Artist Bil Donovan and I spent some time over the past few weeks at Lord & Taylor in Manhasset and Garden City, signing copies of BIRDS OF A FEATHER SHOP TOGETHER. A silver Sharpie and an afternoon with Bil–what could be better??
“A purely delightful, sometimes hilarious, collection of Aesop’s fables for the modern day fashion and style maven. This petite anthology will have the most seasoned of fashionable folks blushing—especially when one of the fables’ morals hits home in the most uncomfortable and revelatory ways.” –NY Journal of Books
When my grandmother died, my kitchenware holdings expanded to include her canary yellow soup pot, her wooden rolling pin, burnished by the years, and a nested set of orange Pyrex bowls. I use them all of the time. They are functional and pretty, and preparing food with that cookware gives me a feeling of connection, like a ribbon stretches across time and space between our kitchens.
A friend broke one of the Pyrex bowls.
She was sorry, she said. She knew how sentimental I was about those dishes.
It’s okay, I said. Accidents happen.
Obviously this wasn’t the biggest deal in the world. After all, I had already suffered the greater loss, the one that had led to my acquisition of the Pyrex: the loss of my grandmother.
Still, I felt a little bit deflated by the breaking of the dish. What began as a four-bowl set in my grandmother’s kitchen had become three by the time I inherited it. Without the golden yellow 1.5 quart bowl, there were only two. The shattered convex round of glass was a reminder of the ways that we lose things, a nod to the sad fact that as time goes on, matched sets only become less full.
A block away from my apartment, there is a little store that sells vintage housewares, and so I wandered in one afternoon to look for a substitute for my missing bowl. It would be not be the same, of course, but when you are reaching for a mixing bowl, function is as important as sentimentality, perhaps more so.
The shop’s aisles were lined with items rescued from somebody else’s grandmother’s apartment. There were silver cocktail shakers and fifties-style juice glasses, embellished with gold starbursts; there were jewelry boxes and broaches and picture frames that still had photos in them. And at the back of the shop, at a moment that merited a triumphant orchestral crescendo, there it was: a complete set of Orange Daisy Cinderella Pyrex, identical to the ones I had inherited from my grandmother.
Now my pantry holds not three bowls, not two, but six. A nod to the fact that though loss is inevitable, if we’re open to change, if we keep looking, matched sets can become full again, and even more so.
I am writing this edition of Practice Makes Practice from the Mala Yoga retreat in Guatemala, from the shores of Lake Atitlan, where practice makes practice makes practice makes practice. On retreat, all there is is this: yoga and a body of water ringed with volcanos.
Without the distractions of work or deadlines, of organizing plans or managing schedules, of all of the myriad responsibilities that usually fill our days, we just practice and eat, practice and swim, practice and then practice some more. There is time for a glass of wine or an hour of side-splitting laughter, a soak in the hot tub or a simmer in the sauna, and then we practice again.
There are no ex-boyfriends here, no disappointed relatives, no complaining clients, no demanding colleagues. So why is my mat so crowded?
Often in this space, I write about what we take off the mat as practitioners of yoga, about gaining patience and finding gratitude, about developing a greater understanding of our personalities and the shape of our spines. On retreat, I am noticing the opposite: what we bring to the mat with us. If the sacred can creep into the mundane, so can the everyday noise poke its blunt nose into these quiet corners.
Sssssh, I say to the voice emanating from the top left hand corner of my mat, as someone I have already said good-bye to tries to continue a conversation that is done and gone. Sssssh, I say to the project that I will have to complete when I get back home. Memories elbow me in the ribs, jostling for room on my blue mat. Concerns tug at my heels, angling for attention while Angela and Steph talk us through the proper way to transition from chattaranga to up-dog.
At home, it is easier to excuse the intrusions, because they are so close, so commonplace, so comfortable. Here, it is easier to see how intrusive they really are, how loud the clamor of my own mind is. It is clear that if my mat feels crowded with foreign bodies, it is because I have invited them in. It is obvious that it is up to me to take them by the hand and lead them out of the room, closing the door firmly behind me so I can practice in peace.
At home, our calendars are so full that it can be challenging to make room for yoga. On retreat, yoga is the only appointment: the challenge is that my mind is so full. So I whisper to the ghosts when they talk to me.
I tell them that on my mat, at least, there is only room for me.
Note: This post was originally published as part of my PRACTICE MAKES PRACTICE series at the Mala Yoga blog. The column offers a student’s perspective of the yoga experience, on the mat and off.
This one is for Patty, who I have never met. Her home is in California and mine is in New York. We have a person in common, a person who we both love dearly, a person who has impacted our lives. That is why I know about Patty. That is why she knows about me.
The world is amazed by Kevin Bacon and his six degrees of separation. But it isn’t really about degrees of separation, is it? It seems to be more about degrees of connection. Like me and Patty: Two strangers who have never talked face to face but have still communicated, have still connected, have still shared something.
I have never shaken Patty’s hand, or gone to the movies with her, or had dinner with her. But we have still occupied the same space, because we have considered the same ideas, ruminated over the same concepts, even though we have never discussed them in person. We have not walked down the avenue together or gone to tea, yet I have thought about her, and she has thought about me.
This is what I have learned from you, Patty: that the world is smaller than we think. That the human reach is not bounded by time and space. That even if we have never shaken hands, never hugged, never kissed each other on the cheek, we can still touch each other in deep and meaningful ways.
Note: This post was originally published as part of my PRACTICE MAKES PRACTICE series at the Mala Yoga blog. The column offers a student’s perspective of the yoga experience, on the mat and off.
People are always trying to find themselves, as if we are keys that have been misplaced. Like we have fallen behind the couch and if we only look hard enough, we will discover what has been lost.
When our missing selves are not to be found in the living room or the bedroom, at the office or at the corner bar, behind door #1 or door #2, we widen the search. We go farther afield, to Hollywood or Bangkok, to Narnia or Fillory, so that we might find ourselves whole and handsome, in a place where we belong, where we can grow, where we can say, here, here I am, this is it, this is my true self.
A shift in context can be very valuable, of course. Otherwise people would never go off to college or on pilgrimages; we would never become pioneers or pirates or astronauts. Whether we are seeking self-realization, self- definition, or self-actualization, sometimes, a going is part of a becoming. Without the hero’s journey, there would be no hero.
But we don’t always have to buy a ticket in order to set sail.
A few years ago, I lived around the corner from a place we’ll call Mala. I walked by that door a hundred times, and I did not go in. I was too busy. I had things to do, I had places to see, I had selves to find.
Then, one day, between trips and assignments and appointments, I walked in the door. It felt like crawling through a closet and coming out the other side in an enchanted forest. I was a tourist at the beginning; I kept coming back until I felt like a local.
And I realized: we can go to Borneo and India and Guatemala, and we should. But you don’t always have to leave to find yourself if you fear you have been misplaced. Sometimes a necessary journey starts around the corner instead of around the world.
You don’t need a ticket to go to Narnia, and you don’t need a visa to visit Mala. You just need to find the door.
And then you need to walk in.
A friend of mine is pregnant. Another is contemplating a divorce. A third wants to quit her job to seek her happiness.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking about change. Or maybe it’s because of all the “new year, new you” resolutions I hear around me. Or because other people’s shifts seem to be altering the course of my own life.
Whether we choose change or it is handed to us; whether we jump off the precipice or we are shoved; change is unavoidable.
Perhaps this is why I seek a semblance of sameness in my yoga practice. The mat is there; the poses are there; I am there. And yet, even in class, I am different every day. My practice is always changing, whether I ask it to or not. A pose that used to be easy is suddenly elusive. A posture that was impossible is suddenly accessible.
Yoga classes often open with the suggestion that we take note of where we are, today. We can’t assume we are the same as yesterday even if the changes are subtle. Pains that plagued us yesterday evaporate. Aches that were not there yesterday appear.
Change can be an invited guest or a frightening intruder, but it will still enter our homes. It can arrive quietly or announce its presence by screaming in our ears, but it will still sit at our table.
Should my friend have a child or not? Should my friend stay in her marriage or go? Should my friend leave her successful career to walk an uncertain path? There is no right answer, one of them told me. There are also no wrong answers.
Sometimes we get a choice. Sometimes we don’t.
Still, change is coming.
A path that feels like a groove can start to feel like a rut. Something scary can become something joyous. A backache gets worse, or it gets better. Cancer goes away, or it spreads. Someone we love may say they are leaving us. Or we may realize that we have to leave someone we love.
This new year, you may want to be new, or you may want to hang on to the old. Either way, change is coming. It’s inevitable. If we try to hold on too tightly to the now, we’ll find our fingers grasping nothing, our hands clenched into fists.
All we can do is reach our arms out and feel our way through the dark, managing what comes, moment by moment, until the new is the now, until we change again.
And remember that even if you’ve never been able to do a headstand, if you keep trying, you may suddenly find yourself balanced on the triangle of your forearms, feet angling towards the sky.
Note: This post was originally published as part of my PRACTICE MAKES PRACTICE series at the Mala Yoga blog. The column offers a student’s perspective of the yoga experience, on the mat and off.
Attachment is not a simple thing to untangle. How could it be? The filaments of attachment are sticky; addiction is addictive. Our habits are worn-in, soft and cozy, as easy to slip into as our oldest pair of jeans.
Are you organic, vegan, vegetarian, kosher, free range, gluten-free, local? Blackberry or iPhone or Android? Mac or PC?
We live on a planet that applauds our preferences and aversions, in a brand-happy country that encourages us view to our external fixations as definitions of who we are, inside. Our attachments have become more than diversions. They are definitions. They are destiny.
Tell me what you like, tell me what you dislike, and I will tell you who you are.
Our society rotates on an axis of attachment. Favorite vineyard, favorite director, favorite stand at the farmer’s market: in New York City, we are all critics. Disparage a meal and you possess a sophisticated palate; pick apart a plot and you’ve got a discerning mind.
Do you drink coffee? What kind? Drip, Chemex, cold brewed, Americano, espresso, cappuccino, café au lait, café con leche? Café negro? How about sweetener? You want real sugar? Raw sugar? Brown? Or would you prefer stevia? Or agave? Do you take milk? We got skim, we got 1%, 2%, whole milk, half and half, cream, heavy cream… also soy. And coconut. And almond. Or maybe something else? Would you prefer cashew?
Likes and dislikes are threads of the stories we tell ourselves, the stories we tell other people, the way we understand the stories that they tell us. All of this liking and not liking helps us set ourselves up as distinctive characters in this big, confusing world. But are these attachments and aversions merely descriptions of our preferences? Or are they little jails, keeping us fenced in and stuck while we pretend they keep us safe?
As the tangles of attachment grow increasingly Gordian, how do we slice through the packaging to what is inside?
Ideally, practicing yoga is one way. On the mat, we should just be there, using our bodies, using our breath, focusing our minds, turning down the volume of those insistent, ingrained like/dislike inclinations. Still, we have our favorite yoga pants, our favorite mats, our favorite teachers, our favorite poses.
Except that on the mat, at least, favorite isn’t always best. As Christina says, the poses we like the least are probably the ones we need the most. Tight shoulders twinge in eagle arms–because they need it. Cranky hips cry out in pigeon–because they need it. If you only do the poses you like, you might be missing the real benefits of the practice.
Until we cut the cords of attachment, we’ll never be truly free. Just gluten-free.
And that isn’t free enough.
Mala is my home away from home. It is more than a place to tone my triceps; it is a space for contemplation and reflection in a schedule packed with timelines and deadlines, must-dos and should-dos and to-dos.
We are all so busy in this city; or were you too busy to notice?
Going to Mala in the mornings lends my days a sense of steadiness. It’s a good reminder that no matter what challenges the day brings, no matter whose needs I might have to respond to, I matter, too.
But lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time in another busy city. As soon as I get on the plane, everything changes: the time zone, the weather, the view from the window. I change too, into someone who is a stranger instead of a person surrounded by familiar faces. And I wake up in someone else’s home, in someone else’s busy schedule.
Mala might not be there, but yoga still is. So I actively seek out local classes. I become the yoga version of “if you can’t be with the ones you love, love the ones you’re with.” And just like it does at home, a daily practice makes my life mine, at least for an hour and a half.
When I am in Brooklyn, I practice at Mala, because I’m partial to the focus on alignment and balance, and because Angela, Steph and Christina help me feel more grounded in a familiar place.
When I am in Los Angeles, I practice at City Yoga with Anthony Benetani and Maud Nadler, warm and welcoming teachers who align my body in space while they help me feel more grounded in a new place.
And I have realized what Mala really gives me: not just a place to go in the morning when I am at home, but a strong, portable foundation, so I can feel at home wherever I go.
Note: This post was originally published as part of my PRACTICE MAKES PRACTICE series at the Mala Yoga blog. The column offers a student’s perspective of the yoga experience, on the mat and off.
Lately, I’ve had my head in the clouds. Not because I’m feeling dreamy, but because this is the surest way to catch a glimpse of cumulus, cirrus, and stratus.
Thanks to The Cloudspotter’s Guide by Gavin Pretor-Pinney, I’ve been learning the science of clouds. Nacreous, undulatus, pannus, perlocidus… Clouds have names like poetry. Yet these heavenly shape-shifters are more than pretty, more than poetry: they are our oracles of storm and sun.
Consider the billows suspended against the blue. Will rain burst out like an exclamation and then subside? Or will the gray pour its heart out all day? The difference between cumulonimbus and cirrostratus matters if you want to know if you should wear your shades or pack an umbrella.
Until we learn to decipher their messages, the clouds just float above our heads like a celestial Rorschach test.
All of this sky-gazing has made me realize that much like practicing an awareness of cloud formations is a way of learning to read the sky, practicing yoga is a way of learning to read your body.
Thanks to my teachers at Mala, I’ve learned that well-defined muscles are about more than looking pretty. Consider the muscles that anchor your shoulders to your back. Have you been avoiding the elusive serratus anterior? Abusing the more accessible trapezius? The difference between the muscles we activate matters if you want to know why your neck has been aching all day.
Until we know how to make the most of our muscles and attachments, they just float there around our bones, useless onlookers instead of a well-trained support staff.
Want to be able to predict the weather? Clouds are only confusing until you decipher the alphabet of the atmosphere.
Want to be able to translate the twinges? Muscles are only mysterious until you decode the building blocks of your alignment.
Head in the clouds, feet on the mat, eyes on the prize. Whether the gaze is aimed up at the sky or six inches in front of the mat, whether you are focused on lucunosus or ileopsoas, paying attention pays off.
Transversusabdominus, gastrocnemius, vastus medialis…
