Cirque du Malaise

Tennessee Valley might be my favorite place in the world.  I love it in all its incarnations: bucolic sunny splendor, refuge for delicate wildlife (and introverts), happliy trafficked weekend days, moonlit nights with owls hooting. But perhaps my favorite Tennessee Valley mood is lonely, stormy spring evening. Last night I walked to the beach alone, listening to an ominous Radiolab podcast about a necrophiliac serial killer (perhaps not the best choice for a solo hike at dusk), but I didn't feel lonely. I don't get lonely when I'm alone. In fact, strangely, the only time feel lonely is when I'm surrounded by people. Perhaps all introverts are this way.

I spent a lot of time by myself growing up. When I think about the things I used to do for fun when I was 8, they haven’t really changed all that much: reading, making up stories, hanging out at the library, adventuring around in the woods by myself.

Because I live in a very ¡fun! Place (the Bay Area), and I have a lot of ¡fun! friends who go to Burning Man and costume parties and other ¡fun!  stuff, I am constantly getting invited to social goings-on. I almost always say no. Often. When I say “no thanks” to a party, I’ll generally get the cajoling, “come on, it'll be fun” beg from the friend in question. It’s almost as if they think, if they could just get me to go to a party/festival/block party/rock concert just this once, I would realize that I really do in fact like huge group gatherings; I’ve been wrong this whole time; I am a whole different person than I think I am.

Occasionally I acquiesce and go to a party. 97% of the time, I regret it. Parties are not my thing. I usually end up huddled in a corner with the person I came with, desperately avoiding eye contact and taking frequent trips to the bathroom, where I can get brief moments of respite in a stall by myself.

That's not to say that I'm not social. I go for hikes with my friends; I go to yoga (not really) with my friends; I go to movies with my friends; I make dinner with my friends. Sometimes I do those things with my friends, and sometimes I do them by myself. I like both.

I’m glad I’m not a person who needs constant company to keep me grounded. I’m glad I need lots and lots of alone time. In my prior life as a Romantic With Hope, I always dated outgoing, sociable guys who liked parties and Halloween and Bay to Breakers and all those things that make me highly anxious. More and more, now that I am committed to remaining single and solitary, I am a shut-in. I’m not planning to try to be different any time soon. The nice thing about being 40 and single? I can be exactly who I want to be.

I threw out my shoulder-ish area doing yoga a bunch of days ago. Yup, that’s right, doing yoga. So for those of you that say you can’t get injured doing yoga, um, you can. (And on that note, have you read Vanessa’s interview with William J Broad on Recovering Yogi? He’s the New York Times writer who wrote The Science of Yoga and subsequently got slammed throughout the entire righteous, holier than thou yoga community for daring to suggest that you can actually get hurt doing the physical postures.)

The thing about this particular injury that was so awesome is that it actually happened while I was lying around watching Parks & Rec on Hulu. One minute I was trying to drink my tea without actually sitting up, and dribbling it all over my hoody*; the next I was hunched over in pain. But, with the help of my astute squadron of bodyworkers, I am feeling slightly less old and feeble. I traced the whole thing back to some particularly nefarious chaturangas I had done two days earlier. If you ever want to really whack out your thoracic, try this one-two approach:

1. Spend 4 days on the East Coast subsisting on Dunkin Donuts while constantly sitting in a car or airplane.
2. Then jump back into your yoga routine by doing a really hard yoga class next to your ex-boyfriend, who you ran into at yoga, and who, the last time he saw you, saw a much skinnier, younger version of you.

No bueno. I am not awesome at being sick or injured. I slide very quickly into a self-pitying miasma of woe and hopelessness. So, sorry for all of you who had to deal with it. And thanks to those of you that offered a healing hand. A special thanks to Andrew.

Andrew is a San Francisco acupuncturist who I’ve been seeing for about ten years, maybe even a little bit more. He specializes in sports injuries and pain and he is really flipping good at what he does. What he did for me last night was give me some needles in just the right spots, and then hook up some of them to the e-stim machine. Don’t make the same mistake I did and google this; I’ll just tell you. “E-stim” is short for electro-stimulation, and is basically electroshock therapy, although Andrew wouldn’t hook it up to my brain, even though I practically begged. Once the muscles chilled out from the needles and the vibration of the e-stim, he gave me a tough love massage. The muscles that were jacked were my subscapulari (plural I just made up for both of the subscapularis muscles, which live in that no-touch zone under the shoulder blades — the scapula — and are basically impossible to reach). He got into my under-the-shoulder-blade area by way of my armpit. This is how he prepped me for this episode:

“You are really not going to like this.”

Not what you want to hear while you are getting a massage.

I was crying and whining the entire time. It was intensely, awesomely painful. And it totally helped. My shoulder and neck feel way better today. I could go into some whole poetic metaphor about how sometimes you have to go through the fire to get to the clear, or how it hurt so good, or something else equally literarily redonquilous, but I’ll just leave it at this: Andrew is a genius, and you should all go to him for your injuries, yoga or other.

Oh, and he’s also awesome to talk to and doesn’t at all mind if you whine a lot! Right, Andrew? Right?

This is actually a picture that a professional photographer took of Andrew giving me acupuncture once. Long story why I even have this, but the photographer is Quinn Wharton and he's very talented too.

* Yes, I am single. Why do you ask?

The other day I got a letter in the mail. I recognized the handwriting right away, because it was my own. No return address. "That's odd," I thought. "When did I find the time to write myself a letter?"

Then I remembered that I took a yoga workshop on New Year's Day with Christy Brown in Pt. Reyes, during which we took a timeout to write ourselves a letter. Christy must have just mailed them.

This is an old journaling workshop trick that I adore. You write yourself a letter — about your hopes, your dreams, your desires, your goals — and then you have someone else mail it at an unspecified time in the future. By the time you get it, you don't remember ever writing it, and it's as if someone else (someone who loves you very much and really, really cares about your welfare!) wrote it to you. It's quite lovely.

With Christy, a longtime friend of mine and expert yoga workshop teacher, I will be co-leading a retreat in Santa Barbara the first weekend in May. Special guest Helge Hellberg, a renowed sustainable food expert, will be there to talk to us about eating locally and organically (which, incidentally, we'll be doing that weekend).

Now I have to think of a way to top the ol' postponed-letter journaling trick. I'll think of something. Won't you join me there?

 

Read more and please consider joining us for what I'm expecting to be a really lovely weekend in the Santa Barbara hills by the sea!

You can choose from the following thoughtful and hand-selected Christmas presents:

If you're single:

FUN HOLIDAY RECIPES FOR SELF-SUFFICIENT SINGLES

(Oh, McSweeneys)

If you don't drink but you get real bored with water:

REALLY HEALTHY WINTER WARMERS

(Thanks, Mag of Yoga)

If you're secretly into the Swedish pop singer Robyn and you have an Attainable Celebrity Crush on comedien Taran Killam:

SNL CAST MEMBERS RECREATE A ROBYN MUSIC VIDEO AT 4:30 AM

(Although you might want to watch the original first)

You're welcome.

A word you hear a lot here in the Bay Area yoga mecca is “blessed.” As in, “You are so blessed.” I’ve heard this in alotta yoga classes. It’s the new “Namaste.” Really, it’s a fancy way of saying “lucky."

And it’s true, to a certain extent, I suppose. I have food, shelter, and I can afford to pay my bills, at least most months. I am relatively healthy; I don’t have any major physical deformities; I have so far retained all my limbs and internal organs (and most of my teeth!).

But I sometimes take offense to the notion that I should consider myself lucky in these regards. It should be a basic human right to have health, shelter, nourishment, and basic human needs met. If I have those things, am I “lucky”? Or am I just “fine”?

I don't just have my basic needs met, of course. I have much more. I have a sweet little cottage in the woods (with just a minor slug problem). I have more than my fair share of awesome friends. I have an easygoing lifestyle that includes the luxury of sleeping in almost every day. I run my own business. I love what I do for work. I have a creative project that means something to me. I just bought a pair of gold platform heels that cost $130.

But are these things all a result of being BLESSED?

I fear this is going to be a very controversial statement, but I deign to say that a lot of these things are actually the spoils of hard work and a lot — I mean a LOT — of self-work as well.

The word blessed, to me, implies a certain non-deserving of things. And you know, I think most of us actually deserve the good we do get. Not cuz we’re lucky. But because we’re doing our best to be good people.

I also find it interesting that the same people who talk about "how blessed we are" are the same ones who like to interject thoughts about manifestation. As if we could simultaneously be controlling our lives with The Power of Positive Thinking and, also, just be BLESSED. Um. Which is it?

Instead of talking about how “blessed” we are to not be suffering, maybe we talk about people who are not so blessed and who are still making positive contributions anyway?

I just read Dave Egger’s Zeitoun, about a Syrian-American man who stayed behind while Hurricane Katrina ravaged New Orleans so that he could help his community and try to be of service. He ended up getting arrested and jailed for almost a month based on not much more than the color of his skin and the post-9/11 conspiracy hysteria that is rampant in our country. He was denied his basic judicial rights, imprisoned and tortured without cause, and eventually let go without so much as a “Sorry, our bad.” Harrowing and eye-opening story. In the end, Zeitoun returned to New Orleans and became a pivotal figure in rebuilding his adopted home.

Wow.

Zeitoun was not blessed. Not a manifester, either. Just a good person doing his part to triumph over adversity.

ARTIST: Vanessa Fiola

I recently I went up to Spirit Rock Retreat Center for a daylong mindfulness workshop called “Wisdom 2.0.”

It was hosted by Soren Gordhamer, founder of the annual conference of the same name, and Will Kabat-Zinn, son of Jon “Wherever You Go, There You Are” Kabat-Zinn. I was excited about this daylong because technology and spirituality are two major interests of mine, and the possibilities for discussion seemed endless.

At places like Spirit Rock and events like mindfulness daylongs, it goes without saying that electronic devices are generally frowned upon. There is ubiquitous pressure to be device-free at “spiritual” events. If you even glance at your iPhone during such a thing, people will judge you as an under-present douchebag. It’s a faux pas punishable by social annihilation to bring a cell phone into a yoga studio. We’ve all hated on that one person who dared to bring her Crackberry into class with her and lay it on her mat while practicing her day’s yoga. She could be a doctor on call for brain surgery for all we know, but in yoga, all that matters is the sanctity of the $20 yoga moment, right? Hmm.

Read the rest on Elephant Journal...

Brussels sprouts bring me joy.

My friend Nira recently asked me where I find JOY in my life. She took me by surprise and I didn’t know what to say.

Questions like that sometimes leave me with a grim feeling of inadequacy and the fear that I have a cold and icy heart. Because the truth is, joy is not really an emotion in my day-to-day repertoire. Where I live (Marin County) someone you just met at a cocktail party is more likely to ask you about your level of joy than what you do for a living. This is a good thing, in many ways. People here really value SOUL and SPIRIT and JOIE DE VIVRE.

I’m kind of a party pooper though, because I honestly don’t really aspire to joy. I mean, joy is nice. It’s good to feel elated and ecstatic and happy as fuck.

But consider this: I recently edited an article for a psychologist client who specializes in post traumatic stress disorder. She wrote about how, for those who have experienced deep trauma, the biochemical feeling of joy and excitement can feel awfully close to the adrenaline-induced feeling of terror and anxiety. For this reason, PTSD victims often don’t seek out excitement.

I am not a PTSD victim and I can’t say my life has been all that traumatic, but I can relate to this concept. There is an edginess to joy that is unnerving. Partly because it’s so terribly fleeting. Think about it. What is the longest amount of time you have ever experienced joy for? Eckart Tolle wrote about it in The Power of Now: love is the flip side of hate. And joy is the flip side of suffering. Extreme emotions, both.

And then there’s the sleeper hit state of being: CONTENTMENT.

Budapest brings me joy. (I am the only person she brings joy, which makes it even more special. For everyone else, she is a harbinger of pain and fear.)

Contentment is when you’re not super up; you’re not down; you’re just good. Contentment, in my limited knowledge and experience, is what Buddhists strive for. Contentment is when I’m sitting on the couch watching Modern Family and drinking tea, and the cat comes over and sits in my lap and starts purring. Contentment is when nothing really shitty has happened today and I don’t have PMS. Contentment is a fresh green juice from Whole Foods on my way to an acupuncture treatment. Contentment is a good novel. Contentment is when I take a moment to pause and take note that I am fed, warm, dry, and just fine. (Thanks also to Nira for that little first world reminder.)

Tea brings me joy. Especially black tea. Which I can't drink right now. Bleak.

Because I’m not a joy chaser, you won’t catch me hitting the slopes for some exhilarating snowboarding action in the winter. I have never been to a rave (or taken ecstasy, for that matter). I’m not even much of a dancer.

The things I do for “fun” reflect this some-say-glass-half-full attitude of mine. I read books, I watch shitty television on my laptop, I cook, I go to the farmer’s market, I dream up recipes for my imaginary skincare company, I go for walks with friends, I take myself on movie dates and sneak homemade popcorn into the theater.

I’m good.

Today was threatening to be just another ho-hum pre-Christmas Saturday full of mild ennui and holiday despair. I was considering going tanning to lift my flagging spirits (for medical reasons, you see) when I happened to stumble across a creative Shangri La* right here in my little town of Mill Valley.

I needed some craft supplies and did a quick Google search for the closest art store. The search returned an address I drive by almost every day. Curious how an art supply store could exist—unbeknownst to me—under my very nose, I drove over there. Lo and behold, this is just a small corner of the wonderment I found:

Walking into this cornucopia of craft possibility was like stumbling across Mecca. I was practically drooling the moment I walked in the door. I got so excited that I spun around in circles several times before forcing myself to focus on one thing at a time: first, the awesome selection of scalloped note cards… then on to the exquisite display of sophisticated magic markers … a dizzying swing by the handmade paper gallery… and a gratuitous grab of some sparkly floral goodies. Twenty-five well-spent bucks later, I scribbled my email address on the mailing list on my way out the door, visions of future craft workshops parading giddily through my mind.

But no sooner did I discover this aesthetic mecca than I began to worry about its very existence. Mill Valley is a small town — albeit a small town that inexplicably keeps two Whole Foods markets quite busy — and I fear there isn’t enough imagination circulating among our local populace to support this amazing place. Apparently they’ve been open since February (I grilled the disaffected teenaged girls at the counter) and they’re obviously not doing great with their outreach. Granted, I live under a rock and I’m a confirmed shut-in, but I really should have heard about this place by now.

Oh, it’s called “Once Around.” Terrible name. But, exquisite place, truly. Their web site is quite lovely too: www.oncearound.com/

If you happen to be in Mill Valley, please go in and take a look around. Buy some craft supplies. Lord knows you can never have too many! I need this place to stay in business. It gives me hope.

* By the way, the worst restaurant I have ever been to in my entire life was actually called Shangri La, so I always think twice when I use this expression.

It's almost Thanksgiving, so what the hell.

FIRST THING I AM GRATEFUL FOR RIGHT NOW:

This sign, which was hanging at a wine bar I just had a meeting at:

SECOND THING I AM GRATEFUL FOR RIGHT NOW:

This Hyperbole and a Half post, which made me laugh really hard today:

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/11/dogs-dont-understand-basic-concepts.html

THIRD THING I AM GRATEFUL FOR RIGHT NOW:

The two-part interview that Vanessa and I did for The Magazine of Yoga all about RecoveringYogi:

PART ONE — Vagabonds of old new age

PART TWO — The West Coast girl geeks cruise IM, DM and air quotes

FOURTH THING I AM GRATEFUL FOR RIGHT NOW:

The fact that my friend Gary is going to bring me home a really cool present from Seoul.

FIFTH THING I AM GRATEFUL FOR RIGHT NOW:

My National Geographic came today!