Let’s laugh about it.

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.

The why of it all.

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 freaky and fabulous life (pt. iii…kind of)

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!

Taken.

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.

All the fixings.

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.