Grl4justice's Blog

On the Sixth Day of Hanukkah the Universe Sent To Me . . .A meth addict on my front lawn

Jessica — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 17:33:37 +0000

Nothing gets the neighbors together for the holidays like a tweaking meth addict breaking into cars.
As I am sitting on my couch, in my pajamas, at 2:30 in the afternoon, watching a marathon of Ghost Hunters, I hear yelling and screaming (distinctly males) on my front lawn. At first I thought it was part of the Ghost Hunters’ “reveal” (impressive EVP’s) until I realized a 19th century ghost would probably not be yelling “Please don’t call the cops” and “I told you to get down on the ground!” My partner and I ran outside to find two of our neighbors holding this guy down and telling him that “this isn’t happening in OUR neighborhood!”. (Seriously, dude, we live in the Arden Arcade area.. This happens all the TIME in our neighborhood). Nonetheless, still in my pajamas (which, for the record, consist of snow leopard print fleece pants and a “Wormy Dog Saloon” t-shirt), I sat down on the ground with Vincent (our now resident tweaker) and waited for the cops. We had a conversation about his dog, his meds, his mom—pretty much what I would talk to you about in a grocery store. I explained to him that going home was not an option, that we had to wait for the cops. He informed me that sucked. I agreed.
The cops finally arrived (four of them and a fire truck, must have been a slow day) and, although there was some initial confusion as to who was the homeless meth addict—me or the guy wreathing on the ground—(I get that a lot when I’m outside braless and barefoot in the middle of the afternoon), Vincent was escorted to the hospital and I was released to go back to Ghost Hunters.
Just another day for me. I deal with people of various mental imbalances and drug problems working as a victim advocate. It’s my vocation to sit with people in their trauma. I didn’t think much of it, but my neighbors were very impressed that I was so adept at “talking him down.” One woman added, “Well, it’s a shame this happened on the day after Christmas. Kind of ruins the holidays.” Really? The holidays should be a cosmic “time out” from human suffering? The “ruining of the holidays’ occurred not from your incessant cookie making and tacky Christmas Snoopy sweater but from a man who is impoverished and addicted to a wicked chemical substance which he uses just to make it through this thing we call “life?”
My partner didn’t like my last blog. He says, “Why can’t you just let people be happy? If people want to sappily celebrate the holidays and have one month of happiness why do you have to ruin it? What would it take to get you in the holiday spirit?” Fair question. I had to think about that.
For me, what’s missing from the holiday joy equation is the acknowledgement of the human condition—suffering. I have great respect for human suffering. Most people don’t understand that. As a profession, I deal with the bruises of the body and the lacerations of the soul on a daily basis, and it takes herculean strength for these victims to experience their trauma and come out the other side. It pisses me off that we don’t respect this—that we place more value on stupid holiday television specials and a butt load of meaningless, never-ending potlucks.
My yoga teacher recently took a month off because of her impending divorce, and I think that’s one of the bravest things I’ve ever heard of. She doesn’t understand why I would say that, but it’s because she actually sequestered herself from the world, felt the terror, the sadness, the fear in her body and spirit, publically acknowledged it and then returned to work. That’s a bravery I don’t possess. Because, you see, I have a confession to make. I can sit with you while you suffer, but I can’t experience my own suffering. Like most of our society, I work too much, eat too much, shop too much, all so that I don’t have to recognize I am part of living world and I, like every other human being, am comprised of a delicate mixture of wounding and strength. We are all damaged irreparably. We have all been injured beyond what we thought we could bare. But by acknowledging that pain, that “laceration of the soul,” we morph the devastation into radiant strength, which is the other part of being a human being. As a Jew, I celebrate Hanukkah, which can be equally as sickening as Christmas believe me. Celebrating for eight nights of Hanukkah television specials and latke dinners can really prolong the holiday pain. But I have to remind myself of what Matisyahu writes of the true meaning of Hanukkah in his song Miracle :
Eight is the number of infinity one more than what you know how to be
And this is the light of festivity when your broken heart yearns to be free
What does it take to get me in the holiday spirit? A National Day of Suffering held on Christmas eve. We should shut down all the stores, everyone would get the day off work, no mail would be delivered, and all of us would sit on our porches and witness our collective suffering. We would honor the pain with the reverence it duly deserves for a full 24 hours. Then, and only then, could we truly have a genuine holiday celebration. And I would joyously attend all your potlucks and watch all the TV specials. Because after sharing this day of suffering, I would feel balanced and connected to you—and after all, isn’t that what the holidays are all about?

What I want for Christmas . . .

Jessica — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 17:53:01 +0000

The holidays suck. Simply put: suck. So for those of you who work with me, or live next to me, below are my ten wishes for Christmas.

No, I do not want to go to another stupid potluck. I work with you every day. Why do I need to celebrate that?
“White elephant” is a euphemism for “garage sale”. Just because you give me your unwanted crap at a Christmas party does not make it funny or entertaining.
You couldn’t sing before December and you can’t sing now.
No, I will not feel “holiday inclusivity” just because you wish me Happy Hanukkah or put a Menorah next to the office Christmas tree. I still have to face your bell-ringing Santa every time I leave the house.
Just because you slap a Santa hat on something does not make it cute.
Be Warned: I will kick over the 6-foot glow-in-the-dark Christmas cartoon characters on your front lawn. And I will do so no matter how many times you put it back up.
Do not give me a plate of your grandmother’s secret recipe holiday treats. Just don’t. They really aren’t good for my dog.
There is no snow in Sacramento, CA. All the fake snow on your lawn looks like a catastrophic dandruff attack.
Do not ask me what I will be doing during the holidays. I will be doing the same thing you will be doing—painfully enduring multiple dinners with my relatives and feigning excitement over the waste-of-a-credit-card-swipe presents they give me. The only difference is that I admit the pain and torture of this ritual and you celebrate it.
And finally, when you read this, DO NOT say something stupid about me being a Grinch. Grinch is a step up from where I am at in holiday spirit. Just say “bitch” and get it over with.

Happy F-ing Holidays!

I Have Seen The Enemy . . . And The Bitch Is Wearing My Shoes

Jessica — Sun, 18 Apr 2010 04:00:29 +0000

Aka: Watch out! Here come my monsters.

I had heard of this happening—but I thought it was a yoga studio urban legend. But I was wrong, fellow yogis, dead wrong. And it happened to me today.

I stepped into my yoga class and low and behold this person walked in; my arch enemy from my professional life. Oh yeah—this is the person that I dread dealing with in my “outside the studio” life. I can’t stand this person. I mean in our professional world we can’t even stay in the same room together. They are evil—I mean totally evil. And here they were—smack dab in my yoga studio.

I was stunned. Then I became furious. After all, this was MY yoga studio—MINE! I was here first. I had all but urinated on the back corner by the stereo to mark my territory (and I was perfectly willing to actually do this if I thought it would help the situation). Once in a while the Voice of Reason (italicized for the purposes of this blog) would pop into my head, but I was having none of it.

What was this person doing here? (yoga?). I’m sure this person got up that morning and thought of one more way to ruin my day “Hey, I think I’ll go to Jess’s yoga class at her yoga studio.” (how did this person know I went there?) I don’t know. Out of all the yoga studios in Sacramento, this person must have been stalking me for months, plotting to step into my yoga class, a class I desperately needed because I hadn’t been to a class in two weeks (really? You hide it so well). Shut up Reason.

And this person had the audacity to put their stupid body right behind me to the left so that every time I bent over, I had to look at them (and there was a lot of bending over, thank you so much yoga-teacher- who-shall-remain-nameless). It was a miserable class—MISERABLE! My face was tight, my jaw was clenched tight (even in svasana). I had to constantly be on my guard from the Evil One—my downward dog had to be better than theirs, my uttanasana had to be straighter, my silent meditation more serene, my constructive rest more constructive than theirs. I left that class with a tension headache and a pain in my jaw like no other.

After class I called my best friend who was horrified and suggested that I should have farted at her in direct retaliation (that’s why she’s my best friend. She’s so creative.). Don’t think I hadn’t already thought of this. Alas, one of the few God-Given talents which normally come so naturally to me failed me in the one moment I could have used it. Plus, I’m not sure I couldn’t have executed the assault without taking down collateral damages in the form of innocent civilians, if you know what I mean.

Who really ruined your yoga class? This other person did. Did they? Who really had the control here? This person, I’m sure, had a marvelous class. I am assured of this because basically this person is a classic narcissist (I’m not just saying that because of my hatred toward them, it’s actually really true. You can ask a variety of people who knows them—I will supply a list upon request). So I have a feeling they didn’t even notice my glowering or intimidating down-dogs. And this person did not look at me once—NOT ONCE. (So now who’s the narcissist?) So who really ruined my yoga?

So, damn it . I was stuck with the revelation that the Universe was trying to tell me something. And I have a feeling the lesson was more about me than the putz-head who came to class today. There is an old Jewish mystical story—“Every blade of grass has an angel that hovers over it and whispers, “Grow! Grow!” And I’m pretty sure next time I see this person in yoga class, I will have a message from the Voice of Reason. And I’m pretty sure it will be Grow! Grow!

* I realize my own biases against this person have colored the way I portrayed them in this blog. I’m sure this person is really not this bad. No, actually they are this bad. But I’m sure there are people who actually like this person, like maybe their mother or their spouse or some nun who had to take a vow of liking people. Someone.

Yoga on the Dark Side

Jessica — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 21:17:28 +0000

So, people keep asking me, now that I’m done with teacher training, what I plan to do with the skills I have learned? The obvious answer is teach yoga, but I really don’t want to. I just don’t see myself as a yoga teacher. I’m just a person who does yoga. See, I really don’t fit the “yoga teacher mold” and I think I can still get caught up on that. I mean, I have what you would call “a post-partum body in a pre-partum world.” I eat a lot of junk food—a lot. I say the “f” word all the time (in fact, I have the distinction amongst my colleagues for using the “f” word as four different parts of speech in one sentence). I get my Sanskrit terms confused with Hebrew and the Spanish slang that I learned in Costa Rica.

I’m not really a nice person. Some people see me as such, but those who spend a lot of time with me know that this is not the case (for confirmation of this, check with any of my neighbors, coworkers, my children, or men I have dated and/or been married to).

I’m really not athletic. Some days child’s pose kicks my butt. If I die, and I am not good in this world, I am convinced that I will go to a hot yoga studio where there is nothing but non-stop Vinyasa Flow and Chaturanga. Hell, I whenever we do a Yang sequence, I pray for some sort of natural disaster (like a rogue flock of birds crashing into the studio windows) to make the sequence stop.

And I really hate people. On the average, I would have to say I hate about 75% of the people I meet. And that’s because I think most of the world is full of narcissistic, ignorant, self-centered, entitled people. I’m not saying I’m not one of them. I am—I TOTALLY am. But the difference is that I KNOW I am narcissistic, ignorant, self-centered. The others have not recognized that they are of that category.

And that’s when it dawned on me: That is why I want to, nay, I must teach yoga. One of the most important reasons is that in doing so, I hope to spread the introspection and humility that yoga brings to my life, to others. I hope to make people a little less a-hole’ish. Or at least aware of their a-holeness.

We need more yoga instructors with pudgy bodies and wild wedgy problems whenever a forward bend is involved. We need more instructors who sweat so much that they look like they just took a shower by the end of the class. We need more yoga instructors willing to say, “In accordance with my own ethical principles, I refuse to do inversions on the basis that a drastic change in orientation may result in my internal organs falling out of my head” (and yes, I am sure that could happen). We need more instructors to push the envelope of traditional yoga classes and affirm that yes, damn it, Sukasana, constructive rest, legs-up-the-wall post, and then 45 minutes of svasana IS a legitimate yoga sequence for a class. We need more examples of people who are not embarrassed to use the wedge under their wrists (thank you Tami) and who are, in fact, empowered by it. Most of all, I need to teach for Stinky.

Stinky is a student who attended two of the classes I taught at a local college. He was called Stinky by the other students who lived in the residence halls because, well, he stunk. He was a shy, very large man with thick glasses. He had issues with showing butt-crack every time he bent over. He had no friends that we know of. At the first class, even legs-up-the-wall pose was challenging to him due to his size. I gave him a yoga mat to keep—and he came back to the second class. He had a great smile as he struggled through the class (which really was very basic). I didn’t know that “Stinky” was his nickname. I was just so happy he came to the two classes, and hoped he would continue to do yoga once the semester started.

At our first staff meeting, I found out his nickname. Apparently, over the winter break, Stinky was kicked out of school for poor grades. Everyone in the residence halls was relieved because he had been bounced from hall to hall to hall because of his odor and “clothing malfunctions” but no one wanted to confront him on the issue. People (staff and students alike) had a hard time dealing with him because he was socially awkward. I was sad that Stinky was gone. He was my favorite student.

I hope wherever Stinky is he still has the little yoga mat I gave him. I hope it can be like an island to him sheltering him from the cruelty in the world because that’s how I feel on my mat. I hope that someday, on that yoga mat, he learns, from some instructor somewhere, that he is just like every other human being on this planet—worthy of love, support, and divinity. And that’s why I practice teach yoga—for the Stinkys in the world.

Renunciation–It’s an Emotional Thing

Jessica — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 15:57:06 +0000

Believe it or not, there is a long history of sexual assault/domestic violence victim advocates. We started back in the late seventies. We were called “rape squads” back then (Is that cool or what? I so want that on a t-shirt!). Our job was to stand up for sexual assault or domestic violence victims’ rights—particularly with law enforcement. In fact, cops and advocates historically have been enemies—big time. Things have gotten better in the last decade, but once in a while we clash. Like Friday (which is why I wasn’t at training that night).

To make a very long story short, I had a domestic violence victim who needed to make a police report. The two officers who showed up were very adamant about not taking a report. I was equally adamant that they take the report. And so, in the tradition of their gun-toting, shield-wearing ancestors, they began a pissing contest. And in the tradition of my Burkenstock-wearing, bra-burning foremothers, I became confrontational.

And in the long standing lineage of bruised egos throughout time, it got personal. They questioned my experience in these matters, I questioned their formal education, they ordered me off the scene, I told them they had no right to do so, they got in my face, I got back in theirs, they threatened to arrest me, I demanded their badge numbers,

(at this point they actually did threaten to cuff me and it suddenly dawned on me that “Oh Shit, I have yoga teacher training tonight” and that being thrown in jail was perhaps going to interfere with that so I went inside my office)

I called their sergeant. They called their sergeant–each of us pulling whatever power we could in an effort to prove who had more power (which really doesn’t make any sense if you think about it).

And after they left, I found that as I reflected on my behavior, I was quite surprised to find how quickly I deteriorated to very un-yogi behavior in the situation. And I honestly don’t know which I am more ashamed of—everything I did to them that night or everything I’m planning on doing to them on Monday morning. It’s kinda a toss up really.

I have a long letter planned outlining everything that the officers did, were capable of doing, might have done, really should have done, what their mothers should have done (I have very specific suggestions in that paragraph) —well, you get the idea. I have been pondering whether to send it to Internal Affairs, the head of the department himself, or perhaps the governor. Ooh, I get emails from President Obama all the time (and I’m sure I’m the only one who gets them) so maybe I should send it to him!

By the time I got done with all the phone calls to superiors, and re-hashing the episode with my boss (who had to stand helplessly by and watch through a window while wondering if you can post bail with a university procurement card), it was 6:30 p.m. and I was in a really bad energetic space. So I went home to my family where I feel safe and warm—and ate an entire pizza (which led to gastric disasters as I am gluten intolerant).

And as I gloated over finally getting my way in the situation(and how I would now exact my revenge via letter writing) , an old Jewish legend popped into my head: “Each of us has an angel who walks before us calling out ‘Behold the Image and Likeness of God’ and we must honor our own angel and everyone else’s as well.”

Could this possibly apply to these officers? I mean it sounds implausible but . . . Immediately my brain went to “well they weren’t honoring my angel so therefore I don’t have to honor theirs.”

But the real question that mattered: Was I honoring my angel? I spent a lot of emotional and physical energy planning revenge and being angry and eating pizza. And then the final question is, if I wasn’t honoring my angel, then why do I expect them to do so?

We talked a lot about renunciation this weekend. I’m no Buddhist expert (you’re amazed, right?) but I’m pretty sure renunciation also includes emotional states—anger, ego, failure to honor our own angels. And after pondering this and asking myself “WWSBAAAD” (What Would Sylvia Boorstein And Ajahn Amaro Do) I wondered “Is a letter really necessary?” Do I want to spend more energy on dishonoring their angel and ultimately, my own for the sake of placating my ego? What would happen if I didn’t write the letter? Could I find another way to placate my ego while still honoring my angel? Could I just honor what is instead of what I think it should be? Could I let the situation be over?

On Monday, it will be interesting to see if I’m enlightened enough not to write the letter.

What kind of teacher do I want to be? The suffering kind.

Jessica — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 16:59:43 +0000

This weekend we talked about what to do if someone gets hurt–physically–during a yoga class. As I shared with the group, I’ve had a student die in my class before–not a yoga class, an academic class I teach at American River College. He had a heart attack. It was towards the beginning of class and it was really traumatic for the other students. There was a young student (Lucas) who had taken my class before (he had flunked it the first time). He had a lot of mental health problems, but I loved having him in class because he was so animated and funny. He was the one who made the 911 call when the other student had the heart attack.

The part I didn’t admit to the class, was that I actually had two deaths that semester. About a month after the student died of the heart attack, Lucas died of an accidental drug overdose. I kept wondering “why me? what is it about me that attracts death?” In over 30 years, they had never had a student die in a classroom, let alone two students from the same class. It became somewhat of a joke (I have a dark sense of humor in case some of you haven’t noticed). Bob (my partner) was wondering if the school would have to take out extra insurance for me to teach. One teacher dubbed me the “black widow of education”. In fact, I couldn’t get a substitute teacher for that class to save my life! Seriously!

Some people praised me for being so “strong” during the situations, and facilitating the “de-brief” for students after it happened. What people don’t realize is that I have this sort of innate talent (I don’t have many but this one I’ll claim) and that’s that I have a delayed panic response. I panic and get emotional after a situation arises. I did totally lose it over these two deaths–but on the way home in the car or on the phone to my friend Cyndra the next day. It took me months, after the first student’s death, to go anywhere without my CPR mask with me. No kidding–I even brought it with me to yoga classes and the store.

As we have our yoga teacher training weekends, I sit in awe of the instructors. They are so amazingly accepting and graceful. Sometimes, I feel kinda like a disappointment to them because I really can’t do great poses, and my stamina isn’t that great. I get very frustrated during trainings. But this weekend I read an story by Alan Lew*. He was writing about a TV documentary series called “An American Family” which ran in the 1970′s. The Loud family was very prosperous, perfect, etc. and through the course of the TV documentary their family unraveled: the husband was quite the philanderer, the daughter was an IV drug user, the son was gay (pretty frowned upon in the 1970′s). Alan Lew writes of a scene where the mother, Pat, completely loses it:

“She finally saw her family, she saw her life, as it really was on this video that never stopped running . . . and it broke her heart. The photograph for which she had so carefully posed was crumbling to dust, and her heart was breaking. The minute it finally did, I fell hopelessly in love with her. All the way from the other side of the TV screen, I was smitten. That’s how I always feel when I see someone in the full reality of their suffering, when I see them with their hearts broken open. I’ve never seen a human being in that condition who wasn’t exquisitely beautiful. I was amazed that most people didn’t see her that way. Most people thought she was a dope.”

And that’s the kind of yoga teacher I want to be. May I always be more impressed by the exquisite beauty of a student suffering though an imperfect, arthritic, elderly, overweight, wobbly, aesthetically unaligned pose than a student who exemplifies the textbook fluidity of an asana. May I fall hopelessly in awe of the student frustrated and crying on the yoga mat, experiencing life in the raw. And may that student be my inspiration, rather than the student who, although more graceful and strong, has never known deep, heart-breaking suffering on the mat. Because that is the gift my teachers have given me–and I am very thankful.

*Rabbi Alan Lew is a Rabbi in the bay area. Prior to that, he was a Zen Buddhist leader and now the founder of Makor Or, the first meditation center connected to a synagogue. The excerpt above was taken from his book This Is Real and Your Are Completely Unprepared. His other book, “One God Clapping: The Spiritual Path of A Zen Rabbi, won the PEN Joseph Miles award for literary excellence.

To tell you the truth…

Jessica — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 04:21:21 +0000

Ok, first and foremost I have no idea what truth is. Honestly. I lie all the time. Pretty much from the time I get up to the time I go to sleep. And for all I know, I lie while I’m sleeping. I’m sure I would lie if you could talk to me while sleeping, anyway.

My partner Bob never lies. I wish he did sometimes. Like, one time I was lamenting over how beautiful one of my friends was even though she was two years older than me. Bob said, “Well, Jess she’s Hawaiian and those women are very beautiful for a very long time. You come from a different genetic line, that’s all. Your family is east european Jew. So, you’re . . . sturdy.”

Is it any wonder Bob doesn’t have much luck in singles’ bars? He’s so good with the pick-up lines. When he was in 4th grade, he gave a Valentine’s day card to a little girl which read, “You’re a really nice person. If only you weren’t so negative all the time.” Believe me this is not the man you want to ask, “Does this make my butt look fat?”

Me, I lie. I lie to my kids. I lie to myself. And mostly, I lie not out of any altruistic motive. It’s mostly out of laziness. It’s easier to tell my boss at work that I have a doctor’s appointment than to say I just want to run personal errands. It’s easier to say I have to shut my door at the office because I have a confidential phone call to make than to say it’s simply because I don’t want to talk to you. It’s easier to say that I don’t have time to go to yoga class than to say I don’t want to get off the couch during Animal Planet (my favorite network EVER!). It’s easier to tell my doctor I’ll be compliant with my medication rather than saying, ” I really have no intention of coming back for that lab test.” It’s easier to tell my therapist I’ll work on my “Inability to express emotions” than to say, “I would rather eat dirt than put myself through all those f-’ed up feelings.” It’s easier for me to fake another call on the line than to tell my friend that I don’t give a rat’s ass about her recent trip to the mall.

My yoga practice isn’t any more honest. I act all peaceful and serene when I sit on the mat, but what I didn’t tell you is how I flipped off that driver on Broadway a few seconds ago because I was running late and he wouldn’t move his stupid car fast enough. Or I don’t tell you how I’ve secretly been hating you because you are able to do 1000 sun salutations without breaking a sweat and I can’t even do three without looking like I just got out of the shower. Or I don’t tell you that I strategically plan my bathroom trips during the parts of the class where there is a ton of plank pose which I can’t hold worth crap (oh yeah, I really do that). Or that during the morning classes, there is coffee in my water bottle and not water (Thank you Starbucks–they’ll put coffee in anything).

And just so you don’t feel bad, I lie to myself even more. I tell myself I am super-duper important at my job and that they would all fall apart without me. I tell myself I am always caring and dependable (try telling that to my cat who has been waiting three hours to be fed). Or that I am always hard working (as I surf Facebook while sitting at my desk). My favorite lie is when I pretend that a Chipotle burrito really has only 200 calories instead of 1200. Or that I would have shown up at that meeting for the academic information instead of for the donuts they are having. Or when I claim to be a vegetarian as I eat a combination pizza (but God gets me back for that through my digestive tract every time).

I try not to lie about the big stuff. I try to tell my children the real reason their goldfish is gone. I try to tell my friend that I think her boyfriend of ten years really won’t commit (Or else, for God’s sake, he would have done it by now). Sometimes I have to temper the truth. Like when a client asks me, “when will the pain end?” or my child asks “why doesn’t so-and-so like me at school?”

I always think of Daniel Pearl. He was a Wall Street Reporter who was kidnapped and murdered by Islamic fundementalists. There was a video tape that showed his captors slashing his throat in front of the cameras. Before he died, Pearl was asked if he was a Jew, and he reportedly looked at the screen and said, “I am a Jew, and my father is Jewish,” after which those holding him carried out their shocking assault. And, conversely, I think of a story about a man several years ago on a Brooklyn subway. Someone wished him Merry Christmas, to which he responded, “Happy Hanukkah.” The first man began tormenting him for being Jewish and started hitting him. No one on that subway said a word except one man– who was a Muslim. The Muslim man, too, was beaten severely. And for those of you unfamiliar with subways in Brooklyn, I know there were tons of other Jews on that train.

Now that, my friends, is truth. Truth like few of us have ever been confronted with. And I ask myself: Would I have done the same thing? When it really counts, I mean really counts, would I have the courage to be truthful? It’s a good question. I always hope I would be able to be like Daniel Pearl– if I were confronted with owning up before God and the world who I am even if it meant my death.

And each time I get on the yoga mat, I have short periods of time where I am that truthful, and I own up to God and the world who I am even if it means the death of the illusion of who I think I am or mean to be.

I’m gonna try this but I’m not going to like it . . .

Jessica — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 16:14:07 +0000

Ok, I am really new at this blogging thing–not only in respect to me being “technologically challenged” but I am VERY uncomfortable putting myself out there on the internet. But, the one of the most important things I learned during my first weekend of yoga teacher training is . . . FEAR. And how to face it.

I first want to say how very grateful I am for my fellow classmates who are so supportive (no yoga pun intended) and kind. I also want to COMPLETELY thank our teachers, Michelle, Sethyne and Madeline for their non-judgmental, unconditional patience and guidance.

I really wish I had deep spiritual insights like the rest of my classmates posted. What I came up with is how much fear I faced this weekend. First, fear of attending the training (you have no idea what it took to get me out of the house each of those days). The excuses I came up with were awesome. Suddenly, I became very interested in cleaning my toilet right before it was time to leave. I felt intense need to spend quality time with my cat (and I don’t even really like my cat). Or I had problems justifying the time and money to go to the training when there were global-warming-abused-third world-kitty-orphans to save. So the out-the-door part was big.

Then I had to confront my fear of my own body (yes, I know this sounds strange, but it’s true). I really realized this weekend how inept and disconnected I am from my own physical self. I was SO exhausted when I went home each night and it wasn’t the physical exercise–it was the mental concentration I had to exhibit in order to find individual muscles, bones, parts of my own body and then move them–or not move them.

I am amazed at how complex and incredible the human body is. I remember a story (WARNING: this is gonna be kinda gross) that a friend of mine who is a mortician told me (I hang out with really classy people). I asked him what was the strangest thing that ever happened to him in his line of work. He said there was a weight-lifter who died while doing a bench press without a spotter (the dumbbell had dropped over his neck because he couldn’t sustain the weight with this arms). When the cadaver came in to the mortuary the arms were still frozen in the position of lifting (or failed attempt at lifting) the weight. My friend had turned around to get something to “fix” this problem, as he had assumed rigor had set this way and it probably wouldn’t look good at the funeral. The body sat up slightly, and it’s arms completed the repetition of the weight lift, landing down my its sides. This really freaked my friend out, and he called a medical examiner to make sure there wasn’t something that had been “missed” during the examination. The medical examiner stated that sometimes the electrical memory of our intention is stored in the musculature itself and that even though this man’s brain had been dead for a couple days, the memory was still there and needed to be completed.

Wow. Wow. How much emotional trauma is stored in our muscular/somatic memory? How much of my mental intentions will be stored in my physical body even after I’m gone? It’s really amazing. And that’s why I’m in this training. That’s why I have to face my fears of blogging, having people look at my body, doing poses where I concentrate so hard my head hurts. Because when I die, I don’t want to have that one last pose that I didn’t complete stored in my body–and freak out another mortician.

Namaste.