Teachers "do too much." (But not the way the kids mean)

"You do too much."  Last year, this was a common phrase out of the mouths of the thirteen year old babes I tried to cajole into loving reading and writing on a daily basis.  They meant I was cracking down too frequently on them for behavior, but I would often respond, "I agree."

The work demands of a teacher are known and respected amongst friends and family members-of-educators, if not popular culture at large.  Our allies have gone on dates with us, which consist of reading a book while we grade papers.  They have been woken up early on Sunday so we can trudge down to the coffee shop and grade the stack of essays that need feedback.  They have heard our fingers flying over the keyboard at 10pm so we can have our slides created, lessons planned, and worksheets made.  This is outside the eight hours at school where we perform a hyper-intentional dance (choreographed to the minute in those afore mentioned weekend and weeknight hours) to try and convince students, in my case middle school students, that what we (and the Common Core) deem important that they know in order to be successful in Life is MORE important than what they deem important at any given moment.  No small task.

My first year of teaching, on a regular basis, I would wistfully imagine being hit by a bus on the way to school, so I could take a few days off to recoup.  I just needed those days to catch up and get some planning done.  This is my fifth year of teaching, and when I see a kid coughing, while others grab the hand sanitizer, I find myself sidling up a little closer, calculating how many papers I could grade with those 8 hours at home between feverish naps. I have wanted time off, to work more, because I haven't felt like I can finish what is expected of me during normal waking hours.

Pop education culture, however, is only interested in these realities to laud teachers who do that work, and shame those who would dare not.  We have been called lazy, our 3:15 release time (though 4:15, at my school) and our summer vacation pointed to as evidence that we hardly have to work at all. Teachers unions have been demonized for advocating for their staff.  Accountability has shifted, and it is now squarely on the shoulders of teachers when our students are unsuccessful.   Thus, we spend our time organizing their binders, giving them behavior checklists, signing off on their homework agendas to make sure they've written it down, giving them infinite opportunities to make up work, staying after school and giving up our lunch/planning periods when they goof off in class to make sure they do the work they missed, differentiating each lesson so that each child can have the kind of experience that pushes him or her to his or her full potential.  There is another argument to be made somewhere else about whether these moves ultimately help support our students be successful, but regardless, we are now expected to make these moves.  The message is clear: when our children fail, it's the teachers' fault.

And it is not just when kids fail.  They are failing, says the news. Headlines read:

"American Schools vs. the World: Expensive, Unequal, Bad at Math.  What the latest results of an international test tell us about the state of education in the United States."

"Top US students fare poorly in international PISA test scores, Shanghai tops the world, Finland slips"

"D.C. high school graduation rate ticks up, but wide achievement gaps remain."

Revising the message to the ever-inspiring: Our children ARE failing, and it's the teachers' fault.

So how, in the climate of education "crisis", do we teachers find the balance we need?  How do we take in the realities of our world and work to make them better, without killing ourselves in the process?

After all, I like my work because it feels important.  I like it because I feel like I'm contributing something valuable to the world, and doing something meaningful with my life.  If I didn't think it was significant, I don't think I could be happy doing it.

And if I'm honest with myself, I even like the feeling of working hard.   Of trotting off to coffee shops in the evening and spilling ketchup on my students' work as I grade through dinner.  Of waking up at 5:30 and heading to school to squeeze in an hour before the day begins.   Of coming up with a bomb lesson plan and executing it flawlessly, even if it took hours to create a 55 minute experience for my students.

But we, as does all the universe, expand and contract, and if we do not allow ourselves the contraction, we begin to feel the strain.  We cannot only pulse out.  And continuing to effort without the necessary periods of withdrawal have left me overstretched.  A short daily mindfulness practice is not enough for me to overcome the strain of too much work-focused energy.  I need eat without a computer in front of me, so I can talk with my roommates.  I need to run through the fall crispness, and give myself a chance to reconnect with my body.  I need to read stories about faraway places without wondering how we will analyze the text the next day.  I need to remember that parts of my life outside of school are significant too, and devote energy to them without guilt that I am not best serving my students (or our nation, for that matter).

That way, when I'm working on solving our educational crisis (by which I mean writing and deconstructing a model essay on the Roman gods on the ceiling of the Capitol for my eighth graders), I can be fully present with that experience.  Because it is important.  And the work should be done. But it's not the only thing that's important.  The moment we lose this awareness, and martyr ourselves for the good of others, we risk tailspinning into an exhausted resentfulness that ultimately serves no one.

So I will run, and cook food, and paint pictures, and meditate, and laugh with friends.  And I will stand before students, and meditate conflicts, and teach them about what I know, and show them why I love learning, and argue with my colleagues for too long about how to best serve them, and write lesson plans and make worksheets.  And sometimes I will stay up too late working, but sometimes I will not.  Sometimes I will offer to lead an evening program, and sometimes I will say I cannot. Sometimes I will make copies the night before and have my desk neatly organized, and sometimes I won't.  Finding that balance is the only way I will make it through this year.

Two gold stars, please.

At 11:44pm last night, I was walking home from my friends' show with a few beers in me, when I remembered I had not meditated yet that day.  Weekends are always the hardest for me.  Though time is in abundance as compared to the rest of the week, the lack of structure compels me to lay in bed reading YA sci fi novels rather than getting up to do my morning sit, which has become routine for weekday mornings.  So at that late night hour, I set my timer to one minute, and mindfully walked, with a slight buzz, the next block.  I noticed my footfall, the traffic lights, and the noise of the city.  I stopped puzzling over an interaction I had earlier in the evening and experienced that moment.  The kind of moment I often lose while unskillfully trying to text a friend or plan the next day.  Having procrastinated my meditation to late a night mundane moment gave me access to a time I would usually neglect.  It wasn't 20 minutes in the woods, and more limited than I want my consistent practice, but it was worthwhile by magnifying that moment in time.

I owe this to the promise of a literal gold star.  A month ago, I downloaded the Insight Timer, which has a pleasant gong sound when you begin and end your sit.  It's true power for me, however, lies in the Stats Page and Community Activity profile.  The timer tracks how many days you've sat, how much time you sit each day and overall, and how many consecutive days you've sat.  This last piece has contributed more to my consistency than anything else the last two weeks.  It was what had me pull my phone out just before midnight last night.  You see, every 10 days you get a new star, and I was on my 19th day.  I couldn't sacrifice that star to my malaise.  I needed that star.

In addition, I get to see how many people are meditating, using the timer, worldwide.  I am updated about who from the Insight Meditation Community of Washington is meditating, and which of my friends are active.  Even when I sit alone, I know there are others sharing that experience.  I find this, too, reinforcing.

There are those that argue that mindfulness practices shouldn't be goal oriented.  We should sit for the experience of being.  Perhaps these apps are taking away from this intention.  But for me, if my ultimate goal is to live more mindfully, and be more present for my life, than I'm down for some scaffolding.  While I'm in this more wavering irresolute place in my spiritual development, I need the support.  That's the gift of sangha, and that's the gift of gold stars and pie charts.  I still need all the support on my path that I can get.  So rather than fight my all too human tendencies towards goal-orientation, a touch (maybe more) of a competitive spirit, and desire for connectedness,  I am down with using them to help me with my bigger goals.

Immediately after my timer gonged the end of my minute last night, I got my second milestone gold star for 20 days in a row completed.   And I loved it.  I'm going for 30, with the hope that the consistency will afford me a little more equanimity along the way.

Dear Benny

Benny:

Your writing always brings joy to my life, even when about the very real challenges we face.  

  

I could write you about my struggles, for sure.  Life doesn't feel full of ease at the moment.  

But you asked for what is good.  

And life does have moments of beauty, so many moments, that I gloss over as if they are inconsequential. I am working hard to pull them out from the darker narrative that seems so easy to tell and fret over.  It's in our biology to dwell on perceived threats.  We have to be alert to protect ourselves.  Life, plus big screen media-projected life, gives us endless material.  And it is all true.  

 My work is to highlight and celebrate the moments my mind has made small.  I made that choice, to shrink them, so I'm consciously choosing to make them big.

Like when I watched my coworker Erika, a beautiful Puerto Rican woman, marry the love of her life, a gentle giant of a Moroccan man.  Or when she told me the wedding present I gave her, a painting she had said she really liked in a photograph, made her cry.  Or when Xaq, a newer friend, stopped me on the street yesterday to tell me he liked my blog, and wanted some advice for keeping a practice going. Or when two boys from last year's class 8th grade class, who struggled hard the whole year, came back today to school to give us teachers all hugs.  Ninth grade boys returned to their old middle school.  For hugs.  How amazing to receive such feedback and have proof our spheres of influence are real and powerful for others.   How amazing to have such golden moments.  They are so easy to bury underneath the trauma and tragedy of the world.

And what of the BIG work that people are doing to address the ills they see in the world?  Those who rally against climate change?  The shifting landscape towards small scale farming?  Tiny house communities?  The sudden national momentum towards marriage equality?  It could be easy to dismiss these as simply moves addressing wrongs.  But  is it also not possible to acknowledge that they are the light?

I am probably just as, if not more, pessimistic and distraught about what I perceive as our direction than you, and many in our country.  So I MUST celebrate these moments. They are just as real as the craters in Siberia.  As the Israeli-Palestine conflict.  As my breakup.  And they are so important.  Why diminish them?  Why call them but small flickering lights in the darkness?  

Tell me what you see that you've made small.  Celebrate it.  You and I, we cannot afford be lazy and fall into the all too familiar mournful story.  We MUST see and feel the good, both to save ourselves, and to be honest about all the world is.

With deep admiration,

Erica

One vacation, twice lived.

It is my last night in Costa Rica, and I am lying alone in my room at the Hilton across from the airport.  Between the bland yet expensive nature of this arrangement, and my enduring it solo, it had the potential to bring some, shall we say, "unproductive" trains of thought to mind.  And while I was kicking myself for ordering a $16.00 pizza for lunch, it seemed I was fated to meet this churning in mi cabeza.

I recently heard about a study in which people chose to shock themselves rather than be alone with their thoughts.  And while I recently completed a silent retreat, the prospect of being alone at a pricey blah hotel where everyone else was interacting (many in a coupley vacationy kind of way)  seemed like it would lead me to that place.  The space wasn't set up to do meditative zombie walks and sit silently with 90 others, the way my retreat had been.  That experience made me feel like I was doing some noble act by enduring my psyche alone.  Instead, it is arranged to have FUN and RELAX.  This seemed daunting.  And at first, it was.  

My favorite self-abasing thoughts often stem from my single status, and what a great opportunity to entertain them!  So much so that suddenly they hijacked my whole experience of Costa Rica.  The trip was defined by how much I wished I had a partner to share that awesome sunset, or walk the terrifying dark crab gauntlet to get to the next strip over in the evening, or laugh with at falling off my surf board for the millionth time.  It turned out, because I was single, I had a terrible time on my trip.  

As I went to tell my journal this was so, I found myself staring blankly at the page, momentarily disinterested in indulging the pity that was eager to jump from my pen only moments before.  

Instead, I dragged my single ass to the pool.  I swam with a group of high school kids jumping hormonally all over one  another.  I played my uke under the umbrella.  I threw on my gym clothes and worked out, and then jumped back in the pool and swam languidly as the sun set.  Did some flips and handstands.  When I got back to the room, I ate the rest of my pizza.  In bed.  And I liked it.  

Physically shaking things up gave me some space to chose my next thoughts, and I decided to make them gratitudes.  Back in the journal, I recorded the geckos falls from the ceiling, the crabs scuttling away and burying themselves in the mud, the feeling of catching a wave (even the tiniest one), the energetic solo dance performance, the hippy smoothies.  I re-remembered the trip.  It turned out, it didn't suck at all.  

It's truly mind-boggling how powerful our thoughts are, and how they can completely shade our memories of past experiences.  They say eye witness accounts are not reliable sources of data, as they were once thought to be, because people actually don't accurately remember what they saw.  Every time we think back we recreate that moment in our head, and that moment is clouded by everything that had happened since then and where we are emotionally when remembering.  

It was so clear today that I am not always a reliable eye witness to my own life.  I came up with two versions for one very recent history, in a matter of hours.  One sad and lonely, the other invigorated and beautiful.  In truth, I'm sure I had the whole spectrum of emotions throughout the week, as I have witnessed on even an hourly basis today.  And that's cool.

Those who are truly mindful can notice these shifts as they happen. They know to treat the darkness gently, and keep in mind that a change will inevitably come.  They don't get completely lost in their own story, but see it come and, with gentle amusement, allow it its time.  Then, when good humor returns, they rejoice in that too, and support it, because they know it too is fleeting.  

I still find myself swept away.  But it seems worth keeping up with the practice to one day have more freedom.  To cuddle the scared sad thoughts kindly.   To jump out of the story with intention even sooner.  

Being content is hard work.  Even in vacation, I do have to try.  It is not my goal to be endlessly delighted by life, but certainly to cultivate more of that awe while being gentle with my grumpy self.  I am grateful for this.

Woah. Life.

We were warned.  Coming out of retreat can be a charged experience.  Megan, one of our genius instructors, shared that she had bawled in many an airport.  We were instructed not to make any rash decisions in the first week...not to look too closely at our partners, our jobs, our lives.  Spending a lot of time internally heightens your sensitivity.  You notice subtle shifts in your body, hear each gurgle as your stomach (and your neighbor's) settles after a meal, feel each heart flutter and chest compression from momentary anxieties, and smell the lavender and cypress lightly wafting through the air.  In the context of a hilly retreat center in northern California, shared with 90 people who have similar intentions, this can feel expansive and profound.  There, even coffee, a staple in my daily existence, began to feel too intense.  I had to sit with my pounding heartbeat after drinking it with breakfast, and found myself cutting down on intake.  I truly felt like someone had given me a new glasses prescription, as each yellowing blade of dried grass and clump of green Spanish moss stood out so crisply for me to consider.

But that level of atunement has a shadow side. When I had to go through security a second time in the airport on my flight out, after forgetting to dump out my water bottle, the embarrassment and annoyance nearly broke me.  I felt my chest swell and throat tighten.  Thoughts of the injustice, "Seriously, do I look like a terrorist?  And I really have to go back around again!" and humiliation, "I ALWAYS remember to do this.  Now I have to cut the line on the other side, and other people will be annoyed with me for bumping them back for my carelessness," flooded my mind.  It was like all the safeguards against these sorts of slights were temporarily unavailable to me, and I felt all of the emotions in vivid technicolor.   I pulled myself together and made it to the other side without further incident, my first introduction back into the real world in my semi-altered state having been a less than ideal experience.

You can imagine what coming back into the city was like.  There are moments of potential stress loaded into every second outside of the door.  Grown men yelling at each other across the square, bus horns honking, cars drifting dangerously close to my fragile body on two wheels.  I had formerly built up defense mechanisms to manage this, so much so that I didn't even recognize them.  Until my forcefield was gone.  There is a low grade stress tolerance that we all must learn to live with in order to survive without breaking down at each corner.   And that doesn't even begin to touch on the bigger life experiences that dominate many waking hours. Relationship woes, job pressures, money matters, etc. Everything I felt so deeply.  So intensely.

I felt like a kid who had gone into a one week intensive ninja training.  I emerged with all the skills that I had honed so carefully in the safe haven of ninja training camp, but then had no idea how to apply them to my life.  When I would try to sit with my emotions, to breath, to notice, I was finding myself knocked over by the force of it all.  Too many enemies attacking all at once.  Not just a dummy trainer with soft fists. It was all I could do not to curl into a fetal position for that first day back in the city.

The first night, completely overwhelmed by an emotionally hyper-charged day, I did not attend the sangha sit that I had promised myself I would attend from the safety of ninja training camp.  Instead, I drank two gin and tonics while playing french fry jenga at a local dive bar.  I sat in the company of close friends and laughed until my sides hurt.  I didn't try to sit with the experience, I just had it.  And it was blissful and normalizing.

Part of the skill, I think, is going to be finding the ebb and flow.  The times for discipline, and the times to relax about it.  When I finally let go of the idea that I HAD to sit Sunday night, I felt a wave of relief wash over my entire body.  Sometimes I sit with my pain, and sometimes I drink my gin and tonic and give it all some space to air out.  Until I reach true Ninja Master status, this is going to have to be The Way.

Shut up and dig in.

2 1/2 days of silence was not intimidating to me.  As an introvert, it actually was a relief to take some time to not perform, to avert my gaze rather than engage, and to not worry about how others perceived me.  BUT.   2 1/2 days of intentionally noticing my thoughts and emotions.  Without distraction of the internet, reading, journaling, music-making, or even offering a "god bless you" to a nearby sneeze.  That was the beast.  It turned out that even a fairly happy well-adjusted person as I have considered myself to be, at least up until this point, has quite a beast lurking.  And it's not thrilled about being poked and prodded with awareness.

I am 1/2 way through a one week retreat with Mindful Schools in Petaluma, CA, which I thought would look a lot more like training on techniques and a lot less meticulous examination of my inner world.  It turns out (duh), to be good at this stuff, to be REALLY good at this stuff, you've got to excavate your own inner workings and give them a good hard look.  Blech.

For 2 1/2 days in silence, we alternated between a seated and walking meditation, for 1/2 hour to 45 minutes at a time.  We broke for meals, which good already, were made especially out of this world by virtue of the fact that it was our only external stimulus for that period of time.  I found myself in bed for after lunch breaks and immediately after my evening sit at 9pm, in part to escape the dreaded experience of sitting in the chaos of my mind.

I wish I could report out all the profound revelations I had during this time.  The trippy mind-blowing experiences.  In reality, I spent the majority of the first morning thinking about how bad my feet smelled, wondering if the woman next to me had brought lavender back from a walk to ward off the stench, and noting how piercing the pain was running up the right side of my body.  I spent the rest of the day in a mental war with the Erratic Walkers, who had he audacity to show up and walk perpendicular to and in my space despite EXPLICIT instructions to maintain distance and walk 15 paces back and forth.  I constructed elaborate responses, ranging from gently reminding them to "get the 'f***' out if my space" to writing a post-it note to our teachers to get them to chide my foot trafficking enemies.  It is astounding how many times one can come back to such thoughts. How many different minute variations one can have on the same thought when there is nothing else to grab on to.

Slowly I was able to disentangle some of those thoughts, long enough to connect with the promised stillness.  It wasn't anything particularly profound...Every now and then could really feel the earth under my feet, or notice the way I was pulling my breath up through my chest.  I could connect with the space between the noise, and it was so sweet.  

Day 2, I continued to struggle, but there were greater moments of relaxation between mind clutter.  In the afternoon when some real hurt from my recent breakup surfaced, I was able to hold it and feel the waves of sadness crash over me without drowning in them.

Simultaneously, I noticed the gentle breeze in my face and breath ebbing and flowing.  It felt good to release the emotion rather than wrenching.  I was anchored enough In this world that I could handle the tumult happening inside.  And then, an amazing thing happened.  It subsided. 

Because all emotions are fleeting.  Evenmy rage at the inconsiderate walkers died down when I turned my attention to it.  Even my excruciating back pain morphed and softened.  It was when I stopped fueling these experiences with stories about my pain, and turned a nonjudgmental compassionate gaze in their direction, that I was able to find the space around them.  To take the edges off.

When I finally was allowed to journal, and then speak of my experience, on Day 3, I cried.  Nay, a monsoon explode from my eyeballs.  I was so overwhelmed by how much there had been to feel.  I couldn't, and still can't, believe that I live every day with so much emotional interplay with the world.  I am just not usually so tuned into it.  There are too many episodes of House of Cards to watch and promotional emails to delete.  

The retreat model eases us back into the world, and we are still sitting up to 2 hours a day and walking up to an hour.  I am checking my phone once a day, though I see many of my contemporaries with them glued back onto their hip belts.

 I hope they are more skillful than I at noticing how they use their devices as distraction from life's discomforts.  Apparently, at least in my world, there are many.  But there are also joys.  Deep joy from the birds at the fountain I didn't notice until we stopped yapping at all our meals.  Or the insane coloration of the evening sky.  Or the rustling of the tall grasses from the winds.  

I'm not yet sure what this all means for when I return in a few days time.  Being able to soften around my humanity felt compelling enough to keep doing the work, as did connecting to the small beauties in life, though I can't yet imagine what that practice will look like in the comfort of my home.  Until then, I'll enjoy the support I have to remain here now.

Karma's a b*****

Today, I was chastised on the metro by a middle aged woman.  I'm pretty sure I deserved it, but I really had a lot of reasons lined up as to why I didn't. 

A friend and I made the mistake of trying to take our bikes on the metro to go climbing today.  This is a major inconvenience, as we are not supposed to go on the escalators (except when the elevators are out, which one was on our way to the gym), and the elevators move at the speed of ancient slugs.  On our way out, I kindly (go on brush your shoulders off) allowed an elderly couple to take the elevator down before us, as we couldn't all fit.  15 minutes later, after the elevator returned from its epic 1-story journey, a mother and baby showed up.  At that point we got in, leaving mom and baby stranded, and I felt a twinge of guilt, but how long were we supposed to wait there? We continued on our blissful journey, pedal-powered to the gym.

It was the return trip that really got us in trouble.

We got off at the Woodly Park Metro, which is apparently where they have baby conventions in the summer, as they were being pushed in strollers as far as the eye could see.  We waited, and we were being patient, as a father and baby convention attendant tried desperately to come in through the handicapped turnstile.  He wasn't clear on protocol for when his card didn't work, which all DC residents know is to get the heck out of the way.  We weren't in any particular rush, though, so we let him roadblock the only exit we could squeeze through for awhile.  

The woman with child rolled who up behind us apparently had a date with the queen, however.  She snorted and sighed, mumbled, "get out of the way" under her breath, then started trying to nudge past my friend, who also understands social graces.  Finally the metro employee redirected the poor non-DC native daddy, and we were able to pass through. 

On the other side, we walked our bikes to the elevator, which had formerly been broken, and stood, again patiently, behind an able-bodied looking woman who was inexplicably waiting for the elevator too.  As we waited, our friend from the turnstile line appeared, again grunting and pushing her stroller back and forth aggressively.  The tiny elevator was not going to fit this entire line of folks, and as we got on she called out, "You know, the elevator is for women and children FIRST."  I replied, "we aren't allowed to take the escalator" as the doors saved us from her wrath.

At this point, I had to blast this woman.  I turned to my friend, "I guess she's very important and had important places to be."

"Did you see her trying to shove by me earlier?"  I nodded in assent, eyes wife in horror at this woman.

"The zoo is a very urgent matter."

"Oi.  Some people."

From the corner of the elevator, the original able-bodied woman looked up, "You know in some cultures, women with babies go first.  Not women like you just exercising."

"..."

"Fair enough..." 

Here is a list of things I brainstormed on my ride home to shoot back at Mean Elevator Lady:

"Actually, the announcement says disabled and elderly first, not pushy bitches"

"You know is some cultures, able-bodied women use the escalators. I didn't see you give up your spot."

"You see the number of babies trying to go to the zoo today, right?  We would literally be stranded for hours at the rate this elevator moves."

"We are riding our bikes for transportation, not exercise.  At least we're not pumping CO2 into that child's lungs."

etc.

In addition to self-righteous rage, however, there was a strong twinge of guilt.  I think that's why I was speaking ill of her in the elevator- to justify my choice to take that spot.  The truth is, if I had offered her the ride up, maybe she would have been kinder on the other side to someone else.  Maybe I would have inspired a little seed to be passed forward to the next poor smuck who was clearly too negative to enjoy the world at that moment.  I know I've been overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers in my life, from paying for a toll to supporting an elderly person who falls on the platform.  That shit hits me hard in the heart, and makes me want to do better.  To be better.  It is hard to know how much a random act of kindness could impact the world, even when gifted to a crotchety aggressive woman in the metro.  She probably needs it more than most.

And I'm glad the Mean Elevator Lady said something, because I think I would have gone on defending myself for that choice had she not.  It gave me the jolt I needed to be reflective, because it surfaced those subterranean feelings of being a bad person and forced me to confront them.  I don't think I'm a bad person, and sled-flagellation is not my preferred method of repentance.  But I don't think a made a choice that feels good in my heart, and it's important to hear that.

Furthermore, immediately after that ride, I lost my second metro card in a row. 

I guess I deserved that.

Comfortable liberal who buys organic? check.

I have been feeling pretty good about the choices I've made in my life.  Feeling like I'm doing my part to take care of the planet.  Riding my bike to work. Living communally.  Teaching the youth to read and write.  Buying local strawberries, when possible.  And yeah, sure, those are all do-gooder choices that make my existence on this planet slightly less damaging.  I like to argue that in making those choices publicly, we are not just making our impact solo, but gently supporting and encouraging others around us to remember their reusable bags and tupperware.  And I still think that's true.  And I still am proud of those choices.

But this past weekend, a harbinger of what has been my mounting unrest accompanied me on a trip to West Virginia, in the form of a large scruffy trucker-hat wearing gentle bear of a man.  James needled me all weekend, some over my choice of abstract painting (which he finds uninspiring as an art form), some about novel reading and long form journalism, but mostly through his life story.

It was not his intention to rattle me, that I know of, but only to share his life experiences, a litany of protests of what he knew to be injustices in this world.  Making his voice heard.  He told me about times when people who would handcuff themselves together under the ground to prevent oil trucks from getting through, or people building nests that would topple the sitters to their death, should they be disassembled.  He, and these people, believed so strongly in what they were protesting that they risked discomfort, jailing, and even bodily harm.

He asked me about my protest history.  I said, somewhat self-consciously, that I had none.  There are things I am certainly alarmed about in this world.  Climate change.  Persistent and growing inequities.  Forest degradation.  Food deserts.  Overuse of natural resources.  Rising sea levels.  Violence.  Hatred.  War.  But it has never occurred to me to join a march or protest.  Occasionally I'll sign a petition, but I wouldn't say I've been very active in speaking these concerns.  I hadn't wondered about that choice in awhile, since college when I used to read the New York Times in the dining hall and wring my hands, but now I was forced into wondering again.

When I came home (unsurprisingly, as the universe seems to like to push its issues sometimes), I found an article in Yes Magazine, detailing the arrest and further activism of Tim DeChristopher, who interceded in a auction of oil and gas leases on federal lands, and landed himself in prison for 21 months and a fine of $10,000.  In this article, he said damningly, "Certainly a lot of the blame falls on fossil fuel executives and politicians, but a lot of it falls on comfortable liberals who changed their light bulbs, bought organic, and sat back and patted themselves on the back."  He was directing this comment at the baby boomer generation, but is that not what I am doing?  And then, the call to action, "This is why I think activism right now is so critical.  The only thing inevitable about our future is that the status quo cannot continue."

To be clear, I am not running out to chain myself to anything.  To get myself thrown in jail.  I think activism can look many different ways.  But I do wonder if I am too comfortable resting on my easy liberal lifestyle choices.  I do wonder what my voice sounds and looks like, amplified.

An easy place to explore this question seems to be where I have influence: in the classroom.  In fact, a crucial part of the Two Rivers mission reads, "To nurture a diverse group of students...to become responsible and compassionate members of society."  Responsible and compassionate.  How can I instill that in this next generation?  They need opportunities to be responsible and compassionate.  They need to read the stories of those who have come before them, know the issues that lay ahead, and know how to amplify their voice.  So that is now my challenge to explore.  It is not that I have done nothing, and not that I plan on any particular forms of flagellation, but this weekend galvanized me into Q&A with myself about how else I can participate more fully in this world, in a way that is positive and nurturing.

So where does the mindfulness piece fit in?  There is an element of Buddhism that can be misinterpreted, so that people believe they should sit back and calmly watch the world fall to shit, from a place of non attachment.  To not judge and not get angry and not care.  But that's off the mark.  On the contrary, I think one must dive in and engage with the world from a place of compassion and openness.  Must act from a place of loving kindness.  But most importantly, must act.

Why won't you little stinkers get peaceful?

Monday at 3:40pm, 30 minutes before our extended day dismissal, I taught my fourth mindfulness lesson to my students.  For one minute we sat with our eyes closed doing mindful breathing, and I asked them to notice their thoughts.  The room was quiet, and the students actually closed their eyes.  Until....zzZZZZZzzzzz...sghghgh...zzZZZZzz from the right side of the room.

It's really distracting to find your breathing when one of your students is snarfling his way through the exercise.  Why wouldn't they do it right, dang it??? I'm trying to give them these amazing tools and they aren't taking is seriously!  Don't they SEE????  I WANT THEM TO BE PEACEFUL! I needed them to peaceful.  I expected them to be peaceful.  And when that wasn't the reality, I grew immediately uneasy in the face of their silliness.  Of course, that immediately wound its way into an inquisition over my own lack of skill as a mindfulness teacher, and all hope was lost.  I would never make it in my future profession, and I might as well quit now.

OR.

I could remove my expectations.  Before all teachers in the audience immediately switch off their computers in fear that they might be monitored by their admin, who would surely report them for reading such blasphemous material, hear me out.

In education, "high expectations" is a buzz term that gets thrown around a lot.  In fact, if you ever suggested you had anything other than the highest expectations of your students, you would probably be immediately fired and sent from the school with a note pinned to your chest that no one was ever to hire you again.

This is an uncomfortable bedfellow to the mindfulness tenet in which it is believed that any expectations are, in fact, the root of our suffering.  Suffering is wanting, or worse, expecting life to be different than it is.  It is our thoughts, not our reality, that create our misery.  So I either have to compartmentalize these two belief systems, both of which I ardently ascribe to, or find other some way to remove the cognitive dissonance that is reeking havoc on my mental well-being.  Is there a way to hold expectations without loading them with so much emotional energy?  To set the bar, and strive for it, without it becoming the sole focus of our experience?

I hope so.  I want my students to know where the bar is so they know what to work towards.  I want my students to believe I don't think it's okay if they sit through an hour long class period without doing any work or if they snap back at me at a simple request.  I think it's my responsibility to teach them those things and to hold that bar high.  But I need to do that without emotionally attaching myself to the outcomes.  Here's the bar, kiddos, go for it and I'll tell you when you haven't made it BUT I'm not going to get mad about it when you don't.  And I'm holding the bar there because I truly believe it's in your best interest.  Hold the bar, but don't get too attached to whether or not they make it.

It's so dang hard.

Back in the classroom, I tried to let go of my need to "perfect" mindful behavior.  I chose to ignore the snoring.  Miraculously, so did the other five highly wound adolescents in the room with me.  When we opened our eyes to talk about our experiences, I turned to Amari.  "All I ask is that you try this out, for real.  If you don't want to do that seriously, you are welcome to wait in the hallway while the rest of us try."  But he stayed seated.  And we talked about how it made us feel- calm, focused, relaxed.   The way I strive to be in any given moment, but I'm not going to chastise myself, or them, when we haven't hit our mark.

"Inner peace and spirituality can suck it."

"Inner peace and spirituality can suck it."  This is the introduction to a New York Magazine video exploring Competitive Yoga.  The images are of people contorting themselves into all sorts of asanas for an expectant crowd and panel of judges.  Falter, you lose points.  One of the judges even admits, "We aren't judging the yoga..."  Umm....I would like to donate to you this new term, as this is clearly American Power Stretching at its finest.  Give us "Yoga" back, please.  That's the space where I try to work with my tendencies, not fuel them, and I certainly don't need your help exacerbating my competitive nature.

Coming from a background in gymnastics, this instinct is one that I incessantly confront while practicing yoga.  I have to combat the will to sink lower into postures, clench tighter through shaking muscles, and hold my Om longer than my neighbors (I wish I was kidding about the last one).  I feel embarrassed when I fall out of Half Moon or can't quite reach my binds.  When teachers ask us to set intentions at the beginning of class, I often silently plead with myself to be gentle.  

Even when I sit down to meditate there is a sense that I need to be "good" at it, and that I am "bad" when I have many thoughts, or get lost for ten minutes perseverating over the perfect comeback for an earlier verbal exchange.  Conversely, when I notice myself creating that space between my thoughts, other thoughts are quick to affirm my meditative prowess.  I suddenly am winning meditation!  I'm enlightened!  I'm....thinking.

But these are the places where we are supposed to practice coming back to our breath, and our presence.  Where it's great to fall out of that posture, or this meditative state, so we can figure out what to do next.  How to right ourselves.  Where it's perfection to see our competitive spirit play out.  Let us enjoy in the fall and the rise, without keeping score.

I want to be able to come to yoga without the pressure of contorting into a pretzel.  I want to be able to come to meditation without the expectation that I sit cross-legged and clear my mind of every thought.  I want to remember it's a place to practice the way I want to be off the mat and cushion.   And really its not the competitive yoga that's the problem, nor is it my need to compete.  They are all opportunities to redefine my practice for myself.  To notice myself and the world.  And to laugh.  Because how can you not when people are describing a yoga event with this eloquently spoken line, "Inner peace and spirituality can suck it."

American Power Stretching v. Yoga: Who is to say?

I get really judgey about yoga.  The things that people call yoga often make my hackles stand up on end.  "That's American Power Stretching," I say indignantly, "that's not yoga."

By American Power Stretching, I mean the yoga done in gyms to intense beats and sweat streaming off the body.  The Lululemon yoga with cute outfits but without Oms or any understanding of the origins of the practice or the meaning of the word yoga.  The yoga with few alignment cues and lots of back strains and knee tweaks, because instructors are undertrained and overzealous.  "They shouldn't call it yoga.  They should call it something else," I say from my high horse.

Yoga means union with the divine, or according to Pantanjali, "the stilling of the changing states of the mind."  Not cute butts in cute butt shorts.

In the spirit of reflection, I am trying to challenge my own self-righteousness.  Particularly as yoga has taken so many twists and turns along the way, it's hard to say who gets to own that word.  The asana series, or physical practice, that many of us call yoga was derived from a 19th century Scandinavian gymnastics training program craze that swept Europe by storm.  Reread that sentence.  GYMNASTICS TRAINING PROGRAM= YOGA OF TODAY.  That's a little different than early aesthetics in the forest throwing down warrior ones and downward facing dogs to achieve enlightenment.  In fact, the earliest practices of yoga, we're talking second century BCE Pantanjali old, were focused on stillness and seat.  Only later were there a few postures introduced, which still looked nothing like our physical practice today.  It wasn't until those crazy Scandinavians stepped in that a new model was created and the asana series was modernized.  And quite frankly, I dig that yoga.  I like the physical challenges, and mental clarity, half moon pose, or crow, requires of me.  Not surprising, given my former life in gymnastics, but am I really holier than thou?

Furthermore, it's true that there's a lot that may be a part of a purer, or at least more ancient, yoga that I'm not really into.  My Kripalu teacher training book tells me about some pretty intense purification techniques that are not super appealing to me (Rags running through my sinus system?  No, thank you).  There's the fasting and aestheticism- never have quite gotten down with those.  So if I'm not doing all of the parts, am I not doing yoga?

And if I'm telling the truth, when I teach yoga, there are no Oms.  And I rarely mention anything having to do with the Divine.  Maybe my yoga's not real Yoga either.  Does it really matter?

For me, the physical practice of yoga, and meditation for that matter, is about practicing for life.  I'm trying to find a calm present space inside myself so that I'm less of a jerk face when confronted with 24 screaming middle school students, or a dirty dishwasher.  Because when I'm really present and grounded, it doesn't matter that there's a dust bunny under the sofa the size of a pitbull, or that I have to tell one of my students for the millionth time that it's not okay to get up and sharpen a pencil while I'm in the middle of giving directions (for the love of god, why don't they understand that yet?).  So I step on my mat and breath deeply because practicing here is fortifying me for the next day.  And I wake up at 5:45 to sit in the morning because I want to see my students for who they are in any given moment, not how they fall into an annoying disruptive pattern of behavior that, in truth, will never end, so I better find some peace with it.

So what I really hope that other people find that in their yoga, or American Power Stretching, or whatever it is that serves them, is this: the new definition of Yoga- a practice for life that helps us be a little less of a selfish jerk and a little more compassionate with ourselves and others.  And in that spirit, I can accept a tight bum as a nice side benefit.

Gut-punches from the World

There was a moment last month when I realized my life was hanging in a most delicate balance.  I had nothing to complain about.  My work life, personal life, creative life, all felt so satisfying and comfortable.  I was practicing regularly, so when I got off the mat, I found myself more equipped to deal with life's little challenges, and there were, for a fleeting instant, no bigger challenges.  How sweet. How terrifying.

It did not take long for life to unbalance itself, as it is wont to do, and I found myself again in a position where circumstances that were outside of my control asked for a response.   It is almost amusing, the emotional gut punch we can get from situations that, in hindsight, feel fairly innocuous.

For example, an early morning under-caffeinated unkind exchange with a friend that left me in a snotty mess in the staff bathroom at school.  Followed by the thoughts that extend and build a new kind of endurance pain grown from the stories I told myself about my initial event.  Why did she respond to me that way?  I was just trying to do the right thing and she was so mad at me.   I always do that, I'm too brusque with people but I just wanted to get back upstairs.  Gah, she's always so kind and I pissed her off.  It must have been really bad if she was mad at me.  But she shouldn't have responded that way.  It wasn't really a big deal and she actually escalated it. She won't even look at me.  What if our friendship never recovers? We're doomed.  And on, and on, arguing back and forth in my head, first defending, then chastising myself ad nauseam until my throat completely clenched, my eyes brimmed over, and I had to run to the bathroom at 8:15 in the morning so my students didn't see me bawling.  Like a middle school girl.  Except I'm supposed to be an adult.

But what I have loved about having a practice, what I have been so fascinated by, is that I have begun to watch the whole play unfold, without squinting or turning away.  I have let myself feel the initial punch land, really hold that pain, and watch myself construct a story around that moment.  I can more clearly see that I tell and retell the same story that builds the emotion, which sometimes takes the reigns and pulls me into a whiny impossible to escape dervish.  And then... I watch myself escape.

My friend and I made up, because unlike middle school girls, we have the skills to come back to one another and admit wrong, to be at once apologetic and forgiving.

And just this afternoon, I found myself again in that sweet spot- feet up on the railing after a run, drinking down a cool glass of water, the temperatures extra sweet after finally climbing out the arctic mess we were frozen in for far too long.  And I really noticed that sweetness.

I am no Mindfulness Ninja.  I say things I regret and get upset about them and blame others.  I forget to notice the beauty we are surrounded by.  But at least now, every now and then, I'm noticing.  And maybe on that hundred and first time I watch myself make the same mistake, I'll be able to pause and choose the response that is most Ninja-like.

Spring Break means break...from everything.

It is a rainy Tuesday afternoon and I am sitting in my friend's living room in Eastern Vermont.  We are surrounded on all sides by scraggly pines and rain dripping down the roof.  A cat is curled up next to me.  Since my flight north for my week of spring break, I have been optimizing relaxation time, alternating between walks in the woods, reading, marathon friend chat sessions, postcard making, and eating delicious food.  It is so quiet up here.  No busses.  No drunk angry men weaving down the middle of the street at 2am.

It's also socially quiet.  In DC, every weekend has three birthday parties and a friend's band's CD release party to choose between.  Every weekend night I have to apologize to someone about not being able to be there and support them.  I acknowledge this is an incredibly delightful issue to have, am ever grateful to be surrounded by amazing talented loving people, and see it is a bit obnoxious to even suggest this is problematic.  But going away means I am obliged to no one.  I can't be there because I'm simply not there.  I love it.  My days are all mine to waste away.  There is endless time for guilt free inactivity.

In response to the break from my external life, I have also taken a break from my meditation practice. After all, it's like a week-long sit.  At least I've told myself that.  And it is true that I've found it easy to move throughout my day with presence and calm when the biggest stressor is whether to nap before or after I read my book.

However, I've mentally made some compelling arguments I'm having with myself about why I "should" sit.
Consistency:  Like anything in this world, from running to teeth-brushing, it is the kind of thing that's easier to keep doing it if I keep doing it.
Time:  I've got it.  Oodles of it.  So there's no reason not to, really.
Depth:  With time often comes depth.  Sitting for 1/2 hour of 45 minutes is a different experience than the 15-20 I manage to eek out on a weekday.  Furthermore, without the stressors of school, I can likely more easily find my internal checkpoint.
Putting cash in the bank:  I do think that practicing now is not just for my benefit as I am sitting around drinking my fifth latte of the day, but also for the (alarmingly not so distant) future when life gets challenging again.  I know I'll be less of a jerkface in the future if I practice not being a jerk now.

Seems convincing, doesn't it?

But there is also something really lovely about relaxing for a minute.  From everything.  Even sitting. To just let life carry me through the week without having to force any structure around it.  To choose for days in a row to not sit, to not run, to eat half a chocolate bar, or a whole one.

In a highly structured and scheduled world, I am finding that I even need a break from those things that support me.  And I think, despite my intellectual arguments otherwise, that it's okay to take a break from everything every once and awhile.

Mindfulness is HOTT.

Mindfulness is HOTT right now.  A few months ago, the cover of Time Magazine read, "The Mindfulness Revolution."  It's being talked about as training now offered to stakeholders as varied as google employees, military personell, and inmates.  So, what the heck is this mindfulness business anyway?  And maybe more importantly, what isn't it?

I started my Curriculum Training with Mindful Schools this past week, and have been steeped in thinking about how I will explain mindfulness to interested parties (Or uninterested parties, as the case may be with my students. At first.  Until they realize how rad it is, of course.)  Furthermore, I have been tasked with explaining it to someone as one of my exercises.  And while I must do it verbally, I also want to practice a long-hand version on the interweb.

Jon Kabat Zinn, father of the secular mindfulness movement, defined it as, "...paying attention in a particular way: on purpose, in the moment, non-judgementally."  That's a pretty good, if wordy, place to start from.

I think of mindfulness simply as noticing....noticing your experiences, your senses, your thoughts, your feelings.  Noticing your bodily responses to your experiences, senses, and thoughts.  Noticing.  So simple in statement, but yet so difficult to do.  Our thoughts often dominate our experiences so the world is filtered through our ever-present narrative about what we're experiencing.  So omnipresent is it that we don't even realize it's there.

Many people think mindfulness is about the cessation of thoughts.  About being completely clear of mind.  They think it's about calmness.  About absence of anger.  These are not goals of mindfulness, but often byproducts.  Thinking is not bad.  Anger is not bad.  They are part of the human experience.  Otherwise we'd all be squirrels.  Or cockroaches.  Or something.

As stated by Megan Cowan, Mindfulness Ninja of Mindful Schools: "The ultimate goal of mindfulness is introducing us to our entire spectrum of experience, and learning how to recognize that, and be with it."

And if you like the prettied-up version, as I do, check out this Mindfulness Ninja, Rumi:
The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Meditation in Motion: Race Day

My meditation this morning was a meditation in motion.  The Cherry Blossom 10 miler launched at 7:30am, which I began chilled from an underdressed bike ride through the nation's capital.  The course was packed with people who spilled over onto grassy berms and sidewalks trying to maneuver through the masses of bodies to find their own cruising altitude.  This was my third longer race this year, and I have experienced the mental tenacity required to get through the 3/4 mark and finish strong. I have developed a system of positive self talk through this time, which seemed totally unremarkable until I shared it with my running partner, who found the idea completely hilarious.  "What does that even sound like?" she asked.
"You know, like, mantras 'You are strong.  You can do it.' or phrases like, 'Keep at your cruising altitude until the last 2 miles and then really let loose.  Just keep cruising for now.'"  She laughed.
"Cruising altitude, huh?  I would like to be in your head for these races."
"Maybe not," I replied.  I had earlier shared with her that I play a game I have dubbed "predator-prey," in which I "hunt down" other runners who seem like they are struggling and race past them.  I even like to start slower so that I can do the second half of the race that way.  This also amused her to no end.

The power of the mind is rarely so clear to me as when I am physically challenging myself.  I know those last few miles are not even about my physical capacity, but my mental clarity.  If I start telling myself I'm too tired, or I can't do it, I falter...my legs respond in kind and believe they surely cannot take another step.  If I start thinking about the finish line when there's still distance between me and it, my legs become leaden and unresponsive.  But if I stay present in the moment and take in what is around me.  If I get single minded in my belief that I feel strong and am strong.  If I open up to what is, rather than what I think might be- a torturous finish predicated on a pace that might be too fast, for instance- then I perform.

My meditation was gliding around Haine's Point this morning at mile 8.  When some man next to me swore, "Where the fuck is mile 9 marker?  It can't be this far," his breath ragged,  I was able to trot by, knowing that it didn't really matter.  We were where we were in that moment, and so we better make it the best it could be.  This clarity was not constant, but emerged in between my own angsty moments about the surely unevenly spaced mile markers 'cause seriously, yo, where the f*** were they???  My meditation was in my self-promoting mantra that really should never be shared with anyone else, but manages to be so core to enduring through the challenge of such races.
                                           -----------------------------------------------

Gratitudes for the weekend:  Running twins, early mornings on the Tidal Basin, A's kindness holding our stuff while we ran, bike parking, out of town friend visits, freshly baked bread, help putting dishes away, new glasses, dentist-fresh teeth, friends' parents, uke shopping, cuddlefests, open doors and windows, breakfast, breakfast II, brunch, brunch II, moving fast

The classroom road rage equivalent: Teacher Rage

"This is some trash."  Afterwards, Andrae walked up to me with is Take-A-Break card and muttered, "Sorry Ms. Erica," but I was already rattled.  I knew trying to hold class for two hours after our third day of morning testing wasn't going to result in tremendously deep thinking, nor particularly high motivation around behavior, but I still couldn't help but feel agitated by the animal noises my oh so clever 13 year old boys were bouncing around the room.  So when Victor said, "Why is today so boring?" to no one in particular, I responded, "Step outside Victor."  I stepped out before I was ready, and he became the object of my frustrated lecture.
"I will not allow that kind of attitude in my room, Victor.  I understand this has been a hard day but if you can't be here, then you can't come back in.  You can't call that out while I'm giving directions that 'this class is boring'.  That's not nice," my voice was loud and stern.  I could hear the titters of the sixth graders working in the hallway behind me, but I didn't care, or worse, did care and wanted them to hear too.
"But it wasn't even whole class direction time."
"Stop arguing."
"But you were just telling people to go over the..."
"Stop arguing, Victor.  Furthermore, this was not the first time. You came into this class with an attitude."
"No, I was just joking around at the beginning.  I actually felt fine.  Tell me what I did that showed I had attitude."
I paused because I actually couldn't think of anything.  "Right.  The joking around doesn't show you're ready to learn, Victor.  I know it's been a hard day, but we need to finish strong.  Do you understand?"
I knelt beside him.  He nodded.  And it was over.

I was frustrated by the class, and Victor became the target, though really his infraction was minor and his responses were fairly legit.  I just didn't want him responding because I wanted a platform to vent from, not a conversation with him to help him get back on track and feel heard.

Not a my most proud or mindful of moments.  Later, I went back and apologized.  "Oh, I don't care, my sister gives it to me all day," was his response.  I tried to explain that I still didn't think it was right and I think it's important for people to apologize when they didn't do what was right.  "I don't accept your apology..Psych, nah!  It's fine Ms. Erica.  Really."

It was interesting to see how easy it was for him to let go of this moment, and made me think that I probably could let it go too.  I'm glad I apologized, but also glad to know the kid is not psychologically damaged from my verbal misstep.  His forgiveness suggested I could probably go a little easier on them, and myself.
                                          ---------------------------------------
Gratitudes for April 3, 2014:  making space for morning sits, new ukulele songs to learn, rooftop crossword puzzle group for last period, connect four competition post-testing, grading progress, warm night walks to Thai dinner in good company, large-trunked trees, bike riding to and from school once again, power naps, humility to apologize and forgiving students

Buoyancy: Stop with the snooze button. For reals.

I awoke this morning and immediately put my butt on my cushion, apparently motivated by my interweb confessional yesterday.

For those of you who are interested in longer guided sits (meaning about 30 minutes), I have recently gotten really into Tara Brach's guided meditation podcasts.  The thing is, when someone is talking to me, even if they are just a disembodied voice floating up from my iphone, I feel compelled to stay seated until they finish talking.  I wish my students would have this instinct with which I am saddled.  I am motivated to respect Tara enough to let her finish her piece before I get up, even if it is 27 minutes later and I'm itching to start thinking about how I am going to encourage Te'yonte to keep his head of his desk later that day.  When I sit without the guide or a group, I am tempted to fudge it and peak at the timer multiple times to make sure it is still running, or pop up a few minutes before the timer has gonged (or elephant has trumpeted, when I forget to change my middle schooler-friendly alarm to my meditation setting).  But the guide really helps me stay seated.

So I had a really lovely sit this morning, alternately scanning my body and blissfully following my thoughts down some rabbit hole before reawakening to the sound of Tara's voice.  I found myself giddy on my bike ride to meet my dear friend Sasha for our weekly pre-work breakfast date.  The sun was just coming up over the horizon, and the air was cool, but no longer crisp.  Making the time this morning to sit meant that I was to ride my back without raging at the drivers who are so clearly and perpetually trying to take my life from me.  It meant I was able to bring the more playful and optimistic sides of myself to the breakfast table and to my kiddos. 30 minutes to not be a big grouch for at least a few hours thereafter seems like a small price to pay.  I just seem to struggle to remember that when my alarm goes off.

I also concluded my day by leading my second Teacher Yoga class.  I offered this class 2 years ago before life got crazy-feeling, and back then had a core of 4-5 people who would show up each week to stretch and be present with me.  Today there were 15 people there, representing both sides of the street (elementary and middle school staff) and all different roles in the school.  It is pretty rad that we are all trying to take care of ourselves together at the end of a long day.

I still feel a bit uncomfortable as Yoga Teacher, in that I haven't taught for years and I have not had time to properly prepare.  But if I always avoid doing things I am not quite ready for, I probably would spend a lot of time watching Parks and Recreation under my covers..eating chocolate chips.  While I stayed glued to my mat last week, today I actually stepped off and offered adjustments, which is an amazing way to teach and connect with people.  Hoping to continue to bring it as we move through the weeks and I scrape the rust of my long dormant skill set.
                                      ---------------------------------------------------------
Gratitudes April 2: Tara Brach morning meditation, warm bike ride, quick testing session= apples to apples, finally figuring out the Mathemagical Wizardry Prize after 3 solid mornings of labor, lattes and Takorean, rockin' CSQ document (Yes, that's a worksheet.  Whatever, it was sweet.), dynamic staff discussion around student work, 15 lovely yogis entrusting me with their practice, evening porch sits with cookies, chocolate chips.

Another soggy oreo, please.

So, after 6 weeks of intensive mindfulness practice, wherein I built a consistent practice of 1/2 hour sitting a day and regularly checking in with myself for mindful thoughts and behaviors, I was released from my Mindfulness Fundamentals Course to fly on my own.  Without all that heavy scaffolding of weekly check-ins and guided audios, I quickly found myself beating my wings erratically before plummeting towards my certain demise at full speed.  What this looked like out-of-metaphor was this: Me, alone in the house, shoveling heavy chocolate cake with multi-colored icing into my face, followed by two soggy oreos, followed by an orange soda (Orange soda?  Really?  I haven't had that drink since I was 11).  I feel like I'm in a backlash phase.

Because it did feel amazing to complete the six weeks and really bring the practice into my life.  I saw the benefits.  All the things they tell you in the books are true: I was more level-headed, could see reality more clearly, felt more joy, blah, blah, blah.  So why, the second someone is not telling me to do it, even if it just some internet support person whom I've never made real human contact with, do I flounder?  Do I reach for the peanut butter jar for one more spoonful after finishing the banana?  Do I resist sitting and start hitting snooze again?

Today, I watched myself with fascination as I read "Dear Carolyn"'s advice column in the Post and shoveled a second piece of cake onto my plate, making sure to smear it with extra icing.  I marveled at my desire to shove a second cookie in my mouth, even as my stomach felt distended from a recent dinner.  I wondered at the orange soda as a final choice.  I actually did see all these choices I was making, and was in awe.

Usually I get angry at myself for these kinds of self destructive behaviors, and then end the experience heavily laden with guilt.  It turns out guilt does little beyond making me want to reach for one more snack to shift my attention away from feeling badly about myself.  Guilt does little to help me figure out why I'm making those kinds of choices.

So today, I strive for curiosity.  After all, why is it a part of the human experience to do things we know, up and down, make us less happy?  Instead of hating on myself, I chose to wonder, what is this special kind of lunacy we are all capable of?  And maybe that's the gift of those first six weeks of practice.  To observe, even nonsensical behavior, nonjudgmentally.  I just hope my next phase in this process results in fewer belly aches.

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Gratitudes for April 1:  voting (doing my civic duty), planning period latte runs, jacket off tank top bike riding, finishing my taxes (refund, woot woot!), morning sit, colleagues who make silly encouraging music videos, choosing introversion time, porch ukulele time, quiet, clear night skies,

True Confessions of a Part Time Yogi

True Confessions of a Part-Time Yogi:

I am starting this blog on this random day, March 27, in hopes of sharing some of my experiences coming on board with yoga and meditation in a real and consistent way.  I have, over the years, had an inconsistent practice, and I want to start documenting my experience as I solidify it, both to share my experience and hold myself accountable.  Each year leading up to my birthday I do a cleanse and gratitudes (for the number of years I am turning), coupled with a more consistent meditation practice. This ended March 22, but I want to ensure my practice continues.  This blog will be my new accountability partner.

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March 27 Gratitudes: understanding work environment, flexibility, time to stop, heal and reflect, Bija (Todd Norian), sunshine, vegan tempeh bacon, honesty between friends, considering the 20 hour work week.