Yoga. It's Not Just For Heathens Any More.

My yoga practice just got cooler. Why, you ask? Because it's been termed "demonic" by Mark Driscoll, the pastor of Mars Hill Church in Seattle. And, if I know my inner 14 year-old self as well as I think I do, this pastor calling my yoga class a "little demon class" just kicked her into full rebellion mode. Take a look at this guy and his thoughts on yoga below.

I want to share a few things I've learned from my practice of yoga so you can see just how far I've gone into the realm of demonism and begin to pray for me as soon as possible. Actually, you might want to contact your local priest and schedule an exorcism at your earliest convenience.

• All beings should be happy and free, expressed in the mantra Lokah Samasta Sukino Bhavantu in Sanskrit.
• God is present in each one of us.
• Namaste isn't just a word, it's a way of living that acknowledges the sacredness of others.
• Setting an intention at the beginning of practice helps you be mindful of those you love.
• Moderation, or Brahmacharya, is a helpful skill to master in seeking a virtuous life.
• Quieting the mind, paying attention to the breath and looking inside one's self will lead you to the divine.

So scandalous, right?! I mean, have you ever read anything SO contrary to Christianity? The idea that God would invite us to look inside ourselves to meet him (or her) is so unlike anything in the Bible. Clearly when St. Paul asks the church in Corinth, "Don’t you know that you yourselves are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in your midst?", the answer is a big, fat "NO." And I hate to think what the ancient monastics would say about Brahmacharya!

Obviously, I am kidding. (If you didn't get my sarcasm then I will pray for you and your humorless soul.) I think Mark Driscoll has it TOTALLY wrong. I would also take a guess the good pastor has never even been to a yoga class (dude just looks tight, doesn't he?).

I am a Christian. I am also a yogini. In my experience, they are not mutually exclusive and, in fact, both strengthen each other in my life. Notice, I say experience because, unlike MD over there in Seattle, I have experience in both the Christian realm and the yoga realm. I would shrug off this anti-yoga banter if it was an isolated incident but, unfortunately, it's not. From the Catholic church to Christian fundamentalists, yoga has its share of critics. I'm totally comfortable with it having critics but I'd rather they be well-informed ones that aren't coming from a place of fear. I'm pretty sure that practicing yoga isn't secretly leading me into demon worship and, if it were, I'm certain I'd put the brakes on it. I'm not afraid of being converted to something against my will, I'm just not. What I am afraid of is missing out on amazing things because I don't trust myself enough to encounter the unfamiliar. If I lived like that then I might have never read Harry Potter (the horror!), lived in San Francisco (which I'm sure is MD's fave city) and become a yoga teacher (aka a demon teacher).

So, Mark Driscoll, I will pray for you. I will pray that you have a more open mind and learn not to fear the unfamiliar. Of course, this is my prayer for myself as well.

Namaste.

Our Collective Story

Over the last ten years, I have heard innumerable stories from friends, family and strangers about their experiences on September 11th, 2001. From a friend whose father was supposed to be on the plane that hit the North Tower to another whose uncle lost his life at the Pentagon, there are hopeful and painful stories from that terrible day. Just this morning, my yoga instructor began class by telling us how she was supposed to fly to South Korea on the morning of 9/11 and found out about the attacks at the ticketing line in the airport.

I'm always struck by how people want to, or really need to, tell their stories. Perhaps it's our way of processing what occurred, since, even ten years later, what occurred remains unfathomable. Or it's our way of reaching out and connecting with each other, reminding us that we as humans are capable of loving and caring for one another, in spite of the evidence to the contrary. Maybe the process of telling our stories is these things and a lot more.

It has become clear, in the ten years since that, with regard to 9/11, we have a collective story. It is ours, as participants in this country (in this world): a cacophony of memories. A discordant mixture of stories that together join to form one. We each need to tell our story because of our desire to be a member of the cacophony.

It's very much like what happens when yoga students chant "Om" at the end of a class.  Om, or Aum, is the Hindu symbol representing the energetic vibration of all life (think Einstein's E=MC2 but without the downward facing dog). We chant together and our voices unite. It's not necessarily a pretty sound but, because we are participating in it together and sending it out, it can become beautiful. In this way, our cacophony of memories is not necessarily pretty. It's filled with unimaginable grief but, because of its unifying nature, it's beautiful.

I am convinced this universal desire to contribute to the collective story of 9/11 is one of our most amazing weapons against the hatred that brought the towers down. Our willingness to tell our stories to one another and, even more, to listen to others' stories is illustrative of our universal refusal to become like those who attacked us. Our stories bind even the most different of us together and help us to see one another's worth, something our attackers failed to do. Indeed, the binding in which we have participated acts as a daily reminder to search for the humanity in each other. If we were more than just "enemies" to these men -- if we were fellow humans with lives and, of course, with stories to them -- I don't believe 3,000 of us would have died that day.

Ten years ago today I was a sophomore at Boston College. I was far from my parents and siblings but surrounded by my wonderful family of friends. We gathered together as a school and prayed, having lost 22 alumni, and we connected and supported each other. We were bound together that day so tightly by our shock and grief and our willingness to connect with one another. I pray that we can practice this willingness with the same kind of fervor we did ten years ago.

Rabbis, Preachers & Yoga Teachers

It's a beautiful Sunday morning in San Diego and I make my way to my favorite studio to practice at while I'm in town: CorePower Yoga in Hillcrest. I'm in town for my cousin's wedding and, though I'm there only a few days, I have to squeeze in some yoga. The instructor is new to me (unsurprising as I don't live in San Diego) and he brings a whole lot of energy to the practice. His sequences are interesting, challenging and fun but what sticks with me most of all is manner of teaching. Let me be more specific: he is a cross between Richard Simmons, Jesse Jackson and some hippie guy who would be named something like "Tree Frog" or "Belt Loop." I like the guy but am taken aback by the one-liners he inserts throughout the asanas (our physical postures). From "You only have one life to live, make it beautiful" to "Forgive someone today," I'm not sure if I'm on my yoga mat or in a pew somewhere. His words are valuable, and even seem authentic, but their frequency throws me off a little as every asana seems to bring a nugget of inspiration (read: cliché). Yet, I look around, and seem to be the only one not buying into the message.

Now, I realize some of this is my problem. I can be cynical, judgmental and downright snobby when it comes to anything involving the "touchy feely" or "warm fuzzy." When visiting a studio I love in Philadelphia the other week, an instructor put "Beautiful" on by Christina Aguilera during a hip stretch and I just about went into barf-asana, a truly graceful pose where I vomit my breakfast onto the nearest yogi. I just couldn't take it! There was something that felt contrived to me that I couldn't get past. Perhaps it was because I didn't really know where this instructor was coming from because I wasn't familiar with her. Or maybe I just really hate that song. Obviously, the instructor wanted to take me somewhere (emotionally? spiritually?) by putting on this song and I just didn't want to go. Yet again, the cheese stands alone because people around me seemed to be loving it.

The point is, people seem to be open to receiving something more than just a workout when they show up at yoga. But what is that "something" they want to receive? Life lessons? Inspirational messages through a variety of cheesy songs? Is it up to the instructor to provide that? Are yoga studios the new synagogues and churches? After all, hoards of people spend their Sabbaths on their mats. Does that make yoga teachers the new rabbis and preachers?

The masses gather . . . but not for mass, for yoga!

I recently started teaching yoga and, while I'm totally obsessed with it, this notion that yoga teachers might fit into the category with rabbis and preachers freaks me out. I feel equipped to guide students through their practice, making helpful suggestions when necessary, but I am no guru. I am no preacher and I am no rabbi. I am no authority on life and on their lives, in particular.

When it comes to teaching yoga, I tend to agree with Socrates' understanding of learning. Learning is a "remembering" or "recollecting" of knowledge we have lost along the way. If this is true, than the teacher is there to aid in that recollection rather than hand down or give knowledge. I am necessary as an instructor insofar as I can help my students get back what they already know and may have forgotten. This understanding gets me off the hook (phew!) and places more responsibility on the students themselves. We invite our students to remember, to learn, but we don't pass out the knowledge because it never was ours to begin with- it was theirs.  

I know that I lose touch with a lot on a regular basis that my yoga practice helps me put back together or, re-member. It helps me to breathe, find stillness and connect with myself and I am grateful for my teachers who help me in that and forgo the emotional ballads (although I'm sure music montages are helpful for some-- more power to 'em).

As far as rabbis and preachers go, maybe they could take a page out of a Socrates' book? Just sayin'...

News Flash: Christmas Coming Early This Year!

I know what you're thinking: This dumb blonde just wrote about Halloween and now she thinks it's Christmastime already? 

My answer for you: First of all, stop being so harsh and secondly, get your ass in the Christmas spirit!

Look at it glistening in the sun . . . it's so beautiful.

Everyone knows there are two authorities on the arrival of the holiday season: Coca Cola and Starbucks. Think polar bears and red cups, people! The Diet Coke can has spoken: it's that time of year again! (side note for all of you worrying about my health for drinking diet soda. If it kills me in the end, it'd be a good way to go!)

I purchased this glorious D. Coke this afternoon on my way to Walgreens. The festive can was my first clue and the overall decor of Walgreens was my second that it is indeed the most wonderful time of the year (I encourage you to sing that as you read it. Come on, try it. No one likes a Scrooge).

Some people do not like Christmas to come so early. There are even people out there who won't let their wives to listen to Christmas music in the house until Thanksgiving. These same kinds of people think that changing the entire Netflix queue to all Christmas movies is going overboard. I know, I know, who are these Grinches?

Sure, there are some who might be overwhelmed at the amount of Christmas paraphernalia already present in their local Walgreens. Maybe their wives didn't use up all the glue on purpose so, in terms of a leg lamp, they're all set.

But me, I like to see all of the decorations for sale, both tacky and classy. There's something about stretching Christmastime out that makes me happy. Not because I like to shop or because I buy into the frenzied pace of some people's holiday seasons. I like the feeling in the air; the contagious joy. People are more patient, more generous-- dare I say, jollier? What's wrong with stretching that out for as long as possible?

I would also consider myself a fan of baby Jesus. Sue me for getting religious on you but I enjoy being reminded of God's love during this time. How does a leg lamp remind you of God's love? you ask. Well, I'll tell you. It all has to do with tradition. Every Thanksgiving, when I was a kid, we would get out the boxes of decorations and begin to decorate the house. I would be playing with the Lladro creche (unbeknownst to Claudymom, obvi), my brother would have on our scratchy Santa hat, my sister would be singing carols at the top of her lungs all while my mom yelled out the window at my dad hanging the Christmas lights to make sure he did a good job decorating the trees. It was too cold for Claudymom to be outside so she settled for yelling her orders from the window. It was like this for years. These quirky traditions and decorations remind me of the love in my life and, since I believe God is in all people, the love God has for me. Even my demonic cat in her elf costume (gift from Claudymom) fills me with joy. Only Christmas can do that.

The real challenge for me is, Why does it take Christmastime for me to be so connected to deep joy? I must try harder to remember the poetic words of Dickens' classic, coming from the mouth of the converted Scrooge:

I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year!

What Are Your Intentions?

This question always makes me think of an awkward guy meeting his girlfriend's father for the first time. The father, ever so protective, wants to know the long-term hopes and dreams this poor kid has regarding his daughter. My Dad used to joke about having a gun and a shovel upstairs when he met a new guy of mine. My brother would help him out as well, but normally in a more "teenage boy" way like telling a very unfortunate boy who once called me, How can your name be Rob? Rob is a boy's name and you sound like a girl. Ah, adolescence. Fun times.

I was thinking about intentions the other day in yoga because, before every class, my teachers always encourage us to set one. An intention, in the yogic sense, does not mean a goal. Philip Moffitt explains their differences this way: "Setting intention, at least according to Buddhist teachings, is quite different than goal making. It is not oriented toward a future outcome. Instead, it is a path or practice that is focused on how you are 'being' in the present moment." For example, I wouldn't set an intention for my practice of mastering a difficult pose. Instead, I might set an intention to connect with my breath more deeply during the next hour or two that I am practicing. Or to feel each pose in my body instead of just tuning out the physical sensations. The differences are slight, I realize, but clearly one is more about success while the other about presence. One is more about achievement while the other, mindfulness.

The struggle between working for success and presence happens both on and off the mat for me. I am an extremely competitive person who prides herself on her achievements. It's easier for me to feel good about myself if I have something to point to that is tangible that shows my self-improvement. T-shirts from finishing races, certificates of completions-- that's the stuff I want! The whole idea of striving for presence is so challenging because the art of being present in the moment is not measurable. Where are my results? How can I get a PR or some kind of certificate for that? Even a pat on the back would be nice. . .

The idea of setting intentions for presence easily translates to daily life. I have many dear friends who say grace before a meal together, reminding themselves to fully engage in the company present as well as their food. They don't set a concrete goal to have a really great conversation about politics (or whatever) or to finish their green beans (something I will never do because green beans are disgusting). These grace-ers grace because they want to be more mindful of the present moment. Saying grace is setting intentions.

Now, when I ask you What are your intentions? I hope your palms don't go sweaty and your voice starts to crack. Don't worry, my dad was just kidding about the gun and the shovel and my brother is not so tough. I'm simply asking you how you plan to live in the present moment.

Do You Need a Yoga Mat to Practice Yoga?

This question has been on many a yogi's mind lately because of an article in the New York Times from this last weekend. Mary Billard, its author, interviewed a number of yoga practitioners who are forgoing their mats in favor of a simpler practice. They are eliminating the barrier between them and their yoga studio floor, their living room carpet and wherever else they choose to practice. These yogis cite a number of reasons for this including the commercialization of yoga mats, their potential damage to the environment as well as a desire to get back to the traditional practice of yoga without all the accessories.

I, for one, love accessories. They always make an outfit and I believe the same can be true for a yoga practice (or any other kind of spiritual practice, for that matter). For me, having something tangible that symbolizes and signifies my yoga practice is extremely helpful. When I take my mat out, unroll it and get on it, I know it's yoga time. It's sacred time, ME time and quiet time. Even our tiny apartment transforms into a sacred space when my red mat comes out. If I didn't have the mat out, it'd just be the floor. And what would separate me from the cat hair my cat places strategically around the apartment to make anything dark I have on look disgusting?

I think what I am saying is, as humans, it is extremely helpful to have something tangible to help us get into a "sacred state of mind" (I think that's a Billy Joel Song?). Catholics call this the need for mediation. We need something to mediate our experience with the sacred because the sacred (or God) is invisible. Think of any kind of prayer beads: the prayer certainly could pray without them but it is so helpful to hold them while he prays because they are physical, touchable, just as we are. The feeling of the beads helps him know that he is engaging in a sacred act and it therefore encourages that sacred act.

I can certainly see that Yoga is a risk for becoming extremely commercialized but I'm not sure that is reason enough to ditch the mat. Take a look at what Jade Yoga is doing. Their mats are made sustainably in the U.S. and every time you buy one of their mats, they plant a tree.

Another reason I need a mat is because I am a sweater. I don't get this from Claudymom because she doesn't sweat, she glows. My sweaty hands and feet would cause me to slip all over the place on hardwood floors and I just don't feel like mopping every time I do yoga. Or slamming my face into the floor because my hands slip in Downward Dog.

I also really need the support of a good mat for my knees. The pose below, Anjaneyasana (low lunge), would hurt like a mother if I did it on hardwood floor. My cute red mat protects me. Hurray!

So, I am taking a different side here. As much as I love that yoga is being written about in the NY Times, I sure hope they're wrong when it comes to the trend of ditching one's mat.

No (wo)man is an island

No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. 

-From John Donne's Meditation XVII        

I have been thinking about this poem lately for a reason that is almost too ridiculous to admit. In the spirit of the Real World confessional, I will come clean . . . I watched the first episode of TLC's Sister Wives. If you know what show I am talking about-- stop judging. You know you're dying to watch it! If you have never heard of this show, you're probably better off but I will inform you just the same. Sister Wives is a reality show following the lives of a polygamist family (one husband, three wives and their respective litters of children). 

I could go on and on about how sexist a polygamist lifestyle is and how I am shocked that Big Love was so damn accurate, but I won't. It's not super fun to read others' rantings. What I will say is that Sister Wives reminded me of something so true about our humanity: we crave community.

While I wanted to punch the husband in his face, I actually found myself identifying with much of what the sister wives were saying. They wanted other women around to help them with their kids, support their daily lives and be there if something were to happen to them. Of course I felt like shouting "get friends, not sister wives, you brainwashed idiots!" at the screen, but something stopped me. Even though I completely disagree with the way they have found their community, I can't disagree with their desire for it. 

After all, it is my desire for community that leads me to my faith. Even to my yoga practice. In both Christianity and yoga, community is supremely valued. John Donne's poem echoes the passage from 1 Corinthians 12 that compares a spiritual community to a physical body: every part is essential and, standing alone, can do nothing. For Hindues (who brought us yoga), the Bhagavad Gita asserts the connectedness of all creation over and over again.

Even if a person is not religious or interested in spirituality, I think we can all agree that we need each other. Things are just better together. Think about it: Harry Potter doesn't go searching for Horcruxes on his own but brings Hermione and Ron with him. 

Yes, that was a freak flag. 

So, just do me a favor. Don't take a sister wife. They're creepy. Find other ways to get your community on.

Namaste, St. Ignatius!

I'm not really into saints, even though I reference one in this post's title. Yes, I have a background in theology but saints are really just not my thing. Even when I was Confirmed as a 13 year-old and had to pick a saint's name to take on, I just couldn't get into it. I ended up picking St. Lucy because Lucy was my dog's name and I was into her.

St. Ignatius however, might be an exception. This person who lived 400 years ago has had a deep effect on my life. His way of thinking about faith is really the only reason why I haven't walked away (more like run!) from the Catholic Church and some of its not so progressive ways.

One of the most powerful things I can take from St. Ignatius is his commitment to "find God in all things." If you're not particularly religious, I think it's completely acceptable to amend this phrase to say "find sacredness in all things." Ignatius was convinced that the fingerprint of the Creator was upon everything-- that nothing escaped the love and beauty of God's hand. Even the ugly things . . . like acid washed jeans or (eek) spiders.

I find this notion to also be present in the practice of yoga. When we seal our hands together at our hearts, bow to each other and say "Namaste," we are actually acknowledging the sacredness in both ourselves and the life around us. The word "Namaste" literally translates to "I bow to the god in you" or, "the sacred in me bows to the sacred in you." In this way, each day presents a new challenge. Some days, I can easily see my own sacredness or self-worth. Other days, I struggle to see my own value and am overwhelmed by the good I might see in others. It's a daily process, this Namaste-ing. 

While I would love to pretend old Iggy practiced yoga back in 16th century Spain, I know it is just a pipe dream. I am amazed however, that, in different parts of the world, at different times, people were coming around to the same truths: that all human beings have worth and our world is filled to the brim with the the sacred. Ignatian spirituality certainly illuminates my yoga practice.

So, I say to you "Namaste" and hope you can say it back to me.                              

Can't you see this guy rocking a downward dog?