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My First Yoga Retreat – Discovering the Undiscoverable, and some Other Oddball Notions

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My greatest fear is to stop thinking.
This was the profound discovery I made on November 16, during my first-ever yoga retreat at Harmony House Yoga in Pismo Beach, CA.
Not spiders, not public speaking, not cancer, not even death.
No.
I realized my greatest fear is to let a moment lapse where I am not actively thinking about something…planning, reconsidering, judging, musing, creating, analyzing, generating. And while this makes me an excellent PR/social media agency Accounts Manager, it makes me a very, very poor yogi.
There is no mental quiet, no inner calm, no inner “blank white nothing” that I can easily fall into nor scavenge for. There is only color and sound and thoughts tangled with loose threads from other balls of thoughts.
Why is this?
Why is it that even if I don’t have time to think about something to the extent that it deserves, I actually write it down so I can think about it later when I do have time?
It’s like I’m afraid I’ll miss something…overlook something. Like I’ll forget something important, suffer a missed connection, bypassed opportunity or underprepared attempt.

Overcoming This Greatest Fear
I strongly believe that people should try to overcome fear. Not all fears, as some fear is not only acceptable, but also essential. It keeps us grounded, realistic and human. It keeps us relatable and humble. No…I just believe we should try to overcome our greatest fear, for that is the one that stands in the way (usually) of true happiness, contentment and peace.

So, to try to conquer my fear of ceasing my thoughts, I decided to attend a two-day yoga retreat…complete with morning, afternoon and evening yoga, meditation, camaraderie and…where lack of camaraderie…the bliss of solitude. This solitude being, of course, the elusive, magical goal of my experience since I have not (thus far) ever been able to manifest it internally.

DAY ONE
The dawn paddle-out, and my inside-out self.
Gray mist still hung low in over the Pismo Beach coastline as several other early-rising yogis and I made our way out to the sand for the morning (7AM on a Saturday) paddle-out. There was Ryan MacDonald (Irish, by name and by beard), Kelly Metcalf (the studio owner), Claudia (the more tenured yogi of the bunch), Summer (with fiery red hair), a girl with dark hair (who emerged from a nearby beachfront apartment) and a girl with a really cool surfboard (see photos).

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We first formed a sort of prayer circle right there on the sand. And as the wind skipped around our faces, throwing loose strands of hair this way and that, Chris played the bagpipes and Kelly led us in a morning meditation.

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As I looked around the circle at everyone else with their eyes closed and smiles on their faces, I noticed very blatantly the key difference between me and them:

There they were, sinking into their own inner peace of this gray, quiet morning, eyes closed and trusting, uncurious about anything else around them…able to FOCUS.

And there I was, finding joy in THEIR expression of peace…finding my own mirth in watching the waves lick the sand, and the seagulls pretending to be untethered kites over our circle, and finding awe in staring wistfully at surfers interacting with the ocean in a way I’m fairly certain I will never have the skills nor gall to.

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But in that moment of reconizing this difference, I made peace with it. PEACE…that thing I can never find. I made peace with the fact that I want my eyes open. I want to absorb everything and everyone else. I want to be the sponge of the nature and souls that surround me in order to give off their vibrant energy in return. And maybe in that osmosis of all life surrounding me, the tiny pieces of my environment that I take in and hoard for a lifetime, maybe that IS my “self.”

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Maybe my “inner peace” is different in that I both find it—and wear it—on the outside.

But one thing I did NOT have on MY outside…was a wetsuit. So at the end of the meditation, when the bagpipes fell silent and the other yogis ran towards the waves with their surfboards, I gleefully watched. I sent my camera lens and hearty grin in their direction to show my support from the dry (and only slightly warmer) beach.

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The Afternoon Beach Yoga and Tiny Joys
The day was beautiful, sunny and warm (hello, Cali). It was dappled with tea at Honeymoon Cafe with Chris Assaad, Summer (from the morning paddle-out) and Ryan, during which I discovered that Yerba Mate is divine with a little bit of honey and nutmeg in it; a brief peek-a-boo session with Chris Buschard’s baby from behind a newsstand; and yoga on the beach with three women at least 20 years my senior…and another tiny, joyful realization…

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When these three other women and I finally settled into Sivassanah on the sand, I realized that the sand has the exact same muffling effect as a Midwest snow. If you lay down in even the smallest groove of it, it sounds like you’re miles away from everything else. For a moment, despite the warm temperatures and sounds of the surf, I felt as if I was packed into a neon snowsuit in mid-January…bundled up by my mom so thickly I could only move like a robot…nuzzled into the quiet of a snow-fort in the backyard of our Illinois home where I grew up.

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And right there in that moment, in my sunny new home, I became ever-so-slightly homesick.

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An Evening Conversation (Talk) With Chris Assaad
Along with a fairly large group of other yogis, I rang in the evening with a low-lit, calming and very unifying talk by Chris Assad.

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The story he told began with how he had just gotten into music when he started losing his hearing. He thought he was bad at music. He had surgery on his ears, and within a year and a half, he got his hearing back. When he turned on the radio after regaining his hearing, he became on fire for music…because he finally had sound…something he didn’t think he’d be able to have. And along with music, he gained spirituality.

He began to go to school during the day, and to play music at night. And once he was fully launched into his law career, he ended up turning down a six-figure salary to focus on music…to put something more into his life than the 9-5 chatter we all live with.

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“If you were God, why would you give someone a gift that requires something great of them, then put them into a condition that prevents them from doing it?” he asked us. And what I thought in response was that…well, he doesn’t. I think we put ourselves into those conditions that we feel are restraining us. Perhaps we are righteously misguided, if that makes sense. We are making good decisions, but are doing so in a way that ignores the inherent compulsion we feel to pursue our true gifts. So…we are not in the wrong, we just aren’t headed in the right direction for ouselves either.

He asked us to take out the crayon and paper in front of us and write town dreams we have realized, dreams we have given up on, and then the reasons why we’ve given up on those dreams.

Here’s what I came up with for myself:

Realized dream: Marrying a good man and living by the beach. And more importantly, outgrowing my adolescent self. (Not like I wouldn’t have—you can’t stay 12 forever—but you’ve been there and know adolescence feels helpless and eternal).

Dream given up on: Having my family and my husband’s family live close to one another.

Why did I give up: Washington and Illinois are never going to be closer to one another, and both families are settled in houses they built themselves. So we will either have to choose a family, move every two years to remain fair, or live precisely in the center…thereby never being close enough to either family to just drop the kids off on particularly busy days.

So even though I ultimately have little decision in this situation, I’m sure many others in the room came to some profound (and perhaps even solvable) realizations in that conversation and time of reflection

Chris did leave us with some profound words:
“Fight or flight does not know the difference between real danger and perceived danger. Therefore, we need to take action in the face of that which makes us uncomfortable,” he said. “If you take even the first step today that leads towards your dream, then you are living your dream.”

DAY TWO
When I Almost Went Raw, Buuuuuuut…Didn’t (photos to come)
After morning beach yoga, which was delightful, I made the point to attend church in a nearby Catholic church I would walk to (yes, I’m Catholic). The mass started 20 minutes late, was half in Latin, and 90% of the women and girls had lace atop their heads…aka, not the best mass to be at in a tank top in yoga pants & flip flops. I was wildly out of place, but the people there were friendly enough. So yeah…church and yoga in one day. Some sort of saintly feeling to that…

So raw food chef Betsy Asmus gave a seminar at the retreat, which I was excited to attend. I’ve always wanted to hear more about going raw, and perhaps even go raw myself. Why not. I love anything that could make me healthier, have more energy and live longer.

Betsy’s story:
Before she went raw, she was 45 lbs heavier and was on nine medications at age 55. She would get up at 4:30AM to work out every day, would work 12 hours as the dean of a college, but it wasn’t enough. When she finally went to the doctor and lined up all of her drugs to inform him that they weren’t working he said, “Oh, you’re not supposed to be taking this with that, or that with this…” and so on and so forth. Being a woman who has previously worked in Medication Therapy Management, this aspect of her story hooked me, and I wanted to hear how she moved forward from this all-too-common (and unfortunate) dilemma in the human healthcare system.

Her first step was to go to Whole Foods and check out Ani’s Raw Food Kitchen book. From that point on (according to Betsy), she had no more allergies, is on no mediations, she sleeps with a cat now (in fact), she has lowered her bad cholesterol and blood pressure, she has a freedom from food (rather than an addiction to it), she does not bloat (no wheat), she does not have mucous (from dairy), and more. Her first clue that going raw was working was that she didn’t flat-line at 3PM like usual. Her extra weight started melting off, and her skin tone improved.

In the middle of her story, she fed us an oatmeal raisin cookie that was made using persimmon as the liquid, and which was dehydrated instead of baked. It was unreal delicious. Like, seriously.

So my first question to her was which dehydrator she used. (That’s me…if I like it, I want to learn how to make it too…NOW.) She said she uses an Excalibur 9-tray with the 14”x14” trays, which runs around $250. She said to make sure the temp gets down to 105 degrees on whatever machine you purchase, because otherwise (any hotter), it takes away the foods’ nutrients.

On dehydration of food, she says that YES…it takes longer, but it maintains the minerals and enzymes in the food and prevents them from deteriorating.

On her other dietary habits, she said, “If it comes from something that has a face, I don’t eat it.” (This made me chuckle.)

Next, she prepared us a pumpkin pudding with ginger spice cream. How? You can soak cashews to make creams and cheesecakes! (OMG, who knew?!….more like, who knew and DIDN’T TELL ME?!) You soak them overnight, using the hottest filtered water you can (which speeds it up). And you blend them to make the cream.

FUN FACT: Cashews are fruits. (?!?)

Also, apparently…don’t eat peanut butter. This is because bacteria often grows between the hard shell and the nut, which is not healthy to consume.

GOOD NUTS: cashews, almonds, walnuts, hazelnuts, pecans and Brazil nuts.

GUIDELINE FOR FOODS:
– Must be labeled “raw” AND “organic” to ensure it hasn’t been heat-processed or radiation-processed. Sprouted is even better.

Finally, she won my heart with  a “fudge ball.” This wondrous little morsel was comprised of almond butter, dates and cacao and strawberries (whaaaaat?). It was delish.

To make, simply puree the strawberries, chop the other half of the ingredients and blend with the dates, add lemon juice as a preservative and a raw vegan “binder” substitute. You can also make sunflower seed flour and pumpkin seed flour, just be sure to use a dry container when “blending” and DO NOT overblend…or you will get a substance that has a very peanut-butter-like consistency.

I decided, as I left, I was going raw. And I also knew that, as a woman married to a “comfort food” guy and also being a woman who loves all things that can be hunted and cooked on a grill (i.e elk), I would probably go through life continuing to eat foods that came from something with a face. However, I love the idea and think that there are likely a variety of nutritional routes a person could take to obtain what they felt was their optimum regime. I think it works much the same way as exercise does….there is no perfect form of exercise. The best form of exercise is the KIND THAT YOU WILL ACTUALLY DO. So with a diet, the best kind of diet regime is one that is actually PLAUSIBLE and ENJOYABLE for you to stick with.

The Yoga Retreat Finale
There were no fireworks, no weeping goodbyes, and I had made no new best friends. However, I had learned, I had practiced great yoga all weekend, I had spent my days filled with the joy and light of a variety of vibrant and inspiring individuals, and I would definitely go back again. I loved the studio (and the beach), I loved the people, and I loved the time the retreat forced me to take out of my usual monotony and actually ENJOY the sea, sand and sky I’ve been blessed with living in the midst of since October.

I ended the day with another amazing yoga session, some tea and healthy treats with the other students, and then I headed back into my busy life to talk about what a great time I had.

I met my pals at Phantom Rivers Winery, not far away at all, where I ate some food that had come from something with a face, drank wine, and made a little bit more peace with the fact that internal and external zen doesn’t have to be a perfect art acquired by intense meditation and a flawless sense of self.

Sometimes zen is just a little bit of dusky sunshine, a little bit of a rich Mourvedre, and a little bit of acknowledgement to oneself that you are ever-so pleasantly always on that delightfully thin line between all stereotypes.

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Yoga 20/30 Challenge—The Day I Walked Out of a Yoga Class

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Ladies and gents partaking in this challenge (from afar) of doing yoga at least 20 out of 30 days, I am actually doing well. I’ve done several Hatha and Vinyasa classes, my first Bikram yoga class, and even yoga on my own on days when getting to a studio wasn’t in the cards. And it’s been a time of getting back into the worn-in groove I had so painstakingly established for myself before, as well as one of trying to grow in my practice…not ever trying to be the biggest, best, strongest, longest, most balanced, etc….NO…just trying to be bigger, better, stronger, longer and MORE balanced than I was the day before, each day. 

But today, I straight up walked out of a yoga class. I honestly could not handle another second. 

Let the record show that I have done yoga for five years. I have had instructors, styles, patterns, language and music from all kinds of kinds and in all types of flows and environments. But in all of those five years, not one teacher has spiritually angered me so much I had to physically remove myself from their classroom.

It STARTED as a Great Day

This was a sunrise class. My ONE groan upon the alarm going off was the crabbiest I was that morning. I made coffee, breathed deep, and actually smiled and sang ALL the way to class (full 20 minutes). I was so excited to be awake and alive. I got their early, picked my spot, stretched and settled into my mat and space. I was ready. As the sky outside the big windows to the studio turned from violet into butter yellow ever-so-slowly, we began our practice with our instructor, who we’ll call “Frederick” for this story.

It began simply enough, with some lunges, some Warrior Ones, some Mountain Poses, etc. Getting the body warmed up. But as we moved into portion after portion of what I would barely call a “sequence,” we were all struggling. The teacher had his eyes closed and appeared to be in his own, separate yoga-instructor world…while on the other side of his eyelids, his six female students (4 of which I could tell were relatively new to yoga) floundered to figure out what our limbs were supposed to be doing. 

The vague instructions our teacher gave would be something like “release.” (Release WHAT? Release it to WHERE? Release it slowly? Quickly? With an exhale?) I made my best guess at what he’d meant, and watched the girls around me look around at each other, then to me, then begin doing whatever they interpreted they should be. I hear the instructor say, “No, release the leg UP.” The word sounded like a curse to me. No?! I think the only time I ever hear “no” in a yoga class is in the sentence “No-one is perfect”…or “No stress…no thought…no worries.” But never as a command. 

This floundering continued the whole class. The poses had no seeming connection to one another, nor did they feel as if they acted as preparation for the next move. The instructor failed to say what we were supposed to be feeling…(i.e. “You should feel this in your hip. If you do, breathe into it and relax as your muscles settle into the pose. If you don’t feel it, do such-and-such until you DO feel it, or try this alternate movement.”) None of that. So no-one had any idea if they were really doing it right or wrong, or if it was working, or what was coming next, or why…. So I began doing my own moves that I new worked to stretch the specific parts of the body that I could kind of tell the instructor was TRYING to work on. 

To add to this, the tone and inflection of the teacher’s commands made it impossible to do anything gracefully. For example, his command would be spoken so slowly, you’d be hover in mid-air looking at him and waiting for him to finish so you knew where on earth to put your hand/foot/head/whatever. “Bring your leg…….to the….right (and plant it? let it hover?!)…and plant it. Then foooold…..[begin bending towards lunged leg]….slowly upwards (wait, what? Ugh…)[come upwards]…towards the….(wall? front of the room? sky?)…Pismo Beach.” Yes, he said “towards Pismo Beach.” I don’t know about any of you, but I do NOT have a built in GPS…or even the slightest figment of a compass, let alone a full-fledged mental map of what surrounds…albeit miles away…any building I’m in. “Left” or “right” would have sufficed. 

But before I could even think, “Poor me,” I thought, “Poor them!” These other girls didn’t likely have five years of prior experience built into their bodies, lightly informing them they were moving incorrectly and weren’t getting anything out of the poses we were doing. I had the luxury at least of LEARNING correctly, and then being forced to practice INCORRECTLY today. They did not even have the luxury, in this class, of LEARNING correctly.

The Moment I Knew I Would Probably End Up Walking Out

“You have no choice.”

In a yoga world, where your practice is completely customized based on the person, the day, the time of day, what the body is doing, how the spirit is feeling…and in which the whole point is to open up and be flexible, the words “you have no choice” should not even exist. Of COURSE you have a choice. You have every choice, in fact, and your yoga mat is the one place in life that even happens! lol At the moment he said it, we were in a half moon, and told we could reach back to grab our foot if we wanted to. If we WANTED to? How about…”if you have room to grow in that way, grab hold of your foot, pull, and breathe into the stretch of it.” Don’t do it because you want to, do it because you can…and choose to. And then, “But if you have no choice, just stay where you are.” Terrible. Terrible word choice. In that moment, every woman in the room who could not reach her foot began subconsciously thinking she was stuck…stagnant…still…standing there unable to move, bend, grow…she had “no choice.” 

What would I have said? I would have said, “If today your body does not have the room to reach your foot, that is OKAY. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after that. Listen to your body, because it knows what it needs. If you can even begin to move your hand in the direction of your foot, do that….while reaching, remember to stabilize your core and standing leg to keep you balanced.” And then whatever they tried or didn’t try next, I would have walked around to assist, ask questions, adjust, and coo “Veeerrrry gooood” in the most placid and accepting of voices.

—-(sigh)—-my yoga teacher training starts in October and it could not come soon enough…

 

“I’m OUTTA Here…”

It was inversion time…5-10 minutes of time for students to practice going upside down. We started in dolphin pose, after watching the instructor himself try the pose a few times and fail, before stepping out of the way for us to cozy up to the wall and try it ourselves. I did mine, got inverted, then slowly drew my legs down while arching my back into Scorpion. Moments later, the teacher came over to tell me to try it again, but to bring my elbows inward more and fan my hands outwards. What I wanted to say: “Dude, I’ve been getting inverted for two years, and I have a funky back…so I know where my balance falls, sits and lays…and this is where my limbs need to be to support me.” But instead I said, “Okay.” And tried it his way. Moments later, my torso gave out, my back tweaked in an odd way and I fell. I knew it was because his method didn’t work for my body. But he probably thought I just did it wrong…

Having hurt myself a bit in that pose, I decided to just work on my headstand. So I geared up, got inverted, and was actually enjoying my pose very much…stabilizing core, thinking about my alignment, etc…until I head, “NO HEADSTAND, PLEASE!” I waited a good 15 more seconds before coming down. 

I was so livid, I was shaking more than a novice in the second minute of chair pose. 

Excuse me, Lord of Terrible Yoga, but if it’s “inversion time,” and this is MY practice…I can do whatever inversion I want to. Especially if I’m doing it to counteract the screwball move you made me to to tweak it up in the first place. 

Seriously. Two words…no matter the teacher, place, skill level, anything: MY PRACTICE.

YOUR PRACTICE. 

Your yoga practice is no one else’s. Teachers are there to help you grow, assist your alignment and structure, build your confidence, explain how to do new things, and most importantly, to always respect where you’re at in your practice. They are there as guides. Not herders.

I rolled up my mat, snatched my water bottle, and gave the teacher a curt smile as I exited. “Thaaaaank yoou….” he called after me in what was the furthest thing from a genuine tone I’ve heard in awhile. 

As I Walk Away

But I DO want to thank this teacher. For as many mentors as you learn what TO do from, those mentors you learn what NOT to do from are just as essential. In fact, sometimes I think I learn MORE from those terrible teachers out there. 

I went for a long jog on the beach to calm down after class, and felt much better. Needless to say, I won’t be returning to that teacher, but thank heavens there are plenty of others I enjoy. Another day, another lesson in patience…

Namaste…

This is NOT a “Sultry Glisten”: My first Bikram Yoga Class

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Soaked. Through. 

I was sweating like a snowman in the Sahara, in a way no current or future “wicking” properties of yoga clothes could ever counteract.

I was standing in a puddle of my own sweat on the towel over my mat I’d sworn I wouldn’t need, talking myself out of fainting, trying not to let my brain get too lost in identifying which damp-human smell around me belonged to whom. 

And I liked it. 

“Hot” and “Bikram” Are Not the Same

I’ve done a couple of years of hot yoga before this. Although I’d taken a few months off with a wedding, cross-country move and new career, I was pretty sure I could handle whatever this Bikram class could throw at me. I’d been invited to try Bikram Yoga SLO by new-acquaintance and now-friend Joe Patane. And those who know me know that the only challenge I can turn down is one involving skydiving or eating bugs. So, there I was…

“Bake-ram.” “Bake-ram” was all I could think of to describe the first second I walked into the classroom, a moment comparable to the second you open an oven to check on the cookies before shielding your face with an oven-mitt. A hot blast. A sauna. I began doubting my prior confidence in tackling these temps, but settled down on my mat anyways. 

Sweat Baby Sweat

I was sweating before we even started moving. No, before we even started breathing. In fact, I didn’t even know I was breathing until our first inhale/exhale exercise because the air going in and out of my lungs was the same temperature. In fact, it was coming out of my living human body COOLER than the air around it: fathom that. 

As teacher Lori Logan guided us through the flow, I found myself sort of caught up in a misty, warm daze that was basically my consciousness melting the instinctual resistance to being in a room that hot….or perhaps more likely, the steam filling the room as our toxins escaped us. Looking around the room in my balmy, lucid state, I began imagining what each of my fellow students’ “puddles” contained: Superbowl food? Wings? An entire box of Vino (yeah, that was mine). Cigarettes? Cheesecake? And as I did this, twisting and pulling my muscles into the various different non-shapes we were making with our bodies began to feel cathartic for me. 

I Wanted To Dive Off A Cliff

Not in a bad way! When the nearly two hours of “bake-ram” and moving, holding, breathing, straining, stretching, bending and sweating was coming to a close, I wanted to dive off of a cliff…anything…just to feel the rush of air against me. As Lori cracked the door and windows open to allow the first little wisps of fresh, cool air into the room, it was like having a bucket of “blessing” dumped over me. I kept fantasizing about a fan (ha….FANtasizing)…about standing out of the top of a sunroof while going 75 mph…about taking a nap naked on a frozen pond. And as I reveled in the beautiful brush of air on my sweat-beaded skin, I slipped into the best Sivassanah. This class, I let my mind wander to the most peaceful, best place in the world for my Sivassanah time, wherever that might be. And I slipped into a half-awake dream where I was in a pontoon, under a sky of stars, sleeping next to my husband…I could almost feel the movement of the waves.

Overall Review

Overall, it was awesome. And if I could do it after having taken four months off from any sort of hot yoga, I think almost anyone could do it. Lori was an excellent teacher, with a calming voice and willingness to lead without forcing, and allow relaxation without letting you sleep (“keep your eyes open” she’d say over and over). She was welcoming to me as a newbie, provided me with anything extra I needed to enjoy class, and I would definitely go back. 

Personally, I would perhaps do it three times per week as a treat, rather than every day. But it was amazing, and I felt light as air and happy as a clam the rest of the day. 

Even better, she has a “new student” special, where your first month of unlimited classes is just $30. 

Located in the old Creamery in downtown San Luis Obispo, you can park there for the class FREE of charge. Just make sure you’re polite and move after class is over. There are meters on the street as well, but it’s nice to not have to pay while you’re in sweating your heart out. 

P.S. TAKE A TOWEL AND A WATER. And maybe chug a coconut water on your way to class. Better safe than unconscious. 😉

Give her a try! 
Namaste…

 

My Yoga Pals—and a Long-Distance 20/30 Challenge: DAY ONE

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When I left PowerLife Yoga in West Des Moines, Iowa, to move to San Luis Obispo in pursuit of my husband’s private-jet-flying-dreams, I was literally and physically pretty bent out of shape.

Friends thought I was nuts for being bummed: “Iowa to Cali? Cold to warmth? Midwest to coast? You’ll have yoga EVERYWHERE in Cali.” But what they might not have realized is that the warmth of a familiar smile and quirky laugh can warm the coldest Iowa day, where all of the sunshine in the world could not warm the unknowing face of a million strangers on the coast. For me, yoga was about community—and I was leaving mine far, far behind. 

But here I am.

Mom always said, “Bloom where you are planted.” And so I must. 

As a quick disclaimer, I am on the verge of finally committing to a yoga studio here in San Luis Obispo, but will force you to stay tuned for now. They’ll get their own post for being so welcoming. 🙂

For now, I want to highlight a long-distance commitment I made to my OLD yoga community. And by “old” I mean “still close to my heart but unable to be physically present.”

 

My Long Distance Love

To my PowerLife yogis and mentors back in Iowa, the first day of my 20/30 challenge yesterday was FOR YOU:

It was 7:30 PM, and I’d resigned to not exercising at all. I was swamped with work, overwhelmed with the idea of the chores I needed to do, and exhausted from a couple of days of “Superbowl eating.” But high-five to my husband, he said, “Put your workout clothes on. We’re going to the gym.” I whined, I did my “cute face,” I said I didn’t want to and told him he’d have to carry me. “Sarah,” he said finally, “You said you wanted someone to push you, and you need it. Now get your clothes on.” So I did. And we went. 

I gave the uphill treadmill and bike a good ‘go,’ watching pointless TV while I walked, then reading an entire issue of “Fit Pregnancy” while pedaling away to trim-down my very un-pregnant belly (does a ‘food baby’ count?). But when I slowly skulked by the dark group exercise room and realized all classes were over for the night, I snuck in, grabbed a tattered, very un-LuLuLemon mat from a pile, and picked a spot next to the mirror. 

Once there, on this mat, my limbs—muscles, joints, breath—began to fall into a familiar pattern, as I did a dance (solo) I hadn’t done for a very long time: my own unique yoga practice. The best part? It was perfectly tailored to what my body needed from yoga that day. And even when a couple of silly youngsters came in and started gabbing about the pet names they called their boyfriends and how awesome Mary Kay’s new facial brush is (“like…WOW!”), I was up in my headstand thinking about my core. It was amazing that somehow the buffalo chicken dip and tortilla chips was managing to hold me inverted. My body, this amazing machine. Rusty, but still amazing in its capabilities. 

Before I knew it, 45 minutes had passed like nothing. And even though my “class” was “taught” by none other than myself (and the residual lessons and movements gifted to me by my former PowerLife teachers), I think it counted. It counted as ONE out of my 20 times that I will do yoga over the course of these next 30 days. Did I miss getting a hug on my way out? YES. Did I miss my familiar yogi faces as I did my Sun A and Sun B—hearing Adam’s, Steph’s, Vince’s, Kirk’s, Justin’s or any of the other teachers—resonating in my mind with “Yes, we’re still in downward dog” or “Let me hear you roar!” or “Push yourself! You’re getting rid of all of the toxins you put into your body over the weekend!”? YES. 

But, dear faraway yogis, I carry each of your influence and practice, your smiles, conversations and good advice with me—even here.

Day one down, 29 more to go. I’M WITH YOU.

 

“Integrity is who you are in the dark, when no one is looking. It’s being kind to someone who can do you absolutely nothing for you. It’s acting in the way your conscience directs you to act, with no-one but yourself holding you accountable.” – SDG (and many others)

 

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