfully dream of owning condos in every corner of the world, my husband dreams of building a second house that is entirely off the grid.
But then again, this really shouldn't come as any surprise to anyone who knows me (or my husband): I like being independent in that way, a part of the pack on a voluntary basis, but otherwise striking it out on their own. The same reason why I cringed at "group projects" or anything that involved working alongside anyone else.
And one of the things I love about living in New Hampshire is how close the boonies can be to civilization. The same way you drive half an hour away from any of the major cities and be in the forests (and, once you get to Manchester and Concord, it's not even a 30-minute drive; cross the border and you can hit the sticks), the forests are only a quick drive to back to civilization. I can get to "Manch-vegas" in less time than it takes me to find parking in Boston. I can be part of the crowd on a very easy and very convenient voluntary basis.
It's always interesting how I keep taking these mundane things that happen and spinning them into broader viewpoints on my life. You can just call me the JD of the blogosphere. Because I'm about as adept at this as the writers from Scrubs. I'll let you decide if I'm complimenting or insulting myself.
Take, for instance, a dishwasher, or a washer/dryer in the same unit as you. My husband's first apartment -- deep in the heart of
Living in a small town means, more likely than not, your home is barely on the grid. And by that, I mean the only thing that the town really supplies directly to you is electricity. In the city/dense suburbs, everything comes in through an intricate set of pipes. When you're out in the woods so to speak, laying that pipe makes no sense. The ROI is next to zero. So instead, we get our water from a well, we get our heat from a tank, and we have a septic system. And, since most garbage disposals are not septic-system-friendly, we went the first 6+ months of homeownership without one.
You forget just how good it is to have a garbage disposal in your sink until you are sans disposal. Suddenly, you're emptying out the strainer every damn day. You cringe when you make rice or quinoa because you know that means an extra strainer-cleaning.
We used some of our tax-return money to invest in a septic-system-friendly disposal. My husband expertly installed it and, as of last night, we are back to being civilized people. I diced up potatoes as part of dinner yesterday and tossed the bruised ends into the sink, just on principle alone.
Even though living away from central pipeline comes with its own set of disadvantages (like we can't run the dishwasher and washing machine at the same time, lest we overflow our septic system), I absolutely love it. Maybe it's because part of me eyes modern civilization, knowing full well that all this shit could collapse at any second. Maybe I just like being self-sufficient. But I like having my house be almost entirely off the grid. If I could (and we had the money for it), we'd have solar panels on our roof (potentially removing the need for city-delivered electricity). In fact, while I wistfully dream of owning condos in every corner of the world, my husband dreams of building a second house that is entirely off the grid.
But then again, this really shouldn't come as any surprise to anyone who knows me (or my husband): I like being independent in that way, a part of the pack on a voluntary basis, but otherwise striking it out on their own. The same reason why I cringed at "group projects" or anything that involved working alongside anyone else.
And one of the things I love about living in New Hampshire is how close the boonies can be to civilization. The same way you drive half an hour away from any of the major cities and be in the forests (and, once you get to Manchester and Concord, it's not even a 30-minute drive; cross the border and you can hit the sticks), the forests are only a quick drive to back to civilization. I can get to "Manch-vegas" in less time than it takes me to find parking in Boston. I can be part of the crowd on a very easy and very convenient voluntary basis.
It's always interesting how I keep taking these mundane things that happen and spinning them into broader viewpoints on my life. You can just call me the JD of the blogosphere. Because I'm about as adept at this as the writers from Scrubs. I'll let you decide if I'm complimenting or insulting myself.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Day 236 of 365: Fun Money
I'll be the first to admit that my husband and I really lucked out after I graduated college: we never had to budget.
Neither of us had an absurd amount of student debt (his parents helped out a considerable amount; I had scholarship and co-op money to soften the blow, and my mom used part of the estate she inherited from her own mother to help me with my loans) and neither of us had issues finding employment in our fields of interest. Especially once we moved out to New Hampshire (with the combo no-income-tax-and-cheaper-rent), money was never really an issue. Saving up for a house was probably way easier for us than it should have been. We were keen on impulse shopping, impulse vacations, and absurd amounts of gifts to everyone in our respective families.
And then we bought a house and I left teaching.
On top of that, we bought a second car, my husband went back to school to get his MBA, and, at the beginning of this year, I went back to become certified as a yoga instructor. And while I love being my own boss, freelancing doesn't exactly bring in the steady income like being a full-time teacher did. Suddenly, money stopped being something you spend like you're a freshman in college.
I can't help but feel like Gwyneth Paltrow; so out of touch with reality, looking at how normal people budget out money like it's a brand new concept. They make shitty comedies about people like that. But it's a weird thing to get used to: suddenly, we can't just buy concert or comedy tickets "just because". We can't just invest in a new piece of technology "just because". Suddenly, we actually have to be adults.
So we've started doing what one of our friends does (who not only has a mortgage and only one full-time income, but two kids to boot): we're setting aside a very specific amount of "fun money". While we still pool our earnings into one account, we dole out a little bit each week for our respective "fun things". Which, for me, involves things like yoga classes and whatever's on sale at Michael's.
In the movies, someone who is not used to budgeting suddenly having to budget usually results in tantrums and maxed-out credit cards. For me, it's a breath of fresh air. I'm shit at Knowing How to Adult. I'm just getting used to the idea of grocery lists and planned-out meals. I lucked out and got to act like a college student long after I graduated, but that shit has to eventually end. As much as I wish I was some trust fund baby, I'm not, and I never will be.
Plus, it gives me a noticeable, tangible understanding of where the money is and what it could be going to. Because my spending habits are usually limited to the yoga studio and the clearance section at stores, there's a chance I could actually -- and effectively -- save up for the big-ticket items. Like furniture for the house. Or vacations. Things that are harder to save up for when you're just looking at your checking account and incorrectly budget out money for mortgage and car payments.
Because that's what I love. I don't care about retail therapy (which is good, given my impulsive/compulsive personality, as mentioned in my last post), but I do care about visiting the world. I don't care about buying a round of shots, but I do care about buying a round kitchenette table (so our dining room table can finally move into the dining room). And this can mean the difference between getting that $10 skirt because ~it's on sale and it's cute~ and going back home to find an adorable skirt I already own.
This is an obnoxious post, and I fully recognize it. But, again: the beauty of a daily blog project is that there'll be a brand new post tomorrow. Perhaps a less GOOP-like post.
Neither of us had an absurd amount of student debt (his parents helped out a considerable amount; I had scholarship and co-op money to soften the blow, and my mom used part of the estate she inherited from her own mother to help me with my loans) and neither of us had issues finding employment in our fields of interest. Especially once we moved out to New Hampshire (with the combo no-income-tax-and-cheaper-rent), money was never really an issue. Saving up for a house was probably way easier for us than it should have been. We were keen on impulse shopping, impulse vacations, and absurd amounts of gifts to everyone in our respective families.
And then we bought a house and I left teaching.
On top of that, we bought a second car, my husband went back to school to get his MBA, and, at the beginning of this year, I went back to become certified as a yoga instructor. And while I love being my own boss, freelancing doesn't exactly bring in the steady income like being a full-time teacher did. Suddenly, money stopped being something you spend like you're a freshman in college.
I can't help but feel like Gwyneth Paltrow; so out of touch with reality, looking at how normal people budget out money like it's a brand new concept. They make shitty comedies about people like that. But it's a weird thing to get used to: suddenly, we can't just buy concert or comedy tickets "just because". We can't just invest in a new piece of technology "just because". Suddenly, we actually have to be adults.
So we've started doing what one of our friends does (who not only has a mortgage and only one full-time income, but two kids to boot): we're setting aside a very specific amount of "fun money". While we still pool our earnings into one account, we dole out a little bit each week for our respective "fun things". Which, for me, involves things like yoga classes and whatever's on sale at Michael's.
In the movies, someone who is not used to budgeting suddenly having to budget usually results in tantrums and maxed-out credit cards. For me, it's a breath of fresh air. I'm shit at Knowing How to Adult. I'm just getting used to the idea of grocery lists and planned-out meals. I lucked out and got to act like a college student long after I graduated, but that shit has to eventually end. As much as I wish I was some trust fund baby, I'm not, and I never will be.
Plus, it gives me a noticeable, tangible understanding of where the money is and what it could be going to. Because my spending habits are usually limited to the yoga studio and the clearance section at stores, there's a chance I could actually -- and effectively -- save up for the big-ticket items. Like furniture for the house. Or vacations. Things that are harder to save up for when you're just looking at your checking account and incorrectly budget out money for mortgage and car payments.
Because that's what I love. I don't care about retail therapy (which is good, given my impulsive/compulsive personality, as mentioned in my last post), but I do care about visiting the world. I don't care about buying a round of shots, but I do care about buying a round kitchenette table (so our dining room table can finally move into the dining room). And this can mean the difference between getting that $10 skirt because ~it's on sale and it's cute~ and going back home to find an adorable skirt I already own.
This is an obnoxious post, and I fully recognize it. But, again: the beauty of a daily blog project is that there'll be a brand new post tomorrow. Perhaps a less GOOP-like post.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Day 235 of 365: Chill Out About Mental Health
I was chatting with a friend recently about addictive personalities. I talked about how I find I have very impulsive/compulsive behavior (meaning I get the impulse to do something, only to feel compelled to do it; one of the many reasons why I avoid retail as a way to feel better about whatever is bringing me down) and how, if a therapist told me that my behavior is actually indicative of an addictive personality, I would believe it. Given my family's history, given how I am about certain things, I wouldn't be surprised in the least. It wouldn't change my day-to-day life, but it wouldn't come as a shock.
This surprised my friend; most people wouldn't be so flippant about potentially having something "wrong" with them like that. I went on to say that people are so quick to focus on all the negatives on certain personality "disorders". Yeah, if you are diagnosed with an addictive personality, there are certain things you should probably avoid, like, say, heavy drinking, drugs, retail therapy, and so on, and so forth. But I think that impulsion/compulsion is the reason why I've been able to accomplish what I've accomplished. I don't halfass things that I enjoy. Come up with a book idea; write said book. Decide I want to run a marathon; train like a motherfucker. Find joy and inspiration in teaching tai chi/doing yoga; start making a living doing it. Get the idea to make the writing version of a 365 Blog; get to Day 235 in one piece.
To be blunt: we need to get the fuck over the taboo of mental health. Our brains are the most complex part about us, and yet we are made to feel shame if it glitches in any way -- if it does anything that even hints at it being a factory defect. If someone said they were born with bad joints, but did certain exercises and visited their doctor on a routine basis to help balance that, no one would bat an eye. If I suffered a nasty knee injury during training -- tear up my ACL, completely destroy my MCL, knee cap basically hanging on by a tendon -- again, no one would bat an eye if I admitted that there was something up with my knee and I was doing something about it to get it healed. In fact, in an ironic turn of events, I would be labeled crazy if I tried to do what so many people do about mental health: deny, deny, deny, refuse any help or treatment, and pretend like my knee isn't bending in the opposite direction when I walk.
A separate friend, who is now a few months sober, has been dealing with addiction and mental health issues for years now. And she makes no bones about the fact that we all cringe and hide about any mental disorder, any personality disorder. She was actually the first one I ever knew to call bullshit on stigmatizing certain diagnoses (and at the tender age of 16, no less), saying that some things aren't as black and white as "sane" and "insane". And now, especially in light of Philip Seymour Hoffman's death, is incredibly vocal on understanding addiction and its effects on the brain.
In short: we need to chill out about mental health. End of story.
This surprised my friend; most people wouldn't be so flippant about potentially having something "wrong" with them like that. I went on to say that people are so quick to focus on all the negatives on certain personality "disorders". Yeah, if you are diagnosed with an addictive personality, there are certain things you should probably avoid, like, say, heavy drinking, drugs, retail therapy, and so on, and so forth. But I think that impulsion/compulsion is the reason why I've been able to accomplish what I've accomplished. I don't halfass things that I enjoy. Come up with a book idea; write said book. Decide I want to run a marathon; train like a motherfucker. Find joy and inspiration in teaching tai chi/doing yoga; start making a living doing it. Get the idea to make the writing version of a 365 Blog; get to Day 235 in one piece.
To be blunt: we need to get the fuck over the taboo of mental health. Our brains are the most complex part about us, and yet we are made to feel shame if it glitches in any way -- if it does anything that even hints at it being a factory defect. If someone said they were born with bad joints, but did certain exercises and visited their doctor on a routine basis to help balance that, no one would bat an eye. If I suffered a nasty knee injury during training -- tear up my ACL, completely destroy my MCL, knee cap basically hanging on by a tendon -- again, no one would bat an eye if I admitted that there was something up with my knee and I was doing something about it to get it healed. In fact, in an ironic turn of events, I would be labeled crazy if I tried to do what so many people do about mental health: deny, deny, deny, refuse any help or treatment, and pretend like my knee isn't bending in the opposite direction when I walk.
A separate friend, who is now a few months sober, has been dealing with addiction and mental health issues for years now. And she makes no bones about the fact that we all cringe and hide about any mental disorder, any personality disorder. She was actually the first one I ever knew to call bullshit on stigmatizing certain diagnoses (and at the tender age of 16, no less), saying that some things aren't as black and white as "sane" and "insane". And now, especially in light of Philip Seymour Hoffman's death, is incredibly vocal on understanding addiction and its effects on the brain.
In short: we need to chill out about mental health. End of story.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Day 234 of 365: Bettering Bridges
After a year-long hiatus from any type of dentistry, I've finally set up a new appointment with a new dentist. I had such a wretched experience last year that I was downright terrified of trusting my teeth to anyone else ever again. Last year, I went to the dentist for the first time in probably five years (because it was the first time I had dental insurance). I knew I had at least one cavity and a wisdom tooth that needed to be pulled. I go in and am told I have 8 cavities, bad gums, and, oh yeah, that wisdom tooth. I listened to them, because that's what you're supposed to do with a doctor. After a solid month of dentist visits (and nearly $1000 later...), I have that bothersome wisdom tooth removed and nearly every single molar has a filling in it. I go back 6 months later and...I am told I have 5 cavities.
Now, I'm willing to believe 8 cavities sprung up in 5 years. I'm not willing to believe that I got 5 in six months. I'm not gnawing on sugar canes all day and then not brushing my teeth. I'm young, I brush my teeth, I eat fairly well (especially considering I'm a salty-snack eater and not a sweet-snack eater) and floss roughly every other night (especially after getting 8 cavities filled). I cancel my appointment, decide to do my own research, and realize I was being scammed like you wouldn't believe. I found out that my three "surface cavities" (as they so called it) were most likely not even cavities in the first place. It's a term they coined to milk more money out of patients. I kept looking into them, only to confirm what I already knew: this chain has a long history of telling people they need treatments when they don't. I get my teeth informally checked out and get met with a, "what cavities?"
So, given that I was big on Yelp during those days, I wrote an honest review. I come home from work to find a voicemail on my landline from said dentistry, wanting to make sure that I was happy and to right any wrongs. I don't reply because, frankly, at this point, I am exhausted.
Cut to over a year later. I'm making said appointment with new dentist -- who I chose because he came recommended by someone I trust a lot, someone who isn't afraid to call people out on their bullshit -- and the dental lady tells me that I need to get my old dental file sent to them. Which I am okay with, because they don't want to do x-rays on me if I've already had them within the past year or so, and I appreciate not having a million things done on me to jack up the price. But that also means having to talk to the dental chain again.
I called them up and learned that the only way my files can be released is if I sign a release form. I save that dreaded date until the next time I'm in the area, and, with my resolve as hard as steel, I go on in.
Save for actually being confronted about my review, it couldn't have gone any worse. A clerical error had resulted in my file getting deleted and transferred over to my husband -- who had never even been there. Meanwhile the doctor I wrote a review about walks by, sees me, and whispers something to a hygienist with a look usually saved for two mean girls discussing a dork in class. I can feel my cheeks starting to burn. I just want out of that place, and I'm stuck waiting around while they call up headquarters and try to figure out what went wrong.
I thought to myself, "Maybe I should play nice and apologize and make this hellish experience over with. Even though I was clearly wronged, maybe I should be the bigger man and mend fences and maybe -- just maybe -- I'll stop feeling like I'm two degrees away from spontaneously combusting."
And then an Anna Nalick lyric popped in my head: "Never better bridges that were meant to burn."
Which reminded me of something I saw on Facebook: "They say you should never burn bridges, but sometimes I'm okay with going for a swim if it means not dealing with that asshole again."
I spent a solid chunk of my life giving people way too many chances. I got back with boyfriends that I should never have gotten back with. I gave bosses second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth changes, even when it was obvious to everyone else that I was just a cog in the machine and they really weren't concern with things like burnout. I've given family and friends alike the benefit of the doubt, even when the proper thing to do would have been to call them out on their shenanigans. I spent so long worrying about "burning bridges" that I compromised myself and my livelihood.
Sometimes bridges are meant to be burned. Sometimes you need to stand your ground and refuse to feel bad about calling a person, a corporation, whatever out. And yes, that might mean that certain people don't like you, but that's life. People aren't going to like you sometimes. I spent so much of my life worried about people not liking me, when people would hate on me regardless because of shit as stupid as, "Oh, she's a model. She must think she's so great."
Never better bridges that were meant to burn, because sometimes you're just not meant to go down that path. And sometimes the more circuitous route leads you to exactly where you need to be.
Now, I'm willing to believe 8 cavities sprung up in 5 years. I'm not willing to believe that I got 5 in six months. I'm not gnawing on sugar canes all day and then not brushing my teeth. I'm young, I brush my teeth, I eat fairly well (especially considering I'm a salty-snack eater and not a sweet-snack eater) and floss roughly every other night (especially after getting 8 cavities filled). I cancel my appointment, decide to do my own research, and realize I was being scammed like you wouldn't believe. I found out that my three "surface cavities" (as they so called it) were most likely not even cavities in the first place. It's a term they coined to milk more money out of patients. I kept looking into them, only to confirm what I already knew: this chain has a long history of telling people they need treatments when they don't. I get my teeth informally checked out and get met with a, "what cavities?"
So, given that I was big on Yelp during those days, I wrote an honest review. I come home from work to find a voicemail on my landline from said dentistry, wanting to make sure that I was happy and to right any wrongs. I don't reply because, frankly, at this point, I am exhausted.
Cut to over a year later. I'm making said appointment with new dentist -- who I chose because he came recommended by someone I trust a lot, someone who isn't afraid to call people out on their bullshit -- and the dental lady tells me that I need to get my old dental file sent to them. Which I am okay with, because they don't want to do x-rays on me if I've already had them within the past year or so, and I appreciate not having a million things done on me to jack up the price. But that also means having to talk to the dental chain again.
I called them up and learned that the only way my files can be released is if I sign a release form. I save that dreaded date until the next time I'm in the area, and, with my resolve as hard as steel, I go on in.
Save for actually being confronted about my review, it couldn't have gone any worse. A clerical error had resulted in my file getting deleted and transferred over to my husband -- who had never even been there. Meanwhile the doctor I wrote a review about walks by, sees me, and whispers something to a hygienist with a look usually saved for two mean girls discussing a dork in class. I can feel my cheeks starting to burn. I just want out of that place, and I'm stuck waiting around while they call up headquarters and try to figure out what went wrong.
I thought to myself, "Maybe I should play nice and apologize and make this hellish experience over with. Even though I was clearly wronged, maybe I should be the bigger man and mend fences and maybe -- just maybe -- I'll stop feeling like I'm two degrees away from spontaneously combusting."
And then an Anna Nalick lyric popped in my head: "Never better bridges that were meant to burn."
Which reminded me of something I saw on Facebook: "They say you should never burn bridges, but sometimes I'm okay with going for a swim if it means not dealing with that asshole again."
I spent a solid chunk of my life giving people way too many chances. I got back with boyfriends that I should never have gotten back with. I gave bosses second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth changes, even when it was obvious to everyone else that I was just a cog in the machine and they really weren't concern with things like burnout. I've given family and friends alike the benefit of the doubt, even when the proper thing to do would have been to call them out on their shenanigans. I spent so long worrying about "burning bridges" that I compromised myself and my livelihood.
Sometimes bridges are meant to be burned. Sometimes you need to stand your ground and refuse to feel bad about calling a person, a corporation, whatever out. And yes, that might mean that certain people don't like you, but that's life. People aren't going to like you sometimes. I spent so much of my life worried about people not liking me, when people would hate on me regardless because of shit as stupid as, "Oh, she's a model. She must think she's so great."
Never better bridges that were meant to burn, because sometimes you're just not meant to go down that path. And sometimes the more circuitous route leads you to exactly where you need to be.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Day 233 of 365: Beg, Steal, or Borrow
"I thank you for your time, and I thank you for your practice."
My favorite yoga teacher ends her classes like this. Last Sunday, I met with my yoga group to practice our very first practicum. For our next class, my group has to lead a 45-minute class, which each of us doing roughly 10 minutes a piece. I was assigned the last section of the class, partly because I can do the apex pose ("Elephant Trunk Pose", if you are so inclined to Google it) and partly because I'm shite at properly doing cooldown stretches in my own practice, so leading a class to cool down seemed like an appropriate challenge. I do my "Elephant Trunk Pose", I go through the various cooldown poses (where I was thinking the entire time, "Okay, one mississippi, two mississippi, three...") and get everything into savasana (aka "wahoo we can rest for a tick" pose). At the end of the practice, I do exactly what my yoga teacher does, thanking everyone (meaning my practicum group) for their time and their practice.
If there were ever just one takeaway from my time as a preschool teacher, it's that it's okay to beg, steal, or borrow, if it means serving your students better. As teachers, we were constantly sharing curriculum ideas, decorations, even toys and supplies. We'd see one teacher do a play on words and use it in our classroom. It was never a matter of "intellectual property" (because, let's be real, a good chunk of these great ideas were ciphered from teaching blogs, Pinterest, or teachers from other schools to begin with) because the main goal was not winning "Teacher of the Year" award, but inspiring our students.
During our 45-minute pseudo-class, one of my classmates incorporated a sequence that is essentially called "dancing warrior", where you shift from one warrior variation to the next in pace with your breath. That is something our favorite yoga teacher uses frequently, and I'm sure she learned that sequence from another teacher, who learned it from another, and so on, and so forth. Another classmate added in stuff he gleaned from his time as a TRX instructor. And yet another had printed out from the internet various ways to verbalize how to get into certain poses.
As a writer who gets very pissy when someone tries to jack her shit, I can say from firsthand experience how easy it is to fall into the, "What's mine is mine and only mine; what's yours is yours and only yours," mindset. And that's a necessary mindset in terms of things, like, say a short story, a novel, an essay, or even an article idea. If you wrote a song and suddenly you're hearing someone else sing it on stage, best believe the proverbial fur will fly. But, as a teacher, it's all about what you can gather from other teachers -- including your own teachers -- to inspire others, and, hey, maybe they'll take what you gave them and pass it on.
My husband's first grade teacher did a recipe book project, in which every kid attempted to make a "recipe" for their favorite food. The recipes were usually very silly, and involved directions like, "Mommy puts the cake into a bowl and then it's made." One of my last major projects with my Pre-K class involved making recipe books of that very nature. And while I quickly regretted spending so much time (and out-of-pocket money) making copy after copy of said book, I'm happy I did it. Because maybe, just maybe, one of those students will grow up and do that with their own children -- or their own classroom.
The same way I hope that someday one of my tai chi students -- or one of my hypothetical, future yoga students -- will take what they learned and apply it to their life, their spouse or children, or maybe even a class of their own. Maybe they'll take what I taught them about breathing, or redirection, or even chi, and maybe it makes them better able to do their job or handle a rough client.
Again, this falls into the "we are one interconnected system where one's actions constantly affect other people's actions" hippy-dippy granola category. But, oh well. This is my hippy-dippy granola, it makes me a better person, and hey, maybe someone can take a few ideas from this and make it their own.
My favorite yoga teacher ends her classes like this. Last Sunday, I met with my yoga group to practice our very first practicum. For our next class, my group has to lead a 45-minute class, which each of us doing roughly 10 minutes a piece. I was assigned the last section of the class, partly because I can do the apex pose ("Elephant Trunk Pose", if you are so inclined to Google it) and partly because I'm shite at properly doing cooldown stretches in my own practice, so leading a class to cool down seemed like an appropriate challenge. I do my "Elephant Trunk Pose", I go through the various cooldown poses (where I was thinking the entire time, "Okay, one mississippi, two mississippi, three...") and get everything into savasana (aka "wahoo we can rest for a tick" pose). At the end of the practice, I do exactly what my yoga teacher does, thanking everyone (meaning my practicum group) for their time and their practice.
If there were ever just one takeaway from my time as a preschool teacher, it's that it's okay to beg, steal, or borrow, if it means serving your students better. As teachers, we were constantly sharing curriculum ideas, decorations, even toys and supplies. We'd see one teacher do a play on words and use it in our classroom. It was never a matter of "intellectual property" (because, let's be real, a good chunk of these great ideas were ciphered from teaching blogs, Pinterest, or teachers from other schools to begin with) because the main goal was not winning "Teacher of the Year" award, but inspiring our students.
During our 45-minute pseudo-class, one of my classmates incorporated a sequence that is essentially called "dancing warrior", where you shift from one warrior variation to the next in pace with your breath. That is something our favorite yoga teacher uses frequently, and I'm sure she learned that sequence from another teacher, who learned it from another, and so on, and so forth. Another classmate added in stuff he gleaned from his time as a TRX instructor. And yet another had printed out from the internet various ways to verbalize how to get into certain poses.
As a writer who gets very pissy when someone tries to jack her shit, I can say from firsthand experience how easy it is to fall into the, "What's mine is mine and only mine; what's yours is yours and only yours," mindset. And that's a necessary mindset in terms of things, like, say a short story, a novel, an essay, or even an article idea. If you wrote a song and suddenly you're hearing someone else sing it on stage, best believe the proverbial fur will fly. But, as a teacher, it's all about what you can gather from other teachers -- including your own teachers -- to inspire others, and, hey, maybe they'll take what you gave them and pass it on.
My husband's first grade teacher did a recipe book project, in which every kid attempted to make a "recipe" for their favorite food. The recipes were usually very silly, and involved directions like, "Mommy puts the cake into a bowl and then it's made." One of my last major projects with my Pre-K class involved making recipe books of that very nature. And while I quickly regretted spending so much time (and out-of-pocket money) making copy after copy of said book, I'm happy I did it. Because maybe, just maybe, one of those students will grow up and do that with their own children -- or their own classroom.
The same way I hope that someday one of my tai chi students -- or one of my hypothetical, future yoga students -- will take what they learned and apply it to their life, their spouse or children, or maybe even a class of their own. Maybe they'll take what I taught them about breathing, or redirection, or even chi, and maybe it makes them better able to do their job or handle a rough client.
Again, this falls into the "we are one interconnected system where one's actions constantly affect other people's actions" hippy-dippy granola category. But, oh well. This is my hippy-dippy granola, it makes me a better person, and hey, maybe someone can take a few ideas from this and make it their own.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Day 232 of 365: Your Yoga is Drinking Coffee
I attended a workshop on Sunday as part of my yoga teacher training. It was all about sequencing and developing your own practice without a teacher around. The instructor went over the usual obstacles for getting yoga done at home -- time constraints, motivation, space, etc. She then told everyone that, without fail, she does a little bit of yoga every single morning, right as she wakes up. This got a few eye rolls from the room; oh yes, the yoga instructor has the motivation to do it bright and early in the morning, before she brushes her teeth. But what she said next made us all rethink things:
"Every morning, I have my cup of coffee. And that coffee is my yoga."
What she does every morning is have her cup of coffee (or tea, if she is so inclined), sits down at her table, and just...breathes. Not any special yoga breath, but regular, everyday, forget-you're-even-doing-it breath. She sips on her coffee, looks outside her window to the rising sun, and has her coffee. She does her best to keep her mind clear but, just like in yoga practice, thoughts pop up; and, just like in yoga practice, she accepts them, and sees if she can just let them drift away. Maybe she'll close her eyes from time to time. But she's not there to gulp down her coffee as she checks the news and Facebook and her emails. She's just...there.
I haven't been able to consistently do a first-thing-in-the-morning yoga routine since I quit being a teacher. I wake up stiff and achy (and all the other adjectives that prove you're just getting old) and in no mood to dance into my first down dog of the day. And, truth be told, I only ignore the muscle stiffness when I was a teacher because teaching was just that stressful and I desperately needed something to keep my head on straight. So I tried that "yoga coffee" this morning. I made my breakfast, sat down at the island in my kitchen (which is far, far away from my laptop) and just...breathed.
It didn't last as long as I would've liked: the second I finished my oatmeal, I got up with my cup of coffee and attempted to walk over to my computer. Thankfully, I had the wherewithal to hang a sharp left and get out of the kitchenette area. I walked over to the front door and looked out one of the side windows instead, which lasted about a few sips, before attempting the same thing, but my patio door. Eventually I caved and, with my mug only half-empty, sat down at my computer to do my usual "check ALL the things".
But that's okay. Instead of berating myself for falling into old habits, I'm happy that I was able to last all the way through breakfast in the first place (which, truth be told, was something I didn't even have when I was teaching). My goal is to slowly build up, the same way I slowly built up yoga in general, and see where that goes. Regardless, I love this idea. It plays into my "Yoga is exactly what you make of it and exactly what you need it to be," teacher philosophy. Or maybe, as a caffeine addict, I just really like the idea of coffee playing yet another part in my life.
"Every morning, I have my cup of coffee. And that coffee is my yoga."
What she does every morning is have her cup of coffee (or tea, if she is so inclined), sits down at her table, and just...breathes. Not any special yoga breath, but regular, everyday, forget-you're-even-doing-it breath. She sips on her coffee, looks outside her window to the rising sun, and has her coffee. She does her best to keep her mind clear but, just like in yoga practice, thoughts pop up; and, just like in yoga practice, she accepts them, and sees if she can just let them drift away. Maybe she'll close her eyes from time to time. But she's not there to gulp down her coffee as she checks the news and Facebook and her emails. She's just...there.
I haven't been able to consistently do a first-thing-in-the-morning yoga routine since I quit being a teacher. I wake up stiff and achy (and all the other adjectives that prove you're just getting old) and in no mood to dance into my first down dog of the day. And, truth be told, I only ignore the muscle stiffness when I was a teacher because teaching was just that stressful and I desperately needed something to keep my head on straight. So I tried that "yoga coffee" this morning. I made my breakfast, sat down at the island in my kitchen (which is far, far away from my laptop) and just...breathed.
It didn't last as long as I would've liked: the second I finished my oatmeal, I got up with my cup of coffee and attempted to walk over to my computer. Thankfully, I had the wherewithal to hang a sharp left and get out of the kitchenette area. I walked over to the front door and looked out one of the side windows instead, which lasted about a few sips, before attempting the same thing, but my patio door. Eventually I caved and, with my mug only half-empty, sat down at my computer to do my usual "check ALL the things".
But that's okay. Instead of berating myself for falling into old habits, I'm happy that I was able to last all the way through breakfast in the first place (which, truth be told, was something I didn't even have when I was teaching). My goal is to slowly build up, the same way I slowly built up yoga in general, and see where that goes. Regardless, I love this idea. It plays into my "Yoga is exactly what you make of it and exactly what you need it to be," teacher philosophy. Or maybe, as a caffeine addict, I just really like the idea of coffee playing yet another part in my life.
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