I wonder if Nancy Reagan knew the gold mine she opened up when she coined the phrase, “Just say no,” and helped spread it ’round the nation.

Drugs.  Sex.  Alcohol.  Peer pressure.  Unwanted groping.  Unnecessary bullying. Combat it all—in an idealistic world—with that one-punch word:  No.

Thing is, why weren’t we ever taught how to say “no” in the other areas of our lives? Our adult lives, I mean.

You don’t say “no” to the boss.  And you don’t say “no” to attendance requests at important networking events or dear friends’ parties or to invites to intellectually stimulating outings like museum visits, book readings, or trips to the theater.  You don’t say “no” family that needs your help or friends who need your listening ear. You don’t say “no” to your love life.  You don’t say “no” to health, exercise, daily body maintenance.

If you did, you’d be rude, unsupportive, anti-social, lazy, selfish, unhealthy.

But, really—where were the lessons on saying “no” to any of this?  Did I miss the after-school special that covered the above situations?

I’m beginning to think so.

Especially considering, when I looked up at my mother through tears and hiccups last Thursday, this is what she told me:  ”You don’t know how to say ‘no.’”

I don’t?

Huh.  Well.

In my defense, mi madre, I think the world has more “yes” people than “no” people in it, largely because we are scared of the ramifications behind that two-lettered lump of negativity.

If we opt out, we miss out.  If we decline, we regret what we could have accepted.  If we say, “no, thanks,” we never know what we could have been oh so thankful for.

We please people when we say “yes,” while we disappoint with the word “no.”  We find entertainment, round out our experiences, even shape our thinking, when we agree to an activity.  We impress when we face a challenge, an uncomfortable situation, a potentially disastrous blind date, when we buck up and declare, “Yeah, sure, of course, I’ll do it!  Count me in!”

“Yes” carries less guilt and angst, less after-thought and analysis.

“No” leaves you wondering.  What if?  Just maybe?  Perhaps I could have if I’d just given it a try?

My mother listened to me ramble through this argument—her in the blue wing back chair, me rumpled and curled at her feet, like a child.  My words sounded hollow as I said them aloud.  Even I could hear the echo of indecision and exhaustion and frustration in my voice.

We sat silently then, for a minute, as I collected myself, as she watched me.  And then she took my hand, and squeezed it, and leaned in close, and said, “The world won’t go to pieces if you say ‘no’ to something, baby girl.  Just say no, and then—what do they tell you in yoga, eh?—let it go.  And move on.”

I drove back north yesterday, the Pennsylvania countryside passing my window, then miles of Connecticut woods, and then Massachusetts’ hills and bare-limbed trees. I sped further and further away from my beloved parents, my sister, my nephews, toward another week of work and yoga and my life.

Behind me were my mother’s words.  My childhood home, Stoneyway, sunlit in the late November afternoon.  Crunching through the sugar maple’s crimson leaves with my giggling nephew.  Laughing with my father.  Eating fresh, home-cooked meals around the old kitchen table, in the belly of the house.  Easing into the quiet, safe, comfortable arms of those who love me unconditionally.

I choked back a few tears, even as my eyes rolled at such dramatics.  I squeezed the steering wheel, so tightly my knuckles hurt.  My hips twinged, tight.  The traffic bore down, relentless.

And then, the “Massachusetts Welcomes You!” sign.

And then, the Boston skyline.

The greatest advantage we have in this life is choice.  Perhaps that’s the greatest success of that “Just say no” ad campaign.  Behind that three-word message is the indirect meaning:

You have the choice to say “yes” or to say “no.”  Choose wisely. Choose for you.

As I roared back into my city, a sudden, sharp reminder struck me:  I chose this life, here.  I wanted it, desperately.  I fought for it and defended it and then reinforced it. Along the way, I healed my broken heart.  I worked this broken body into new form.  I let go.  I let others in.  I moved on.

So what if I have to brush up or, let’s face it, master my “no”-saying skills, now, a little delayed at nearly 29 years of age?

I choose a learning life.

Let the lesson begin.

It is so easy to neglect what you do not readily feel.

If it isn’t at the forefront, tugging at shirttails, squeezing our fingers, we keep moving. In motion, we forget.

In yoga, the forgotten details can lead to catastrophe.  For example:  We are constantly reminded to suck in our stomachs so as to support the lower back.  Some teachers harp on this more than others.  But, it is an integral part of the yoga, particularly the standing series. Because an unsupported back can lead to gruesome pain—believe me, I know.

I don’t like to feel this kind of pain.  I’m no wimp, but I’m certainly not a glutton for punishment.  (Says the woman who devotes 90 minutes a day to working out in a room that’s hot enough to scramble eggs…)

And yet, sometimes, it does me good to feel the pinch, the sharp sting that reminds me, “Oh yes, I need to take care of that.”

I’ve felt this sting in life lately, too.

And, oddly, I have appreciated its bite.

I like feeling healed—I like looking back on a time, a man, a rocky patch in a friendship, and thinking, “I worked past that, and here is the scar, and I am fine now, see?”  This is progress.  Forward momentum.  Staying in one place too long leaves me stiff, uncomfortable, restless.

But, it is good to be reminded of what happens when you move too quickly, too suddenly.

I spent last night’s class working as carefully and slowly as I possibly could, as I doted on the throbbing tightness in my lower back.  I can’t remember the last time I paid this much attention to every single movement my limbs and muscles made.  It was fascinating and exhausting and, ultimately, healing.  I crawled off my mat as loose and silken as ribbon.

And as I made my way home, my body soothed, I thought of the other pinches I’ve felt lately.  No part of me has enjoyed the sharp fingernails digging into the softness of my heart.  And yet, I am grateful.

Because I would rather face the reminder than suffer the regression.

I’ve worked too hard, damn it, to go even one inch backwards.

Wah wah wahhhhhhh.

Blah blah blaaaaaah.

Boooooo freaking hooooo.

Yeah, I’ve heard it, too.  All the whining, crying, complaining, huffing and puffing around here.  It’s been a bit of a shit show, hasn’t it?  I’ve lost that lovin’ feeling, haven’t I?

[Sheepish smile.  Shy, hopeful eyes.  Open arms, offering an "I'm sorry" hug...]

Well, don’t you worry.  I gave myself a talking-to.

In other words:  “Hannah, shut up!”

That’s what I said to myself multiple times yesterday, even leading up to last night’s yoga class.  Actually, a little profanity slipped its way in there, too.  Sacrilege!  Swearing in yoga class!  (Truth?  I curse left and right in my head all fucking day, on the mat and off.)

But really.  Enough.

My life, in all its craziness, is not THAT bad.  Come on now.

My job has taken off like fireworks on the 4th of July.  The items on my to-do list are diverse, interesting, challenging, and more unique than ever before.  The relationships I’ve spent the last year and a half making with coworkers around the world finally feel real, comfortable, strong.  The stories I’ve heard, from colleagues in Dubai, Seoul, Paris, Shanghai, and Abu Dhabi, are fascinating and funny and eye-opening.  This is a good job, a good place for me right now, in this strange stage of my career.  Must I really waste energy bitching about it, just because I’ve been entrusted with new responsibilities?

My friends continue to offer support, encouragement, care, and a listening ear, even though they’re as beleaguered as I am come day’s end.  Whether through e-mails or Facebook posts or text messages or comments on this here blog, the sentiment is the same:  They are thinking of me.  I am loved.  They are proud.  We are all trying our very best.  Why indulge in any thought regarding these precious relationships other than, “I am blessed“?

This yoga practice—what would I do with out it?  Really.  How dare I berate the very thing that’s given me so very much?  I had my yoga when I had nothing else, when I was broken and stripped bare and seemingly beyond hope.  I am a little ashamed, embarrassed even, at my lack of gratitude lately, at my indifference, my resentment.

And Boston—my Boston.  Each evening, I drive back int0 its skyline, murmering a little hello, as I wind through its cluttered, chaotic streets, horns honking, sirens squealing, my stereo turned up high.  I can feel the city wrapping me in its cold, steeled arms; but, it is a gentle, loving embrace, a welcoming home.

I have a good friend who’s asked me to help with an amazing project—and, in doing so, has offered me an incredible opportunity.  One of my dearest friends is newly engaged.  I’m going to meet a slew of Boston bloggers in December. My two favorite holidays are on the horizon.  This weekend, I get to drive south to Pennsylvania and visit my family.

Life is great.

I have not forced myself to do this in quite some time—to pause and to practice thanks.  I’d like to think I give myself regular reality checks.  These last few weeks?  Not so much.  Somehow, I’ve settled for wailing and wallowing.  God love you all for putting up with it.

Change is here, though, friends.  Don’t worry.

You want proof?  It’s okay—I would, too.

Yesterday, I made it to the 4:30 p.m. class for the first times in ages.  Day 8, ready to be conquered.  I arrived roughly 20 minutes early, threw down my mat, then proceeded to get ready for class, wander around the studio, talk to a few regulars and teachers.  With about five minutes until class began, I went back into the hot room.  Only to find it absolutely packed with yogis.  Like only two inches between each other’s mats kind of packed.  And nearly a quarter of them were newbies.

Uh oh, I thought.  This could be brutal.  The panic began to mount.  My stomach rumbled a little.  My gaze drifted rapidly back and forth over the room.  My mind started churning up the negative, doubtful thoughts.  And then, I looked into my eyes in the mirror and remembered.

Shut up, Hannah.

Inspiring words, huh?

But, it worked.  I proceeded to rock my way through a ridiculously humid and intense 90 minutes, without breaking concentration once, without skipping a single command in the dialogue, even when the mirrors steamed up so badly I could no longer see my reflection.  I just worked.

And when I laid in savasana afterwards, absolutely bathed in sweat and grinning, I thought: Nothing is ever as bad as I allow it to be in my head.

Now, I know I’m a fool most of the time.

But, come on—those words, that truth, is quite inspiring indeed.

Seven days.  One week.  Nearly 1/4 of the way through the 30-day journey.

But, who’s counting?

Not me.  I swear.

How are you all feeling this Monday morning?  A little sugar sick?  A smidge hung over, still, from your shenanigans on Saturday night?  Perhaps you’re even a little bruised and battle-scarred from falling down, tripping, running into corners, and suffering other such calamaties that can happen when you’re in costume? 

Me?  I hurt, too.  But more in the “I’m so damn tired even my eyelides are in pain” kind of hurt.  If I could sleep for an entire day, I still don’t think I’d feel rested.  And this isn’t a “I partied like a 19-year-old rockstar” exhaustion—no, it’s more of a “I’m an old lady who’s trying to juggle a full-time job, a part-time project, a daily yoga practice, and an active social life” exhaustion. 

Thrilling, I know.

The beauty of this yoga challenge, though, is that it almost feels old hab.  My body fully recognizes all of these feelings—this low, throbbing ache, the crack and pop of joints, the tightness just waiting to snap and release.  I’m going through the usual highs and pitfalls within each class, but it all feels customary, even a little comfortable.  And, interestingly, my mind recognizes it all, too.  Sure, I’ve had my moments on my mat where my face has scrunched into a mess of frustration and tears—for all of five seconds.  And then it’s the deep breath, the refocusing, the reminder that I’ve been here before, and the class carries on. 

Last night, when my roommate asked me how the challenge was going, the only response I could give was a one-shoulder shrug and a slurred, “Ehh, ’s okay.  Same old.”

She looked at me a little funny.  And I continued, “I mean, the excitement’s kind of gone from these things.  This is the third one.  I know I can do it.  I’ve already proven that to myself.  So, now it’s just…eh.  You know?”

Understandably, she didn’t quite know.  And I couldn’t quite explain it any better myself.

I couldn’t quite pinpoint the why—the why I’m doing this, and the why it isn’t more exciting, and the why I’m not more invested.  The why of my entire life right now. 

We do all sorts of things that we can’t fully justify or rationalize.  I look back on ages 22 to 25, and it’s one big head shake of “What the hell was I thinking?”  I know we can’t always have an answer. 

But, I will admit, when I laid down in bed last night, my body buzzing and twitching, my head swimming with the laundry-list of tasks to accomplish this week and my conscience kicking in and reminding me of all the things I didn’t get done this past weekend, I couldn’t help but sigh and want to burst out in tears. 

Because, at the end of the day, I do want to know why I overburden and overcommit and push myself over my limit.

It is a fair question. 

Now, if I could just find a freaking answer.

My life this past week has felt pretty freaky and…um, no, not so fabulous. 

Let’s do a run down, shall we?

Freaky:  Waking up at 5:25 a.m., ducking and dashing through thick sheets of rain, all to make the 6 a.m. sunrise class in Harvard Square. 

Fabulous:  Class rocks, body feels strong, teacher keeps me sane, man to my left nearly gets a slap to the head for all of his thumping and thrashing about—don’t worry, I refrained. 

Freaky:  Showering in shower stalls with no curtains.  Now, I’m not a modest lady in the locker room.  (Remember the rules, kids!)  But…well, shampooing and soaping up while all of your goods are hanging out in front of total strangers is, admittedly, a little disconcerting.  At 7:30 a.m., no less.  I don’t need to see that much skin at sunrise.

Fabulous:  Getting the hell out of the smallest, most crowded, most-exposed-bodies-ever locker room in t-minus 11 minutes.  I got ready so quickly I think I even beat the gents.

Freaky:  Sitting in 45 minutes of traffic to go all of five miles.

And that was just my Tuesday morning.  From 5:25 a.m. to 8:45 a.m.  The day had barely begun for some of you.  Hell, the week had barely begun for all of us!

Also freaky?  How my stomach feels right now.  I’ve often noticed that the more yoga I do, the more food aversions I suffer.  As in, as I’ve thrown myself back into a daily yoga practice, the thought of food this week has kind of made me nauseous.   I am wholly unenthused about eating anything.  Even toast—and I love toast.  This isn’t good—not when you desperately need good, hearty, nourshing food to refuel and reenergize your system.  But, man.  I haven’t wanted to eat a thing. 

Potentially fabulous?  My clothes are a tad looser.  Potentially fatal?  I might pass out from extreme malnourishment.   But at least I’ll look good doin’ it!

Also fabulous?  The few slices of time this week that I’ve been able to devote to my little side project, which I’ll share details about eventually.  It’s exciting and fun and daunting and kind of hilarious.  I want to throw all my energies and creativity into it, but my plate is full, I can only give so much, I will give what I can.  For now.  Who knows what will happen later…

Freaky:  The odd, creepy, dusty and old skeleton/ghost/demon puppet my roommate hung in our kitchen window.  I nearly kicked my poor cat clear across the tile floor when I saw it first thing in the morning as I was trying to give said cat his food.  Totally freaked me out.

Fabulous:  My roommate carved a pumpkin tonight at our kitchen table.  With a full glass of wine on hand, of course, and reruns of a bad television show blasting in the background.  Sometimes, I really do adore her.

Freaky:  My favorite month is nearly over.  October, where did you go?  Sighhh.  So begins the winter haul.

Fabulous:  I am five days into my challenge.  One sixth of the way done!  (But who’s counting…)  The two poses I really want to make some progress in are half moon and standing head to knee.  Both poses like to wrestle with me, like to taunt and tease and work me over, nose to toes.

Just you wait, poses.  I’m fabulously tough.  Freakishly committed.  I’ve got a fight to me you haven’t yet seen.

Enjoy your tricks and treats this weekend, friends!

I was nearly kidnapped when I was five years old.

Yes.  True story.

The woman turned out to be a convicted felon who was caught trying to nab another five year old a few days after she attempted to swipe me.  They found that little girl huddled, whimpering, wearing a wig and strange clothes, in a department store dressing room.

Maybe that’s what she would have done to me.

It’s so easy to get lost, to get taken, if you’re not careful.

I was merely playing with my big sister in the hat section of Boscov’s, a small department store in central, rural Pennsylvania, where I grew up.  My sister and I loved trying on all the different, fancy, grown-up lady’s hats, adorned with feathers and sequins and bows.  We’d twirl our way over to the mirrors, talking in funny, lilting accents, pretending we were rich, famous, sophisticated, smoldering in our dressed-up wares.

My mother always stood close enough to hear us, far enough away to not really see us.  That afternoon, she was at the counter, paying for new pants.

When my sister was off at the mirror, and I was alone in the hat racks, a woman approached me and asked if I could help her.  Dutifully, cheerfully, I agreed.  She said she was shopping for her granddaughter and wanted to buy her a new winter coat, and I was about her granddaughter’s size, and would I be oh so helpful and kind and try on this here coat to see if it fit me?

I vividly remember putting that coat on.  It was pink and blue.  I can hear the sound of the zipper as she pulled it all the way up, to my nose.  The snap of the buttons across my chest almost hurt.  I can even feel the scratch of the hood that she yanked over my head and the tight, choking pull of the hood strings she tied snugly under my chin.

I remember thinking I’d miss seeing whatever hat my sister had just put on.

And then, she took my hand and started leading me down the store aisle, saying she wanted to show me how pretty I looked in this new coat and how she had another one in mind that she wanted me to try on.

I followed, uncertain, confused, barely seeing past the hood flopping into my eyes.

“Mom?  Someone’s taking Hannah,” I heard my sister call.

I was only five, and I have a laughably bad memory of certain patches of my childhood.

But this?

This I remember clearly—seeing the great, sunny span of windows and the front door of the store, gaping before me like an open mouth, ready to swallow me whole, and the aisle suddenly impossibly long and wide, and the woman tugging at my hand telling me to hurry, and the coat weighing hot and heavy on my small body, and hearing my mother shouting, “Hey! HEY!  What do you think you’re doing with my daughter?!”

They didn’t catch her then, because she let go of me and ran out the front door.

But, they did nab her a few days later, when she tried a similar stunt.

It’s so easy to get lost, to be taken, if you’re not careful.

I was lucky.  I was found, before I was lost.

I rarely think of this bizarre, little story.  But, last night, in my soggy yoga class, I thought of it when I said to myself: “Don’t get lost.  Stay put.”

It’s easy to wander off in a yoga class, especially one that lasts 90 minutes, involves intense heat, humidity, stretching, and discomfort.  The slightest distractions can become major diversions—that woman’s cough becomes a volcano and that man’s breathing becomes a hurricane.  The heat suddenly becomes a potential death threat.  The teacher’s voice becomes the scrape of a fork on your plate.

Your mind wonders.  You drift.  You forget your place, there, in the room, in the asana, in that one, still moment.

You are lost.

Lately, I’ve noticed my slow but substantial collapse in the floor series.  I struggle mightily during the spine strengthening sequence, and then, when I come out, it’s literally all I can do to last through those final 20-odd minutes.  I simply want to die.  Okay, maybe just throw in the towel.  But, still. It always feels so dramatic, so substantial and trying.  I give in, let go, and lose myself.

Last night, when I settled into the first, deliciously long two-minute savasana, I caught my eyes flicking across the ceiling, uncertain, wary, slightly panicked, and heard my jagged breathing and heartbeat.  A pause.  I suddenly remembered this story from my past, this almost kidnapping of that small self.

And I thought, urgently, encouragingly, ”Don’t let your mind grab your body.  Don’t let it steal you away. Don’t get lost.”

It wasn’t my sister who called out my name.  It wasn’t my mother who swooped in to save me.

This time, I clung to my self, with my own two hands, fiercely, lovingly, and then placed it in the good, safe keeping of my practice, my yoga, me.

Growing up, I was taught no one is responsible for me but me.

Only I can unhinge myself from the steely, sharp claws of a bad mood.  Only I can forgive myself for wrong doings.  You cannot “make” me feel better—I choose, consciously, that better state of mind.  Nothing he says or does fixes anything—I make peace, with me, with this heart. 

Why is that we are so inclined to turn outside our selves for salves to heal our splintered nerves, our fractured expectations, our trampled attempts at love? 

Why is it that people so casually and comfortably place their broken selves into another’s hands?  Laziness?  Disinterest?  Fear?

“Fix yourself, by yourself.” 

That’s what my yoga teacher said to me last night.

And I thought, “How apt.  How perfectly timed,” given my disconnection of late with the slightly broken body that keeps me these days. 

My back feels kinked and crooked.  I can’t shake a dull ache in my left shoulder.  And I have a nagging, pinching nerve running down the ridge of my right hamstring.  I’ve ignored these irritations the past month or so, as I’ve whittled my yoga practice down to just three or maybe four classes per week and chalked these ailments up to being “sore” from when I do finally make it to the studio.

These next 30 days, though, all of this yoga, will help me focus again on the fixing rather than the ignoring.

Because, let’s face it, what we ignore festers.  Feeds on and of itself.

Fix yourself, by yourself. 

On Sunday night, I indulged myself in reading through some of my old journals, going as far back as 2006, when I first started my yoga practice.  I used to page through my collection of journals quite often; in recent years, I’ve shelved their leatherbound pages on a tall, dusty bookshelf of my past.  I seldom visit them.  But, there they stand, at the ready, to remind me of who and where I once was. 

As I flicked through the scribbled writings of long ago months, I found an entry from last year, as I was coming back to the Bikram studio after a five-month hiatus and as I was settling into my new city, my new life, here in Boston.  I confess homesickness, heart sickness, confusion, doubt, worry.  I cry.  I scream on the crisp, cream-colored paper. 

It was a tangled, emotional spasm of words, hardly legible in some places, until the end, when I wrote this:

“This is all just pissing and moaning, I know.  So begins the pep talk, the rally. Cue the fucking cheerleaders.  So begins the attempt to pick up the pieces of self I’ve strewn about, to find balance, to open again.  It’s amusing, really, how well I know the drill. 

Nothing fixes me…but me.  I understand this. 

God damn it, though.  Sometimes, like tonight, in this splitting headache of a second, I just want a handyman to come by, survey the damage, price me a quote, and send in the repair team.”

I chuckled a little when I read this.  I wanted to hug that self.  I wanted to praise her for trying, in whatever way she could, to reconcile her frustrations and pay them heed and then start anew, once again, even if she was alone and lonely and scared.  And, somehow, clearly, still hopeful.

Instead, I took that self, her, me, to yoga.  I heard the knowing words of my past as I listened to my body crack and ease.  And I heard that teacher’s words.

And, through the sweat, through the grim determination lined across my brow, I smiled, settling in for a good fixing.

—————————–

p.s. Jen, who keeps a lovely food-related blog over at Fueled by Plants, is joining me in my thirty-day challenge!  Read about her journey here. 

When I told my sister yesterday that I was starting up another 30-day Bikram yoga challenge, her face twisted slightly in horror and then settled into a concerned frown.

“But…I thought you were miserable during your last challenge,” she said slowly.  Then, carefully, “Are you sure you want to do another one?

Here’s the thing.  

Bikram yoga is tough.  No matter how many years you’ve been practicing.  Even the most skilled teachers and students have days in that hot room that bulldoze any and all semblance of a sturdy ego.  It happens.  You learn to accept it. Hell, even live with it and—get ready—like it.  Because you’re taught, again and again, of your own resilience and strength, your ability to work through remarkable discomfort and pain and disbelief, only to rise from your knees, however wobbly, and keep moving.

Challenges are tough, too. 

Not just because the yoga itself is strenuous, physically and mentally.  But also because you’re committing more than two hours per day to yoga.  That’s a lot of time—at least, in my overly crowded schedule.  I’m either waking at the crack of dawn—5:25 a.m., to be exact—and dragging myself to the 6 a.m. sunrise class and then hauling ass straight to work to start the usual nine-hour work day.  Or I’m stumbling into the 6 p.m. class, and then not stumbling out again and making my way home until going on 8 p.m.  Those nights, I’m usually not showered and eating dinner until well past 8:30 p.m.  So long social life.

Oh and don’t forget, by day eight, you’ll want to give up because your body will ache and pinch and snap-crackle-pop each time you so much as lift your fingers.  (Days 10 through 13 have, in challenges past, been my lowest points.)  By about day 15, you’ll probably want to throw in the towel.  (I almost did.)  It’s usually around the two-week mark that my knees and my palms start to crack, thanks to all that sweat and all that heat.  Lovely.

Also, I usually don’t sleep well during challenges.  Day after day of yoga tends to brutalize both my mind and body.  Backwards, if you ask me—you’d think so much “working out” would level you with exhaustion.  Not so much the case with me.  I can only imagine how I’ll survive doubles for nine weeks if I one day make it to teacher training…

But, see, it’s all worth it by day 18 or 19.  You break through boundaries. Your body moves in new ways.  Your poses rock, solid.  Your concentration unbreakable.  Even your sweat smells a little sweet.

When I hit the home stretch, I could make sweet, sweet love to my self, given how amazing I feel.

This is great and all.  However, come the end of a challenge, I care less about the changes in my body and more about the changes in me.

You see, yoga breaks me down only to build me up again.  I need to have those classes in which I watch my face ripple and then crumble into tears.  Those moments on my mat when I want to scream, sob, slug the teacher, or stomp my feet until they bleed.  I need to fall out of every pose.  I need to want to quit.

Because only then do I teach myself, yet again, that I’m fine, I’m strong, I can handle this, I can calm the hell down, find my breath, relax, let go, move on, love, and let go some more.  Have faith.

I never leave.  I rarely skip a pose.  I listen.  And then class finishes.  And I’ve survived it. 

I always do.

And so, here I go.  Day one of this fall’s 30-day challenge, my third in less than two years.  I’m excited and a little wary and downright amused that I’m actively choosing to add one more thing to my overcrowded plate.

No matter, though. 

Like most everything in this life, the work is, always, worth it in the end.

———————————-

Anyone want to join me in this challenge??  Leave a note in the comments or shoot me an e-mail! 

“Just relax.  And open yourself.”

A simple instruction, perhaps.  Until you let the words ripple over your skin, and then sink into your bones, where they swell and burn.  And then, you feel it—the fire of change, the balm of acceptance, and, finally, the peace in understanding.

My head and my heart haven’t relaxed much these past few weeks.  Not at all, actually.  And because of this, because of the stress and anxiety and worry, I closed myself.  Slam!  No, you may not have the key!

And then, just when I needed it, this gentle knudge, in the ribs. 

As I laid on my mat the other night, sighing and settling, I thought this:

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

It is not spring, but e.e. cummings is of all seasons.

And then, in class, that teacher, those words—”Just relax.  And open yourself.”  And there I was, in the mirror, tinged red and glistening, like a tulip, looking, unclosing, petal by petal, my self. 

I stayed quiet.  I moved slowly and solely with the dialogue.  I paid heed when the teacher told me to let go.  e.e.c. wrote of that, too—”let all go, dear, so comes love.”

Some say I don’t open myself well.  And, in truth, I don’t.  I will always enjoy your story, your secrets, your animated recounts, better than my own.  Words escape me.  Love, too, if I’m not careful.

But, these evenings.  On my yoga mat and in the arms of October.  My eyes in that mirror.  The voice in my head.  The chill against my cheek.  The steady, strong rhythm of my heart, each thud a reminder I have been here before, and bested the beast.

I do not know what it is—perhaps all these things.  But, there, I broke open. 

Of course, e.e. said it best:

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

What if…

What if I take a huge, exciting, frightening leap back into magazines?  I bet I’d hit a few impasses.  But, who doesn’t when pursuing a dream.

What if I really committed to going at my yoga practice in the same way that I go at the rest of my life—hard, with passion, with sheer grit and determination?  It’s there—I can feel it.

What if all that I’ve worked for drastically shifts, changes, morphs into a whole other path I hadn’t ever really considered to be possible, because it seemed too far-fetched, too good to be true?  What then?  I should follow that path, right?  Even if it’s poorly lit and the map I’m carrying is tattered and written in some other language.

What if I asked that man if he wants to go for coffee?  There’s a strong possibility he’d say “yes.”  We might even make it past the cup of coffee to a scone or a danish or some such sweetness.

What if I had decided to shut this blog down, as I debated so many, many times? These opportunities, these friends, this—none of it would be.  (Although I would have more times on my hands…)

What if I had told him the truth?  I still long to.  But, I continue my vow of silence.

What if I called her and said, “I’m sorry,” at least three times, just for effect?  Would it matter?  Do I care?

What if I ran into that ex of months past?  What would I say?  I still wonder, now and then.

What if we bared all, if we sat, face to face, and lifted the veils we each hide behind, blushing, unsure?  I promise I wouldn’t laugh.  I’d probably lean in, stroke your cheek, and replace fingers with lips.

What if I stopped the mental mind game of doubt and unease that royally screws me in standing forehead to knee pose?  Don’t tell me—I would finally break through that one, last, seemingly insurmountable wall.

What if my sisters had told me how they truly felt when they read my memoir?

What if I told my mother and my father how I truly felt when I wrote it?

What if I asked that one, long-ago, almost-relationship, lingering love interest, “Hey, how about we try now?”  What if we tried?

What if this is all a silly, little game?  This here blog.  What happens if I place too much heart and hope into these words, this page, you readers, my thoughts, my carnage, really, laid out like a feast, undercooked but well-seasoned?  I fear disappointment.

What if I told you I love you?  Would it matter?

What if none of it matters?

What if everything matters?