You’re so disorganized. You’re late….AGAIN. You are ALWAYS late. Look at this mess, why can’t you be more organized? Trying to meditate again? It’s hopeless. Forget it. Why don’t you try to be more social. Try to like cocktail parties. Oh God is that your hair? Look at your hair! That’s why you can’t go to cocktail parties. Yeah, forget cocktail parties – you don’t have the right shoes. Continue reading
My life coach asked me what I thought made a person successful. I replied that they were organized. A good education couldn’t hurt either. Mainly, though, it has always seemed to me that organized people are the most successful people. Why I hold onto this ideal, I do not know. She then tells me that these are the criteria for success:
Optimism and positive emotions.
Self regulation and self control.
Good relating to others – not too dependent upon a relationship or controlling of it.
Resilience in the face of problems.
Flexible about alternatives with good critical thinking.
Ability to set and reach goals.
My lifelong goal has been to get organized. I have set this goal time and time again, never seeming to reach it. There are moments when I’m organized. Days. Sometimes even a week or a month. But the resilience, the perseverance over the long haul to really, truly keep things tidy? It just isn’t there. When the stuff piles up and I find myself at the same base of the same tree, I’m not able to be flexible about my relationship with chaos. Good critical thinking about organizational tactics? None. Good relationship with clutter? Nada. Optimism and positivity in the face of yet another disorganized mess? Talk to my kids. They will tell you about my freak outs. Self-regulation and self-control? Watch me as I blog about this and not actually do what I set out to do today: devote 20 minutes to my closet.
Spring is here, technically speaking. Even though it may still snow. No matter, I want spring to be here. In my mind, it is here. I’m grateful that this winter was mild, but I’m ready to see the daffodils pushing up now. Great time to get started (again.) I know what I committed to; I know I want organization for the peace and space it brings. I want this. I go back and forth in my mind all the time on this issue. I want peace and space. I don’t want to organize. I want organization, I don’t want to do it. Who wants to clean and tidy up when there are books to read. Words to write. Photos to take, friends to call, yoga to practice, music to play. Well, now putting on some great music is something I can do while organizing. Of course there’s all the other stuff to besides the fun stuff. There’s the laundry and the dishes and the errands and the phone calls and the appointments and the lessons and the homework and they have to get done so if there’s any time left for anything, I’M NOT ORGANIZING!
Okay, so I have to come to terms with myself then – every other Tuesday – when the cleaning lady comes and I’ve been neglecting putting things away for two whole weeks (that’s fourteen days in a row) and now I’m a raging lunatic cursing myself and everyone in the house who has left their stuff around that I am now stuffing said stuff in any empty cabinet that will accommodate. That raging lunatic is the person I need to reconcile with.
What’s it gonna be? The bi-monthly freak out or devoting 20 minutes a day to organize a drawer, a bin, a counter top? I guess I’ve tried it one way for most of my life. Well, for 20 plus years since I started having my house cleaned every two weeks. I even tried having it cleaned weekly so that maybe the freak outs wouldn’t be as big. Turns out 7 days of crap is only slightly better than 14. If I was really successful, I could hire someone to come clean/cook everyday – now that would be the life. But then again, I’d have to be really organized……
She’s walking home from school, taking the short cut behind the firehouse through the field of tall grass that is consumed with purple thistle flowers and Queen Anne’s lace. Her grandmother had told her the legend of Queen Anne’s lace and she is forever checking for signs of Anne’s blood in their centers. She wonders why the blood has turned from red to black. She figures Anne lived a long time ago and that things darken with age. Then she stops to carefully squeeze the sides of the snap dragons until their soft lower jaws gently hinge open. It gives her delight to know the happy yellow flower’s secret. That sometimes things are not what they seem. How a golden flower can transform into a ferocious dragon in a snap when pinched ever so slightly.
She recalls how her mother had pointed out the faces hidden in pansies, the way the tiniest drop of sweet nectar can be extracted from the honeysuckle with a nip, and how if you look carefully, you’ll see wild raspberries among the overgrown sticker bushes by the side of the road. She plucks a thick blade of tall grass and wedges it between the sides of her thumb like a reed and blows swiftly to sound a call. If she were a different third grader, she might not have known.
A different third grader would have walked home with a friend along well-planned sidewalks to play games in flat back yards like kick the can and ring-o-leavio. Or maybe she would learn the words to that song the girls all sang on the playground – what was it – Harrington? H-A-double-R….spells Harrington. She didn’t know these games. Instead, she was invited to Helen Kroetz’s house, the girl with the perpetual booger coming out her right nostril. A different third grader might be knocking on the door of the girl next door’s house to see if she wants to play dolls or ride bikes. She would stick with girl scouts or ice skating or rollerskating or dance or gymnastics or swimming or horseback riding so that when she grew up she would have knowledge of one thing and not regret quitting everything.
She continues walking, with a quickened pace as her heart races when she thinks of the bees following her scent and the snakes that might lurk in the grass. Tomorrow, she won’t walk this path. Instead, her mother will pick her up from school, give her a big squeeze and say, “tell me about your day” with a smile. Her mom won’t be preoccupied with thoughts of a life that requires so much strength. It will just be mom and her different third grader. A different third grader who doesn’t have to worry if her brother will be okay. Or wonder if her dad will be coming home for dinner tonight, so her mother doesn’t have to sit staring at the empty space while the minutes tick away in silence. A different third grader might help her mother paint every dark corner of the gypsy house white. Or help her sew curtains to hang on every window to keep the spirits away. Or help plant scarlet begonias to brighten the path to the front door. Maybe then she would know how to paint or sew or garden or dispel silence.
Instead, she swings on the swing that her dad hung for her from the large tree atop the hill that drops prickly balls all over the front lawn. She swings so high she thinks she might swing right over the edge of the dirt cliffs below her and the world will fall away as she soars like a bird over the field of Queen Anne’s lace beyond.
They’re gone. The brown moccasins that took me to many a Dead show. I’ve held onto them for years and finally decided the emotional space they were holding in my heart was greater than the physical space in my closet. I took the greater and tossed the moccasins. Many, many hours they waited on line with me to get the tickets, many hours they faithfully depressed the gas pedal to make it to the show on time, hundreds upon hundreds of steps they took to get me to my seat, thousands of beats they made contact with the floor in rhythm with the dance. The dance of my soul.
I loved those moccasins. Fur lined fringed ankle boots that actually came into style 30 years later. They weren’t in style in 1983. Far from it. That’s precisely why I loved them. Unique. Different. Fun. The only other person I knew who owned them too was Eileen, my friend and fellow Dead Head. Those moccasins took us on trips to Terrapin Station and back one-thousand times, through a thousand notes of a thousand songs. Now “it’s all a dream we dreamed one afternoon, long ago.” The moccasins can’t take me back. Only my words can. To the days when we would “walk into splintered sunlight, inch our way through dead dreams to another land.”
We went Truckin’ in moccasin style along the avenue looking for an Estimated Prophet and found a Friend of the Devil instead. He showed us a Fire on the Mountain so we went Dancin’ in the Streets toward the Promised Land, planting Scarlet Begonias and Sugar Magnolias among the Ramblin’ Rose bushes. When the China Cat Sunflowers whispered “Here Comes Sunshine,” we found a Box of Rain and we Let it Grow. We had ourselves a High Time in the Morning Dew while The Music Never Stopped. Often, she would take the Wheel and I’d be the Passenger. Sometimes we were Going Down the Road feeling bad, but we were sure we would always Beat it on Down the Line, following the Dark Star Until the Morning Comes, waiting for the Bird Song.
We were Wharf Rats sitting On Top of the World, Throwin’ Stones in our Cream Puff War. If I Had the World to Give, I’d Lay Me Down in Franklin’s Tower for One More Saturday Night that would Not Fade Away at Sunrise.
We walked along in the Mission in the rain, needing A Miracle, doing the Mississippi Half Step on Shakedown Street. We met Tennessee Jed, Black Peter, Jack Straw, Casey Jones, Stagger Lee, Mr. Charlie, Peggy-O, and even St. Stephen on the Golden Road to Devotion. We got the Cumberland Blues, the Mexicali Blues, the Viola Lee Blues, the New Minglewood Blues, Dupree’s Diamond Blues, and the U.S. Blues that were so Hard to Handle but we always knew there was Help on the Way.
We had Sage and Spirit when we encountered the Saint of Circumstance on the New Speedway Boogie. Cosmic Charlie and the Candyman were hanging around with their Money, Money waiting for that Deal to go down. We would always allow Space for Stella Blue, Loose Lucy, and Bertha to come around with the Brown-Eyed Women. They told Me and My Uncle stories about the Big River Alligator on an Alabama Getaway who found himself with a Dire Wolf and that C.C. Rider. I Know that Rider; he’s a Loser in Uncle John’s Band. We learned of the Other One who was Playin’ in the Band but quickly found out He’s Gone on a West L.A. Fadeaway, just like Dear Mr. Fantasy. Now they’re all making Slipknots with the Lost Sailors on that Ship of Fools, singing Aiko Aiko all day.
Samson and Delilah told us about The Eleven who came from the Mountains of the Moon and crossed the Serengeti to bring King Solomon’s Marbles to a Lady With a Fan in the South of France. The drums played Blues for Allah in the Weather Report Suite while the Little Red Rooster said, “Don’t Ease Me In on a Good Morning, Little School Girl.” Mama Tried to raise me better; she warned, “Caution: do not stop on tracks in the Cold Rain and Snow, for always there will be a Touch of Grey when it Looks Like Rain.” I didn’t listen. I found instead that whenever there’s a Ripple in still water, you’ll find an Easy Wind if you reach for the gold ring down inside with your Crazy Fingers.
I told Althea there Comes a Time when you Feel Like a Stranger in a Brokedown Palace. Althea told me, “Let Me Sing Your Blues Away with some Good Lovin’.” It Must Have Been the Roses in the Attics of my Life that caused that nine mile skid on a ten mile ride, but It’s All Over Now Baby Blue and you know it Hurts Me Too. It was the Greatest Story Ever Told and you Might as Well turn on your Lovelight and leave it on so you can wake up to find out that you are the Eyes of the World, China Doll.
When I think of Eileen these days I start singing, “shake it up now Sugaree, I’ll meet you at the jubilee.” Which is where all the moccasin wearing lovers meet up. That great gig in the sky.
Here I am, still trying to catch up my writing with myself. It’s a Tuesday. Or a Wednesday. I have not practiced my writing for the past few days. I didn’t practice writing those days but I did live those days. I remember the days. So I will write now about the days.
I practiced yoga each day. I practice each day. Practiced is in the past. Practice is now. (I’m catching up to myself you see.) Every day, for each posture, I count five breaths while trying to hold onto my mula bandha. My root chakra. To help me keep track of my breaths and my roots, I envision each of the five breaths corresponding to each of my five roots that I have identified as being central to my core being. Without these five sources, I would have no breath, without my breath, I would not have these five roots.
My roots, my breath, my life.
1. Inhale Me. Myself. I am me. I am here. Inhale all that I am grateful for. Inhale life. I am alive. Inhale strength, security, loving kindness, compassion for myself. Exhale all my attachments to ideas, plans, thoughts, things, sounds, smells. Exhale all the toxic thoughts that weigh me down, make me weak, make me insecure – let them all go.
2. Inhale My Marriage. The beauty of love and endurance of the union of two that became one. My living breathing marriage that roots me in joy and abundance and laughter. My marriage of stability, security and strength. Exhale all the past injustices, wrongs, hurts – let them all go. They are of the past. Exhale yesterday.
3. Inhale The Eldest. The blessings of the first born child. All his happiness, his insights, his curiosity, his wonder, his joy, his empathy, his wisdom, his love of learning. Exhale all the divisions, the misunderstandings of nearly 18 years. Let it go. Let him go into the world to carry on his unique journey and bring all his blessings to those who encounter him.
4. Inhale The Second Son. The one who transformed us from married with baby to a full fledged family. A brother born to make a brother of the eldest. Inhale all his wild creativity and extra sensory perception. His joyful smile, his unique style. His in-the-middle-ness. Exhale all the frustration, all the tears. Let them go. Let it be. Let him be. Let him bring his gifts.
5. Inhale The Daughter. The beautiful baby girl with the long dark eyelashes. The sweet sweet smile of the littlest one. A little girl with pigtails, ponytails, barrettes, bows, and braids, who twirled pink and danced it into purple with her delightful song of kindness. Exhale all the slammed doors and shouts of hatred. Slough them off like dead skin cells. Exhale the goddess into the world.
Each inhale reminds me of the millions of cells that inhabit my body, the millions of moments that inhabit my mind, and the countless revelations about my soul. Blessings and misdeeds. All stemming from Me, My Marriage, The Eldest, The Brother, The Daughter. Inhale all the blessings, exhale what doesn’t serve today. Breathe into your roots. Start with yourself. Inhale your infinite self. Exhale your self into infinity. The world is waiting. Inhale your power, exhale your roots. Deeper into earth, rooting your core. Your being. Your True Self.
No longer hiding
in a disciplined corner.
I hoop my core,
grip my circle,
roll into dance.
An optimistic challenge,
a courage to release,
a play with spiraling energy.
Connection with resolutions.
Communication with peace.
I am definitely still having trouble with mula bandha lock and breathing fully through it. It feels once I lock it, I can’t expand fully. My friend says, “it will come, keep practicing”. So that’s what I’m doing. Isn’t that what we all do with everything? Practice whatever it is we do? Do we ever DO what we do or are we always practicing what is we want to do? When does one ever say they are a master of something? I suppose one can feel proficient and confident at something, but then, even then, a master is always practicing whatever it is at the next level, in a finer, deeper, richer sort of way? I always ask my kids to practice their instruments, not play their instruments. When they are not practicing, we call it performing. Will they ever just play their instruments? Will I ever do yoga? Or will I practice the rest of my life? I just looked up the definition of a yogini: a woman who practices yoga.
I guess there’s my answer. I’m a yogini. I am a woman who practices yoga. Have been on and off for 20 years. Even though my practice has gotten more serious over the past 5 years, I’m still a yogini. I guess I always will be. It’s only now through my training do I want to write about my practice, which is actually a requirement for the training, which I suppose will deepen my practice. There again, I’m practicing writing. Will I ever be a writer? Or am I already one because I practice writing?
I want to journal/blog everyday because I always find I have so much to say and it clears my mind. However, I don’t blog/journal everyday for the very same reason…. I have so much to say and it takes a long time to sort it all out. I don’t sit down to start because I don’t have time to finish. I won’t be able to get it all down. If I practiced writing wrote everyday, perhaps it would come easier. I wouldn’t have so much stored up and need to get so much out. So here goes, my writing practice about my yoga practice.
Wednesday, I started with my Lenten promise to go to bed by 10 pm so I can get up at 5 am to practice. That will give me the minimum of seven hours of sleep that my body requires. I got to bed by 10:30 that night and vowed to do better tomorrow.
Thursday at 5 in the morning was difficult and I wanted SO BADLY to go back to bed. That little monkey in my head had all the reasons why I should. “You love sleep, why are you denying yourself? Sleep is important, especially to your practice. At least get another half hour of rest. You are so tired you will feel better if you did. You are a busy mom; you need your rest. You need eight at the minimum – seven was bad enough, now you have less than seven hours!” So with great resolve, I thought of Horton who tells the little Whos, “I said what I meant and I meant what I said, an elephant is loyal one hundred percent” and I got out of bed at 5 am.
What did I notice? How hard it was to get up at 5am. I made my bed so perhaps that would dissuade me from crawling back in. Not that THAT would ever stop me. I grabbed the burgundy floral pillow my mother made to match the rocker she had reupholstered for me 20 years ago and I sat upon it. I lit a candle, locked the mula, and started breathing. As soon as I inhaled, the lock opened right up. My mula can’t stand up to my prana. My breath is more powerful than my roots. Okay, I will practice that. While I concentrated on my ujai breathing, I noticed the candle. All at once I noticed that if I looked at the candle in just the right way, the candle wasn’t just a flame in the darkness. I noticed the delicate tiny beams of light reaching out tenderly in a perfect straight line towards my heart. It would venture and retreat, venture and retreat. Like a small inquisitive child who wants to play but is not quite sure how she will be accepted by the other’s heart. Inching closer, testing the water, testing the vibration, waiting for a smile, a gesture that says, “come on, let’s play!” If I looked at the light in an ever so slightly different angle, the little rays of light would dart away in the opposite direction. I could see that I would need to remain absolutely still to encourage the light to reach my heart. I decided I would try everyday to encourage the light into my heart, even if it was at 5 am.
When Friday night came, it occurred to me that I wasn’t planning on going to bed at 10pm. I was going to go on a date with my favorite valentine. I also wasn’t planning on getting up at 5 am on a Saturday. So I tweaked my commitment to one that involved going to bed at 10 pm on school nights, waking at 5 am on school mornings, with the most important component being an everyday practice when I first wake up.
That did not happen on Saturday. The food and the the drinks I mindlessly consumed got the better of me. I practiced my breathing and vowed to do better tomorrow. On Sunday morning, I wanted to make french toast for the kids before we headed to their three year old cousin’s birthday party. Again, I vowed to do better next time. I looked forward to the next time that I would connect with the playful little light of mine in the darkness.
Monday. I have nothing for Monday. I have not journaled everyday like I am supposed to but I’m waiting for it to come. As long as I’m mindful, the right thing will happen. What is supposed to happen will happen. I find myself waiting. Waiting for the answers. They come and the plan will fall into place. It happens all the time with me. Making a plan does not work for me. Plans always change. I am waiting for my plan to develop.
On Tuesday, I tried the Mysore practice. I wanted to see what it was like. It was great to have a place to practice with assistance if needed, but I missed my little candle. I won’t be able to get there with any regularity anyway, so on Wednesday I went back to my routine. I carried a deeper promise now, to practice harder, breathe deeper and let the the light in through the darkness everyday. Hold onto my roots.
At 5 am today, Thursday, that little candle wanted to dance and play just like my little monkey mind. I can’t even remember what I was thinking about at 5 am but I did notice that my breath wasn’t as deep. I have noticed that when I am breathing fully, I envision my breath filling me up the way water would fill up a water jug. As it receives, filling the bottom first, it has a deeper sound. As the jug fills, the sound gets softer and softer until finally you might hear the ever so faint sound of a single drop of water. The sound of one leaf blowing. As soon as the jug is full, it is poured out again, coming from the top, gently at first and when the last bit of water or breath is emptied from the bottom, it sounds cavernous just like the bottom of a jug. This is how I envision the process and the sound of my breath.
Tomorrow I will tell you about the five little prayers I say over and over again as I hold each pose for five breaths. My mantras. One – Me. Two – Us. Three – Eldest Son. Four – Second Son. Five – Baby Girl. These are my roots. My family. Myself. My Life.
1) I love music. I love listening to all kinds of music and dancing to most. This first thing I know about myself helps me resolve all the other things I know about myself. I always feel better when I listen to music and definitely if it’s the type that makes me dance.
2) I am a terrible housekeeper. I’ve come to grips with it recently. Instead of beating myself up for it, I relish in all the time I haven’t wasted doing monotonous, meaningless, thankless chores required to keep a tidy house. Instead of letting the chaos stress me, I am grateful when the day comes that it IS cleaned up (every two weeks when the housekeeper comes.)
3) I am eternally disorganized. This relates back to #2. Things don’t get tidied up and put away like I imagine they do in some other households. Every other Tuesday the housekeeper comes. I spend the entire morning putting stuff away on the first floor just so she can dust, mop, wipe, and vacuum the first floor when she arrives mid-day. Then, I retreat upstairs to do the same for the rest of the afternoon until she makes her way to the second floor. The whole day every other Tuesday is devoted to cleaning up. I could keep doing it that way or I could tidy up every day. Either way, it’s six in one, half dozen in the other.
4) I am nearly always 5 minutes late everywhere I go. 
This goes back to #3. I’m always searching for something in a sea of papers that I’m supposed to bring with me or a shirt to be returned after my appointment (that I am already late for) and I can’t find the shirt or the receipt. Or, I attempt a quick tidy up in order to combat #2 or #3 quick so that when I come home later, I’m not faced with the utterly discouraging mess.
5) I dream of living in an Airstream. With a great sound system. I won’t have to keep house (whoever heard of trailerkeeping?), be organized, or on-time.
6) I love the places where the land meets the sea. These are mostly the places I will go to in my Airstream.
7) I am vigilant about the truth. Music speaks the truth to me. I will search in all the places where the land meets the sea in my Airstream for the truth, even if I’m late. Even if the truth is messy.
8) I despise the word hate. “All you need is love, love. Love is all you need.” – John Lennon. There is no need for hate. Ever. “Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate. Only love can do that.” – Martin Luther King Jr.
8a) Can I add another thing about myself? I love quotes. Quotes help us define our truths, drive out hatred, embrace acceptance and love unconditionally.
9) I love hugs. Deep, heartfelt, loving, silent hugs. The kind that conveys all the words we use to try to describe love, which is indescribable and invisible. I love hugs that make you feel the words “I love you” echoed in a whisper in the bottom of your soul. Words that are of another world, residing in the silence of the embrace.
10) I love silence. Even in music. Claude Debussy once said, “music exists in the space between the notes.” That’s where I like to live. In the space between the notes, where music lives in silence, in dance, in chaos, in disorganization, or even in a beat that may arrive late and find it’s way to the back of the room in silence.
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